Midsummer Madness

by Stella Whitelaw

  She looked around, nervously. ‘Am I right?’

  There was stunned silence. Joe was pacing. I didn’t like that. Pacing is a bad sign. The primeval lone wolf about to attack. Footprints in the snow.

  ‘Darling,’ he said. Another bad sign. Joe never called anyone darling. This was theatrical name-playing at its cheapest level and Joe had learned everyone’s name and used them.

  ‘Darling,’ he went on. ‘I do stage directions. You do words and act. Stanislavsky if you can. Method if you can’t. I don’t mind which discipline you prefer. But everything else you leave to me. I will decide. Have I made myself clear?’

  The voice was bitingly emphatic. It could be heard half way across the street. I swear buses swerved.

  Elinor went white-faced, looked as if she was going to faint. If she fainted then either the rehearsal would finish or Fran would take over immediately as understudy. We were nearing the end of Act III and Viola only had a few more speeches to go.

  Action is not my middle name. But on this occasion something drastic was required. I did what any self-respecting prompt would do. I fell off my stool in the prompt corner and launched head first on stage, my script flying across the floor, scattering reminder slips like feeding the ducks in St James’s Park.

  It was a pretty spectacular skid.

  There was a united gasp that vibrated round the theatre. I struggled to sit up, gathering paper and pages in every direction.

  ‘Somebody pushed me,’ I said, catching my breath, mortified. It was a cross between Glenn Close and Meryl Streep. They both do indignation.

  It is also a well-known fact that I am not a good liar. Any lie-detection machine would jump out of the nearest window in self-defence.

  ‘Right in the back,’ I said, scrabbling about on my knees, collecting Post-it notes and bits of paper that I stick in to remind myself about something. From a corner of my eye I could see that Elinor was sipping water from the bottle she kept handy in the wings, slowly as if practising how to swallow.

  I could also see that Fran was glaring at me. Oh dear, had a cunning plan gone astray at the last moment? Had she planned to take over the rehearsal?

  ‘It was me,’ said Bill, waving a carved three-legged stool triumphantly. ‘I was carrying this stool and tripped. Sorry.’

  Joe looked at us both, expression unfathomable. His floppy hair flopped and he pushed it back. ‘As I now have a tripping Stage Manager and a flying Prompt, perhaps we should take ten. They may both be earthbound by then. I sincerely hope so,’ he added. He shrugged into his jacket, closed his laptop and marched out of the theatre. He was probably going to Caffe Nero on the corner. Latte in a bucket.

  ‘Thank you, Bill,’ I said. ‘That was quick thinking. Well done.’

  ‘Quicker than tripping,’ he grinned. ‘We had to save Elinor from the flesh-eating harpy. How about a drink tonight at the pub after the rehearsal, if we are both still in work. My treat.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, wondering how I could get out of it. I was a rabbit caught in his headlights. Speak first and think later. I did my Goldie Hawn smile. It always worked. He went off humming, tucking the stool under his arm. Stage Managers don’t move furniture or props. A stage hand normally does that job.

  I escaped into the studio for a quick peek at what Joe was designing now. On the table was a jaunty leather jerkin, being sewn with thin leather strips, some finely stitched linen underwear, long-toed velvet slippers. Rapiers and shields lay on the floor, being beaten. Horned spectacle frames sat in a communal eating bowl with a couple of pitchers. I was getting a glimpse of another century through this domesticity of items. Every item had to be historically right.

  But I didn’t linger. Joe forbade all visitors to his studio except Hilda and Bill, or by invitation for a consultation. Elinor’s dressing room was the larger one nearest the stage. She was prostrate on the couch, leafing through her script in desperation.

  ‘I was right, I knew I was right,’ she wept, pushing her slippery glasses up off the tears. ‘I’m doing what it says.’ She offered me some open pages at the end of Act III. ‘Look, Sophie. You read my notes. It’s true, isn’t it? Perfectly clear.’

  Actors made their own marks in scripts as the moves are set or changes made. They are often illegible, written standing up or on the run. Elinor’s writing was bold, occasionally tailing off into a scribble. I knew most of the moves in that scene and Elinor had been following her own notes. But her notes seemed different to my memory and my prompt script notes.

