CHAPTER SEVEN
Flying by the Seat of my Pants
August
BRANWORTHSTATION,BRANWORTHSTATION,next stop,’ cuts in the guard’s muffled voice over the tannoy. I putMirandaaway with the other three scripts – the other three, untouched, UNLEARNED scripts.
I swing my rucksack onto my back and feel a twinge.
I wonder if I’m capable of learning four parts in almost as many weeks,when I have difficulty memorising passwords.
The Jeremy Hart Repertory Company is one of the few left of its kind. Nowadays most actors have the luxury of at least three weeks of rehearsal; not so here, with a new play to learn every week. The audiences are made up of the local community and regulars, who plan their holidays around the play season. Many of the actors have appeared here yearafter year and have a huge local fan base.
When I’m not required to rehearse, I have to hunt for props, help paint the set, assist the wardrobe department, beg shops and restaurants to display our posters, and keep tea, coffee, milk, and biscuit supplies replenished.
* * *
‘Three pound sixty, duck,’ says the taxi driver, as we draw up outside Gloria’s Hollywood Apartments – reputedlythe best theatrical digs in town.
I push a fiver into his hand. ‘Keep the change,’ I say distractedly, looking upwards.
‘I’ll look for your name in lights!’ he calls, peeping his horn as he pulls away from the kerb.
I press the buzzer. A figure descends through the frosted glass, and I am face to face with a lady sporting a dated beehive, tight, velour top, leopard skin, stretchy skipants, and black satin slippers with fluffy feathers.
‘You must be Emily. I’m Gloria. Come in, love, and I’ll show you your apartment,’ she says, beckoning me inside. ‘You’re in the Bette Davis Studio,’ she announces proudly, as she bustles up the flock-wallpapered stairway in a vapour of 4711 cologne and nicotine, gold pendants jingling. Framed, black and white, signed photographs of Gloriawith various celebs whom I vaguely recognise from old sitcoms and soaps cram every square inch.
‘Would you like a cuppa?’ she asks.
‘Mmm, yes, please,’ I reply, dropping my rucksack to the floor. She disappears in a swish of bamboo curtain, through to the galley kitchen.
‘How about a Gypsy Cream as well?’ she calls. ‘You must be starving after your journey.’
‘That’d be great.’
I take in my surroundings; the living room-cum-bedroom is spotlessly clean, with a standard lamp, crushed velveteen settee and sheepskin rug. There’s a giant television in one corner and a single bed in the other, covered in a paisley-patterned eiderdown. The walls are artexed, giving them that rough, Seventies, faux-farmhouse effect. Off the corridor is the burgundy bathroom suite, with matching,twisted-loop pedestal mat and loo seat cover.
‘You know, I always fancied being an actress myself,’ says Gloria, handing me my tea and biscuit. ‘When my mother died and left me the house, I decided to convert it and take in theatricals. They’ve all stayed here: the Roley-Poleys, Hinge and Bracket, Cannon and Ball, the Krankies, Dottie Wayne, Joe Pasquale … and last week I had the cast ofSaturday Night Fever.If you could pay me on a Friday, please – and I prefer cash. Oh, and don’t forget to sign my visitors’ book before you leave. Don’t hesitate to knock if you need anything,’ she says handing me my key, then clip-clopping down the stairs.
After unpacking, I wander down to the beach, and out to the end of the deserted pier. I look out at the heaving ocean and draw a deepbreath. So, this is the life I’ve dreamed of – the life of a jobbing actress – how will it pan out? What will the rest of the cast be like? What if I can’t remember my lines?
I head back towards the shore, buffeted along by the strong wind, whipped up from the sea. As I draw closer, I notice the lights are on in the chippy. I order a haddock supper, which I devour with greasy fingers on abench in a draughty, graffiti-covered shelter.
With the light now starting to fade, I find my way to the little repertory theatre.
SEE TWO PLAYS IN ONE WEEK!boasts the poster pasted outside. And there’s my name in tiny print at the bottom of the cast list. No backing out now. I look down the list of plays, and the scary thought of all those lines hastens me back to Gloria’s for an earlynight.
* * *
Next morning, heart racing, I climb the stairs to the rehearsal studio. I pause momentarily as I turn the door handle and suck in a deep breath. The room is full of actors talking in loud, confident voices, laughing, squealing, hugging, and air-kissing one another.
‘Darling! Howwonderfulto see you again – can’t believe it’s been a year …’
‘Been working, much?’
‘Oh, this and that – a bit of voice-over work and one episode ofThe Street.’
‘I hardly recognised you – the Botox takes years off you …’
