[TRIGGER WARNING: MENTIONS OF CHILD LOSS.]
-•✦--✦--✦•-
Georgie was an amazing person. From the year I've spent in the entertainment industry, I've learned that acting coaches never had to be the best actors. Think of the best actors in the world; their acting coaches were more likely failed actors or, at best, a character actor with a hundred credits to their name. The best acting coaches were the best actor friends; Georgie was more like an annoying sister I've never had but I guess you could technically call her my friend.
Camera and an actor had a relationship — one where the camera loved the actor and where the actor ignored it completely. Georgie said ten things, nine of which I ignored; she was a bit of a scatterbrain. But when I'd left, I'd miss her. My schedule ahead was long and completely booked, I'd fly to Tuscany, Italy and then to Norfolk to do Great Expectations, then back to Italy. At least two and a half month I wouldn't see her, time that she wouldn't tease me endlessly.
"What d'you fancy for dinner, then?" Nain asked as we stepped out.
"What we had for lunch," I replied.
"That seems a bit daft, don't you think?" she said.
"What's daft about it?"
"You eat the same thing every day," Nain complained.
"There's only one way to avoid the trousers day," I said, shuddering.
"We could go to places we've been before — on days you're performing or the day before," Nain suggested.
"No, never again with the trousers day. Food I know is better than food I don't," I insisted.
"Fine, so you don't want a Sunday roast?" she asked.
I'd eaten only two hours ago, but I'd kept it small for a reason.
"I could do a Sunday roast," I reluctantly admitted.
"Great!" Nain chuckled.
"Where're we off to?" I asked.
"We can leave by six. How about we nip home for a bit?"
"Alright,"
When we pulled into the Hanover Gardens roundabout, I saw that our parking space was occupied. It was all kinds of rude to do that, so I took special note of the car parked in front of our house. An old Ford Escort van in a dusted white coat was parked right in front of our house. The blue trim on the side made it instantly recognisable to me. I did a double take before I whipped my head around to look at my Nain. She had the face of a girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
"Are you serious?" I asked.
"As serious as a heart attack," she confirmed.
"Quick, park somewhere!" I urged.
It took ages for us to get parked down the street and felt like hours to walk back up to our house. Frankly, it was only a couple of minutes but time was a suggestion more than a fact to a child.
I made a racket out of the knocker; I needed to get in there, fast!
"Whoa, there's an eager lad outside. You reckon we let him in?" a voice teased from inside.
"Only good lads get in — naughty boys get left behind," another voice chimed in.
"Nain, where are your keys?!" I hurried her.
"Haven't brought them with me — you've got to negotiate with the bridge troll."
"Riddle me this and you may enter," the man declared in an overly deep voice, making it even harder for me to hear him through the thick doors.
"Riddle this! Open the door or I'll knock it down. Don't test me!" I shouted, smacking my palm against the door.
"People are watching," Nain murmured, mortified.
"Who's your favourite person in the whole wide world?" the troll asked.
"Henry the Eight — what does it matter? Open the door!" I demanded.
"BZZZZT. Wrong answer. Try again," the troll said.
"Ughhh—" I groaned, gently smacking my forehead repeatedly against the door. "It's Mum," I said, finally surrendering to the game.
"You'll never win against me," the second voice said, twinkling laughter sparkling through the air.
The door clicked, then swung inward. I slipped through before it had opened an inch. A silhouetted figure stood in the entrance, and I launched myself at him.
"Oof—" Dad grunted, laughing as I barrelled into him with a hug that could've knocked a tree over. "There, there," he chuckled, squeezing me back.
I was shedding a few tears of happiness and, once that long moment had passed, I forgot Dad was even there and made my way towards the person standing just behind him.
"Don't jump at me," she warned. "Hey— eek," she squeaked as I knocked the breath out of her.
"I missed you," I said, trying to melt into her.
"It's only been two months," Mum said, rubbing my back.
"It's been two months!" I shouted into her belly.
"Hey, you'd better be careful with her belly," Dad said at my side.
"Huh, why?" I asked, finally peeling myself off Mum.
Dad looked vaguely guilty and rubbed the back of his head.
"Nothing, son. Just thought your Mum might be hurt," he said.
