Midsummer Madness

by Stella Whitelaw

  Bill saw my pallor and ambled over. ‘Hiya, Sophie. How are you?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Look, if it’s any consolation, Fran’s fall wasn’t your fault. I was in the wings, I saw it all. You didn’t trip her up. Fran was going down the steps at the side of the stage and she fell on the last step. It was a pantomime fall. Comics do it all the time. Trip over their own feet.’

  ‘Oh.’

  The news was hardly a consolation. Fran was being pampered by young doctors, probably being put in a taxi at this very moment, posing for photographs, arms full of flowers and enough dates to satisfy her appetite for young men and champagne.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ said Bill. ‘So cheer up. No sackcloth and ashes. Enjoy your moment of fame.’ He thumped me on the back. Was this a good luck thump?

  I tried to say my mantra but it wouldn’t come out. I was already in a state of torpor, unable to remember a single word of the play.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ I said drily, flapping the frantic air like a circus seal.

  Joe had overheard what Bill said but didn’t comment. He could see the fear on my face. I was shaking. He took me aside.

  ‘Scary places you in a dangerous place,’ he said in a low, earnest voice. ‘Actors need the nerves. Nerves are necessary, they are your energy. Some actors have doubts because they are under-rehearsed. They need to practise their part to death. You need this sense of danger. It makes it exciting.’

  ‘It’s not bloody exciting.’ I shook my head, breathing fast.

  ‘You know your stuff. You know you can do it. Turn this sense of panic into a positive stream of energy. Use your nerves. Viola is nervous. Everything that has happened has made her nervous. She is in a strange new country, in a strange court. She’s lost her brother, drowned. She doesn’t know what will happen to her and has no real friends. Of course, she’s bloody nervous.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ I breathed, shallow and ineffectual.

  ‘That’s it, in a nutshell,’ said Bill, grinning. ‘Hey, don’t touch that, you fool.’ He leaped on stage, shouting at some new stagehand who was halfway to touching something he shouldn’t.

  ‘Sit down, relax,’ said Joe, guiding me to a seat in Row G. ‘Read this play. It’s good. You’ll love it.’

  Joe put my prompt script into my hands. I began reading automatically and some of my fear fell away as the lines soothed my spirit. Twelfth Night never failed to enchant me. It was a superb story and I was soon lost in the beautiful words.

  The morning passed in a haze of activity, all happening outside of me. People spoke to me but I didn’t remember what they said. I built a barrier of barbed wire around my space. Planted a few landmines in strategic places. Joe was not going to get anywhere near me. He would have to cancel. Cancel the show.

  Elinor would be better in ten days. Fighting fit.

  HURRAH.

  Then I’d be back in my corner, where I belonged. That’s where I wanted to be. Safe, cosy in a babywrap, in my own world.

  Joe was on his mobile. He came over to me, his face ragged with a bitter smile. He handed the phone to me.

  ‘I’ve just been congratulated on my wise decision to cancel the show,’ he said flatly. ‘The delectable and slightly injured Fran would like to talk to you.’

  I took the phone. She wanted to talk to me?

  ‘Hello, Sophie darling,’ said Fran. Her voice floated, sweet as saccharin, into my ear. ‘I’m so terribly sorry to hear that the show is being cancelled, but of course it’s the only possible decision. You couldn’t really go on, could you? No experience, no sophistication, no professional training. You need all of that to succeed on stage in front of a big audience. And you haven’t got it, girl, but I have.’

  ‘Oh. Are you feeling better?’ I asked politely.

  ‘My ankle is strapped up and I’m on very strong painkillers. Tell everyone I’ll be back for opening night in a week’s time. Ready to take over the lead.’

  ‘Really?’

  Joe had been listening on an earpiece. He said nothing but his face was a picture of despair. He could see his big dreams going down the drain, all his designs and sets, his imagery, the painstaking hours of rehearsal. They were all on hold. He was going to have to cancel. Put up the notices outside the theatre. Cancellation! As Fran said, it was the only possible decision.

