Page 54 of The Start of Something Wonderful

We look at one another gormlessly.

‘Oscar Charlie, are you in the vicinity?’

I bite down hard on my lip, fighting a laugh. The Branworth taxi service is mysteriously filtering through the speakers! I ad-lib my way to the end of the scene, but try as I might to retaina sense of professionalism and carry on regardless, my dialogue is expelled in short, sharp bursts, like machine gun fire. The curtains come in, and we all fall about the floor like naughty school kids; the first of many bouts of ‘corpsing’, as it’s called.

* * *

Week Seven:Salad Days

No part to learn, no technical responsibilities, just a million props to find, including four ofthose old-type mobile hairdryers; you know, the ones on castors, with giant hoods?

Have been into almost every hairdresser in Branworth. They are all very trendy places with staff of an average age of twenty-three. With their brightly coloured hair, body piercings, tattoos, funky clothes, and waif-like figures, I feel about ninety-five next to them.

‘Do you have any old hairdryers I couldborrow for a play?’ I yell over blaring rap music. ‘You know the old-fashioned type with a hood … and wheels … no?’

My request is usually met with blank looks or mild amusement. I chicken out from asking them to display our poster and flyers. I get the feeling that neither they nor their cool clientele are likely to want to spend their Saturday night watching Timothy and Jane dancing and singing‘Oh, Look At Me!’, accompanied by Minnie, the magic piano.

Footsore and hairdryerless, I start to wend my way back to the theatre, wondering if it may be at all possible to adapt the whole thing to the present day. Problem is, we’re back in thatfrightfullynice world wheregaymeans happy, and people go tomarvellousparties and drinklashingsof beer, and say things likegoshandhe’s athoroughly decent chap.

I’m ravenous, and an illuminated Fish ’n’ Chips sign lures me up a little side street. As I’m waiting in the queue deciding whether or not to have mushy peas, reflected in the mirror, I spy a board outside the pebbledash house opposite …

HAIR BY MADGE

SHAMPOO & SET HALF-PRICE

FOR PENSIONERS WEDNESDAYS

Now that looks just the kind of place …

‘Yes,love?’ says the lady behind the counter, fish slice at the ready.

‘Sorry, gotta go,’ I say, flying out of the door. Forget jumbo sausages and mushy peas, there’s more pressing business at hand.

* * *

‘If you can manage to get them downstairs, then you’re welcome to borrow them,’ says Madge, opening the stock room door. ‘Can I leave you to it?’ she says, consulting her watch. ‘My lady’scolour should have come off five minutes ago.’

‘Sure, thank you, and here’s the poster, and oh, I’ll drop off the tickets for Thursday night’s show tomorrow morning.’

Isn’t life weird? Not so long ago, I was pushing a trolley through a metal tube, and now here I am, proudly propelling a dusty old hairdryer with wonky wheels through a shopping precinct. Oh, the glamour!

* * *

WeekEight:Round & Round The Rectory(akaAnother Cringeworthy Farce)

‘No, no, no, Emily! You pop up from behind the sofaafterthe telephone rings, notbefore,’ booms Jeremy’s voice from the darkness of the dress circle. ‘Now let’s go back to the top of the scene from the bishop’s entrance.’

In an ideal world we would have rehearsed this for three weeks, ensuring that the slick co-ordinationof lines and moves is imprinted on the brain. But in this drama production line, you’ve barely time to erase the previous character and plot from your memory before you’re twenty years younger than last night, and are speaking in a West Country accent as opposed to ‘Received Pronunciation’ (or ‘RP’, as it is called in Thespian Land). The art of ad-libbing is a must here, to be pulled out of thehat whenever the playwright’s words elude you.

So, to the play itself: vicar, vicar’s wife, bishop, gardener, and ditsy maid (typecasting?). Lots of diving under beds, popping in and out of cupboards and toe-curling double-entendres like, ‘Ooh, put that away before somebody else sees it!’

No unruly wig this week, thank God, just a maid’s cap and an Eliza-Doolittle accent.

‘“Good evening,bishop. May I take your mitre?”’

‘“Thank you, Edith. Is the vicar at home?”’

‘“Yes, your ’oliness. He’s in the library and is expecting you.”’

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