Three Lucie
Three
LUCIE
I ’m still smarting about the audition at 5.30 a.m. next morning, as I heft a huge pile of newspapers from the back of the van into WhatNews?, the small newsagent tucked away in a Stratford-upon-Avon backstreet, my first job of the day. I have an hour to sort the papers, ready for our five, sleepy-eyed deliverers so that they can get to school and our customers can get their morning papers before the rush to work.
Duncan bloody Harrow. Am I ever going to be free of him?
I wish I could go back in time to the evening of the premiere where I first met him, and when he offers me a drink and some career advice , make myself run away as fast as I can. It’s all blindingly obvious now: but back then I was fresh from quitting my teaching job in Wolverhampton to move to Stratford and chase the dream. I should have seen how jealous he was of the success I started finding, and how he then used every opportunity to chip away at my confidence. But I fooled myself that he loved me and was invested in my career.
Now I wish he’d just jump in the River Avon and float far away …
‘You didn’t get it, then.’ Dev grins as he brings a box of tins in from the stockroom.
‘Didn’t get what?’ I reply, keeping my eyes firmly trained on the newspaper delivery bags laid out across the counter.
‘The audition you’re clearly fuming about.’
‘Oh that. I didn’t want it anyway.’
‘Yeah? Tell it to your face.’ His smile softens as he leans on the counter. ‘You’re too good for them, Lu. You should be in EastEnders or something. Telly’s where it’s at these days. They’d snap you up in a heartbeat.’
For Dev Tavora, scoring a leading role in a long-running soap opera represents the pinnacle of acting achievements, so this is a huge compliment. I manage a smile, even though the audition’s memory stings.
‘You’re right. I should give them a call,’ I joke.
‘Yeah, that’s the spirit! Get your agent to do it!’
‘Absolutely.’
I imagine my agent, Sasha, jumping for joy at that request. From her sun lounger in the Algarve, where she appears to have retired without telling me …
‘I love the RSC, Lu, but they need their heads looking at if they won’t give you a part. What was the pillock director’s name this time?’
‘It was the assistant director.’ I finish stuffing one delivery bag and drop it to the floor with a little more force than necessary. ‘Duncan.’
‘Dunc … ? No !’
I offer him a weak smile. ‘Small world, eh?’
Dev shakes his head. ‘I know they say all the world’s a stage but that dick seems to be all over it. Did he even let you finish your piece this time?’
The fact that Dev knows this is testament to how often Duncan Harrow stymies me. He never lets me finish what I’ve prepared for an audition. It’s his modus operandi – he waits, until I’m truly in my flow, and then slams the door at the worst possible moment.
I am done with self-righteous blokes interrupting me. That’s what I’ve decided today: no more auditions for the RSC until I know Duncan Harrow has left. It has to happen soon, doesn’t it?
‘That man is poison, Lu. You did right kicking him to the kerb years ago. You just need to focus on yourself. On what makes you happy. The break will come for you, I know it will.’
Dev looks sad when he says it. Fifteen years of TV bit parts and near misses will do that to you. He should have been a star, a household name: it’s criminal that he isn’t. But this town is full of people who chased the dream. You get talking to anyone for long enough and you’ll discover that.
I’m still chasing mine.
For real, as it turns out.
‘Lu, it’s six-thirty-five,’ Dev says suddenly, turning his phone screen to face me. Shocked, I look at my watch – the second hand isn’t moving, the hour and minute hands stuck at 6.05 a.m.
‘No! Ophelia’s going to do her nut!’ I yelp, grabbing my coat and bag from behind the counter.
‘Go – I’ll finish here,’ Dev says, because he is officially the Loveliest Man in Stratford-upon-Avon and my absolute saviour this morning. As I race towards the door, he calls out, ‘Who is it today?’
‘Katharina!’ I yell over my shoulder.
‘With or without Petruchio?’
I grin as I unlock my bike from the lamppost outside WhatNews? and stuff the chain into my rucksack. ‘Always without!’
The ride across town makes my calves scream obscenities at me but at least the traffic is kind today. I duck down side alleys and take shortcuts I probably shouldn’t attempt on two wheels, but it’s dangerously close to 7 a.m. and I can’t be late again. Ordinarily, I start work at my favourite job at 8.30 a.m., but today is special. There is an invited audience of patrons of The Shakespeare Birthplace Trust coming for an exclusive early view of the house where William Shakespeare was born, followed by a special breakfast and performance in the beautiful garden, otherwise known as my second – and best – workplace of the day.
My bike wheels skid and slip over the wet paving in Henley Street where the gorgeous half-timbered building resides, but it isn’t 7 a.m. yet and I’m jubilant. As I jump off my bike and wheel it to the side gate, a familiar voice booms behind me.