I narrowed my eyes, but Mum cupped my cheek and turned me back towards her; she looked smaller somehow. Tired — maybe overworked?
"Did you miss my cooking?" she asked.
"More than I missed you," I bantered, hugging her again.
"Oi!" she feigned indignation.
"You deserve it. Why couldn't I come back for the last two months?" I asked, tears returning now that the hurt had resurfaced.
"Nothing to worry about," Mum said.
"It's everything to worry about," Dad muttered — tone enough for me to know it was an old argument.
"It's a thing of the past," Mum said firmly.
"Nah, I've had it with the police. It's not right for us to get burgled, twice!" Dad complained.
"What did you say?" I asked sharply.
Mum shot him a glare, and he shrank a little.
"Nothing to worry about, dear," Mum repeated.
"Yes, lad — listen to your mum," Dad added quickly.
"Okay…" I said, suspicious, looking between them. "Is Henry here?" I asked, glancing around.
Mum and Dad exchanged another loaded look — what on earth was going on?
"Henry's busy, you see… Can't ask a lad to drop everything and come to London with strangers. That'd be like kidnapping, that." Dad said, laughing awkwardly.
"But you did that last time. Haven't you spoken to Henry's parents?" I asked, incredulous.
More silent eye-communication between my parents. God, it had only been two months, and somehow they'd turned into different people. They were like strangers up to no good.
"He couldn't make it, that's all there is to it, Wilf. Now, how've you been? I hear Gilles is in London — should we invite him for dinner?" Dad asked.
"Yes, it's been ages since we've seen him. How's his business?" Mum added.
I was about to stop them from deflecting the topic when Nain answered for me.
"Gilles is doing great, he is. Built up a whole place in Vauxhall — even got his face painted on the outside," Nain chuckled.
"Like his actual face?" Dad asked, almost offended.
"No, but I reckon he's wanted to. Aurélie must've stopped him. That's his sister — came over from France few months back. Lovely lass, only nineteen. Must've been a hard pregnancy. Twenty years, age gap." Nain spoke in gossip, eager to help my Mum dodge the topic.
There it was again!
"What is that?!" I said, pointing at Dad's face.
"What?" he said, turning round. Acting dumb.
"That!" I jabbed my finger again, pointing between them both.
"We're just getting reacquainted with everything — it's been ages. You know that," Mum said, smiling without smiling.
"Yes — now why don't you put away your things, get changed?" Dad said, gently steering me towards the stairs.
Unable to conceive what the hell was going on, I made for the stairs, turning back about a dozen times to look at my parents. To see that they were still there or bursting into laughter because they were pulling my leg. They did neither. Mum and Dad both had a guilty look that I just knew they were hiding something from me. We had our house burgled twice? What in the world? This was Chester we were talking about — I was in London, crime capital of England and even I hadn't been mugged yet. And hopefully never will, but burglary happening back in Chester — what had happened?
My mind seemed to race fast for all kinds of awful things that must've happened to my parents; could Dad have gotten into some bad blood with work colleagues? Contractors were famously not a gentle bunch were they?
I was only a child and imaginative to boot — I had to be in order to be an actor. So, all kinds of scenarios ran through my mind, each worse than the last thing my brain cooked up.
I had to know! Imagination that had tormented me moments before came to my rescue. A solution to my problem. I ran up the stairs fast, skipping steps or two. Importantly, I made sure to make enough noise to wake the dead.
The moment I made it to my room, I threw away my indoor dancing shoes — the ones I hardly wore outside. We were a shoeless household, but in my shock of seeing my parents and subsequent kicking out, I had forgotten to take it off. Now in my socks, I sneaked back down the stairs, skipping over the one that made the groaning sound, the other one that whined. Then I was at the second-floor stairs, my ears strained to listen for any conversation going on. I heard a movement from my grandparents' room and had to stay still. No one came out, so I continued to creep, making sure to step as lightly as possible.
Then I heard it, a sound that I could hardly make out.
"— bad business he is, better not talk about it," Dad said.
"What's this thing between you two? You look like the day you asked my girl's hand in marriage from us. You're making me anxious. Something else isn't right," Nain said.
There was no reply; I couldn't hear anything. I crept down one more step; I was already down on the landing, the last place I could get to before I'd be back on the ground floor.
I felt the sniffles more than I heard them; Nain sighed and made a shushing sound to show her empathy.
