-•✦—✦—✦•-
Monday, June 29th, 1998, Labatt's Hammersmith Apollo
Ever since our rehearsals moved to Hammersmith, I wanted to take the tube to Hammersmith station. Nain and Granddad were both vehemently against it; being proud Welsh folk, they claimed to know the dangers of London. All that talk was abandoned today for practical purposes. My parents, grandparents, and Henry would all be taking the train to Hammersmith. What was not quite practical was everyone coming with me to the theatre.
Currently, it was 2:30 PM; I needed to be at work by 3:30 PM. Then I would rehearse and practice until our first public preview at 7:30 PM. Mum and Dad wanted to see me rehearsing. I told them it'd be boring; they didn't care.
"Oh, come off it, Wilf. We haven't seen you rehearse all this time! " Mum complained.
"Wouldn't it be more special if you see me performing fully dressed and for real?" I interjected.
"No, any performance of yours will be special to me," Mum said, rubbing her nose to mine.
Henry gagged to our side; I tried to give him the V sign—the British middle finger—but Mum swatted my hand away.
"You won't rob me of my God-given right," Mum said softly. "You know, wouldn't it be good if you don't get shy or nervous because you performed in front of us first? For the real thing, that is."
"Right." I nodded; she was making sense.
So off we went. The tube was a very novel experience for both me and Henry. He was like a monkey uncaged as he went from blue handrail to another, then to the yellow one in the middle of the train car.
"It wasn't like this last I was here," Mum noted.
"Our tax money being put to good use," Oliver reminded.
"Politicians putting taxes to good use? He, I'll be the judge of that," Clive chuckled.
I wondered how long it would take before these bright and new seat cushions were all faded and torn up. But at least it all looked great right now. The same process had happened in reverse for our production. Fresh new faces in acting, singing, or dancing, and we worked hard to wash off our grime, bleach out the bad habits, and build from there slowly. Clean, bright, and organised, we had improved by leaps and bounds. Now it was time to take the final step; we needed our blemishes—uniqueness that added character. After all, you could find the fresh new seat anywhere in the London Tubes now, it was easy to appreciate it. But for the art connoisseurs of the world, they longed for character, they wanted for uniqueness.
I was sure that we would see feedback from our audience. Previews would provide valuable information to us, let us gauge how well we were doing.
—✦—
"Five, six, seven, eight," Bernadene counted.
I performed my moves perfectly beside Bryan. James was still struggling to keep in time and needed an extra cue from Bryan's own dancing. Me? I had an invisble drum machine keeping beat in my brain. Dancing was, as we Brits say, a piece of piss.
When we turned over to the other side of the room, I saw my mum and dad in a messy jumble of limbs. They were holding each other like they were afraid the other would disappear suddenly.
"One, two, three, four…" Bernadene followed suit.
I turned around and finally relaxed a bit.
The next spin made me see them just for a second, and I had to let out a frustrated breath through my nose.
"Rain coming, seven, eight," Bernadene announced.
Suddenly, we all stopped our dancing and did our very elaborate and choreographed action of running away from the pouring rain.
[Clap]
[Clap]
Only this time, it was not Steven's usual claps—it was my parents going crazy at the chairs in the corner. I looked around at people giving me knowing looks. There weren't many times I was overcome by embarrassment. But this was clearly one such scenario.
[Wolf whistle]
I almost chipped a tooth with how tight my jaws were set. That was Henry Harrison, my arch-nemesis at this very moment. He had, of course, become fast friends with James. At least I could be happy that Darien wasn't here today for him to seduce away from me.
"I had no idea we were having previews for our previews," Steven chuckled.
"I can ask them to leave if you want. In fact, I insist," I said, like a man reaching for a raft in sea.
"No, no. It's good to have some outsiders—get rid of the nervousness and all," Steven rejected me outright.
Closing my eyes, I breathed in deeply.
"Wilf, you're so dramatic! God!" Sue teased me.
"Am not." I said my eyes still closed.
"Sure you're not." Sue said in a mocking tone.
"Am so, not!" I muttered and tried to breathe again.
She only cackled endlessly.
Were there better breathing exercises? Because the one I was using right now wasn't so effective.
"Wilf—" Mum said right behind me.
"Oof—" I let out as Mum lifted me up and spun me.
"I'm dying!" I wheezed. She cared not for my plight.
Once she finally let me down and kissed my sweaty brow, I was finally able to breathe. She had lifted me right up by where my lungs were, had she popped something?
