‘“I do a bit of amateur boxing, Miss,”’ groans Vince as he chucks me onto the sofa, onepage early, which means I have no alternative but to cut my line, “Carry me round the room, will you, Charles?”
Civic Theatre stalwart, Vanessa Morrell, playing Clare, the doctor’s wife, swans on upstage right, saying, ‘“You can put Miss Trewella down, Cha…”’ and glowers in my direction.
I am dumped in the offstage darkness after my first scene, and fumble my way to the quick-change area,where Babs is standing by with my long dress and pearls, in preparation for Act Two, Scene One.
‘Breathe in,’ she commands through a mouthful of safety pins, yanking the waistband of the tail tighter around my midriff.
Meanwhile, Rocky Balboa is pacing up and down stage right, in preparation for round two …
If adrenaline gives a person the superhuman strength to lift a car, then pleaseGod, can it not do the same for Vince?
‘“Ah, here she is. Put Miss Trewella on the settee, Charles.”’ And my prayer is answered.
Our first-night nerves gradually vanish as Doctor Theatre works his magic, shifting the action up a gear, giving the lines punchiness and pace.
We are now just one scene away from the interval, and my favourite bit of the whole play, where I have the stageall to myself – the pivotal moment, where the audience realises for the first time that Miranda is not an invalid after all …
I flop into the wheelchair; Babs fusses with the ribbon of my négligée, and the jewelled clasp in my hair, then tucks the tartan blanket tightly around my legs and under my feet, so the tail doesn’t poke out.
Margo, playing the nurse (looking for all the world likeBarbara Windsor inCarry On Doctor), pushes me on stage.
‘“Why did you never get married, Nurse Cary?”’
‘“I never wanted to,”’ she replies, her gin-infused breath wafting over me.
‘“Don’t you find men attractive?”’
‘“No … nor they me … which makes it easier.”’
‘I’d take you out any night of the week, sweetheart!’ comes a voice from the gods. Several guffaws echo around theauditorium.
Coquettishly batting her false eyelashes, Margo cries, ‘See you in the bar afterwards, darling!’ which prompts several wolf-whistles.
‘“I love men.”’ I yell this line, determined to get us back on track. Margo thumps the back of the chair and eventually says, ‘Well, well …’ This is not in the script, and therefore slightly worrying. She then proceeds to cut the next page ofdialogue.
The lights slowly fade and the set is bathed in greeny-blue light. Thunder rolls, lightning flashes, the rain lashes against the windowpanes, and the haunting wisps of ‘Fingal’s Cave’ by Mendelssohn drift through the air. Cellos and bassoons gather momentum; Miranda, trance-like, removes her négligée (bit of a barney with Jeremy and Babs about this stage direction, due to my refusalto bare my assets to an audience of elderly holidaymakers – or any holidaymakers for that matter. Two large shells, strategically super-glued to flesh-coloured, strapless bra save the day). She lets down her flowing locks and flicks her scaly tail high into the air. Lightning, thunder, gasps from the audience, curtains, wild applause. This is what issupposedto happen …
‘“Goodnight. Turnon the wireless, will you; and switch off the lights as you go out.”’
‘“See you in the morning.”’
‘“Don’t forget my scallops.”’
“‘There are just as good fish in the sea as ever… Goodnight.’”
MIRANDA MANIPULATES HER CHAIR OVER TO THE FRENCH WINDOW.
Why won’t the bloody thing move?
MIRANDA MANIPULATES HER CHAIR OVER TO THE FRENCH WINDOW.
I push the wheels with all mymight, but … NOTHING. I lean forward … if I could just reach the door handle … oops … nearly. The chair rocks back and forth. Nervous whispers come from the auditorium.
‘Release the brake!’ hisses Abi from the wings. Aha! How stupid of me. I grab the lever and flick it to the down position; the chair starts to roll backwards on the raked stage, towards the orchestra pit. The audience holdsits collective breath as I push the wheels forward with all my might and hurtle towards the French windows, crashing into the small table, with the goldfish bowl on it.
MIRANDA LOOSENS HER HAIR SO THAT IT CASCADES DOWN OVER HER SHOULDERS.
My trembling hand, now slippy with sweat, can’t get the hair clip to undo. I tug at it, and the wig moves precariously to the side, so decide to abandonthat bit of business.
