Writing for Fun
October 2019
The Grudge - Anne Wilson
‘I’m so pleased for you, darling,’ she gushed as she clasped her plump rival to her in a stiff, vice-like grip. ‘You’ll make a wonderful Maria. You have that elusive combination of a tomboyish quality, together with an air of spirituality. Oh, I know Julie Andrews was twenty years younger than you when she played her but don’t worry, if anyone can bring it off, you can.’
Her oldest and dearest friend smiled wanly, trying in vain to set her face in what she hoped was a combination of concern and sympathy in the face of victory, yet unable to quite mask her overriding emotion of irritation at the barbed remark about her age.
‘I feel so guilty, Margot,’ she lied, her tone of voice not entirely camouflaging the inner triumph she felt. ‘I was so surprised when they made the announcement tonight. This is my third leading role in succession and you could have played each one just as well.’
‘Nonsense,’ trilled her adversary with little conviction. ‘You were the most marvellous Eliza Doolittle I’ve ever seen. That whining, cockney accent came so naturally to you.’ She sighed deeply. ‘I’m afraid I have that aura of inner breeding that makes me unconvincing as a working class character.’
Yet another poisoned arrow had been fired and unerringly found its mark. How clever to pay what was ostensibly a compliment but, at the same time, eradicate it completely by reminding someone of their humble upbringing as the daughter of a fishmonger.
As they gathered up their belongings and headed for the door, a tall, thin man with unruly, wavy hair intercepted them. A local librarian, he had gratefully allowed the burden of the task of the operatic society’s producer to fall heavily upon his shoulders in order to lend what he perceived as glamour and importance to an otherwise mundane existence. Adding his mother’s maiden name to his surname, he now bore a name that carried with it an air of theatricality - Peter Warren-Clarke. It was a futile gesture in some ways as he had grown up in the town and was known to many as Peter Warren; the man who used to stamp their books at the library counter before the days of computers propelled him into undertaking different tasks.
Announcing results of auditions at the following rehearsal was always an unenviable task and one he was secretly relieved was the province of the society’s Committee. When confronted with a disgruntled auditionee he, as Producer, was conveniently (although not entirely truthfully) inclined to protest that he did not have the casting vote and that failure on someone’s part to secure a role had not been his ultimate decision. It placated many a self-delusional aspirant – although some were not so easily blind sided and bore grudges that stretched well beyond the show’s rehearsal period and performance duration. Watching the two longest-serving and most formidable members of the Society gathering up their coats, he was reminded of this fact.
He put his arm round the not-so-gallant loser’s shoulder.
‘A private word, Margot, if I may.’
The newly crowned leading lady smiled a smile of treacly understanding as she tactfully withdrew.
‘I’m not pleased, Peter,’ said Margot pursing her lips. ‘I was born to play Maria.’
‘Indeed you were,’ said Peter Warren-Clarke soothingly. ‘It was a closely run thing. If it had been up to me . . .’
It was the third time in eighteen months he had more or less uttered the same words of consolation following a trio of unsuccessful auditions and although she strongly suspected the subterfuge, she preferred to believe the lies.
‘How on earth will she be able to provide the necessary combination of tomboyishness and spirituality?’ she protested. ‘She’ll be totally unbelievable.’
‘True, true,’ he nodded sagely. He hesitated. ‘I hate to ask you this,’ he faltered, ‘but I wonder if you would be prepared to lend your talents to another role?’
She saw a straw advancing towards her and metaphorically started to clutch it with hands outstretched.
‘The Mother Superior?’ she asked, knowing it was being re-auditioned on the grounds that none of the original auditionees had proved suitable.
Remembering her tendency to sing out of tune, he uttered a silent prayer to the Almighty, more in hope than expectation and in keeping with the subject matter of the show he was about to direct.
‘No, not the Mother Superior,’ he said. ‘Far too old for you.’
She winced. It was yet another subterfuge. She knew full well that she was far closer to the Mother Superior’s age than she was to any other character in the show, as was, ironically, the person now improbably cast as Maria.
She saw his shoulders droop slightly – not a good sign. ‘Actually, I was thinking of the pivotal role of Sister Berthe.’
On uttering these words she bristled.
‘It’s a small part,’ he floundered ‘but very important in establishing Maria’s character.’
There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘I know what the role entails,’ she responded icily. ‘She comes on at the beginning and sings ‘How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria?’ with the other nuns. Then she disappears out of sight until the Von Trapps make their escape at the end.
‘But Sister Berthe is the most interesting of the nuns,’ he protested. He thought quickly on his feet. ‘Her strength of character immediately made me think of you. Believe me, when the audience comes out of that theatre, there’ll be remembering you, not Maria.’