‘ Good morrow, Kate, for that’s your name, I hear …’
I smile as a friendly giant skips around me to hold the gate open. For a six-foot-five man he’s surprisingly nimble, especially as I know he’s nursing a killer hangover from the final performance of his one-man show last night.
‘ Well, you have heard, but something hard of hearing. They call me Kate that do talk of me … ’
‘Excellent, darling. Supreme! You would kick that old cat-fisher Petruchio to the kerb if you were Kate.’
‘I would. And that’s why I don’t include his lines, Ced.’
‘Too bloody right.’ Cedric Millington-Harvey grins. ‘Alpha males are so sixteenth century.’
We wind around the side of the exhibition building and head for the garden courtyard.
‘How’s the head?’ I ask.
‘Banging. It’s like I have a whole timpani section attempting drum and bass up there. But it was a marvellous night.’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I had a late shift.’
‘Perfectly fine, Lu. You work harder than anyone I know. It’s a wonder you’re even standing this morning. You leave the rest of us for dust!’
We’ve reached the door to the crew room – a very generous name for a tiny cupboard of a space where The Garden Players are based. This is my favourite job: reciting monologues from Shakespeare’s most famous plays for visitors to the Birthplace. I have three beautiful costumes that miraculously work for all the heroines I perform. They’re a bit threadbare now – I’ve become a dab hand at invisible darning during the three years I’ve worked as a Garden Player. But each one once graced the stage of the RSC’s theatres – and that makes them special.
Today, for Katharina from The Taming of the Shrew , I’ll be wearing a sky-blue gown with fake pearls sewn around the neckline, puff sleeves slashed with honey gold satin and a posy of faded pink and white lace daisies fixed at the point where the bodice meets the full skirt. It’s a dress that also handily fits Rosalind from As You Like It , Imogen from Cymbeline and Viola from Twelfth Night . I know all of their famous monologues by heart, and where they are speaking to others I adapt their words for solo performance.
That’s what I’m doing today.
I have a soft spot for Kate, the ‘shrew’ who must be ‘tamed’ by bossy loudmouth thug Petruchio. Doing her lines alone makes me feel like I’m giving her some power back, showcasing her wittiness and brilliant zinger comebacks without interruption from pervy Petruchio and his filthy jokes.
I dress quickly in the single-curtained changing cubicle, braiding my hair into three plaits and winding them together to form a high bun at the back of my head. When I squeeze back into the main area of the crew room, Cedric is red-faced and struggling with the ties of his lace collar.
‘Here,’ I say, calmly untangling the lengths of gold ribbon he’s somehow managed to knot like macramé.
‘You are an angel, Lucinda. My heaven-sent aid in time of need.’
‘Don’t be nervous.’
‘I’m not!’
I smile anyway, because he always is. ‘Then be fabulous .’
Ced exacts a huge sigh. ‘I would, dear, but it’s Falstaff again . How can one be fabulous as a dirty old drunkard, I ask you? One day, I shall Romeo once more. Ophelia can say what she likes: the words are all that matter. And I can do them as good as any young upstart …’
‘Darlings! Here you are!’
Ced and I snap to attention as Ophelia Henry, Director of Garden Performance, sweeps into the room like a violet-scented thunderstorm. She’s a tiny woman with a mountainous presence, her voice able to carry as far as she wills it. She walks like a grande dame of the ballet, her poise perfect, her head held high. She’s the only person I know who enters a room expecting a standing ovation (and more often than not receives one).
‘Morning, Ophelia,’ we chorus.
‘Hmm.’ She inspects my costume with a critical eye. ‘I’ll have to ask Purdy to take another look at that sleeve. The tear is still visible. But you’ll do, Lucie. Our guests will be in the garden at eight sharp. You must be there to greet them.’
‘No problem.’ I smile.
‘And Cedric, dear, please use the beard today.’
Beside me Ced deflates. ‘Not the beard , Pheels. It itches to beggardom.’
‘The beard, maestro .’
There’s a definite twinkle between them in the pause that follows. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear these two are star-crossed lovers waiting to find each other. Ced relents and trundles off to find the offending facial hairpiece, while I make my way out to the garden.
It’s the earliest days of the summer season, our busiest time of the year. Visitors from all over the world flock to Stratford-upon-Avon to pay homage to William Shakespeare and explore the places associated with him and his works. This morning there’s a slight chill in the air but the newly risen sun is painting the sky with the most wonderful palette of golds and pinks. There’s the promise of heat later in the day and everything feels hopeful.
I need that today, after yesterday’s audition.
No . I’m not going to think about it now. This is where I’m confident in my skills – this stage, this company, with these glorious lines. I can shelve the age-old doubts about my ability and just act, as I always dreamed I could.
Duncan Harrow can choke on that.