  ‘So lovely to talk to you,’ said Fran happily. She sounded as if she was lying on a couch, munching chocolate, probably Belgian. ‘Enjoy your week off. Go have a McDonalds or something. Bye to everyone.’

  ‘Go stuff your extra strong painkillers down your throat,’ I said crudely, my anger rising. ‘Who said that the show was going to be cancelled? Joe never said that. And it won’t. This show is going on. Watch the news, Miss Fran Powell, it’s going to be a brilliant success. Make headlines. Read all about it in tomorrow’s papers.’

  I could hear someone saying these strident words. I think it was Glenn Close. It certainly wasn’t me. Not guilty.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It felt like the long mile walk to the guillotine. Joe was trying to keep encouragement on his face. Some members of the cast started to clap. Their smiling faces were a blur. People moved about like mechanical ghosts.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ Joe whispered. ‘You can do it.’

  He was guiding me downstairs to Wardrobe. Hilda went into a state of panic, knocking the screen over. She’d worked on my costumes half the night, just in case. I hoped my half-baked brain would remember to buy her some flowers.

  ‘Here she is, Hilda. The most courageous woman in London. Look after her. I’ve a dozen last-minute things to do. See you later.’

  I stripped behind the screen, my fingers faltering, shedding Damart.

  ‘You won’t need a vest on stage,’ said Hilda, helping me into the page boy’s doublet and shirt first for a last check. It fitted perfectly. She took it off and hung it on a hanger, then pulled the torn shipwreck dress over my head. I stood there like a dummy. ‘It’s hot under those lights. Used to be on the stage myself, you know, one of the Bluebell Girls. In the chorus line.’

  I looked at Hilda with new interest. I could see a certain faded glamour, thin rather than slim, pale eyes worn out from close sewing, tinted brown hair.

  ‘We used to make a lot of our own costumes. All spangles and sequins. That’s how I got into sewing, when my legs gave up.’

  ‘What happened to your legs?’ asked my voice.

  ‘Varicose veins. The devil they are. Painful and unsightly. And there were family problems….’

  I let Hilda gabble on about her ailments and looking after her mother. Despite my brave words on the phone, I didn’t feel in the least bit brave. What had I said? I’d been carried away, angered by Fran’s cool assumption of a cancellation. I should have kept my mouth shut. This was going to be one almighty disaster.

  The costumes were beautiful. There was no doubt about it. Joe had specially dyed the velvet to the colours of saffron, granary, and fudge and sugarcane. The short cloaks were lined with shot silk, edged with old braid. Every set was going to look like a medieval painting. The harmonious colours in themselves built up the period, the atmosphere, the style. How had he got it all to look so old? Beaten it to death?

  ‘Good thing I’ve got plenty of different buckled shoes,’ Hilda said. ‘Your feet are bigger than Elinor’s. Pity, these little velvet slippers are so pretty but too small for you. She loves them.’

  ‘She’ll wear them when she comes back,’ I said.

  I was hardly aware of Joe returning to OK the costumes but I suppose he did. Hilda was busy. She had other last-minute alterations to do as well.

  ‘This fitted last week,’ Byron grumbled, trying to fasten a waistcoat, tugging at the edges.

  ‘Too much booze,’ said Hilda, ripping a back seam open with one of those sharp gadgets. ‘Could you try not to breath for a bit?’

  ‘You’re a brick, Hilda.’

  ‘These
bloody yellow stockings,’ Claud cursed. ‘They look like wrinkled bananas. They won’t stay up.’

  ‘Wear yellow pants over them. Women do that with one-size tights which never fit, put their knickers on top. But don’t give them to me to wash every night. You can do that yourself.’

  A secondary lady in waiting came in wanting to swop her dresses for Fran’s outfits, get herself modishly upgraded. Fran’s costumes were much more sweeping, low cut and gorgeously decorated to reflect her status at court.

  ‘Sorry, but you are not a size zero and never will be,’ said Hilda, putting Fran’s dresses back on the rail. ‘But you can wear her cloak. It matches.’

  ‘It’s so boring having to wear black all the time,’ complained Olivia, trying on her widows weeds for the hundredth time. ‘I look like a nun.’

