June 2012
The theatre was tired, Gladys Arkwright thought as she slipped the heavy iron key into its lock sunk deep in the great oak doors; studded with heavy diamond shaped brass rivets, the ancient doors were impressive and above it the name Stairfoot and Ardsley Civic Theatre was carved with pride in Gothic characters deep into the York stone arch. But once through the portal, beyond the imposing façade, the fading décor and the flaking paint revealed its true character. When you had to rely upon Monty Makepiece to supply the paint from his hardware store – which everyone knew was watered down – and upon volunteer labour with little expertise to paint the elaborate interior each time, it was never a recipe for success. The theatre was more than tired, she decided, it had a very bad case of the flu and had retired to its bed for the duration – and, in common with the more virulent forms of the disease, its life expectancy could be measured in days, not years.
Gladys Arkwright was also tired; not just because she was sixty two years old, suffering with angina, asthma and impossibly high blood pressure, but because she had worked tirelessly for the last forty odd years to preserve this iconic building. But she felt that she was finally losing the battle; for most of her adult life she had sacrificed so much of her time, energy and not inconsiderable sums of her own money to keep the theatre's head above water; and now it was sinking irrevocably beneath the surface. She bowed her head in submission – she had lost.
Throughout his term of office Cyril Makepiece, the Chairman of the Council, had carried on the traditional support his predecessors had lavished on their small theatre, which had always been the pride of the small town. However, the recession was hitting all councils hard; cut-backs had to be made and the persistence of the powerful and wealthy Tesco's PLC was becoming ever more difficult to ignore. They wanted to build a huge Tesco's Extra store on the edge of town and at the only truly viable location stood the ailing Stairfoot and Ardsley Civic Theatre.
When he had let it slip at one of the Council's public interaction meetings that the architects were to be allowed to survey the site, Gladys was apoplectic; she accused him of having shares in the company and even of taking bribes. Cyril, however, had borne the abuse stoically – he had always had a lot of respect for Gladys Arkwright and had no wish to offend her any more than she had already suffered since this unfortunate business had begun.
As she walked into her auditorium her heels clicked a rapid staccato rhythm across the parquet block flooring, which rebounded back at her from every direction off the bare walls unhindered by the softness of scenery or an audience to dull the echo. She reflected that a theatre has two separate and distinct faces: the audience see the splendour of the Victorian scrolled boxes; the massive chandelier, the coat of arms suspended above the purple velvet curtains framing the stage, the banks of lights suspended from the ceiling and others filling the top-most boxes. The players see only the lights – blinding, eye watering lights and somewhere . . . somewhere out there you could sometimes hear the laughter or gasp of the audience, often the only way you could be sure you were not alone up there.
Timothy Withermore was the first SAADARS to arrive. (Gladys detested the childish way in which some of the younger members pronounced the acronym for the Stairfoot and Ardsley Amateur Dramatic and Repertory Society; she had campaigned for years for the use of a softer 'a' at the end, so it sounded more like 'Sadders', but, sadly, 'twas all in vain.) Timothy helped Gladys to arrange a small circle of old wooden chairs on the gently sloping stage – it seemed somehow more appropriate for the players to hold their meeting up here than down there in the more comfortable seats of the audience. A few minutes later Myrtle had the kettle on and the group were gathering solemnly to listen to their fate.
Gladys put up a hand to still the murmuring and said, 'I have just come from a meeting with councillor Makepiece and it's not good, I'm afraid. It's all about money – the council don't have any and neither do we. Our box office takings have been dwindling for years and we can't even afford the rent after this month. The council can't afford to subsidise us and it looks as if Tesco's will win . . . unless . . .' The group leaned hopefully towards their leader, ready to grasp at any passing straw. 'We could use our remaining funds to advertise our final performance; our swansong. We could perform our very best play to attract the largest crowd and donate the proceeds to the Council as a goodwill gesture they couldn't possibly refuse . . . and then . . . who knows.'
