The play is completely sold out – nothing like a good, juicywhodunnit to pull in the bored holidaymakers from their B&Bs on a dull, drizzly night in Branworth.
‘“Stay right where you are!”’ orders Vince, as this week’s villain, Jack Spencer. He flicks on the torch and trains the beam onto my face. ‘“I’m afraid you know too much,”’ he continues, pulling a gun from the inside pocket of his overcoat.
‘“Don’t be a fool, Jack. The police won’t buy yourstory. But I can help you …”’
Vince pulls the trigger. I know the routine now: grab the corner of the desk, clutch chest with other hand, squeeze blood capsule, fall to knees, open mouth slightly as if to speak, glazed look, fall on my side, back to the audience (so they don’t see me breathing), and remember what Jeremy said: ‘Don’t overact, darling – remember, less is more.’
But hangon, where’s the bang? The trigger clicks again. Nothing. Vince shoots me one of his customary, boggle-eyed, Frank-Spencer looks. I half expect him to twitch his shoulders and utter an ‘Hmm, Betty.’
No good relying on him to get us out of this. He spouts his lines verbatim, but as I discovered inMiranda, throw the unexpected at him, and he clams up.
A mega-dose of adrenaline rushes aroundmy body, and I find myself backing away, ad-libbing like mad.
‘You won’t get away with this, you know. No, you won’t. No, siree! The police will be here soon. There’s no way out – unless you’d care to try the window. But the windows are double-glazed, so you won’t be able to break them … even with a chair… nope … no way …’
My back is now pressed against the ‘lift’ door, blood tricklingthrough my fingers onto my shirt, for no apparent reason. Vince is rooted to the spot, doubtless petrified of what I may say or do next. There’s only one thing for it …
In a last-ditch attempt to rescue the situation, I feign prising the door open and fall in backwards, as if into the lift shaft (a black masking curtain). I then spin around once (less is more), crying ‘Aaaaaaaaaaah!’
Abi looks at me flabbergasted from prompt corner, as I snatch one of the cast-iron stage weights and drop it to the floor with a thud, signifying my sticky end.
A good bit of improv, I think, until it dawns on me horribly as the plot unravels, that all references to the shooting (of which there are many) have now to be changed on the hoof, and the two local am-dram enthusiasts, cast in thenon-speaking roles of ambulance men, don’t get to come on stage at all.
* * *
Week Six: Another Op’nin’, Another Wig
Strike a match within three feet of my head, and I will combust. Yet despite the half can of hairspray and ton of kirby grips, my mangy hairpiece keeps falling off.
‘Could we do away with the hairpiece altogether, Babs?’ I beg, as she spears my head again.
‘You’resupposed to be a nineteen-year-old virgin bride, Emily, and without it …’ she says, casting a critical eye over me, ‘well, I’m afraid there’s no nice way of putting this, you – you look more like the bride’s mother.’
‘Well, what about myMirandawig?’
Judging by Babs’s reaction, you’d think I had just suggested wearing my birthday suit and a pair of Doc Martens.
‘I beg your pardon?Did you say yourMirandawig?’
I nod, smiling weakly.
‘You can’t possibly wear that wig! Our regulars would recognise you right away fromMiranda. No, you have to look completely different. There!’ she says, standing back and studying my reflection. ‘As long as you don’t move your head around too much, it’ll stay put, and on matinée days you’ll have to keep it on in between shows.’
It was bound to happen sooner or later – and tonight it does …
‘“Oh, Archie, you do love me, don’t you?”’
‘“Of course I do, Shirl. You’re the only girl for me.”’
‘“Oh, Archie!”’
‘“Oh, Shirl!”’
Archie takes me in his arms and spins me around. As I come in to land, I notice a blonde, ferret-like thing sitting on his shoulder.
‘“I can’t – wait – until – we’re – married, darling,”’I squeak. I know I have another line, but my concentration is broken. Unaware, Archie/Vince looks at me intently through his Coke-bottle spectacles, eyes hugely magnified, drops of perspiration glistening in the furrows of his terrified brow. I can’t think what to say. Remember what they drummed into us at drama school? If your concentration goes, stop and momentarily focus your attentionon something very familiar to you, and this will jog your memory …
‘Oscar Charlie, got a pick-up from Station Road …’
