BISHOP EXITS UPSTAGE RIGHT.
‘“Edith! Edith!”’(FROM OFFSTAGE.)
‘“Lawks, that’s Bill, the gardener!”’
I bob down behind the sofa.
Silence.
‘Hold it! Emily! Emily!’ calls Jeremy tersely.
‘Yes?’ I say, peering dubiouslyover the top.
‘Is there a problem?’
I stand up, shielding my eyes from the glaring lights. ‘No. You told me not to appear until the telephone rings.’
‘That’s right, but Richard’s cue for the telephone ring is your line, “He must have seen me come back from town”, is it not?’
‘Sorry, I … I was concentrating on when to appear and clean forgot my line. Sorry,’ I mumble sheepishly.
‘Okay, everyone, let’s go back to the top of the scene once more, thank you!’
Last night I dreamed I was naked on stage, it was my turn to speak, and I had absolutely no idea what play I was in. I will never pull this together by tomorrow night. There is nothing else for it: forget all that terribly useful stuff Portia drummed into us about Stanislavski. There simply isn’t time to explorethe inner self. The only technique I’m interested in is survival, and if that means strategically placing bits of the script under the bed, behind the sofa and in the cupboard, then so be it.
HOW TO SURVIVE WEEKLY REP
by
Emily Forsyth
This actors’ manual is to be my project whilst waiting for my next job. The headings so far are:
Chapter 1
Emergency Stage Evacuation
(procedures to be followed when you have absolutely no idea what your next line is)
Chapter 2
Violent Convulsions (aka ‘corpsing’)
Chapter 3
How to Survive Farce
(after not enough rehearsal and avoid having a nervous breakdown)
I will have to amend chapter three, as the procedures are not watertight, as I discovered tonight – to my cost …
Act Two, and I am withintouching distance of the finish line. A couple of pages of dialogue, in which to catch my breath after my leap over the back of the sofa, swiftly followed by energetic dive into the cupboard, to avoid being found by the vicar and his young (ahem) wife. Vince is playing the role of Reverend Pritchard and Margo, Mrs P.
So here I am, crouched down in my usual spot, having a quick slurp of mywater and a sneaky look at my script, in preparation for my final scene. My ears prick up as I hear Margo deliver my cue line – two pages early.
Before I have time to shift my brain into gear, the cupboard door is flung open and I am revealed, like a rabbit caught in the headlights. In one hand I am clutching my script, and a bottle of Evian in the other; but worse than this, my skirt is hitchedup over my knees and my nasty pop-sock secret is out. I rise slowly, staring into the black void, frantically scanning my memory for my line – nothing. My improvisation skills too let me down, as I find myself saying, ‘I’ll just pop upstairs ma’am and see if her ladyship requires anything.’
‘Her –ladyship?’ enquires Margo, eyes wide, a slight tremor in her voice.
