-•✦—✦—✦•-
Monday, June 26th, 1998, Hanover Gardens
My acting days seemed numbered—eight auditions I had gone to, with dozen more that I never had to go to because Baldini had sent over headshots. I loved that word, Baldini. It might turn into Bald Fraud when I became big enough, but for now I enjoyed calling him bald without being rude. I was thankful that my agent was there as an intermediary because I must have had thirty to forty rejections, or even worse, no communication. So far, the only role available to me was in commercials. Money was great—£800–1200 per one to two days of shooting—but it made me feel dirty, and deep in me a beast fought against it something fierce. Since April, though, there was only one movie I was sad not to get: Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. The thing that I was getting used to was how many child actors got their roles directly because they were related to a casting director, director, producer, or even a executive producer. No one cared about little old me when they could cast their son or Ronnie's niece. Roles for nine-year-olds were a dime a dozen in various BBC game shows, Blue Peter and more, but I wasn't interested in slop media like that—I wanted to be in films. Damn it.
I entered for our second dress rehearsals; it was exactly like tech rehearsals, but we had our official costumes. My costume was a white shirt, navy woolen cap and navy jacket, a plaid waistcoat, and white trousers. I liked the cap, but I would only wear it for the first scene; the hat interfered with my microphone, changing my sound tiny bit could mess up my line deliveries. All in all our costumes were very Victorian common-class worker get-up—and lot simpler than what poor Holli had to wear all day. She had a rigid plastic and fur monstrosity that she wore to melt into her role as a chimpanzee. But the story about my first show that should be told another day—because, today was a special day.
"Happy Birthday!" A crowd bid me their well wishes. I thanked them profusely and humbly.
"Thank you!" "Oh my god, how big is that?" my mouth said the words automatically. I was thankful of course, but it felt all too familiar.
This was perhaps the seventh birthday that we had when I was present for rehearsals. How many had I missed? Steven was quite done with them and had made a strict rule of celebrating only for a single short break and return back to work without mentioning it again.
"Here you go!" Sarah said, holding a very large cheesecake.
"Happy Birthday to You!" "Happy Birthday to You!" "Happy Birthday, dear Wilfred!" "Happy Birthday to You!"
"Make a wish!" Holli said to the side, there were many people repeating similar well wishes.
Closing my eyes, I wished for my deepest wish. One that I would keep praying for—to be cast in Harry Potter.
Breathing deeply, I blew out the single candle in a blocky number nine shape.
"Happy Birthday!" voices chorused, decidedly more excited than when it all started. Reason was bigger than my birthday.
"Stopwatch?" Andy reached his hand out. Jane handed it to him.
"Ready?" Andy asked the room, searching out everyone's gazes.
"Wait, the knife!" Gary said as if he remembered that he kept the kettle on.
"Who needs the damn knife? Use your hands." Sue shouted.
"Three, two, one—go!" Andy let out, and chaos ensued.
A betting pool was currently underway to pass the time and add a bit of entertainment to our lives. Rehearsals were becoming more and more monotonous by the day, and too many actors were already off-book, only showing up on the days they were performing or on call. The Monday afternoon cast (us) was currently in second place, just behind the Friday evening cast. One "p"—that is to say, one pound—was paid by each person taking part in the challenge.
#
"Anything to wash it down with?" Louisa asked, almost gagging on a particularly large piece.
"Ugh—stop, you're going to make me—" Holli said, swallowing harshly to stop a gag of her own.
It was an ugly sight as they held squished cheesecake in their hands.
"Two minutes thirty-three!" Andy warned.
"Quick! Wilf, what are you doing?" Gary said with accusation.
Before I could turn, I had a cheesecake being shoved into my mouth.
There was a fundamental flaw in the whole competition—I wasn't motivated to compete anymore because I was already winning. John had a talent for competitive eating, and unless one of us had learned John's secrets, there was no way we were going to overtake his record.
"Ohun wun it," I mumbled with my mouth full.
As soon as I was done with my first piece. Another one was shoved in my face.
"Three fifteen," Andy announced.
"Watch this!" Duncan said, finally stepping into the circle by grabbing a two handfuls in both hands. His mouth opened and the cake disappeared in moments.
Andy clicked the stopwatch and shook his head.
"Three twenty-nine!" Andy said with finality.
"We were so close!" Holli complained.
"That was two minutes too late," I pointed out.
"Still, that is a minute quicker than last time— Wow, I already feel sick." Holli burped.
"Damn it, didn't we say Duncan shouldn't have any cheesecake again?"
"It was for the greater good," Duncan said defensively.