'Sounds like a dumb idea to me.' mumbled Arthur, the group grumpy old man.
'Thanks you for your approval, Arthur.' Gladys smiled, 'Because you are absolutely right – although it may be dumb, it is also an idea – and it happens to be the only idea we have got . . . unless anyone else can come up with something better?' she looked pointedly around the circle of faces.
There was a general murmuring, but no one else had anything constructive to add.
'Right then, I will take that as a consensus.' she continued quickly, 'All we have to decide is what to perform – now, what was our best play ever do you think?' A chorus of names rose up from the group, but Gladys held up her hand until the clamour subsided, 'No, you are all missing the point – it is not the play that you liked best, but the one which the audiences enjoyed the most; the one which drew the largest crowds; the highest box.' She paused dramatically to allow them to fully absorb the concept, but she needed nothing more from them, she had already done her homework, 'Alan Ayckbourn – Man of the Moment.' she announced confidently, 'Our most profitable performance by a large margin – that is the one we will do. We audition on Wednesday and start rehearsals next week – we have no time to lose.'
Gladys heard a polite cough behind her and turned to see Earnest Wilson from the Barnsley Chronicle peering up at her over his half rim glasses from the front row. She began, sternly, 'How did you . . .'
'Whoa!' he grinned, 'Don't throw me out – you never know, I might even be useful.'
Gladys had a 'hate/love' relationship with the press – they seemed to have the knack of always printing their own interpretation of everything, regardless of whether truth entered into the equation or not – but before she could berate the man further, Earnest said, 'Heart rending story that – I reckon we could spare you a half page to tell it – and as it is clearly in the local public interest, perhaps the Editor might even wave the fee if I put it to him the right way?'
Gladys had no option but to agree; the word had to be spread far and wide, and Earnest even went on to suggest that he might be able to persuade his mate at the Gazette to run a parallel story and thereby spread the coverage to the surrounding towns.
Fred Ballantyne was commissioned to construct the huge banner which would adorn the front wall of the theatre and a few thousand flyers were to be printed and distributed to every household within easy reach.
At 2.00pm sharp on the following Wednesday, the group assembled at the theatre once more for the auditions; Gladys, Albert and George positioned themselves centrally in the fifth row, while the members took turns with their readings. Timothy Withermore stepped up to centre stage; Gladys bent her head to tick his name off her check-list and was startled to hear the rich sonorous voice reverberating around the auditorium, 'Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by this sun of York.' She looked up in disbelief at Timothy, but he appeared to be just as stunned as she was. She followed his startled eyes and saw a tall grey haired man striding with poise and grace down the aisle, a bright yellow cravat tied at his neck, a pink carnation in his buttonhole and a long beige coat hanging casually around his shoulders. 'Ms Arkwright, I presume.' he extended his hand.
'Good God!' she exclaimed, 'Mr Olivier!'
'Thank you,' he smiled, 'but my friends call me Lawrence.'
He dropped his coat over the back of a chair and stepped up onto the stage, 'I assume I am not too late for the audition? Earnest Wilson from the Chronicle is an old friend, you see; he told me you were looking for someone to play Vic Parks.' They listened in stunned silence as Olivier ran easily through Vic Parks' dramatic poolside dialogue with his wife. When he stopped, the applause from the members started with a ragged clap and ascended into full reverential acclamation.
Cyril Makepiece stood at his Council office window, his thumbs deep in the pockets of his waistcoat surveying the street below. He smirked as he saw the vehicles approaching; he had always known that Earnest Wilson had been the right one to tell – the contacts the man had accumulated in his long career were without equal. Yesterday the vote in the Council chambers would probably have been perilously close . . . but now there was absolutely no doubt!
He hurried downstairs just as the BBC news camera crew were entering the theatre. Gladys looked past them and shouted, 'Cyril, you philistine, I've got you now – you don't stand a chance!'
He smiled warmly at his kid sister, 'Gladys, I sincerely hope you're right!'