  ‘You are a nun,’ said Hilda. ‘A nun in mourning for her brother. If it bothers you, wear lacy red undies.’

  Wardrobe was like Clapham Junction, cast coming and going in all the time, wanting Hilda to do this, do that. Noise and commotion. It was only missing a few trains running late. Everybody acted the star when it came to their costume. I tried to help but my hands were shaking so much I could barely thread a needle.

  I tried not to think. That was the only thing to do. Pretend it was not happening, hide my head under a towel. This was not happening. I stared at myself in the wall mirror and saw a ghost of a person with large frightened eyes.

  Joe came down to see me. He looked harassed. His hair was standing on end, as usual, hedgehog style, from running his hands through it.

  ‘Sound can’t get the thunder and lightning to work,’ he said, abruptly. ‘We may have to change the weather forecast.’

  I had no idea what he meant.

  He took me aside, close to the basement window where sulphured London light filtered from above. ‘All right if I cut your hair now?’ he asked. ‘Or are you going to make a fuss like Elinor?’

  ‘What do you mean? Cut my hair?’ It was like a foreign language.

  ‘You can’t have this mass of hair. Unusual colour but there’s far too much of it. Viola is masquerading as a pageboy. She can’t have hair flowing like Vesuvius.’

  ‘You can’t do it. You’re not a hairdresser.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I liked my hair. My long hair.

  ‘Too late to book one. Look, have correct scissors, can cut.’

  He was brandishing a slim pair of scissors. They looked very sharp. He was eyeing my hair, calculating the length to chop off. I could not believe this final indignity. I was really shaking now. One day I might take the scissors to his hair. How about a striking badger look?

  ‘It’ll grow back, Sophie,’ he said. ‘It’s not like it’s permanent surgery. You may even get to like it short. Easier to wash and dry.’

  He was bustling round, finding me a chair, putting a towel over my shoulders. One thing he didn’t do was place me anywhere near a mirror.

  ‘Close your eyes and think of England,’ he said. The weak joke didn’t help.

  His fingers brushed my neck, lifting the heavy coil of hair. I’d plaited it some time that morning, but it had come undone. He bounced the rope of red around as if guessing the weight at a fair.

  ‘You could probably sell your hair to a wig maker. It’s in great condition.’

  I heard the click, click of the scissors. He had started. It was too late to do anything now. I could hardly rush away with half a head of hair. Tears squeezed out of my eyes. He was cutting off my hair.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You’re going to look fabulous.’

  I saw my hair falling on the floor, long strands of red curls, like exotic snakes writhing. A cold draught touched my neck. The scissors were cold on my forehead. He was cutting a fringe.

  ‘I don’t want a fringe,’ I cried, aghast.

  ‘Too late. You’ve got one.’

  This was the worse day of my life. And I’d had some bad days. This man was programmed to blight my life. My fate line had his name written all over it.

  ‘I shall look r-ridiculous,’ I sobbed.

  Joe stood me up, shaking the towel and turned me towards a mirror. He was smiling. But he also had a strange look on his face, something I didn’t understand. ‘Does this look ridiculous?’ he said gently.

  I stared at the woman in the mirror. I didn’t know her. A bob of flaming red hair sprung like curtains either side of a scared face. Her neck was suddenly long and creamy. Her eyes were wide and startled.

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ said Joe, looking straight into my eyes in the mirror. ‘Absolutely ravishing. We can really see your face for the first time.’

  ‘Is that me?’

  ‘You’ve been hiding behind that hedge of hair for years. This is the real you.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. You’ve cut off all my hair. How could you? Joe, Joe … it’s ruined.’ I wailed, fingering some of the long locks on the floor. They fell from my hands in a shower. ‘What am I going to do without my hair?’

  ‘Make-up now, Viola.’ It was Elinor’s dresser, that nice young woman called Millie. ‘Shall I help you or do you want to do it yourself’?’

  ‘Make-up? Surely it’s not time?’ Where had the day gone? It couldn’t really be time. This was when I should wake up in bed and find it had been an awful, horrifying dream. But I didn’t wake up. I was awake. It was a stomach-churning, out-of-body experience.

