‘… I’m not complaining though – that soup commercial will pay my mortgage for the next six months …’
The door opens and Jeremy, the director, whom I recognise from the audition, appears, followed by his creative team.
‘Good morning, everyone,and welcome to The Civic Theatre for this, our fortieth anniversary season. Gather round,’ he says, indicating the circle of chairs. ‘Now, for the benefit of those who haven’t been here before, to my left is Babs, who’s in charge of wardrobe; Lesley, set designer; Ellis, lighting; Richard, sound; Mark, stage manager; and his second-in-command, Abi, DSM.’ (Deputy stage manager.)
‘Hi!’ saysAbi, who is crouched on the floor, marking the layout of the set with white tape.
Jeremy looks anxiously at the door, then his watch. ‘Well, we’d better get started. Let’s go round the room, introduce yourselves, and then tell us the name of the character you’ll be playing in our opening production.’
The door flies open and a well-preserved actress I vaguely recognise from an Eighties’sitcom sweeps into the room, a long, red PVC raincoat draped around her shoulders, clutching what looks like a meerkat with hair extensions.
‘So sorry I’m late, Jeremy darling. You know how Ihateearly mornings.’
‘Margo darling!’ gushes Jeremy, leaping to his feet and kissing her on both cheeks. ‘Let me grab you a pew.’
Scooping up a chair, he announces, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, shedoesn’t need introducing, but put your hands together please, and give a warm welcome to our leading lady, Margo Dalziel!’
Margo smiles graciously, gives a regal wave and says, ‘Aren’t you forgetting someone, darling? This is Phoebe, everyone,’ she says, proudly holding up a scrawny paw. ‘You see, she’s saying “hello”,’ she gushes, smothering the yelping meerkat in kisses.
‘Right, let’scrack on, folks,’ booms Jeremy over-brightly, eyes studying the ceiling. ‘Here are your rehearsal schedules. Please take one and pass them on …’
As my eyes run down the schedule, my stomach twists and my heart quickens. I am perfectly prepared to earn my thespian wings by working my socks off, but I can’t help feeling a tad panic-stricken when I realise that after opening night, we begin rehearsalsearly the following morning for the next production, whilst performing the play we rehearsed the last week every evening, with matinées on Thursdays and Saturdays.
At the end of each run, I have to pack away all the props, help ‘strike’ (take down) the set and put up the new one, which I have to dress with the curtains, pictures, rugs, books, ornaments etc. I have somehow miraculously sourcedin time for the full dress rehearsal at 2.30.
At the risk of appearing a diva, when exactly am I to learn my lines, let alone eat, sleep, wash my smalls? I raise my hand gingerly.
‘And so to our first play,Miranda,’ says Jeremy, pulling a file from his bag. ‘Emily, our latest recruit, is to play our mischievous mermaid.’
Jeremy motions for me to stand up. All eyes swivel in my direction.I slowly lower my arm, tugging at my recently cropped hair, wishing it would magically grow back.
It’s obvious what they are all thinking, and I want to say,I know, I know I’m at least twenty years too old for the part, but is it my fault their first choice got a last-minute offer to play Liesl inThe Sound of Music?
* * *
‘This isn’tPhantom of the Opera,’ grumbles Babs that afternoonat my wardrobe fitting. ‘We simply don’t have the budget for wigs. Why Jeremy cast you, I have no idea. He should have consultedmefirst.’
I open my mouth to speak but think better of it.
A long, blonde wig is eventually found scrunched up in a Tesco carrier bag from a 2001 production ofLes Liaisons Dangereuses,and after a gentle soak in some Dreft, it is grudgingly met with Babs’sapproval.
* * *
My very first scene is with Charles, the chauffeur, who has to carry me on stage and around the room, whilst I marvel at the furnishings and paintings.
According to the script, Charles isbroad and tough-looking, so don’t ask me why five-foot-five Vincent Crumb has been cast in this role. Vince is as camp as Rio Carnival and skinny as a rake. I may not be Victoria Beckham,but the way he wobbles and wheezes as he carts me around, makes me feel less like a delicate mermaid, and more like a beached whale.
‘We haven’t time to spend on this now, so please can you work on this scene in your own time?’ says Jeremy, clutching his forehead. ‘Right, moving on …’
* * *
Like Sir Ian and Dame Judi, I used to bemoan the demise of weekly repertory, where fledglingactors like me could hone their ‘craft’ (to use luvvy-speak). Why, oh why is this wonderful institution being allowed to disappear? This will kill British theatre, I thought. But that was before the reality of fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants rep kicked in …
* * *
Miranda –Opening Night
‘Everyone got their personal props?’ calls Abi, standing in the doorway, scanning her clipboard.
