Forty-Nine Lucie
Forty-Nine
LUCIE
L ilia Hetherington-Lynes is formidable.
I thought Ophelia was a force of nature but she’s a gentle storm in her former mentor’s presence.
She holds court in the hall we’re using for rehearsals like a tiny sun everyone revolves around. If Lilia wants something, it happens. If she doesn’t, it’s whisked from her sight in a heartbeat. I don’t know if she’s ever played Queen Elizabeth I during her long and impressive acting career, but she should have. She’s a perfect fit.
‘I said, no swords !’ she growls at a cowering costume lady beside her. ‘Nobody knows how to carry them, they get in the way of the dialogue and they’re a hindrance this production can ill afford.’
‘Of course, Miss Hetherin …’ the terrified woman begins.
‘ Lilia !’ she corrects. ‘It’s always just Lilia!’
‘Yes, Miss He – Lil – Miss Lilia …’
Lilia groans and shoos the costume lady away with a pink-manicured hand. ‘I swear these people never listen.’
‘You’re doing wonderfully, love,’ soothes the impressively bearded older man beside her. I thought he was her husband at our first rehearsal but it turns out they’re just friends. He’s Douglas ‘Dougie’ Hobart, an actor renowned for his groundbreaking portrayals of classic Shakespearean characters during the 1960s and 1970s. They may not be together, but they should be. Watching Dougie calm our benefactor is a masterclass in tact, diplomacy and frankly outrageous flirting.
‘Bless you, Dougie. I’m glad you’re here.’
‘Wouldn’t be anywhere else, my darling. Wouldn’t want to miss the drama.’
She elbows him, feigning offence, but her dazzling smile tells the real story. ‘Do we have everyone ready to go?’
Dougie glares at a shorter man who sports a big twirly moustache – Michael Missenden, member of the Royal Shakespeare Company for around thirty years. He’s brandishing a clipboard like a weapon, hands shaking a little as he turns the page.
‘Yes, Lilia … I’m almost certain of it.’
Lilia leans on the arm of her chair to peer over at him. ‘Almost?’ As her colleague pales she exacts a long sigh Laurence Olivier would be proud of. ‘Tell me we have beginners at the very least.’
‘Of course. Places please!’
It’s the third week of rehearsals and that stage in the process where you wonder if the barely organised chaos of your show will ever be stage-worthy. Everyone is doing their best, cramming lines and blocking out moves whenever they can, but it’s a mess. It doesn’t help that Lilia has an Opinion on everything, from inflection to stage moves to costume, and as she’s paying everyone we all have to listen. Her insight is incredible when it comes to acting, of course, and the notes she’s already given me about the pieces I’m performing have been brilliant. But finding the gems in the torrent of Other Stuff can be exhausting.
Dougie and Michael are doing their best to keep her on track at least, so that’s something. But we have so much left to do and time is not our friend.
Working in a new company with a decent-sized cast is a completely different experience to The Garden Players, and being in the middle of it makes me realise how conditioned to a small company I’ve become. Theo might have upset the balance between Ced and me temporarily, but working there was comfortable. This challenges me – and, surprisingly, I’m rising to it.
The gala performance will present a mixture of monologues and group scenes, taken from across Shakespeare’s work. When we don’t have lines, Lilia is having us around the stage to set the scene, which is a lovely idea on paper but proving a little distracting for those acting.
‘Cyril! Don’t steal Lucie’s light!’ Lilia barks.
Cyril Van Neuberg – a seventy-six-year-old stage veteran and another of Lilia’s Boys – punches his hands on his hips. ‘But this is where you told us to be, Lilia.’
‘I didn’t!’ she snaps back, looking to a frazzled-looking Dougie. ‘Did I?’
Dougie is all kind smiles and diplomatic calm. ‘You did, love.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s so much to take on, darling, and you’re doing swimmingly. How about giving your lovely self a ten-min break to grab a coffee, hm? I’m sure Mickey would be only too happy to accompany you.’
‘An honour, milady,’ Michael beams back, offering Lilia his arm as the rest of us hide our grins. ‘There’s that sweet little coffee bar two doors down. Shall we?’
When the door closes behind them, the hall breathes a collective sigh of relief. Dougie gives us a knowing smile.
‘Right-o chaps and lassies, let’s get this bloody scene marked out and done before our beloved benefactor returns.’
Everything kicks up a gear in Lilia’s absence and we achieve more in the time she’s away than we have for the last three rehearsal days. To give Michael his due, he keeps Lilia out for almost an hour, while Dougie proves a surprisingly effective director. We mark out our scenes, quickly running through the order of the first half. Words can come later: for now at least it’s good to see the shape of the show emerging.
It’s hard work and increasingly frustrating, but knowing we’re being paid for every rehearsal makes the tough stuff easier to endure. And we’re good, when we get the chance to be. I just wish Ced could be with us, but he and Ophelia are trialling a new educational visit programme where they take The Garden Players out to local schools and lead workshops based around the Shakespeare set texts they’re studying. All part of Ophelia’s master-plan to make The Garden Players indispensable to the Birthplace Trust.
‘The kids are likely to crucify me,’ Ced admitted when I called him last night. ‘But at least it gets me out of the house for a couple of weeks.’
Lilia and Michael return just as we’re breaking for lunch, our patron’s renewed good humour good news for us all. I grab my rucksack and head outside to eat the sandwiches I brought from home.