"What's wrong, cariad?" Nain asked, her voice full of gentle caring.
"I—" Mum said, then sniffled again, her breathing growing fast and quivering.
"You've got this, dear," Dad said in support.
"It's just—" Mum cut out, crying between breaths, "Wilf's been gone… so long… it's just the two of us in Chester," she said, breathing heavily.
Another silence rang loudly; my heart was suddenly racing and I could hear the blood rushing in my ear.
We've tried it… three times," Mum let out, then wailed silently.
"Three times? You mean…" Nain said, sounding not like herself at all, unsettled.
"Wilf was a miracle," Dad cut in, and I could almost see the shaking head that accompanied the word.
"He was!" Mum said. "We had stopped trying. Then he was there! He was God's gift to us… to someone as terrible as me. I'm such a bad mum," she cried.
Like a deer in headlights, I was stuck there on the landing of the stairs. I didn't know what to do. I had never seen my mum cry — still haven't, technically. But this was breaking my heart and I didn't even know what was wrong. I wanted to go and tell her she was the best mum a son could ask for. I wanted to go and hug her, to make it so obvious that I loved her. To never let her forget.
"Last one happened two months back," Dad said matter-of-factly; he was strong like that.
Mum kept crying; I couldn't help but start tearing up myself, even when I didn't know what the problem was.
"Twelve weeks — we came up to twelve weeks! We were so sure it'd happen this time," Mum said, her voice still unsteady.
"Twelve weeks," Nain gasped.
"I was at work. Then suddenly I got cramps — like a period… it'd been three months since my last period. I knew what was going on, I'd had it before. I didn't want to go to the bathroom. But it got worse — the pain… so I went…"
She broke down again, a raw, shaking sob — that thin, keening sort of cry where no sound comes out, but you still feel it, deep in your chest. I heard it because… I've still had a heart.
"My baby was just there… red… that's all that was left of my child. Twelve weeks, Mam! The doctor said the fetus was fully formed. He said there was a heartbeat — faster than both of ours put together." Mum's voice cracked, worn out, defeated.
"It's all my fault," she whispered, hollow.
"Oh, cariad, come here. It's not your fault, you hear me? Come on—"
"Mum, please… not a word to Wilf. I don't want him knowing," she begged.
"Of course not—"
"Mam, promise me. Not a word!" she cut in, almost panicked.
"I promise, love. I really do. Come on, let's get you some tea, eh? Sort you out before Wilf comes downstairs."
As soon as I heard of Mum being pregnant, I had lost myself in the imagination. Little sister, sweet girl whom I would protect from all the bad things in the world. Little brother, tiny me — no one would hurt either of them so long as I was there. My tears were running down my cheeks; I had never realised how much I wanted a brother or a sister. In all my life, I had never questioned being an only child, never asked for a sibling. If what Mum had said was right, I was a miracle child. A child who should have never been born.
How many brothers and sisters had I lost?
The word miracle was like a knife in my throat. Did I have anything to do with it? I almost collapsed then; revelations were something fantastical, something not of this world. My mother had suffered untold pain all this time and I'd been blind to it all. Knowledge of future, talent at singing. Was I the cause of all these terrible things happening to my mother?
"I'm a terrible mother… wanting to replace Wilf. It's God punishing me for wanting more… for being a greedy woman," Mum said, shoulders slumping, her voice heavy with blame.
She was wrong, so so wrong; I had to go and tell her that it was all my fault. It was the revelations — it had to be! What was the chance of all this happening to Mum or me receiving future packets of knowledge? An advantage that no one had. I thought to stand up, to go and confess it all to my Mum.
Revelations disagreed, strongly. I was frozen inside my body, unable to move, unable to breathe. Something deep inside me — the person that I was — it was bleeding and crying for me to keep it all a secret. Was that my own fears? The fear of being branded a nutter, a twit, loon and other things? What did that matter when I was hurting my mother?
Unable to move, I could only listen as Nain and my parents made their way into the kitchen. They continued talking.
"I don't think I can do this anymore," Mum said, her voice wobbled on the verge of tears.
"You don't have to, love. Please… don't think I need another child. I just need you. You're all I need," Dad said gently, warmth in his voice.
