Fifty-Eight Theo
Fifty-Eight
THEO
I t worked! I did it!
There’s a heart-stopping silence as my last word reverberates out around the galleries. My heart is full, the rush of adrenaline overwhelming as I stand at the edge of the promenade stage, awaiting the audience’s response.
And then it comes: a torrent of congratulations flooding towards me, wrapping around me, lifting my soul so high I think if I look down now I would see my boots finding air, inches above the stage.
I forget the pre-show worries, and the drama that crashed into my life, very nearly stealing this role from me. For this small moment, I just am .
All too soon, it’s over. I jog backstage, not really knowing what happens next.
On stage, the musicians strike up their overture specially written for Greg’s production of The Tempest . It will buy us some time, but not much.
I’m relieved to find Greg waiting for me. But Amy Jo and Kris are nowhere to be seen.
‘What’s happening?’
‘Change of plan,’ he says. ‘You’re on for Ferdinand.’
‘Is Kris okay?’
My director nods. ‘He couldn’t make it.’
‘So where’s Amy Jo?’
‘She’s been unavoidably detained.’ The words sit awkwardly on his lips, as if they were custom made for someone else. ‘Go on alone.’
‘Okay …’ I say, my mind a mess of shocked contingencies. ‘So what do I do? End it after, But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours ?’
‘No. I want the whole scene to your exit.’
What?
How am I meant to do that?
I’d considered doing the portion of Ferdinand’s speech before Miranda’s entrance, but how do I do it without Miranda’s or Prospero’s lines? ‘That won’t work.’
‘You’re an actor: improvise. Quit whining, get out there and make it work,’ Greg hisses, grabbing my collar. ‘And lose the shirt.’
All the triumph of my Hamlet piece vanishes in that moment. My confidence, gone. I’m going back out with no idea of how to make a scene for three players into a monologue, and the audience who just saw me at my best will witness my struggle.
How dare Greg drop this on me with no warning? He couldn’t even be bothered to be here on time while the rest of us scrabbled about trying to drag a show together with no notice!
I should never have trusted him. He’s just another entitled director, lying to get his own way. Why did I ever believe he would do anything for me?
Stripped of both my shirt and my dignity, I shoulder the pile of logs the props leader hands me and head out into the spotlight glare.
But when I reach the edge of the stage, it happens: the warm expectation of the audience rushes up to meet me. The one element of all this that I’d forgotten. They don’t know about the backstage drama: the no-shows, last-minute substitutions or the programme stuck together with blind panic and groundless hope. All they see is what I show them. That’s where my power lies: my choice to steer the narrative.
I have to get a grip. This is my stage: whatever happens, I have to own it.
I ground myself with a breath, feel the firm surety of the stage beneath my feet, and begin.
‘… There be some sports are painful, and their labour
Delight in them sets off …’
The words settle me, their familiarity an anchor. I’ve spent the summer repeating them: they leave my mouth with no obstruction. The first ripple of laughter from the audience boosts me and slows my movements to make the most of the moment.
Ferdinand’s opening monologue is only fifteen lines long, but I find so much space within their rhythm. Before this summer I thought Shakespeare’s words were stiff and immovable. I was wrong.
Memories of the garden performances flood back as I act. It’s inevitable: this scene will forever be linked with The Garden Players. I hate how it ended, but I can’t write off the whole summer. I loved it. All of it. The fighting and the struggles, the surprises and the laughter. I loved working under Ced’s guidance and Ophelia’s vision. And I loved playing opposite Lucie.
I loved her fire and her battle. I loved sparring with her, on and off the stage. I loved the frustration and the longing, the feeling of being at the very edge of my world, gazing out at hers.
I’m nearing the end of the fifteen lines, my mind sifting possibilities for the next ones I can add from the rest of the scene. If I remove the direct addresses to Miranda – the No, precious creature , No, noble mistress and the lines where Ferdi asks for her name, I reckon I can make it look like a single train of thought …
‘… Alas, now, pray you,
Work not so hard …’
Hang on, what?
I look up and …
… she’s there.
Lucie Hart’s smile is pure pride. The excited murmurs from the audience are her reward.
