June 2012
Liz looked up at the old-fashioned embossed lettering above the ornate glass doors, 'The Queen's Theatre'. Excitement, foreboding and recollection, a strange cocktail of feelings fizzed through her whole body. She marched inside where the caretaker greeted her and gestured towards the entrance to the stalls.
She pushed the door slowly and let it slam shut after her. Liz was alone in this mysterious, joyful, beautiful place. It held so many memories, good and bad. The air was heavy with the mixture of old carpets and nostalgia. She inhaled deeply and cast her eyes around.
The stage itself seemed so much smaller than she remembered. There was an abandoned backdrop of old London town, dingy and dirty below magnificent St. Paul's. 'Oliver?' she wondered.
Three boxes either side . . . she remembered her grandmother telling her that they were only for rich people, when she inquired during a performance of the pantomime 'Cinderella'. The ceiling was full of cherubs with bows and arrows alongside ladies with flowing robes and spears. She had thought they were at war, like a more refined version of cowboys and Indians.
Liz ran her hand along the back of the chairs, dusty old red velvet, the seats flipped up to reveal their numbers. Row A, eleven, twelve, thirteen and fourteen were their favourite seats. Nice and central for the performance and front row so you felt you were on the stage . . . part of it.
This was why she had become an actress. Now everything was changing. The death of her grandparents and the disappearance of her brother, Michael, had affected her deeply. And now, tomorrow they were pulling down this place in the name of progress.
Liz took one last look . . . then turned on her heels and never looked back.