Self-deception is a strange phenomenon. In no other scenario other than one involving her own ego, would she have considered it even a remote possibility that one of the most famous roles in the history of musical theatre could be eclipsed by a minor character appearing for a fraction of the show’s running time.
‘I’ll think about it, Peter,’ she said huffily and flounced out. He smiled in relief as he watched her walk into the cold night air.
Rehearsals passed without any tangible rancour – although the uneasy producer detected an air of simmering resentment in his Sister Berthe and a tendency to play the character more like a pantomime villainess rather than a stern but well-intentioned kindly nun. As a consolation prize she had also been requested to understudy the role of Maria – just in case – and had learned her lines assiduously.
As a consequence of the minor participation of those other than the featured players, it was a show where the chorus of nuns and Nazis spent much of their time during show week in their dressing rooms, swigging back copious amounts of alcohol and indulging in bitchy gossip whilst the tannoy relayed the on-stage performance to give them their entrance cues. As with many local amateur operatic societies, low on capital, this one struggled in vain to produce scenery bearing even a scant resemblance to the Austrian Alps and thus its Maria found herself perched precariously on cardboard mountains waiting for the overture to finish.
A different producer might have re-thought the precarious nature of allowing a woman of a certain age and several stone overweight to jump off a makeshift piece of scenery prior to twirling round on stage but no such consideration had ever entered the librarian’s head. On the first night and second nights the jump was sufficiently ungainly to elicit gasps of amusement from the audience and on the third night it elicited further gasps – this time fear mingling with the amusement, as the portly leading lady stumbled on landing and was forced to abandon her stiff twirling mid-twirl. On the fourth, the cast, forewarned of a possible debacle on stage, held its breath and stopped gossiping as they craned their ears to the tannoy.
They were rewarded in their efforts as an almighty thud sounded in their ears immediately followed by a buzzing noise in the audience – a combination, they would later learn, of scenery dismantling suddenly, enforcing the postulant nun to make a crash landing and her legs to buckle in the process, giving way beneath her on stage and resulting in her landing in a heap.
‘For Gawd’s sake pick me up someone. I’m in bleedin’ agony,’ came the voice of the postulant, with a distinct lack of spirituality.
The orchestra ceased to play. For what seemed like minutes but was probably only moments in reality, the tannoy became silent before the voice of the producer reached the ears of the cast.
‘Sister Berthe to the wings, please,’ he requested, in the manner of a British Rail employee announcing train times.
As if by lightning, a breathless figure in a wimple appeared before him.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked anxiously – hoping it was nothing trivial.
‘Margot darling, I need you go on,’ he said, taking her by the shoulders. ‘I have a Maria in agony with what may well be a broken ankle and you’re her understudy. I know you can do it.’
‘But Sister Berthe’s such an important part of the piece,’ she responded in a voice laden with irony – the truth of his original subterfuge having hit her gradually after she had agreed to take on the part. ‘It was only a short time ago you were telling me that the role was so important, it would be remembered long after the show was over.’
He looked sheepish but knew he would need to rally if the show was to be salvaged.
‘But I can’t have a supposedly energetic young heroine hobbling around the stage like an old woman,’ he protested. ‘It’s totally implausible.’
‘I need to think about it,’ she said, knowing she had him over a barrel.
‘There’s no time to think about it,’ he whispered impatiently, through gritted teeth. ‘You know the part. I need you go on as soon as possible or we’ll have to give the audience their money back and maybe even cancel the final performances. One of the other nuns can take on your role.’
She paused, enjoying his discomfort whilst he was waiting for her agreement.
‘I’ll do it, but one condition,’ she threatened. ‘I want the lead in the next show. And the two following shows, so I match the same number of leads as she’s had in succession. And I want her consigned to the chorus each time.’
Technically it was more than one condition but the fraught producer was in no position to split hairs. A wave of doubt swept over his face.
‘But the Committee will override me . . .’ he argued weakly.
She shrugged, in an attitude of ‘take it or leave it’ and he knew it was useless to argue with her further.
‘I’ll do my best to persuade them when it comes to it,’ he said in surrender.
Jubilant, she marched over to the stagehands, who were hurriedly removing the makeshift mountains in order that the show could continue with its next scene and its new leading lady.
She called one of them over.
‘Thank you darling,’ she whispered. ‘A bit later in the week than we thought but it worked.’
‘It wasn’t easy,’ he whispered back. ‘It wasn’t just the tampering night after night that made the whole thing collapse, ultimately it was her weight.’
She smiled fondly at him. Being marred to the Stage Manager had its uses.