Our guests are arriving already, heading up the path with its restored border towards the small raised stone stage surrounded by pots of lavender and rosemary where Ced and I will perform. There’s an excited buzz in the air, matched by happy bumblebees making the most of the roses and honeysuckle, stocks and hollyhocks that are filling the garden with scent and colour.
I watch our audience take their seats, my adapted version of Kate’s side of her first meeting with Petruchio running through my mind. I’ll do this, then a bit of Viola, with Ced’s Falstaff monologues from Henry IV Part 1 and The Merry Wives of Windsor in between.
‘Valued patrons, most honourable guests,’ Ophelia announces, stepping onto the performance area, her voice reaching every ear with no need of a microphone. ‘Welcome to our special Annual Patrons Morning. Before we serve your breakfast, I have the great pleasure of introducing two of our fantastic in-house company, The Garden Players, who will perform a few morsels from our wonderful Bard. First, allow me to present Miss Lucinda Hart as Katharina from The Taming of the Shrew …’
I smile at their polite applause as Ophelia leaves the stage and I move to my spot. It’s busy today: three full rows of chairs laid out at the end of the path and a whole line of patrons and invited guests standing behind them.
Waiting for the audience to hush, I take a breath and begin.
The first few lines provoke smiles from the patrons on the front row – and, as the rest of the audience begin to realise that I’ve cut Petruchio’s lines, more grins appear. This is where magic happens – in the growing, vital connection between the audience and me. Their energy fuels my performance, making both of us creators in this space. This is why I’m still doing everything I can to stay in my profession: why I can’t bear to think of my life without it …
‘… Asses are made to bear, and so are you …’ The chuckle this line evokes makes my toes tingle. I lift my chin higher and …
‘… Women are made to bear, and so are you …’
What?
For a second, I hesitate, not sure if I heard it. But then the line repeats – spoken by a real voice. A deep, male voice, delivering Petruchio’s cut lines.
A ripple of delight passes through the audience. I see heads turning, feel their attention switching from me to whoever it was who just spoke. Is it one of the patrons mucking around? Showing off their knowledge of the play?
I glance to my right where Ophelia is urgently gesturing for me to continue.
Packing away my surprise, I launch back into the piece. ‘ No such jade as you, if me you mean. ’ I open my mouth to begin Kate’s next line, but the voice speaks before I can start.
‘ Alas, good Kate, I will not burden thee, For knowing thee to be but young and light …’
I’m looking now, scanning the lines of people standing behind the rows of chairs to see who is butting so rudely into my performance.
‘… Too light for such a swain as you to catch, And yet heavy as my weight should be …’ I return.
And then I see him.
He steps out from between the thrilled guests and starts to walk towards me, speaking his lines as he does. ‘… Should be – should buzz!’
He’s dark haired, a ridiculous, cavalier-style beard balanced on his chin that would give Ced’s mangy old hairpiece a run for its money; he’s wearing faded black jeans, black boots and an old brown leather jacket that looks as if it’s on loan from the RSC costume department. He has the swagger of an experienced actor and the delivery is good, too. I feel like I’ve seen him before, but I don’t have time to work out where.
For a moment, I’m impressed.
But then, I’m furious.
Who is this swaggery, smirky imposter and why is he gatecrashing my performance?
I look over at Ophelia – but her hands are clasped to her generous bosom as if she’s just seen a young Laurence Olivier striding into the garden.
The audience are watching me now, as the interloper reaches my side. I can feel them willing me to chuck a Kate-comeback at him, breathless with anticipation.
I live for moments like this: when I have the audience in the palm of my hand and even the garden bees seem to hush in reverence. But it isn’t supposed to include bloody cheeky handsome strangers stealing my limelight.
All eyes are on us as he dares to jump onto my stage.
I don’t have a choice, do I? I have to finish this scene.
So I square up to him, channelling every ounce of righteous indignation I can muster into every word. ‘… Well ta’en, and like a buzzard …’
‘… O slow-winged turtle, shall a buzzard take thee? … ’
We wheel around one another, the lines flowing and sparking, as if someone connected us to the mains. The audience are rapt; my boss, too. My uninvited Petruchio is good, damn him. He hits every line perfectly and when Kate raises her hand to strike him he catches it at the wrist, a spark of mischief in his eyes. The moment he does, a lady in the front row sounds like she’s about to faint.
And through it all, I just keep thinking that I’ll look back on this and be proud that I carried on, that I held my own against this idiot who tried – and failed – to derail me.
We reach the end and he launches into Petruchio’s big speech that I took great pleasure in cutting out. I have to stand there as he takes the floor, stealing my audience and clearly loving every minute of it.
‘… Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn,
For by this light, whereby I see thy beauty,
Thy beauty that doth make me like thee well,
Thou must be married to no man but me …’
How dare he?