  I squinted closely at the pages. ‘Where did you leave this script last night when we went to the Greek taverna?’

  ‘In here, in my dressing room. I didn’t want to take it with me, did I? I left it by the mirror, on the counter, where I always put it.’

  ‘And was it still there today, when you came in?’

  Elinor looked dubious. ‘I don’t really know. I think it was. I didn’t notice.’

  ‘Because I think it’s been tampered with. Look, this mark “DL” for down left looks as if it has been changed from “DR” for down right. The L is written over the R. And there are several other messy looking marks where changes might have been overwritten.’

  ‘Joe sometimes changes his mind.’

  ‘Sure. That’s his prerogative, his job, what he is here for and what he’s good at. But some of these changes don’t make sense. I think someone has been tampering with your notes, messing about with your script. Trying to throw you.’

  Elinor went and sat in front of the mirror, touching up her make-up, collecting her composure. She looked closely at herself, placing strands of fringe hair over her forehead. ‘And I wonder who that could be,’ she said, dabbing powder loosely on her nose. She was keeping her true feelings well under control.

  ‘We can’t prove it,’ I said, handing back her script. ‘You’d better check all your moves and entrances. Ask Joe if you can have a few minutes with him, go over the changes. He’ll catch your drift.’

  She nodded. ‘Good idea. I’ll do that. Thank you, Sophie, you’re a brick. I hope you didn’t hurt yourself when you fell onstage. A nasty tumble.’

  ‘Only my pride,’ I grinned. ‘Slightly undignified entrance.’

  ‘I think I owe you a drink.’

  ‘Hell, I’ve promised to have a drink with Bill tonight at The Stage Door. You know what he’s like. And I don’t really want to go.’

  ‘We’ll arrive together,’ said Elinor knowingly. ‘That should be halfway to solving your problem. He can hardly seduce you if I’m hanging around.’

  ‘Wanna bet? Don’t go shiny-bag shopping on me instead.’

  I left Elinor repairing her face, her confidence already repaired. Someone had tampered with her notes. No prizes for guessing who even though there was no way of proving it. Elinor wouldn’t complain to Joe; she would say she wanted to double check. No point in creating bad feeling among the cast.

  There was a minute left to get some tea from the tea machine. It was out of milk and there were none of those little cartons that defied opening. The nameless soup was undrinkable. I filled a beaker with hot water and was thankful for the promise but it was too hot to drink. Pumped straight from Earth’s core.

  ‘How are the bruises?’ Joe asked as he went past the prompt corner. He didn’t sound as if he cared. It was a throwaway.

  ‘Interesting shade of blue.’ I could barely remember how to do Carrie Fisher. She had been off our screens for so long. She must have got fed up with that plaited hair look and Harrison Ford never making up his mind.

  ‘That’s reassuring,’ he said, leaping down into the stalls. One day he would break a leg. I didn’t want to be around when it happened. ‘Let’s get started.’

  It was a good rehearsal although there was one sulky lady in waiting, performing her duties with less than good grace. Her face was in huff medium. She knew how to do huff. Huffs do not a pretty face make.

  ‘Are we keeping you from something, Fran?’ Joe asked at last. H
e was remarkably patient with her. Perhaps he was good with small children.

  ‘An audition at the National,’ she said.

  ‘I suggest you go along to it then. Don’t keep them waiting. I hear they are short of programme sellers.’

  Nice one. Full marks, Joe.

  Fran flounced her long skirt and tossed her head. ‘I’m of more value here,’ she said. ‘I’m the only possible Viola if Elinor is indisposed. Everyone says so. You’d be in a tight spot and need all the help you could get.’

  ‘How kind of you,’ said Joe without emotion. ‘We appreciate your loyalty and devotion to the company. But Elinor is looking remarkably healthy and perky since I checked the notes in her script. Pick up the line. Line!’ he shouted.