"That's going to bruise," I said, rubbing at my ribs.
"I was saying this about Wilf before. Erin, he is so dramatic, like you wouldn't know!" Sue said with a giggle.
"Right? Maybe he is in the right industry," Mum said smiling.
I left them to chatter and chortle, instead going to find my dad.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey yourself," he replied.
"Was I any good?" I asked nervously.
"Well…" He looked left and right, conspiratorially. "Compared to all the other kids, sure," he admitted.
"You haven't seen any other kids dance," I challenged,
"Precisely, son. So, I have said it true and fair," he concluded.
"What are you doing?" I asked. "Why are you speaking like that?" noting his accent.
"Apparently, I sound too low-class based on your mum's, umm— say-so. Right. Since she's making a fool of herself out there, I thought I'd uplift the family reputation a bit," he stated.
"Huh," I said, perplexed.
What the hell was happening? Maybe Sue was more right than she thought herself to be—my family were all so dramatic, it explained why I could be one too.
[Clap]
This clap I recognised and answered to, lining up with the rest of the cast. Steven walked the line as a general would, checking each person over, stopping randomly and glancing below or behind someone. I hated that part because of how it made me so conscious of my state.
"Tonight, we are performing our first preview…" Steven started loud but trailed off.
We muttered low but excited agreement—a sound eerily similar to the buzzing bee.
"So here's our schedule, which most of you should have, but I'll say it so you have no excuses. Previews start today; we'll have seven performances a week, including a matinee on Saturday. One day off as usual—Wednesday this week is dark; we need the tech day for stagehands. July 14th is our premiere, but the press will be there two days beforehand. After we open, we'll do two matinees a week, eight performances in total. We're thinking Wednesdays with Monday dark." Steve announced then took a deep breath.
He seemed to age considerably, but then some colour appeared on his cheeks as he breathed. He was doing the same calming method as I was!
"I have a special announcement to make—also a big complaint too." He seemed to sense the raised bristles of the cast.
Steven held up his hands in defense, "It's got nothing to do with you all. Good news is that Prince Charles and Prince Harry will be joining us on our world premiere!"
Everyone cheered at that, even Bryan, who I knew to not care about the English at all.
"I'm only complaining because I've spent thirty years doing Shakespearean plays, and this"—he gestured to encompass the room—"Leslie's play is what finally gets the attention of the royals. What, you taking the piss? Yes, I am a bitter man, get over it," he joked but I felt some true feelings behind it.
We mocked and reassured him in equal measure.
"Anyway, because of that, we may end up changing a lot more based on how the previews go. So, I ask all of you to keep an open mind and be open to changing routines or order of the plays, songs, and what have you!"
"That's all expected for a new play, you won't hear me complaining." John agreed, staking his reputation on it.
Older actors had more say in these things, and sure enough, agreements followed.
"Yeah!"
"We can run it in reverse!"
"Cut my solo and I'll box yer' ears off!"
Responses were all over the place, but ultimately everyone agreed. I knew it to be the standard routine from John, who had been averaging three shows per year for about forty years running. Until the show was "locked in" or "frozen," there would be as many or as few changes as the director wanted.
"Holli, can you go to scene three and run your movements?" Steven asked.
Animals were among the most important parts of the play. I doubted there existed a play where the ensemble got more attention than even the principal actors, but here we were.
Steven made monkey noises and movements to make sure Holli, who was sweating inside a fur suit, could deliver more authentic monkey business. I won't apoligise for my terrible humour because I had too many things on my mind.
"Hey…" Mum said beside me. This time, she softly enveloped me in a side hug.
"You're doing great, bach. You'll do a brilliant job. We're all going out for dinner and be back for the play. Will you be fine?" she asked.
"Yes," I said confidently.
"Fine, good luck, honey! Maddie promised to get someone to let me into your dressing room. I'll be back by seven, I promise. Love you!" she said with a kiss.
"Love you too," I said, then warily looked around me for teasing looks or smart mouths.
Thankfully, there were none. Henry was the only one looking at me; I felt that he was jealous of something. Perhaps that I was in a play and would be performing to three thousand people every other day from now on. I had asked him about auditioning, but he always changed the subject. Would he want to start auditioning after he saw me? If I could do it, he would be able to as well. Something to explore.
