(How I would love to have Oliver’s ability to quote Shakespeare at the drop of a hat – and to have the grace to think morekindly of Alan.)
But try as I might, there’s absolutely no chemistry between us, which is unfortunate, as we’re supposed to be madly in love.
Mags tells me it’s a good test of my acting skills, and recalls how she once had a similar problem, playing a sadist lesbian inThe Killing of Sister George. The only way she could pull it off was to totally immerse herself in the thoughts and emotionsof the character. (I suppose I should give thanks for small mercies: at least Alan’s a man.)
What was it Portia said?
‘Acting is about finding the truth in imaginary circumstances.’
Note to self: MUST TRY HARDER TO FANCYALANBILL RAY.
After all, if Mags and Jason can do it, why not me? Jason plays Charlie, the mailman. Charlie’s known Chelsea since they were kids, and still hasunrequited feelings for her. He’s gay (Jason, that is, not Charlie), but those soul-searching eyes regard me with such adoration on stage, that an unspoken frisson has developed between us. (Oh dear, I’m falling for the wrong guy.)
I wish Jason were around more, as his presence immediately fills the air with fun and laughter. (He reminds me of many of my gay steward colleagues, who, throughtheir razor-sharp wit and charm, would turn a ten-hour flight packed full of delayed, grumpy passengers into an on-board party.) But Jason has a boyfriend, Matthias, who lives in Vienna, and so he scoots off every night after the show.
The role of Billy Ray Junior, Bill Ray’s teenage son, is shared between two young teenagers, who attend the American International Theatre School here, andplay the role in rotation.
The scenes between crotchety octogenarian Norman and thirteen-year-old Billy Ray are a master class in fine acting. The arrival of the young man at Golden Pond pulls the world-weary Norman from the quicksand of his melancholy, their fishing trips and man-to-man talks reviving the old man’s zest for life. The powerful bond played out in their scenes together makesmy heart hurt.
It gets me thinking about family and growing old – how we all need a little sunshine in our lives; just because you’re done with work or raising children, this doesn’t mean you’ve passed your sell-by date and are happy to spend the rest of your life in solitary confinement, with only the telly for company. Every human being needs to feel useful and wanted. I don’t imagine Oliveris still treading the boards purely through financial necessity, and as for Mags, this contract is the key to her sanity.
* * *
After two weeks in a church hall, today we are to rehearse on stage for the first time.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of theOn Golden PondCompany, please make your way down to the auditorium to walk the set,’ the deputy stage manager instructs over the tannoy.
We enter through the swing doors and stop dead in our tracks. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck bristle. The cables and ladders have disappeared, and the hollow, cavernous stage of a fortnight ago has now morphed into Ethel and Norman Thayer’s rustic, lakefront house in Maine, New England.
The audio engineers are hunched over a huge mixing desk in the middle of the stalls, the lightingguys are working overhead, and day turns to night in an instant, the lake shimmering in the moonlight beyond the screen door. The eerie sound of the loons echoes around the auditorium. Mags and Oliver slip quietly unprompted into character.
‘“Shh. Norman, the loons. They’re calling. Oh, why is it so dark?”’
‘“Because the sun went down.”’
‘“I wish I could see them. Yoo-hoo! Looooooons!Loony looo-oooons!”’
‘“I don’t think you should do that in front of Chelsea’s companion.”’
Gerhard, our director, sits at the front of the stage, calling instructions to the crew. We settle silently into the plush, red velvet seats until they are ready for us.
* * *
Opening night
‘Guten Abend,Olaf,’ I say to the stage doorman as I tick off my name and eagerly check my pigeonholefor post.
‘Guten Abend, Fraulein,’ he says, summoning me back to the desk with the crook of his finger.He disappears momentarily to the small office at the back and re-emerges with a huge bouquet of crimson roses. ‘Für Sie,’ he says, thrusting them towards me, amused by my astounded expression.
‘Danke,’ I say, barely able to contain my soaring joy, whilst silently castigating myself forassuming Francesco would forget my opening night.
As I make my way up the stairs, Oliver’s vocal warm-up exercises sweep down the corridor to meet me. ‘What a to-do to die today at a minute or two to two. A thing distinctly hard to say, but harder still to do …’
The theatre manager, in full penguin suit, gives me a fleeting nod as he rushes past, squawking into his walkie-talkie.
‘Entschuldigung! Sorry!’ calls out the wardrobe mistress, narrowly avoiding me as she clatters down the stairs, the mailman’s costume slung over her shoulder.
The deputy stage manager’s voice echoes through the tannoy: ‘Ladies and gentlemen of theOn Golden PondCompany, the house is now open. Please do not cross the stage.’