"Not sure about that; we're still a pound short," Gary said dourly.
"Pound short and pound heavier—I say that's worth the money," Duncan joked.
"Well, you can rehearse far from me. I won't have your lactose intolerant arse farting near me," Gary rebuked.
Rehearsal went as usual after that. Birthdays could only be so special after seven different times we celebrated it. Even if that birthday was mine. In many ways, even the Hammersmith didn't feel as novel to me anymore. Three weeks of consistent rehearsal here had diminished the way it loomed over me like a beast before. Now it was just a place. Maybe I'd feel different when the audience was sat there. Hopefully, I wouldn't have bowel issues like Duncan did with lactose or start gagging for no reason like Louisa did. Stress was a beast of a different kind that I'd have to tame in time. Exiting the rehearsal rooms, I joined my Granddad for our short walk home.
—✦—
I was now nine years old. There was no denying it—I was getting old. It felt like my joints popped every time I moved; dance moves were too hard for my old bones; my hips and knees stung in pain, heralding the coming rain. Coughs followed too—was that pneumonia or my smoker's lung?
No, that was just my Granddad. In fact, it was all Clive Price. His health had diminished recently, summer cold perhaps. With his shifting health, his mood worsened. He had started to complain about the Oval, lack of good football (in London?), rude people Londoners and tourists. He'd been to five different churches, seven different pastors—he'd not made a friend. Oh, he was an easy talker and a charming person; the problem, in my opinion, lay with his own mindset. I needed to find out why he kept pushing away people.
"Are you alright?" I asked, worried about him.
"I'll be fine—" Clive coughed again.
"You should go see the doctor," I said seriously.
"Bah, have you seen the line at NHS? Wales does it better, none of that NHS nonsense. I've had it with—" He hacked and spat something thick and dark.
"That's no excuse. Why don't we go together? I can keep you company."
"Well, maybe. Not today, though," he gave me a grin. "It's a big day for the big man with a big job." He lifted me up, still strong as ever. "How about we find your Nain—do something fun?"
"Okay," I said, hugging him because I didn't fancy a fall.
"Sorry about your parents, by the way," Granddad apologised.
"It's okay. I know they have money problems."
"Money problems? What do you know about that, bach?"
"I don't know much…" I sighed. "Only there were some letters for unpaid bills."
He chuckled. "So? People forget to pay their bill all the time."
"Hmph," I scoffed. "Maybe, but do they forget all of them?"
Clive looked me in the eyes. "Hey, your parents are just fine. They've a lot of work, that's all. It's nothing compared to my old jobs. You're lucky to have your parents as often as you do. When I first started at the mine, it wasn't like that."
"Mine story?" I said mocking his old tone.
"What? It's my story!" Clive complained.
"Okay, sorry. You can tell it, I'll suffer through it as usual!"
"Cheeky get," He chuckled, "Well, you're following my footsteps at least. I started working when I was six or seven—doing odd jobs and such until my tad's friend got me a job on a milkman's route. Rees, I still remember that old goat. Sucking on his missing teeth all day, but he knew his route well. An hour before sunrise, we'd get to the plant, get the pasteurized milk, and start. I loved it back then. Milk, llaeth. Ehh—that's milk float, a little truck to carry all that milk. There were not many cars in Cardiff, but milkmen had their Brush Pony. Made a hell of a noise, woke everyone up, and they thanked us for it." He chuckled deeply,
"Brush Pony, the truck, it only had three wheels. Something like that Mr. Bean of yours had. I'd have twenty bottles in each crate. Rees lifted the crate with milk in it, and I collected the empty bottles. Simple times, heh." Clive chuckled low.
"How many houses did you go to each day?"
"Hundreds—six by six by two crates, five by four inside each crate. I still remember it like it was yesterday. A man without his tea in the morning will throw a right fit, you hear?" He parted his brand of advice.
"Of course," I simply nodded.
"I thought that was a hard job, waking up in the dark of night to walk to the plant. But it was no mining—that it wasn't." He said darkly.
"What was that like? You hardly talk about it."
Clive seemed to look me over but then lowered me to the ground. "You're nine now—no more getting carried places. You've got working feet,"
"I never asked to be carried anywhere," I shot back. He merely smiled, like he succeeded in winding me up.
"Mines were different. I had three brothers, you know," Clive said, his voice turning odd and wistful.
"Elis, Noah, and John. Close like a fist, we were. Mam said they ran out of godly names, so they named me after a hill we lived on." Granddad looked into the distance, as if trying to fling away the looming darkness or hook the sun back up again.
"What were they like?" I asked.