They shared a quiet, tender moment, the room still for a while. No sound for me to hear.
"How many times did it take before Wilf came along?" Nain asked eventually.
"We'd stopped trying, completely forgotten about it. Didn't even know we were pregnant," Mum laugh-cried, a small, bitter sound.
"It took months before we even knew Wilf was in there," Dad chuckled.
"Then there he was! Perfect child, with those pale grey eyes… they turned green so fast that I didn't even realise it. You were there, Mum," she chuckled through tears.
"Perfect child, he was. Still is," Nain said softly.
"I miss him… I wanted him with me all the time. That's why God's punished me," Mum sobbed.
"God's not punishing you, dear… shh, shh. Children always leaves the nest, do you think I haven't cried when you left." Nain consoled her, wrapping her gently.
Words kept stabbing me; each new sentence felt like confirmation of my existence having robbed my parents of children, a house full of little kids. Little Erins and little Olivers. I was a parasite, a leech sitting on my parents, robbing them of joy. I wanted to say it all to them and hug my Mum if she'd let me, ask for forgiveness.
My body was still in its prison, my muscles were tight, I was locked in place — punished to listen to it all, listen to how I ruined two couples' lives.
My parents told more things to my Nain that I'd never been privy to. Who would tell a child these things? Mother had had six miscarriages between three weeks to twelve weeks. Money problems had racked up for fertility treatments outside of NHS coverage. Erin and Oliver had been attempting to have another child — to give me a little brother or a sister. They were faulting themselves for their inability, when it was all mine.
I kept on glaring at my legs, willing them to move. They wouldn't budge. I was as a rock was — unmoving and still even as my emotions were like a sea raging in storm. Having no choice, I closed my eyes, thinking of a time different from this. Of my home in Chester, spending time with my family, embarrassing and sad memories. But each of them seemed to be missing a hole for siblings to have slotted in — their slot stolen by me. I'd killed them. I kept on silently crying, listening to the quiet conversation that I could still hear due to the paper-thin walls.
I felt a hand on my shoulder; all my fight-or-flight responses triggered, adrenaline shooting through my body. But when I opened my eyes and tried to jerk away, the hand kept me still and steady. Old hands, weak bones, strong grip — Clive had strength owing to everything but his own body. He was a rock too, of a different kind.
My mouth opened, not sure what I was going to say, but before I could, Clive put his hand on my mouth. He then let go and gestured for me to keep silent, a faint, knowing smile on his face. It was too late; just as I had eavesdropped, he had heard everything. The sound from his room when I had come down — he had been listening as long as I had. Clive, who'd complained about his knees when he dropped me off at dance practice, the man who'd been presumably sleeping in his bed, getting a kip. He gently coaxed me to move, to get back up, dropping the hold on my body from the revelations, even the supernatural wasn't willing to let me fall and break my neck on the stairs.
I had forgotten about the creaky stairs, but Granddad hadn't; he reminded me which to step on by demonstrating it first and making sure I did as he bid. The walk up seemed to last ages. We were finally in my studio — the room I was usually at my happiest in, except now I was at my lowest.
"How much've you heard?" Granddad asked.
"Everything," I said, numb.
"Heh," Granddad wheezed. "Time for a story, then," he said, settling onto the sofa in the room.
It was a cluttered space; surprisingly, I had a lot of folk hanging out in my "studio" these days — coaches, teachers, even the odd friend from the park when I let them in.
"Do you want to hear about the collier? We lost many a good man down there," he asked.
"No," I said, sniffling.
"Fine, lad. Then I'll tell you about my brothers. World War II — you've no idea how busy it was all back then. The war machine, as they say, was roaring, bellowing smoke; we hardly had folk home. The military knew that, so they'd come round at dinner time or after church. At the table, John'd be as black as the coal he mined. Now I think on it, he must've had an inkling when they knocked at our door. That was the way of it, see — bad news always travelled at dinner or after church. A knock meant only one thing.
