Chapter 5
A Youthful Fantasy Realized
Until 1950 I lived near Windsor, so for many years of childhood was
able to enjoy the famous Windsor pantomime. Each year I looked
forward to it and was never disappointed. After the war children had
few treats so perhaps the ones we did have seemed extra
memorable. It was at a production of Cinderella in 1947 – a vintage
year – that I vowed I would one day perform in a pantomime myself.
Some thirty-five years later, a friend lunching with me in Oxford
announced that the Chipping Norton Amateur Dramatic Society
were auditioning for Dick Whittington the following evening. Here,
then, was my chance to fulfil the childish ambition to be in a
pantomime. Chipping Norton is twenty-seven miles from Oxford and
and this, in itself, should have been the best reason for not
embarking on this particular venture. My twelve-year-old Renault 5
was temperamental enough in the warm months; in the winter it
frequently could not, or would not, start at all. The heating worked
erratically, petrol was expensive and my driving, never good, is at its
worst in fog. Fog is known to descend nightly on the A34 Stratford
Road making visibility practically impossible. Anyway, aged forty two,
I went.
The audition took place in a bungalow, the home of the director. I
had some difficulty finding it when I eventually arrived, late. A
collection of people were sitting on the floor already reading from
scripts. I was given one and sat down. Glancing through the parts
there didn’t seem immediately to be one tailor-made for my
potential talent. There were various female roles: the cat (I was too
fat), Alice, the leading lady (I was too old and fat), Dick Whittington,
(I was too old, too fat and there were too many lines to learn), and a
variety of Arabian ladies, dancing girls and chorus girls none of which
seemed entirely suitable. That left one possibility, the good fairy. I
was given her lines to read and knew instinctively that the part of
Fairy Silverchime would be offered to me. I deduced this from the
lack of anyone else’s apparent willingness, rather than from my
obvious reading or acting ability. (I had the feeling the prospective
cast is not supposed to state a preference for a certain part, but a
keen bearded man from the VG stores particularly wanted to play
King Rat. And said so. But he didn’t get it. It went to a more suitable
candidate, a teacher from Banbury. A week later, not having heard
anything, and strictly keeping to the rules of “don’t ring us, we’ll ring
you” the telephone rang and I was officially invited to play the pantomime
fairy in the 1982 Chipping Norton production of Dick Whittington.
Rehearsals took place at 7 o’clock on Tuesday evenings in various
venues. Sometimes the assembly room in the local school, sometime
in the Chipping Norton Theatre. (The Chipping Norton Theatre,
incidentally, is absolutely delightful, remarkably pretty architecture,
very small and full of atmosphere. It was built in 1888 as a Salvation
Army citadel and opened as a theatre in 1975.) Rehearsals in the
early stages, when lines were read, were fun. An Amateur Dramatic
Society has tremendous spirit and humour. Everyone was very
friendly. There were lots of bad jokes, and a few arguments, but only
in the same way that a united family argues, with love not
aggression.
At 10 o’clock sharp when the director was beginning to
lose control, we retired to the Crown and Cushion pub until closing
time. Unlike the bar and beer at the Open University (which comes
later), here, I was allowed to drink gin and tonic in peace, enjoying
the theatre gossip. Past productions, future productions, costumes,
who was going to paint the props this year, (it bloody well wasn’t
going to be whoever was talking at the time), speculations on
Christmas weather, how many tickets would sell, or whether with
the advent of videos, the pantomime would still be popular. And so
on. I drove back to Oxford not minding the fog and cold. gin coursing
through the veins, lulled into a false sense of security. At that stage
having a part in a pantomime was all I had hoped for – my dreams, as
it were, come true.
The crunch came after Christmas. Rehearsals from then on were
to be without scripts. The words had to be learnt. A vital factor that I
hadn’t ‘known’ about myself when I went for audition was that I was
almost incapable of learning lines. The part of Fairy Silverchime was
not a major role, and there were not more than three dozen lines,
but I simply could not learn them. Perhaps, (excuses, I know) I felt
faintly idiotic mouthing pantomime philosophy such as:
A triumph, evil’s overthrown,
Once more doth good the victory own …. and so on.
Even for experienced good fairies or Dick Whittington, chatting to
a pantomime cat on stage could, I suspect, present histrionic
problems: for me it seemed impossible. I realized then that I had
three major difficulties to overcome. First, learning the words.
Secondly, saying them audibly when I had learnt them, and thirdly
remembering from which side of the stage I had to enter, and when
these changes had to take place. The fourth problem was that the
amount of stress that all this worry produced meant the fairy’s
performance lowered the standard of the whole pantomime.
Tiffany, my eldest daughter, who had studied drama for A levels,
was staunch in her efforts to help me. She even tried to inspire in me
a feeling for the part, but by now I had given up any thought of
projecting the fairy’s role. The only ambition I had left was not to dry
up completely.
Agonies reached a climax at the first rehearsal on the actual stage.
This was in the Town Hall. The Town Hall in Chipping Norton is built
right in the middle of the town, an island with roads all round it. The
stage entrance at the back of the building has very little room for
congregating when not on stage. So that during the performances
whilst waiting for entrances, I was frequently squashed for long
periods between two teenage rats and several Arabian dancing girls.