"Elis was the oldest of us. I don't remember much, but he was strong and tall. Few inches taller than your dad—he'd tower over me. Liked his beard; Noah could never grow one, you see. They fought a lot. Noah was smaller than even I grew up to be, and he hated being smaller than Elis. Lots of scuffed faces and knuckles with that two. Did the same when they joined the army. I was younger than you then—never saw them again." His voice wavered near the end, his hands reaching for the red and white poppy on his jacket.
"Hot-blooded fools, they were. We'd have given everything to have them back. War is a senseless thing, you remember that, Wilf," he said in a deep voice.
"Yes," I said, unsure.
"John, heh—" Granddad coughed and hacked a bile out to a near grasspatch.
"John was different—quiet, he was. Went up for war just like Elis and Noah, though. Army didn't buy his lie about his age; he was too young, you see. I thank God for that every day." His eyes glistened, but the stiff upper lip came in full force, face as hard as stone.
"But he was still conscripted—just not for fighting. Bevin Boys, that's what they called them—boys drafted to work in the mines for the war effort. John hauled coal for months on end until he got his shot at the mine face. That's where the miner breaks the coal off with picks, drills and whatnot. He was like a devil at it—pure engine on him. When I was thirteen, he hired me to his butty. Not the sandwich—it's something like your company, the crew and cast. I hauled the coal like he did, moved up front like he did. Drill in my hand and coal dust in the air—we'd walk out as black as soot. Heh." He cleared his throat.
"What happened to him?" I asked, knowing the answer.
Granddad stopped walking to catch his breath; his eyes looked at me oddly.
"Black lung, silicosis—take your pick. Inhaled too much rock dust, he did. John loved his rock drills—he'd get up in kissing distance, have his shoulders tucked in like this," he demonstrated. "Coal, rock, sand, soil—there's silica, this small crystal dust in it. He'd breathe it in every day for about ten years, working the long hours. Hated his wife, loved his drill. Only it killed him. I worked as an overman after that—never the mine face again. Overman, because I'm over the deep shafts, over the underneath." Granddad sighed sadly.
"I'm sorry—you must've loved your brothers," I said.
"That I did. There were no better brothers than them. Mam ran out of godly names, and my simple name's the only one that lasted this long. Maybe because that hill is still there… God tests us each day." His voice faltered but finished strong.
"And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. Romans 8:28," I said in reply, my voice without inflection.
I realized in that moment how strong he was—three brothers lost. Even my Nain had a similar story; they had lost those dear and close to them and carried on stronger and kinder. Granddad hadn't made friends in London because none could compare to his brothers. A lifetime of working in a collier, a lifetime of collier friends. How many still remained? How many deaths had he seen? A newly made friend was a soon-to-be-dead friend. He hadn't chosen his church nor made new friends because he was afraid—afraid of when they would die.
"Where do you know that from? Have you been going to church without telling me?" He asked me, drawn out of his sadness by the sheer shock of me quoting the Bible.
"The BBC show I did had a Reverend character; he quoted a lot of those passages," I said, shrugging.
"Baban always said you were sharp as a tack, I should believe her." he said with a laugh, mussing my hair and squeezing me closer to him for comfort.
Once he let me go, he stopped and suddenly turned to his left like he'd noticed a bear. My curiosity drew my gaze toward the direction, but he squeezed me close to his chest and walked ever faster.
"Hey, what are you doing?" I said, flustered as my legs tried to keep pace.
"Heh," he wheezed, "Just making up for lost time." I could see his arm waving to my left, like he was shooing the bear or someone.
"Granddad, stop. Hey!" I complained, but he didn't heed my words.
When we finally came in, he shoved me inside and slammed the door shut.
"God, what's wrong with ya?" I shot.
"Don't use the Lord's name in vain," Clive said.
"Not my god…" I muttered.
"What was that?" he asked me.
"Nothing," I answered, taking off my shoes.
—✦—
My birthday was going to be a tiny celebration. Nain was a fabulous cook, so I had something to look forward to. In the meantime, I decided to go to my new favorite room. The tiny terraced house was full of tiny little rooms on three different levels. One room had a nice long couch, half a bookshelf, a wall mirror, and an antique table. It was easily the fanciest of the rooms and the only one that came well-furnished. There had been a writing desk here before—a very antique piece that had proper hinges that could close to make it appear as a simple clothes drawer. That had been moved into another room. Instead, there was a lovely piano that had cost me £950 and my Granddad his back. It was an upright Yamaha U3, probably a decade or two old at this point. But the dented frame added character, little scratches showed how it had been a useful tool. Polished mahogany finish made me want to rub it like the baby it was.