In came some young lads, Elis' age, wearing their uniforms. We called them Swansea Riflers, but the war made them Cardiff Riflers. They came to tell us we'd lost a brother. Fighting in Poland — that's all we got. Me Mam cried harder than my little Erin out there. Just a few days later, the knock came again. Dark words to sour another well-earned dinner. Same lads again, lads keeping us safe from shelling in Cardiff. Only now they said Noah was missing. Last seen fighting in the Battle of the Bulge, Bastogne — that's in Belgium. His regiment faced tanks; no one knows what happened. He'd gone missing, no peep from anyone. Mam didn't cry then, no — she insisted he was fine, that he'd be found. She'd say, 'No confirmed dead,' that's what was written on the letter, see. She held on to it. Weeks passed, her hope never faltered. Then the letter came, months after. Only it said, 'Presumed dead,'instead. That broke me Mam."
Granddad coughed and looked out the window. What must he be seeing out there? A crying mother, like my Mum downstairs? I felt annoyed at his story when I'd just heard something important. But he'd only ever talked about Elis, John and Noah, his older brothers, a few times. And needing some distraction, I kept listening.
"Where was I?" he asked, looking confused and suddenly weak. It was one of his bad days, as he called them.
"Presumed dead," I replied.
"Right! Err— the waiting had given my Mam so much hope, only for it all to be taken away in the end. Grief's a harsh thing, Wilf. Everything ends," Granddad said, his voice had gone tiny.
"We'll end one day, Wilf. One day I'll be gone. Next, it might be your Nain. She'll last longer than me, I know it. Then it'll be your parents. Hopefully when you're much older than you are now. Don't do what my Mam did — don't throw your life away. I lost my Mam the day those letters came, those young soldiers telling us about Elis' death. Live, live, live until it ends. Your Mum'll be fine, lad. You might get a sibling, you might not — these things happen or don't. You can't change that. But you can be a good son. Spend time with your Mum, enjoy your life. I wish I had, I wish I was as smart as you."
Wiping at my dried tears, I scolded him, "Not a good story, that," I said, mimicking the way the Welsh speak.
"My story's got a good lesson for you, mind. Keep your Mum happy, Wilf. Don't let her check out. Don't let grief take her."
Tears shining in my eyes again, I whirled around to Granddad. "How would I do that?" I asked.
"Simple, lad. Simple," Granddad said, smiling. "Let her enjoy today — let her enjoy her son's happy day. Let her be a mother. Remind her of you, and the good days. We're human, see; we can wilt and droop down, but all we need is a little water. Human."
"You mean I can't talk about it? Pretend nothing happened?" I said, pointing downstairs. Angry at his suggestion.
"No, lad. You heard her. She's asked Gladys to keep it secret. That's like the letter, boy. It'll make it real for your Mum if she knows that you know. You've got to act as if you don't — pretend the letter isn't there," Granddad said.
"What?" I said, unbelieving at the words coming from his mouth — unbelieving at the wisdom and cold logic of them.
"Go on now. Go perform — go enjoy your final show as Tommy Stubbins. Let your mum see you happy. That's what she needs, that," Granddad said, serious as anything.
Was that it? All the siblings I could've had, the pain that Mum must be feeling. It was all my fault. She needed to know who to blame, the person who'd caused all this. As my thoughts turned dark, Clive grabbed my shoulders and dragged me down to sit next to him.
"What're you thinking, Wilf?" he asked, looking straight into my eyes. Even he could see my guilt, I thought.
I sat there quietly, fighting against the drop for control of my own body — though there was no real fighting it.
"That it's my fault," I said, vague and low.
"What? How would it be your fault?" Granddad asked, genuinely taken aback.
I battled the drop and my own mind, trying to keep the conversation stripped of anything extraneous to stop my from talking about it.
"You heard Mum. She's never had a miscarriage before me—" I said sadly.
"So what? And you think that makes it your fault? Don't be daft, lad. Could be any number of things. Hey! Don't you go blaming yourself for this, do you hear me?" he said, his voice tightening as if he was worried about me checking out.
I didn't say anything — he didn't know what I knew. All this time chasing a dream, and I'd never seen the shadows hanging over my own parents.
"Stiff upper lip, is it? That what you're doing, Wilf?" he asked. When I still didn't reply, he pulled me into a rare hug.
"Pretend you didn't hear me if you want, Wilf. But it's not your fault — and it'll never be. Women are the cradle of humanity, the ones who breathe life into men. But that gift's always been the costliest thing. You and I will never know the pain. But it's no one's fault. God gives when it's time, takes when it's not. You remember that, Wilf. Remember it."