  ‘The heavens rain odours on you,’ I said. I hoped it would rain a particularly nasty odour on Fran. How about squashed frogs and farmyard sewage water? That would do for a start.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I need not have worried about my drink with Bill turning into something more intimate and unstoppable. The entire cast migrated like lemmings to The Stage Door, some in a state of near collapse. The atmosphere was warm and stuffy and relaxing. The pinball machines and fruit machines were playing to the latest Top Ten of tuneless, toneless one-week wonders called music coming out of the loudspeakers.

  Jack Daniels, the owner of the pub, waved a cheery welcome and winked. He knew his takings were about to soar. The cast could soak it up like sponges.

  Elinor was first to the bar and came back with two bottles of red Shiraz and a clutch of newly washed glasses. She put them down in front of me. The colour had returned to her face and it was obvious she was relieved the day was over. She was fighting back. She was not ready to retire or take cameo character parts on television.

  ‘You said a drink not a drunk,’ I reminded her.

  ‘Who said it was all for you?’ she said, pouring out several glasses and pushing them round the table. Fran was not there to dampen the festivities. The phantom had disappeared, wearing fake Prada and high white sequinned boots.

  ‘She said she had a date,’ said Byron, burping. ‘Pardon. Left in a taxi in a hurry. To the Ritz apparently.’

  ‘There’s a great snack bar round the back called the Ritz.’

  ‘A date with Dracula,’ said Hilda, eyes brightening. She had joined us for a quickie before going home and had heard the gossip. ‘Teeth sharpening this evening in the old churchyard. A lost art these days.’

  ‘How about a rota for tomorrow’s tripping?’ said a voice from over my shoulder. It was Joe Harrison, his hand up for attention. I froze. But he was joking. ‘Bruises should be distributed evenly among the cast. It’s only fair.’

  ‘I go for that,’ I said, a short-sighted Bridget Jones emerging again, minus big knickers. I wear those low-cut short boyish things from M&S. I’ve a pair in black lace but I haven’t worn them yet. ‘What a brilliant idea. We’ll have a rota. Can I put your name down? How about quarter to three tomorrow afternoon?’

  ‘Busy then, Sophie. How about half past four?’

  ‘Done. Let me find my notebook. And a pen. What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Shrek. Do you know how to spell it?’

  ‘Is the donkey coming too?’

  It was obvious I didn’t care what I said or who he was. But bless his homesick New York cotton socks, he took it well and pushed a chair in between me and Bill. Bill shuffled along, taking his beer with him, sending a dart of malice broadside.

  Joe sat down and dived for the last glass of Elinor’s wine. He was in a good mood. There was an air of excitement about him.

  ‘I’m not staying long,’ he said, after the first few therapeutic sips. ‘So you can gossip about me when I’ve gone. But I wanted to thank you all for working so hard. I know I’m not easy to work with but I reckon it’s going to be a great show. Though maybe we should chain the prompt to her corner.’

  ‘I could fall on in the interval as a diversion,’ I offered. I was totally past caring what I said to him or anyone. ‘It might push up the ice-cream sales or give the Press a new angle. Prompt steals show with impromptu entrance. Get it? Impromptu?’

  There was a general groan.

  No one could decide whether to laugh or not, but Joe was grinning and they took their cue from him. I thought it was a passable joke. He looked so energetic and alive, bouncing with vitality from a good rehearsal. It touched my foolish heart. Those brilliant eyes. I thought about liposuction and Botox. I ought to start saving up for it. Or stop eating. Or stop drinking. Stop everything was the answer.

  ‘Did you know that Sophie is our linchpin?’ Elinor said directly to Joe, her courage returning. ‘Has it dawned on you yet that this girl holds us and the whole show together, mind and body and soul?’

  Now this was the Shiraz Cabernet talking, I felt sure. So I looked away and wondered how to change the subject. I suddenly remembered that I hadn’t returned the red dress to wardrobe. Nor could I remember exactly where it was or who took it off. A little worrying.

  ‘Has anyone seen the papers? Did we get any good write-ups? Did they like our medieval press reception, lute and quinces?’ I was gabbling. I would be gabbling on my way to the grave. Let me out of here, you fools, I’m still breathing, you’ve made a ******* mistake.

  ‘They loved it,’ said Joe. ‘The papers on the whole were kind, something different to write about for once. They loved the lute, especially a lute playing Queen. Some of them even mentioned the costumes.’

