Numerous complaints? One complaint surely? Unless Fran had blackmailed half the cast into backing her up. It was disastrous money-wise. I needed a steady income to support Mark and my Mum. The London flat would have to go for a start.
Bill Naughton was out of hospital now, hobbling around on crutches, superintending the rebuilding of the set in the new theatre. He sat on Orsino’s ducal throne, which had been rescued from the rubble, directing the work.
‘So when are you coming back?’ he bawled down the phone, over the sound of hammering and drilling. ‘Rehearsals start next week. Opening night is Wednesday week. You’ll be here?’
He couldn’t hear my reply. ‘What? Can’t hear you. You’ve got a sack, the rack, a bad back?’
‘I’ve been sacked, dismissed, given notice,’ I repeated. ‘I’m not coming back. Lots of the cast complained about my prompting, apparently, not only Fran. I’ve got a letter, giving me a month’s notice in reverse.’
‘Bloody nonsense, I don’t believe it,’ he snarled. ‘This smells worse than the play they’ve just taken off. I’ll find out about it. Does Joe Harrison know?’
‘Don’t know. I haven’t told him. He’s got enough to worry about. He’ll soon find someone else. Prompts are ten a penny. We are not exactly a dying breed.’
‘But you’re worth a solid gold antique sovereign to him and he knows that. He won’t let you go. Mark my words.’
I cheered up momentarily, though I wasn’t sure about the choice of antique. ‘Thanks, Bill. At least I know you didn’t complain about me. I must go now. I’ve promised to help a local school with their musical version of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.’ I nearly said my son’s school, but stopped myself in time.
‘My only complaint is that you never let me get anywhere near you,’ he growled. The phone was sizzling with rampaging hormones.
I spent the afternoon at Mark’s school, trying to sort out a state of chaos, noisy children milling about everywhere, a harassed drama teacher realizing she had taken on more than she could masticate.
Miss Ferguson pounced on me as if I was Andrew Lloyd Webber in drag. ‘Could you hear these children’s words? They don’t seem to understand they are being animals or how to act like animals. And then the Ice Queen? She’s saying her lines as if she’s umpiring a netball match. I’ll take the chorus through their songs.’
It was quite fun once you got their attention. The children tended to think drama classes were an extension of playtime and it would be all right on the night without having to learn words or know where they came on.
But once I got them acting like squirrels and moles and beavers, they had a whale of a time and the Ice Queen began chipping her words with an ice axe. She was going to make a terrific queen. Mark had a small chorus part but he wasn’t rehearsing with me. He was with Miss Ferguson.
Mark and I cycled home together. I was tired, but happily tired. For a whole afternoon I had not thought about the letter and the problems it brought.
‘Miss Ferguson said you were bloody good,’ said Mark, cycling ahead of me.
‘Don’t say bloody, say very,’ I gasped, going uphill slowly. No gears.
‘Very bloody good,’ he grinned back. ‘She said you could be a drama coach.’
I must talk to him about his language. I didn’t know where he got it from.
It was easier to walk up the last stretch of the lane. My mother was watching television with a tray of tea at her side. She was taking her convalescence seriously. No lifting for six weeks, they said. She could manage to lift a teapot.
‘Some one called Harrison Ford phoned for you,’ she said, not looking away from the screen. It was one of her favourite soaps, new life-threatening situation every five minutes. She lived every moment. Perhaps this was how I got my love of the theatre. I was living my mother’s ambition for her.
‘You mean Joe Harrison?’ Harrison Ford, I could wish. I would walk water for that craggy man.
‘He sounded like Harrison Ford. A very nice man. He said he’d call back.’
‘Did you say where I was?’
‘I said you were helping out with a school play.’
Helping out. It was Sophie do this, Sophie do that, all over again. I was on the hamster run. A school play was a way to strangle parents with their own umbilical chords. They had to attend, with cameras and videos.
‘I’ve spoken to this man, Joe Harrison,’ said Mark, spreading bread and making mashed tuna sandwiches. Lots of Omega 3. ‘Is he your boss?’