Dinner might've been enjoyable any other day, any other time. But after today's news, even Mum's cooking tasted dull in my mouth. Being an actor hadn't prepared me for hiding my feelings from my own mother. Still, I tried my best to put on a brave face, following what Granddad had told me. My guilt could wait — but I couldn't let Mum hurt more. Not today, not now.
The dinner was awkward and quiet. No one suspected a thing, because each of us had our own little secrets and worries percolating away inside our heads.
—✦—
Mad-Eye Maddie welcomed me and my family backstage. It was usually a big no-no to bring more than one person to the back, and I even got that much only because the law required me to have a guardian.
"This is my vanity mirror. I've hung all our photos — even the New Year ones. I should grab these before I forget," I said, giving a tour of my dressing room.
"It's a lot different from the last time I was here," Mum said.
"Yes, someone broke the mirror with a hanger. They never owned up, but I think it was James," I said darkly. "It's been replaced, though I don't remember if it's the same one."
"It's just more well lived in, that's all," Nain said.
"Yeah, that too," I said.
"Warm‑ups," the intercom called.
"I've got to go. Do any of you want to come?"
"Better not. We'll take a seat somewhere," Mum said, looking between Dad and Nain meaningfully.
Secret conversations kept going on around me and could continue only when I'd left. Even my Granddad seemed to realise what was going to happen. He was going to have to play at his own acting. I could understand it too—they would bring my Granddad into the secret. I would have keep on pretending that nothing had happened. Unable to say anything else, I left for warmups.
The rehearsal room was oddly full today; often the adult actors warmed up by themselves but today they were all here. Ensemble, principal roles and all the animal actors. I did a double take when I saw Leslie Bricusse, who I hadn't seen in months. Creatives finished their job when the show premiered.
"There's the boy I was looking for," Leslie said with a smile. His round glasses and Beatles-style haircut made him look far younger than his near seventy years.
"Mr Bricusse," I said in greeting.
"No, that's Leslie to you—and everyone else here," he said, sweeping a hand towards the suddenly gathered cast.
"Just over a year ago, I saw Wilfred at his audition for Tommy Stubbins," he told the impromptu crowd. "Cute little boy, looked as nervous as I was when I asked for my wife's hand. But when he sang… I just knew he was our Tommy. Smoothest voice I've heard from a boy of eight. He's nearly ten now, and he's improved so much I barely recognised him the last time I was here. Didn't even recognise him on TV too," he said with a laugh.
People around me chuckled too — my first-ever TV appearance had been during the holidays last year, and Nain had made sure every single person in the cast knew about it. Show premiered in November and finished a week before Christmas. Leslie must've heard it through the grapevine.
"Spanish boy, who would've thought it!" Leslie chuckled. "Many of you will be leaving soon," he said sadly, scanning the room.
People nodded; the writing had been on the wall for ages. No show had ever been destined to last forever, ours even less so. It was still profitable, but that wouldn't last. Rumours of cancellation had floated around for months, and now Leslie had confirmed it.
"I reckon we've got a month or two left in us. Theatre's fickle like that—not everyone can be Cameron Mackintosh. Sorry, that's Sir Cameron Mackintosh now." He said cheekily,
Maybe he wanted his own knighthood but so far his only recognitions were from American institutions. Phillip, Bryan, John—they were the nearest to me, and I could see the pained smiles on their faces, show was to be axed.
"But it's funny that our very first cast member to leave is none other than this little boy. I don't think you've grown one bit, mate," Leslie said.
Everyone laughed at that.
"I'll be taller than all of you, just you wait," I said, even though it was hard to banter after today.
"Perhaps you will." He said turning to address the cast again, "But his career's definitely going to be taller. If you haven't been living under a rock, you'll know Wilfred's leaving because he's off to Italy to act in a big-budget movie. His castmates will no longer be small time actors like Phillip Schofield, John Rawnsley, or… Bryan Smyth," Leslie said, looking around.
"Hey, I'm quite famous, you know," Bryan said mockingly.
"In Limerick, maybe," Phillip shot back.
Even Bryan laughed at that, as did most of us.
"He's going to be in a movie with Dame Judi Dench, Cher, Maggie Smith, Joan Plowright. I've met them all, but can only say I actually worked with Maggie. Nine years old and already more successful than most of us ever will be," Leslie joked.