—✦—
6:55 PM, Labatt's Hammersmith Apollo
I felt sick. My stomach was making odd sounds. Perhaps my meal had something bad in it because my intestines kept making knots—or maybe that was just my imagination. There were so many times that my face made a smug expression as I thought of performing, but now that the time had come to perform for real, I was bricking it.
My dressing room was amazing—and way too white. All the whiteness of it reminded me of prisons or mental asylums. Fortunately, the walls were not padded. Unfortunately, I could have used something soft to rage against.
Hammersmith Apollo was massive, and so we had plenty of dressing rooms. I was in one of the fanciest ones because child actors got special treatment for safety reasons. The entire room was white—floors, drop ceiling, and furniture. Only the floor broke the theme; it was this linoleum-spotted thing, the colour impossible to describe. You might get an idea if I said it looked like the vomit of someone who'd eaten ten different meals. Would I be vomiting on the floor soon? Perhaps not, since I had my very own washbasin for that. But even if I did, I doubted it would be noticeable with that flooring. In the corner was the main attraction of the room—a dressing area shaped like a closet. A large, wide mirror illuminated all around was the centrepiece, with a chair placed before it so I could sit and stare at myself.
So far, I had been in other actors' dressing rooms—they had costumes, wigs, and all kinds of stuff everywhere. Mine was bare and empty because I only had one costume that I currently was wearing. I needed almost no makeup, or required any wigs. I swayed down until my head reached my knees and leant back until my back hit the back of the chair. Over and over again. That was it. I was going to put some colour into this room—add a show programme or two, pictures of my family, or anything! Crazy people probably weren't crazy before they were forced to live in a place that looked just like this.
[Half announcement! House is open, I repeat, house is open!]
The sound made me jump. I spied the yellowed plastic of the intercom making that noise. Swaying back and forth again, I tried to calm down. This new method of calming down was clearly not working. I stopped until I was as still as a stone. I drew a deep breath and let it out through my mouth. Repeating it for what felt like minutes made me relax considerably. Steven was older than me, he used this technique for a reason. I should never doubt it again.
[KNOCK KNOCK!]
All my efforts came off loose. My heart was set racing again. I opened the door, expecting to see my mum. Instead the disgruntled form of Katie brushed past me.
"Katie," I muttered in greeting.
"Tommy." She called me as usual.
Because I'd made the mistake of turning up my nose when she called me my character's name once. She hasn't called me by my name since.
"Mic fit and check," Katie told me.
"Sure." I sat down in front of the mirror, and she did her work.
"Don't mess up my hair!" I warned her.
"Mess up what? Your hair's messy as usual," she shot back.
"Ughh…" I let out, rolling my eyes.
[KNOCK KNOCK!]
It was Maddie this time, but my mum followed her in right after. She looked me over as if seeing a dress-up doll for the first time.
"My God, so dwtty, dwtty dwt dwt!" she said repeating the word like a broken record. Fussing over me.
I defended myself from her kiss attacks. Wherever her chin pointed and plunged, my hand was there to block her, dodge, block and parry. Rinse and repeat.
"No fair!" she said, like a petulant child.
"I've already been through hair and makeup! Don't mess it up," I fumed.
"So CUTE!" Mum said in English this time. Damn it, I was only encouraging her bad habits.
"Remember, don't touch your mic. Put it in the pouch," Katie warned, running off from our public display of affection—or at least my defence of it.
"Fancy room for the fancy actor!" Mum said, looking around.
"I share it with all the other Tommys," I pointed out.
"But I only see one Tommy right now," she said, always the contrarian.
"I suppose."
"Are you ready?" Mum asked me.
"Ughh…" I said in reply, my head slumping on the makeup table.
[Tommy Stubbins, played by Wilfred Price!]
The intercom said. This I knew to be sounding out through all of the theatre for the benefit of the audience; whoever did the radio was kind enough to let that play in my dressing room. Just so I could get that experience.
Mum held me close, her face against mine our eyes close enough to touch. I returned the gesture, and we both screamed at each other silently. It was all real now. It was all so exciting.
—✦—
Curtains were closed. I sat at the centre of the stage, sitting on the imaginary dock. Coughs and murmurs sounded behind me and seemed to never end. I put it out of my mind. The overture started to play, and the imaginary drum machine in my head started to count along to the beat. The song was simple and effective. The curtains opened behind me. I paid it no mind. My legs swung over the empty air, going back and forth and I threw a pebble-shaped prop behind the stage. The audience would see a dreamy boy throwing rocks at the sea.