Passion for music had died for me when it came to songs from Dolittle. I could perform them perfectly with the required emotion, but I was so over them. My newest obsession was learning the songs I had heard from Hey, Mr Producer! My memory was good, but I mostly used logic and intuition to come up with my final renditions. UKMT Math Olympiad was an amazing brain teaser, but it was just something I knew being put to use. This was something else entirely—I used skills that I hardly ever used and could never use before. My new-used piano was my most favorite thing in the world. I opened a page on the music rack—it lay empty. An empty sheet of music hadn't been something I encountered often these days. Leslie's music had become an eyesore and I was surrounded by fifty copies of it every single day. But now I had my own music to write down on the sheet. Closing my eyes, I recalled Ellen Greene, whose voice I couldn't erase from my mind. I remembered the note she sang as the piano played, then Kempner joining her. The pitch was different—my voice was different. So I tried playing notes, sang my own an octave higher.
Music theory was a language on its own; if you want to sing a song but couldn't hit the key, you could just change the alphabet and match it. My memory never needed to be perfect for it—I just needed to recall the singer's melody, try singing it until it sounded right to my ear, and try to recall the piano—rinse and repeat the same process. Playing by ear was an improvisation of a kind. Playing without sheet music and from memory meant I was finding root notes and following scales to its logical conclusion. When my sung melody, piano melody, and bass piano notes all matched to a newly transposed key, I moved on to the harder problems.
Think of it as reading a page of a book—you remember the characters, events, and a few memorable words. I had written the whole page from my admittedly sharp musical memory. Music theory was lovely like that—there were only so many variations of words available to us once the other parts of the sentence were known. Now I had to work on the punctuation, capitalization, and exclamation marks. For example, I remembered a time change somewhere, and it took me minutes to realize where it was. So, I used my hearing to improvise the song by trying until everything sounded just right to my ear. Improvise the backbone, translate it to my vocal range, and transcribe it onto the staff paper-the empty sheet music.
I didn't see Mike Dixon anymore, but Michael England was a much more relaxed person. Maybe I could rope him into finding me the sheet music for Little Shop of Horrors—I wanted to mark my work against the real deal. Then I chuckled and laughed like a crazy person.
Who needed the original sheet music? I had made my own—I needed only to play it in full to know if I had done it right. My ears could tell me how right or how wrong it was.
My fingers moved swiftly across the piano. I messed up and had to start again. I had memories of how to play but not the muscle memories that came with decades of practice.
I sang the first line, just a simple note that Ellen sang. It had no words and worked as a tuning rod for the song. My confidence shot up—it had matched Ellen's. I tried Seymour's line, in the deepest end of my current vocal range. The heroic, cheerful, and slightly comical lyrics lifted my heart. Then came Ellen's part, where she sang in this ditzy baby voice—I did the same; it was right up my alley. When puberty came, I might lose that range forever; using it while I had it was rewarding. I belted out Ellen's most emotional line, her character was amazed by Seymour not hitting her or berating her. How sad was that?
Lost in the song and how perfect it sounded, I sang loud, and each note I hit correctly made my hands move just a little bit more nimbly, a tiny bit more precisely. Near the end, I couldn't remember the lyrics for the final verse so I sang the notes without the words, then I belted out only Ellen's part of the duet. I cared not for Seymour's part because I loved the emotion on Ellen's character Aubrey. Duet's needed two people, I was only one.
Something fell behind me with a thunk. My notes broke down discordantly; my heart had almost stopped by that sudden noise. A small bit of rage smoldered deep inside me—that was an amazing and emotional performance, wholly interrupted right as the climax was right around the corner. I closed my eyes—or tried to. Foreign hands wrapped around my eyes; I yelped out.
"Guess who?" a kid whispered in my ear.
"What?" I said dumbly—my mind was completely jumbled and in shock.
"Ta-da!" the voice said again, freeing my eyes. I whirled around, ready to defend myself from the intruder.
"Huh?" I said. My face must've been really funny because the boy in front of me and two adults by the doors laughed, almost falling to the floor.
"Henry?" I let out. "What are you doing here?"
Henry smiled at me knowingly. "I've got a ticket for a preview. Also friend's birthday I couldn't help but attend."
"Happy Birthday!" Mum and Dad said in unison.
I saw Granddad lurking at their back, giving me a guilty expression. He had been lying to me for weeks about my parents not coming.
"Clive!" I screamed, moving past my best friend and my parents, chasing the old man.
"Heh, heh" he wheezed out—this time, tears were streaming from his eyes.
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