This uncomfortable and cold position was, however, preferable to
returning to the dressing room. The dressing room was underneath
the building, but in order to get there the High Street had to be
negotiated. I did it once, in the fairy attire, mingling with afternoon
shoppers. But you would need to be made of sterner stuff than I to
do it twice.
For some reason at the first rehearsal the director decided that
King Rat and Fairy SilverChime should run through their words first.
My heart thumping in my chest, we went on stage. I heard King Rat
snarling out his threatening lines, I looked down into the auditorium
of empty chairs, and I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to speak.
And I couldn’t. The blank mind, dry mouth, racing heart and sweating
hands were to become very familiar companions during every
rehearsal and throughout every single performance. Contrary to
hearsay this condition never improved. My rendering of the ghastly
rhyming couplets declined daily. My lack of conviction in their truth
was the only thing that shone. Ron Bridger, who played Captain
Cuttle, and Pete Webb, who played Idle Jack both had extremely long
parts and complicated entrances, fights, songs to sing and dotty
dances to perform. But it didn’t seem to disturb them at all. If they
did forget their lines they simply made up something appropriate
and nobody seemed to mind or notice. Pete Webb was a very nice
and amusing man who worked as a gamekeeper on a private estate.
Before becoming a gamekeeper, he had been a drummer in a pop
group.
In the wings, to cheer me up and quieten the nerves he told
me jokes about the groupies that followed them about. My favourite
was:
Girl groupie after sex with a member of the band:
“Do you love me?”
Member of the band replies:
“Do I love you? I have just screwed you and
bought you a packet of crisps – what more do
you want?”
Wit, I know, is lacking from this story but it always made me laugh,
perhaps for its sad reflection of the times, and a better
understanding of why Mills and Boon novels sell so well.
We had to make, borrow, or find our costumes. As my wardrobe
contained nothing remotely suitable for a middle-aged fairy my sister
produced a white lacy (second-hand) evening dress which fitted
quite well, except that it was too long, which made walking a hazard.
She also lent me some silver shoes. And I had a sparkling wand made
out of tinfoil. Finally garnished in silver and white lace, under
dim lights, I liked to think I made a tolerable fairy. (At one
performance I was in the Ladies, during the interval, which we
shared with the audience, when I heard a little girl say “look Mum,
the fairy has just gone to the toilet.” So, I convinced someone).
As the date for the first night approached, and my stage fright
increased, tranquilizers seemed imperative. After some persuasion
my doctor gave me Valium and I bought several bottles of wine from
Tesco’s. The combination was bound to be effective, I thought.
Indeed, at one performance, during the interval, having drunk more
Liebfraumilch than was prudent, I dropped my left contact lens down
the sink and couldn’t find it. I had to continue in the second half with
blurred vision. My performance was not improved by this, and God
knows I didn’t need any extra difficulties.
It was snowing hard on the morning of the opening night. Before I
set off for Chipping Norton I tried to think of some credible reason as
to why I shouldn’t/couldn’t or wouldn’t go in order not to have to
play Fairy Silverchime. However, after much deliberating, I felt my
pathetic part was as much a total commitment as, say Dame Margot
Fonteyn dancing in Swan Lake at a Royal Performance. The show
would go on and I had to be in it. With the aid of Valium, wine,
encouragement and resolution I went and staggered through that
and every other night. The only bit I really enjoyed was the Finale. It
was the relief I suppose, plus a similar feeling of patriotism and
sentimentality aroused when singing Jerusalem with your school or
last-night-at-the-proms enthusiasts. A united togetherness.
There was one funny moment. Peeping through the curtains one
night I saw my brother-in-law, an Oxford don, and a friend of his,
another Oxford don, entering into the spirit of the audience
participation song “Bobbing up and down like this.” They were
waving their arms about, touching their heads and bending their
knees as instructed by the Dame! I thought their students might be
interested to observe the versatility of academics.
After the last performance we had the traditional party. Dancing,
drinking and general merry-making took place. I had grown very fond
of the cast over the months working together. They were an assorted
bunch. Clerical workers, shop assistants, small shop-owners, farm
workers, housewives, a pigman who worked for a member of the
Astor family (he was very effective as the Emperor of Morocco) and
Peter the gamekeeper. I judged their moral lifestyle very high with
husbands and wives respecting and loving each other. There was no
hanky-panky here, although later I heard the pantomime cat had left
her husband to settle with a tenor from the Chipping Norton
Operatic Society. But this seemed to be an isolated case.
Amateur dramatics is a whole way of life. A sort of Dunkirk spirit
runs through the members, helping each other in adversity and
against the odds. It is like an extended family, with its own triumphs,
intrigues, jealousies, failures, and successes. When the actors are not
actually performing there are numerous other activities to occupy
their
time. Cricket matches, bring-and-buy mornings to raise money,
barn dances, play-reading evenings, cooperative discussions on
what next to perform, and always props to paint at the weekends
before the pubs open and after they shut. It could be, and I am sure
it is for some people, a total pre-occupation. And very nice too.
Their next production was to be Chekhov’s Seagull. To go to watch
it would be lovely, to be in it didn’t bear contemplation. Once again it
proved to me that fantasy and fact should not be confused. The
nature of reality has been amply discussed by philosophers without
them coming to any conclusion. But I know for me that while the
fantasy of performing in a pantomime still remains wonderful, the
reality, I remind myself every panto season, is not so.
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