‘He’s the director. He’s famous in New York and came over to guest our production. When did you talk to him?’ This was alarming. I knew nothing about this call. My fragile deception was beginning to unravel. It frightened me.
‘Dunno. You were out somewhere. Yeah, that was it, you were bringing Gran home in a taxi from the hospital. He wanted to know who I was.’
My heart thudded to a stop. What had Mark said? I didn’t dare think. ‘And what did you say?’ I asked, nonchalantly washing and shredding three kinds of lettuce with studied indifference.
‘I told him I was the lodger, occasional handyman, TV repair man, general fixer.’
‘What a nerve,’ I said with a wave of relief and laughter, chopping tomatoes. ‘What fixer? You couldn’t fix a leaking duck in a bath.’
‘I fixed your watch when it needed a new cell battery. Remember?’
‘So you did. And brilliantly, at that. It’s still working.’
It was all I could manage at a stagger for supper, tuna sandwiches and salad. The school rehearsal had drained all my energy. No wonder teachers have nervous breakdowns. Those children needed chains and padlocks and that was only to take the register.
During the evening, Joe phoned again. This was getting a habit. I took the call in the kitchen, propping myself against a worktop for stability. He was furious.
‘Have you seen this damned letter?’ he demanded. ‘Half the cast signed it apparently. They said you were no good, that you let them down, that you gave them the wrong prompts.’
I could barely speak. Tears came into my eyes and I wiped them away with a tea cloth. What had I said, had I done, to make them hate me enough to get rid of me?
‘I don’t know why,’ I wept quietly. ‘I don’t understand any of this. I’ve always done my best for everyone. They could lean on me. Sometimes I’ve propped someone up for a whole show, when it was a bad night.’
‘I’ve told them that if you go, I’ll go. Straight back to the States and to hell with their contract. You are essential. Management were pretty taken aback, made snide remarks about the gossip going around about you and me. Prove it, you bastards, I said. Two separate flats in the same building does not an affair make.’
‘No, it doesn’t, does it?’ I said feebly.
‘So they have withdrawn your notice, temporarily. So please come back, Sophie. We need you. I need you.’ His voice dropped. ‘Can you come on Friday? That’ll give you another couple of days with your mother. But then, I need you, we need you. Can you do that?’
‘Friday? All right. I’ll be back then. T-thank you for talking to the management. It was very upsetting, getting that letter. I actually need my job. I have several commitments. Expensive commitments.’
I could hear Joe thinking. ‘Is that why you have a lodger?’ he asked.
The lodger had at that moment crept into the kitchen to search for chocolate ice cream in the freezer. I grabbed at his jersey and pulled him against me. He squirmed and wriggled, grinning.
‘The lodger is eating me out of house and home,’ I said. ‘He thinks he owns the place. And he is costing me a fortune. He beats me at gin rummy every evening. I should have taken up references.’
‘I don’t understand a word you are saying,’ said Joe, distantly. ‘The line is breaking up. Shall we see you Friday?’
‘See you Friday.’
I put the phone down. Mark prised the lid off the ice cream carton and got out dishes for all of us. He was
looking pleased with himself, grin like a split melon.
‘Was that the boss?’ he asked.
‘The boss.’
‘Cool, man.’
I threw the tea cloth at him. ‘Learn some new words, buster,’ I said. ‘Start reading Shakespeare.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
It was a new theatre, all chromium and stressed concrete and steel scaffolding, nothing like the elaborate Victorian Royale. As I walked in, I wondered how we were going to go evoke the sunlit court of Illyria, more or less Italian, on the east coast of the Adriatic, in this frozen, sterile wasteland.
Perhaps we could use the vague vacuum to somehow capture the essence of Shakespeare. He hadn’t meant a play to be tied down to a vicinity or a place. He’d been a wandering actor, a minstrel strolling from town to town, performing anywhere.
I was shattered by the thought of his convoluted words being spoken in this place. It was so alien. He’d be tearing at his brown beard. (Or was it red?) It would be a marathon for the cast. Joe had an Everest to climb. He had to pull everyone up by their crampons.