  ‘It’s time to get ready. You can’t rush your make-up. Come along, you can use Elinor’s dressing room. I know she won’t mind.’

  There was a ticking clock and it was banging away in my head. My mouth was so dry, my lips were sticking to my teeth. I barely remembered putting on the base and Millie shading and painting my eyes. She had the right touch, knew what she was doing. My eyes looked huge, petrified.

  ‘Your hair’s lovely,’ she said. ‘It’ll look perfect with the caps Viola wears. Just right.’

  I felt so sick that my face was all turned down like a morose cartoon caricature. Any minute I was going to throw up. I didn’t think I would be able to make it to the stage. Somewhere on the way, I would be so ill that my knees would fold under me. That moment of bravado had been my undoing. If only Fran hadn’t phoned to gloat over me. I could be sitting in front of the telly now, watching Emmerdale.

  Millie was doing her best. ‘Now, your first scene is the shipwreck so you wear the torn gown, the cloak and the shawl over your head. How about getting it all on now, so you don’t have a rush?’

  ‘W-where are they? Where’s the d-dress and the shawl?’

  ‘You’ve got the dress on. There wasn’t any need to try on a shawl. A shawl fits anyone. Come along, Sophie. Wrap this round.’

  She was dressing me like a child. My fingers were unable to do anything, fumbling and stiff. I looked a wreck. I was a wreck.

  The shawl and cloak hid all of me. There was only this gaunt white face staring at me in the mirror. Truly, a creature from a shipwreck. I was entirely shipwrecked with nothing to cling to.

  Joe appeared in the dressing room. He was nodding encouragingly, approving, but looking harassed. He took my cold hand.

  ‘I’m going to be there, with you, the whole time,’ he said. ‘I will be telling you when to go on and give you the first line. I’ll signal your exit and point to which exit to take but if you go the wrong way, it doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about exits. Millie and I will help with all your changes, making sure you have the right things on and have plenty of time for your next entrance.’

  ‘I can’t do it,’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes, you can. We are going to do it together. Once you are on stage, speaking those lines you love, you will feel wonderful. Forget there is anyone sitting out there, listening. You can’t see them. Think of the play and the words that Shakespeare wrote. I bet he’ll be in the wings, willing you on.’

  Something like a dry laugh touched my mouth. The first of the day. ‘I hope he keeps his beard off me,’ I s
aid.

  ‘You are going to do us proud,’ he said, turning me out of the dressing room. He was walking me along the crowded corridor towards the wings. I could hear the minstrels playing the opening music. The play had started. The first scene in Orsino’s palace was very short. I barely heard the Duke’s last words.

  ‘Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.’

  Had he said them or had I imagined it? I was frozen with fear. I couldn’t go on, my legs were like straw. The lights dimmed for the scene change. The Captain and the sailors were already in the wings, waiting, looking rugged, tense.

  ‘It’s like bungy-jumping,’ said Bill, at my side. ‘Only without a safety harness.’

  The thunder crashed, making me jump, and lightning flashed across the stage. The floor was a mass of seething waves created with ripples of material and lights. Creaks came from the wooden ship floundering on the rocks. It was realistic and spectacular.

  For a moment I was looking at the scene like someone in the audience, mouth open with amazement. I was nothing to do with the play, actually. I was just watching it. Then Joe gave me a gentle push forward into the darkness.

  As I went on stage the rain started. It was coming down from five sprays fixed high up in the flies, water cascading in a line across the stage and I was right under it. I was standing in a veil of rain. In seconds I was soaked, rain dripping off my nose and my face, sticking in my eyes.

  I gasped with the shock of it. Thunder, lightning and now real rain. I was shipwrecked in truth. I staggered to the front of the stage, drenched, wiping my face. The stage lights went on.

  ‘What country, friends, is this?’ I said with a short, audible intake of breath.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I was still on stage. It had become a different world, a different universe, hazy with colours and movement. The Duke was taking my hand and gazing at me fondly.

  ‘Here is my hand,’ he said. ‘You shall from this time be your master’s mistress.’