Ensemble actors started to play out the dock scene—shopping and fishing. A man from stage right pushed a cart along until he came right alongside me. He said his lines; I said mine, and he successfully recruited me to push his cart for free. Upstage centre was Charlie, who had been playing at fishing ever since the curtains opened. Matthew and Charlie exchanged their lines.
"Flew straight into the mast, the cross-eyed fool. Broke his wings," Charlie the fisherman said.
"Can you imagine that? He was probably under the influence," Matthew joked.
"He looks Irish to me," Bryan said finally and stole the duck that Charlie wanted to have for dinner. He accomplished the task with his fast talk and charming way, but I think Irishmen in the audience might not like how the first action of the character was to steal something. So stereotypical.
My eyes finally wandered to the stage. For some reason, I had completely forgotten about the audience once the overture started playing. For what felt like an eternity, I stood there frozen. The audience was so close to me, I could see everyone's faces. My mum was waving to me from the middle row. It felt so odd that I could see the faces of all the old men and women with such perfect clarity—their eyes glinted as the stage light bounced off it. It intimated me, how they all seemed to stare at me.
I should thank Steven, who had directed me well, because the invisible drum machine of mine warned me about the count, and I automatically moved into my part of the dialogue.
Emotions showed on my face that I didn't actually feel; inside, I was a confused, shocked mess. Each scene I performed facing the audience made me notice one more person—the thin man with a flat cap, the heavy woman with a gentle face, the ruddy-faced man with the overgrown beard, the two parents with three small children wearing tourist merchandise about the Queen. It was so personal—the audience was right there. When I did Children of the Forest, the audience never crossed my mind. Now, I saw them every time I looked forward—people on the mezzanine when I glanced up, and others in the wing seats when I turned left or right. Had my role not been meant to be upstaged for the audience's benefit, I might have kept staring at them and forgotten to perform. Thankfully, I didn't and had to interact with other actors upstage of me.
An hour went by so quickly. I had been off and on the stage twice. Holding my duck, I awaited the song to finish. The beat counted right; I prepared to move. A stagehand lifted the prop to let me pass and enter the stage. I sang my lines that featured only at the end of the song.
[Applause]
I let myself enjoy this applause. Whereas other times I had to exit the stage or transition along with the scene, this time curtains closed. I was done—for fifteen minutes. After the intermission, it would all pick up again for the second act. I laughed along with the rest of the cast; our emotions were all over the place. Where I had become more withdrawn and automatic in my acting, the rest of the cast had become more energetic as the play progressed. There were two types of actors—those that loved an audience and those who didn't. Actors were almost always the first type; some hated the audience. Me? I didn't know.
There was an audience member who paid attention like no one else did—their eyes barely blinking. I liked that woman. But there was an old gent who fell asleep after our second number and only stirred once when we did a song with loud drums. That made my feelings hurt. I was performing my best, and this man had paid ten pounds, just so he could sleep in the front row. There was a love-and-hate relationship too—the children that came with their parents were loud, spoke, or sang with us in terrible voices. They diminished the performance for everyone, but it all came from a loving place. It was a children's play, so I expected more of that in the future. The ones that hurt me the most were people who came in and read letters or wrote in their notebooks or talked to each other in quiet whispers. They cared not for the performance; they were doing work. All the effort I had put in the last two months were nothing to them.
But all that—and the crying babies—none of it mattered because I saw the faces my mum made. Her pride and love were so apparent that I almost shed a tear when I was singing a song. My father hugged my mum close and looked like he had no worries at all. That was the happiest I'd seen him, so relaxed! Grandpa and Nain both seemed proud and not surprised in the least. After all, they had seen almost all of it and way too many times. Henry was quiet and hard to read, but his full attention had been on me. He must've seen it. While he refused to go to auditions and didn't practise singing or dancing, I had given everything I had. I had shed tears singing, panted and sweated dancing—I hadn't bled, but it felt like I had when I did scenework. I had surpassed Henry; he was no longer my rival unless he started trying, started working on it.
I thought about my dream of becoming a renaissance man—to master all aspects of what it meant to be a man. But in that moment, I realised there was no point in becoming such a man if I had no peers. Henry Harrison needed to be there with me—to push me forward, to be my rival. Competition bred excellence. Rivalry created legends. There would be no Beethoven without Salieri, Steibelt or Hummel! Only question was, who would be Beethoven and who would be the loser?