Chapter 8
Eight
‘TELL ME, DO YOU believe in magic?’
Frida and I were sitting in her office, crammed knee to knee. Most of our tutors were away for Crits that term, so we were being emailed our feedback. Despite this, Frida had insisted on delivering her critiques in person.
Moments ago, she’d sent Hettie, my scribe, out of the room on some errand, assuring her that the Dictaphone would pick up anything important she might miss.
‘Well?’ Frida said, staring at me, waiting for a response.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’ve never really thought about it.’
She sat back in her chair and turned to face the window. She stayed like that for a moment, the curve of her cheek caught in a sunbeam. Outside the trees rustled, a languid summer sound.
The seconds ticked by. A seam of sweat opened up along my lower back. I fidgeted in my chair, unsure if these were to be my final minutes at the school. Exit pursued by despair.
Finally, after what felt like an age, she spoke.
‘There are a lot of things we can teach at this school.’ She paused.
‘But the one thing we cannot teach is magic. We have homework, prep, assessments,’ she said, listing them on her fingers.
‘We have checklists and little grey boxes for feedback. Is this student’s diction precise?
Are they projecting? But there is no tick box for magic.
’ She thought for a moment. ‘This has always frustrated me.’ She sighed.
‘We must believe in it. Whatever you call it – magic, inspiration, genius – actors must believe in it, Shannon. Otherwise how on earth can we get up onstage each night and pretend? How can we dress ourselves up in front of an audience and create worlds without the faith, without the absolute conviction that our audience will come with us, that we will transport them?’ She put her hands on her knees and leaned towards me.
‘Shannon, yesterday, when you performed – well’ – she gave a small shrug – ‘it was magic.’
‘Oh.’ Don’t cry. ‘Thank you.’
She sat back again. ‘Now, I am not telling you this to inflate your ego. I am telling you this because there are things beyond our understanding and control in this world.’ She paused.
‘We, my fellow staff and I, cannot teach these things. We can only teach rigor and readiness for when this magic, this inspiration appears.’ She shook her head.
‘You may never perform like that again. But as your teacher, it is my job to tell you that it’s possible, that you captured something yesterday and that, if you work hard, you, one day, may be able to capture it again.
’ She stopped. Her eyes drifted back to the window.
‘In your first term, I asked you why you were here. Do you remember that?’
I nodded and dug my fingernails into the underside of my thigh.
‘Words please, Shannon.’
‘Yes, sorry,’ I stammered. ‘Yes, I remember.’
‘So,’ she said, fixing her gaze on me. ‘Why?’
I stared into my lap. For months I’d been racking my brain for an answer to that damned question.
For my family? To prove something to the people back home?
To prove something to myself? But every time I thought about it I came up short, never knowing why I was putting myself through all this, why I cared so much.
But then, suddenly, the answer came to me, as cool and clear as day.
I lifted my head and looked at her. ‘I’m here to be seen.’
Frida held my gaze for a moment, then got up. She straightened the hem of her shirt and walked towards the door.
‘Thank you, Shannon. That will be all.’