Crowd laughed again, funny because unknown actors worked with big actors all the time. No one became famous doing that. But even so I could feel some envy from them. There was nothing mean behind it, but we were actors first and foremost. Auditions were plenty, roles were few and far between. Experience working with such famous and experienced actors could be worth more than the pay.
"We were his first ever credit in any musical, play, or production. If his stars are rising, it's thanks to all of us. Theatre's where we make friends, meet our lovers, and spend our lives. Curtain call comes for us all. You're the first to leave, but you'll always be remembered," Leslie said.
"Hear, hear. Well said," the crowd murmured in disjointed agreement.
"So we thought we'd give you a proper send-off…" Leslie added with a cheeky grin.
"Oh no — I hate surprises," I blurted, not in the mood after what had happened back home.
"Well, you might like this one," Leslie said, eyes twinkling. "When I was a little boy with snot behind my ear, like little Will here, I was given an opportunity by Beatrice Lillie. I was fresh out of Cambridge. I had to find my foot in the door and fight to keep it there."
I'd forgotten what Leslie was like after not seeing him for months—he was the sort to name-drop every famous person he'd worked with. I happened to know her—or, well, know of her name. Probably because Leslie had mentioned it before.
"—she said, it's the connections you make that shape the rest of your career. So, to cap off your stay at the Apollo, and to mark the start of your career, I grant you this." Leslie turned to grab something — something anyone in the cast would recognise.
It was a hardback folder, familiar to everyone in theatre. The kind we kept our musical scores in — these were copyright-protected and expensive material. Was Leslie really handing me a musical score? Why? I already had a copy.
"Here, open it," Leslie said, thrusting it into my hands.
Unconsciously, I took hold of it and opened it. It was the score for Doctor Dolittle—the titular song Bryan and I performed right after our characters met Doctor John Dolittle and had to stay the night at his place because of the pouring rain outside.
I looked at Leslie questioningly; he just lifted his chin towards the score, urging me to keep going.
It'd been a while since I'd seen the score last. I kept a copy of the script and score in the dressing room, mostly to free up space in my bag. Our cast had been a full year past needing scripts or scores — we had it memorised better than the backs of our hands.
But then I noticed it — the melody had been modified after the first verse. Despite everything that had scrambled my brain today, I could still make out the intention straight from the sheet music. Subtle tweaks on a few lines, adjustments to the orchestral accompaniment. My eyes widened and I stared at Leslie in disbelief.
"I think he gets it now," Leslie chuckled.
"Gets what? What is it?" people around me asked, trying to sneak a look at the score.
"It's a solo!" I announced to everyone.
"Sorry, Bryan — I've cut out most of your parts to let our newest star sing to his hearts content," Leslie added.
"Upstaged by a nine-year-old! Gobshite!" Bryan stomped his feet, though his eyes were still smiling.
"You knew about this?" I asked him.
"'Course I knew about it. I'm not a natural singer like you — cost me a session with my vocal coach. I'll be harmonising with you, in support," Bryan mock-grumbled.
"Oh my God, thank you!" I said, throwing my arms around him.
He patted my back and, chuckling, shoved me off. "Thank Leslie for doing this."
"Yes! Sorry — I mean, thank you!" I said, going in for another hug.
The warmth in the room rose again — only it had nothing to do with the temperature.
"Better get to warm-ups now; you've got to practise this song," Leslie reminded me. "Do you need help with the notation?"
I looked over the sheet music again. I'd composed my own pieces and transcribed plenty of things I'd heard on my turntable. This was a piece of cake.
"No…" I said, eyes still on the score. "Can I keep this?"
"Of course — it's yours."
"Can you sign it?" I asked, almost pleading.
"Sure thing, kid," he said, quoting one of his old plays. Or at least that's what I thought it was, weird to put on an American accent for no reason.
Someone passed over a marker and Leslie signed the score, then Phillip did, and the rest followed. Within moments, I was holding sheet music for a specially modified version of the song — one meant strictly for tonight's performance. A sheet that had the mark of everyone that I had worked with on the show. A proper send-off for a cast member. I was already emotional twice over today, and I hadn't even performed yet.