I found my space, my colourless corner, tried to curl up in it on a grey plastic chair. Tested the light, turned it for the best beam on to the script. There was no draught but I was still cold. My metabolism was hitting zero. I wanted my son. Still, I would be phoning him this evening. We’d made a pact. I would talk to him first, then my mother and not wait to phone till he’d gone to bed.
‘I want to know everything that’s going on,’ he’d said, very bossy.
‘You’re being nosey, you mean.’
‘Champagne,’ said Joe, his face lighting up as if I was an unexpected rainbow in the sky. ‘Welcome back.’ He was pouring me a glass of Brut champagne, not in a fancy flute but a plain dressing room tumbler. ‘We’ve missed you, Sophie. Haven’t seen you for weeks. Seems like years.’
He peered down into my face and the bubbles tickled my nose. ‘Hello? Anybody in there?’
‘This is the wrong theatre for Shakespeare. It has no ambiance,’ I said, struggling down to earth. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Then we’ll have to make it right. Hello?’
‘Hello you, too,’ I said, soaring again somewhere into the ether. I was flying high. Wonderful him. It had to be him. I wanted to touch him, draw his face close. There was no way any of those things could happen. I took the tumbler but if I drank all of it, my prompting would go down the drain or up the flute.
‘Drink it,’ he said, his granite eyes twinkling. ‘You’ll be all right. Nothing is going to start until everyone is here. They are stranded on the Central Line. Signal failure somewhere. Sophie, you look so well and a bit tanned. Not stressed out any more. Dorset must agree with you.’
I nodded. ‘It does. Such pure and wonderful air. Spectacular scenery, the dramatic cliffs, the sea, the Purbeck hills in the distance. There’s space and time. I stand outside the cottage and drink in the fragrance of the sea.’
‘Sounds idyllic. A cottage? With wonderful lodger?’
‘Him too.’ I wasn’t saying anything but already I was smiling and it wasn’t only the champagne. Joe noticed the smile.
‘He sounded very young. A student?’
‘You could say that. Yes, he’s young but also grown up, quite mature.’
Joe hunkered down beside me. His face was older, more lined but so dear to me. And he didn’t know it. He was grinning, a grin I now recognized with a clenching of my heart. I saw his face every day when I was with Mark.
‘I’m glad you have found some happiness,’ he said. ‘But don’t leave me out completely, Sophie. Lodgers grow up and move on.’
‘I know that,’ I said, nodding. I wondered if I dare touch his face. He was so close to me. Then the moment had gone and my thoughts were running away. He stood up as members of the cast arrived, talking, calling out to each other, waving to me. We parted like the Red Sea, moved on separately. It was back to work.
Fran was struck dumb when she saw me. Her scarlet-painted mouth pinched into a tight, strangled line. She strolled over, sucking in her flat stomach. ‘I thought they had sacked you. Got rid of you.’
‘No, apparently not,’ I said with a secret smile which I knew would annoy her. ‘I’m here, as you can see.’
‘But they said they were going to sack you.’
‘Clerical error. Never believe what you hear,’ I said. ‘Take your place, Fran. You’ll miss your first entrance.’
His words soothed my heart, running on a lodge and a loop. Shakespeare knew how to do it. It was as if he had a vision that one day centuries ahead when he was long gone and dead, a prompt would be clinging to her job, hanging on to his words for dear life. I almost felt him beside me, peering over my shoulder. I could smell cinnamon and spices and old ale. A feather brushed my face. Or I thought it was a feather.
‘Cut,’ Joe shouted over his mike, about an hour later. ‘Take five everyone. That was awful. Go look at your lines.’
He came over to me. He looked weary. ‘Except you, Sophie. Faultless rendition, as always. Your voice is perfect for every part. You could do a one-woman show.’
‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t want the hassle.’
‘Supper tonight with me? I want to hear about Dorset.’
‘No time. You know we’ll be here till three in the morning. That arrogant Yankee director will want everything perfect.’
He turned away but he was amused. I could tell from his shoulders. I amused him. Those shoulders, broad and muscular, taking on the burden of this make-believe world. But he had not been there when I needed him.