She crashed my stage, damn it! And she’s loving every single moment.
But how? Why is she here?
‘… Pray, set it down, and rest you …’
She kneels beside me, taking the log from my hands and placing it on the stage. As she speaks her opening lines, her hand returns to my arm, her fingers giving my bicep a slow, deliberate squeeze.
Has Greg told her? Does she know?
I place my hand over hers, our fingers lacing as I reply.
‘… O most dear mistress,
The sun will set before I shall discharge
What I must strive to do. ’
My heart is hammering hard, my mind a mess, as I drink in the sight of her. How did she get here?
And then, as we stand together, I see a third actor on the stage. He’s stony-faced as Prospero, but the twinkle in his eyes is pure delighted mischief.
Cedric Millington-Harvey, you total legend!
I don’t know how this happened – or what it means – but I’m going with it. There will be time for answers later.
Every line flows as easy as breathing. Every movement remembered, every almost-touch perfectly placed. We know this scene to its bones. But beneath the well-learned lines, another conversation is taking place.
She’s here because of me – I feel it through our shared looks as we move around each other. Behind her performance, I see her: a view only I’m afforded. Can I dare to hope she came back for more than this performance?
‘… Do you love me? ’ Miranda asks Ferdinand.
Do you love me? I ask her.
I push my whole heart into Ferdinand’s reply. Because the words aren’t mine but they speak to exactly where I find myself: not dry and obsolete, but vital and living:
‘ I, Beyond all limit of what else i’ th’ world,
Do love, prize, honour you. ’
As I speak, Lucie’s eyes glisten with tears. Is she moved by being on the stage she loves or by being here with me? I hold her gaze as Ced gives Prospero’s aside, willing her to love me like I love her.
‘… Fair encounter
Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace
On that which breeds between ’em! ’
My fingers brush tears from Lucie’s cheek. She leans her face against my hand, her eyes seeking mine. Can I trust this? Is it real?
The eyes of the audience are on us, the theatre deathly hushed, as we complete our scene. When our hands join at the end, we lean together – just like we did in the Birthplace garden, the pause lengthening as the weeks passed, the almost-kiss lingering to the audience’s delight. Her lips are a breath from mine: not kissing her requires all my focus.
When the scene is done, we break character and meet at the front of the stage, Ced joining us for our bows. Some of the benefactors stand; all applaud. And while I’m confident there won’t be a queue for selfies from our honourable guests today, the response is as brilliant as all our other performances.
With a final bow, we turn and leave the stage. Greg shrugs as we approach – I shake my head but don’t ask all the questions I need to fire at him now. There’s something far more important I have to do first.
As Ced moves to talk to Greg, I catch Lucie’s hand. She says nothing as I lead her from the backstage area out into the quiet corridor beyond. When I’m certain we’re alone, I stop.
There is so much I want to say to her, so many lines I’ve rehearsed since we split. I’m dizzy from the performance and her sudden arrival and I’m scared it will all tumble out at once. But before I can begin, Lucie beats me to it.
‘Greg told me what happened.’
It’s what I hoped. But does it change anything?
‘I didn’t know how to stop it,’ I rush, my head bowed. ‘I was too scared to counter him.’
‘I know. I wish you had, but I understand now why you didn’t.’
‘Why did you come here today?’
‘Because I love you.’
Our eyes meet … and this time there is no Miranda and Ferdinand in our way.
‘I love you, Lu. That’s the truth. I’m so sorry I hurt you.’
Her hand pulls me close to her, our final move from the Tempest scene we’ve just performed playing now for real.
‘You should have told me,’ she says, her lips all I can focus on, moving deliciously close to mine. ‘Don’t do that again.’
‘I won’t. I—’
But I don’t get the chance to say any more. My carefully prepared lines are cut by Lucie’s kiss – and for once I won’t fight her decision.
I could find a quote from Shakespeare to explain everything my heart feels now. I could compare Lucie to a summer’s day, or repeat Hamlet’s declaration that my love for her should never be doubted. But I reckon even The Bard knew that sometimes the best way to describe something is just to experience it:
[They kiss]