  ‘You’ve read today’s papers?’

  ‘All of them. I’ve got a pile of cuttings.’

  ‘I was going to write thankyou notes.’

  ‘There’s my girl,’ he whispered but the others were listening. I went starwards, like flying beside Superman in a blue nightie. Meteors flashed by, spraying me with stardust, bathing me in moonglow.

  ‘Just doing my job,’ I choked on the words or the wine. Elinor gave me a very Florence Nightingale thump.

  ‘Do you want to walk home?’ he offered. He had forgotten everyone else round the table. Other drinks were appearing, beer and lager, vodka pops, orange juice, adding to the rings of glass stains on the table. Orange juice? That was for Hilda. She patted my arm, very maternal, her neat hair coming astray.

  ‘You walk home with him, ducks,’ she said. ‘It always pays to keep in with the director.’ I thought about her elderly mother, zooming like an Olympic decathete between the soaps. That would be me in forty years’ time, give or take a few knee replacements.

  I turned to Joe. He was looking at me as if he thought I was a strange specimen that ought to be kept in a jar. Not exactly the response I wanted but it would do for starters.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I said. ‘When I’m ready to go home and I’m not quite ready to go yet.’

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘I can wait. My round now. What do you all want? If you don’t say, you won’t get.’

  I remembered that cold, snowy day when he ploughed through my pasta lunch like a starving refugee. Did he remember that? Did he remember anything about that day or night? The lumpy sofa, like sleeping on cobbles? I could forgive him for forgetting the sofa. The cold, icy night, when the temperature dipped to below zero? No, I don’t think he remembered any of it. But I did. Oh yes, I could recall every moment. And have, many days since.

  ‘I need to make a call,’ I said, trying to find my mobile. Where had I left it?

  ‘Use mine,’ said Hilda, passing it over.

  I went outside the pub to make my usual evening phone call. My mother didn’t answer straight away, dragged from watching her favourite telly. I imagined my mother, long hair, red faded to grey, escaping from a bun, like an apprentice witch. They had witches in Dorset, so the legends say.

  ‘Hello, mum. How’s everything?’

  ‘Great, Sophie. Everything’s fine. Just watching the box. Useless plot but you always want to know how it ends. Will you be down for the school play at the end of term? It’s going
to be very good.’

  ‘It’s a bit difficult. We’ll be in the middle of a run, unless the show closes, no audience.’

  ‘I think you have to come. This is special. I won’t say why. It’s supposed to be a surprise.’

  ‘I’ll make it then, Mum, somehow. Remind me nearer the time.’

  I listened to her small talk, letting it filter through my head. I was missing everything, being here when I should be there. When I eventually returned to the theatre group in the pub, it was as noisy as ever. Bill was deep in conversation with Byron. Elinor was discussing costumes and wigs with Hilda. Joe seemed to have gone. So had Jessica, but then she never stayed late. I was not surprised.

  Time for me to slip away. I wanted what was left of the evening for myself. The twenty-four-hour store run by the Patel family round the corner from the theatre would be open. I needed milk. I always need milk. Perhaps I should keep a goat on my flat roof. There were enough weeds up there to feed it for a week.

  I knew my way blindfolded to the milk cabinet at the back of the shop and opened the refrigerated door.

  ‘Milk,’ I reminded myself, in case I forgot. I occasionally get a thirties moment.

  ‘Skimmed or semi-skimmed?’ said Joe. He was holding up two separate litre cartons. ‘I thought you might be running out.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m always running out. Perhaps I wash in milk in my sleep. It is possible. Cleopatra used to bath in asses’s milk.’

  ‘I’m only getting you a litre,’ he said. ‘So no milky baths, please. Use water like the rest of us.’

  ‘Semi-skimmed, please.’

  He paid Mr Patel for both cartons and carried them outside. He stood beside me in the eerie darkness of the side street. The pavement was inky black from rain. ‘Walk or bus?’ he asked.

  My legs were too tired to walk and too weak to stand at a bus stop in the chilled wind waiting twenty minutes for a bus that was taking the scenic route via Richmond and Crystal Palace. He read my mind.