It’s a gorgeous day, the kind that September loves to surprise you with when you think summer is over. The leaves are beginning to turn, jewel colours bright in the sunshine against a sky of perfect blue, and there’s a hint of sun-baked earth. I nab the bench resting against the south wall of the hall, leaning my back against the warm bricks. After the emotion and drama of the summer, this feels easier.
There are still voicemails and unopened texts from Theo on my phone, but I won’t open them now. There’s no point. Lilia keeps dropping unsubtle hints about her tenant. I won’t play along, however irritated she becomes by my replies.
‘You could always pop round. Theo’s in most evenings.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Perhaps, now the dust has settled, you can really talk?’
‘There’s nothing to say.’
‘He’s a broken man. Devastated. Hopelessly in love with you …’
I don’t want to hear it. I’m devastated, but it hasn’t occurred to Lilia that it might be enough to close the matter for good.
I send my frustration out on a long, slow exhale.
She won’t ever understand. I have to be okay with that.
‘Any takers for a rather large and wickedly calorific cream tart?’
Lyle is walking up the hall path towards me, brandishing a grey-and-white-striped paper bag from his favourite Stratford bakery.
‘Bit of an odd name to call yourself,’ I grin back, squinting against the sunshine flooding the path.
‘My Tinder name,’ he returns, not missing a beat. He flops down onto the bench beside me as if he’s just crossed the finish line of an ultra-marathon, handing me the bag as he rests his head against the wall. ‘Bloody hell, I’ve had a morning.’
‘Oh?’ Forgetting my sad, squished excuse for a sandwich, I dip into the bag instead.
‘Did all the things on my list, was enjoying the lovely day and then I ran into Theo.’
My heart drops to my stomach, the freshly torn piece of cream tart frozen in my fingers.
‘Or rather, he ran into me. On purpose. Grabbed me in the street like he was apprehending a criminal.’
‘What?’
Lyle shrugs. ‘Okay, maybe he didn’t rugby tackle me, but he stopped me from walking away.’
‘Why?’
‘Why do you think?’
‘Ugh. I’m sorry.’
His smile is gentle. ‘Don’t be. His problem, not yours.’
He reaches for the paper bag and I hand it over, not wanting to ask but knowing the inevitability of my next question.
‘What did he say?’
‘That he loves you. That you aren’t returning his calls. That it’s all a huge misunderstanding …’
‘I reckon that’s what he’s saying in all the voicemails I won’t open,’ I say, my good mood snatched from me.
‘Probably. Anyway, I put him right. Said you were better off without him and to leave you alone.’
I love him for this, but it’s so bleak an outcome. I am better off without someone who would trade my trust for the sake of impressing his bastard director. But I miss the Theo I knew – the Theo who rescued me from the rain like a hero, then embarrassed himself by offering me a pair of his pants; the Theo who pulled crowds in for Betty the ice cream bike on Henley Street. Even if that Theo was only in my head, I miss him.
I can’t admit that to anyone, though, least of all Lyle. Of all my friends he’s the most disgusted on my behalf, and judging by his ire now he isn’t likely to change that opinion any time soon.
‘Thanks. Sorry you had to endure that.’
Lyle nudges his arm against mine. ‘Glad it was me and not you.’
He hands me the bakery bag again and I take another chunk of cream tart. A rush of birdsong and distant traffic surrounds us. I want to lean into it, enjoy this beautiful day and the chance to catch my breath after the clamour of morning rehearsal. But the ache around Theo refuses to leave.
‘Gorgeous day,’ Lyle murmurs, gazing across the small garden at the front of the hall.’
‘It is.’
‘Like summer came back for a visit.’
‘Mm.’
He fidgets a little. I breathe against the knot of hurt.
‘There’s something else,’ he says, so suddenly that it startles a chattering blackbird from the tree nearest our bench.
‘What?’
‘When Theo saw me on the street, he wasn’t alone.’
My stomach twists.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I begin, but Lyle is already launching into the details. He’s going to say it and I can’t stop him.
‘He was in a coffee shop on Church Street, sitting at a table in the window. That’s where he saw me. He banged on the glass and …’ He turns to me, his face ashen. ‘Oh Lu, I’m so sorry. He was with Amy Jo Everly.’
The news hits like a juggernaut.
‘They’re in the same production,’ I offer, my tone as weak as my body feels.
‘It looked more than that. She was definitely flirting with him and he didn’t look like he minded. I saw them a while before Theo noticed. I crossed the street to confirm my suspicions.’
‘I don’t want to hear this, Lyle …’
‘I think you need to. Sorry.’
‘We split up weeks ago. He’s entitled to live his life.’
‘You’re in love with him. And you aren’t over it.’
I glare at him. ‘So you thought coming all the way over here to tell me this was helpful?’
‘You have a right to know.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘I have a right not to know! He’s not in my life, I don’t have to work with him any more and I don’t care what he does.’
‘Looks like it.’
I scramble to my feet, incensed. ‘My break is over.’
‘Oh, come on, Lu, I’m trying to help you.’
‘I don’t need help!’ A passing dog barks in reply, its owner staring up the path at us. ‘I’m trying to get on with my life. I don’t need to think about Theo again.’ I grab my lunch things – untouched and now unwanted – and make to leave.
Lyle is on his feet instantly. ‘If I hadn’t seen him with her I might have believed his protestations of love for you. But I don’t think Theo knows what truth is any more …’
‘Enough! We don’t talk about him ever again, you hear me? I am done , Lyle.’
‘I thought you should know.’
‘Well, you thought wrong.’
I don’t wait for a reply as I storm back into the hall.