Bryan and I rehearsed our parts together; the ensemble section stayed exactly the same as before. Our harmonies had been switched so I would lead and Bryan would support me with his deep voice. In many ways, it was the opposite of the original arrangement. I wasn't even looking forward to the song — not because of nerves, but because our lovely stage manager, Sonja, had given us permission to do "whatever you want" for our scene: blocking, props, the lot.
We'd had blunders and mishaps on stage dozens of times, but this was the first time we'd ever been given free rein to improvise. All of Georgie's lessons swirled in my head as I workshopped what Tommy might realistically do on stage. The scene itself had Bryan and me settling in to sleep — him on the sofa, me on the floor near a very cuddly dog. And even though it was my special night, I couldn't forget that for most of the audience, save my friends and family, it would be their first time seeing the show.
There was no way I could stray so far from the script that it became hard to follow. The idea was simple: Bryan, as Matthew Muggs, was introducing me to the town's eccentric doctor, who just happened to be able to talk to animals. It wouldn't make sense for me to introduce him. But we had a neat way to manage it without any problems. The scene revolved around Bryan and me singing with minimal orchestral backing, Bryan wishing us goodnight, and then the orchestra kicking in full force for a dream sequence where all the animals could appear on stage and do the sort of musical antics theatre was oh so famous for.
We decided to 'fall asleep' sooner than the original script suggested. It might look a bit odd when the orchestra kicked in, but we could use it as a moment of ramping action. Surely that would work.
To be honest, as much as Bryan and I discussed what we'd do with all the animals, by the time we stepped on stage it was basically full-on improv. Lines were forgotten — hell, I could hardly stop myself from falling back into the same beaten path of the musical I knew so well. It didn't help that there were three different songs before our scene, all of which I had to perform exactly as usual. If you've got a routine, it's very hard to break out of it.
When I lay down next to Jip the Dog to get some shut-eye for my scene, I couldn't help but glance at the audience. I spotted my Mum and Dad, their faces full of smiles as bright as the first time they'd seen me perform this show. In the same row were people I'd met today: Sally, my accent coach; Pippo, my teacher who insisted Tuscan Italian was the only true Italian; Gilles, a new business owner and ballet maestro; Aurélie, his sister, who was joining the Royal Ballet School; Georgie, a whirlwind of bipolar energy and soon-to-be very serious actor.
Then there were people I hadn't seen in ages — Archie and his flatmate Robbie, music shop owners who hadn't seen this show even though I'd spent thousands of pounds at their shop and even handed out free tickets; James Paul Bradley, my rival Tommy Stubbins; Darien Smith, my comrade Tommy Stubbins.
And then I finally saw someone I truly hadn't seen in a full year — the person who started it all.
Mrs Moss sat beside Mr Ross, their hands clasped tightly, their love so complete it was visible to everyone. Ross had always been a Moss, hadn't he? He'd played Fagin in my school musical, and Mrs Moss had produced and played the piano for that musical. It felt like a lifetime ago. I was just a kid back then, out of my depth, my head spinning with revelations instead of living in the present.
All of today's emotions came out of me. I'd miss everyone I saw today — I'd remember all of them. Me from a year back was a small child without any direction; me of this year had friends, family, mentors, and even rivals who surrounded me. They were watching me; they had come for me. Eighteen hundred twelve tickets were sold today, only half the seats were filled in the theatre. But I felt like a boy surrounded by eighteen hundred people close to me.
Matthew Muggs started the song, but Tommy Stubbins continued the tune. Everything I learned today had unsettled me, but now I was fully back in control. Tommy Stubbins, the simple and stupid character who knew nothing but joy. I could be him today — I had to be him for my mother. Maybe her miscarriage had nothing to do with me. But I would do my best; I would get her the best doctor possible. If she wanted, I would move the mountains for her.
Words poured out of me; lyrics didn't matter. Music was there for me, and my emotions accompanied it — all the warmth from all my well-wishers. They bubbled out of me. My Mum's eyes were glistening with happy tears; the cheer in my heart had affected them, as had theirs.
A chapter of my life had just closed.
A year ago, I couldn't have commanded the stage or stirred emotions in an audience the way I did now.
A year in London had forged Wilfred Price into a formidable child actor.
Who would Wilfred Price become in a year? Two years? Five—or ten?
Only the future held the answer.