‘How could they possibly sack you?’ said Elinor, sipping warm water for her throat. ‘I never signed any such letter.’
‘Neither did I,’ said Jessica. ‘Where are all these people who are supposed to have complained? Byron says he never saw any letter. I can only think it’s a few ladies in waiting and courtiers miffed because they don’t have any lines at all.’
‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘It’s all over for the moment anyway. I’ve got my job till the end of this show.’
‘It can’t run forever,’ said Elinor, being practical. ‘I have the Greek’s wife at Stratford next. Comedy of Errors, remember?’
‘And I’m due to start filming in Italy next month,’ said Jessica. We looked at her enquiringly. This was the first we’d heard of a film in the offing. ‘It’s only a small part,’ she said quickly. ‘Suddenly came up. But it’s a start.’
‘Fran will be after both of your parts if you have to leave before it closes,’ I said. ‘Though she could hardly play both at once. She might try. Nothing is beyond her ability to save the day.’
‘She hasn’t got the presence for Olivia. The role needs a touch of blue blood. She’s so picky thin. Her blood must be part distilled water,’ said Jessica.
‘She needs more than a touch of acting,’ said Elinor, going back on stage. ‘And a touch of humility.’ The five minutes were up. Joe was walking round the back of the stalls, thumping the back of the seats.
‘The acoustics are different,’ he said. ‘The Royale soaked up the voice, all that upholstery and drapes. Here, the words bounce off the bare walls. You need to think carefully about your delivery.’
‘I have enough trouble remembering the words without having to think about delivery as well,’ grumbled Byron, waiting to go on. He closed his eyes in desperation. ‘The stage is so big, like a football stadium.’
Fran swept passed me, knocking the script out of my hand with her bunched-up skirts. ‘Don’t think you’ll get away with this,’ she hissed.
‘Late again, Fran,’ I said mildly. ‘Go shoot yourself in the foot.’
‘You worry about your own ridiculous little job and I’ll take care of mine,’ she snarled.
‘Rearrange the face then,’ I said. ‘You’re supposed to look lovely and serene in this scene.’
She shot me a look of pure venom. Straight through the heart, if looks could kill. I
glanced down at my front. No blood flowing from a deep knife wound.
‘Smile,’ shouted Joe on the mike. He’d seen her glaring. Fran composed a false smile and went to stand by Olivia. But she was seething. Everyone could see it. The air was taut and it wasn’t with Shakespeare’s plotting.
‘Watch your back,’ said Millie, from behind me. ‘You are in one big trouble with that young minx.’
‘I can take care of myself,’ I said, keeping my eye on the lines. But I wasn’t that sure.
‘That I’ll believe when the cows come home,’ Millie said. ‘They say there was a letter signed by everyone,’ she went on. How does every nuance of gossip spread so fast in a theatre, like it was printed in the programme? Was nothing confidential? ‘I don’t believe a word. I certainly didn’t sign it.’
‘Thanks,’ I whispered, with a smile, hoping she’d take the hint and go away. I couldn’t prompt and chat at the same time.
They were rusty. Joe had to sharpen up the entire production. Some of the sets and moves didn’t fit the new stage. Bill was hopping about like a demented kangaroo as Joe redesigned the set to fill in the gaps. I could hear his caustic comments more clearly than some of cast.
‘Quiet in the wings,’ Joe yelled. I didn’t envy him. He had so much to do in so few days. The rain in the shipwreck scene would only work in a confined area.
But I was falling into the rhythm. This was where I belonged. Even if this was my last show, and it could be my last show. My last ever. If I never worked again, I’d had that one night of pure glory when I played Viola. Now I wanted a lifetime ahead of me with Mark. He was all that mattered. That young, tousle-haired youngster who was the spitting image of his father: face, voice, expressions, with an uncanny ability to draw, to see colours and shapes.
‘Line.’
‘Let thy fair wisdom,’ I said. It was not like Olivia to go astray in mid speech. Something had thrown her. What was it? I tried to snatch a glance at her face but it was as glacial as usual. Then I spotted Fran in the wings, mirroring Olivia’s actions, exaggerating her icy movements.
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