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The Might-Have-Been Girl A novel by Bronwen Welsh Copyright 2015

Chapter 1   A new job

Emma flounced into the room (no other word really describes it), and flung herself theatrically on to the couch. My sweet mother looked up from her sewing and mildly said “A bad day dear?” I looked up from my book, just managing to stifle a smile.

My sister, who is four years older than me is an actress, and quite a good one, but sometimes she has difficulty in distinguishing between the theatre and the real world. I was reminded of the quotation from Oscar Wilde 'Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life.'

“Bad? You wouldn't read about it!” she exclaimed. Maybe we wouldn't read about it, but I knew from experience that we were about to have a blow by blow account of what had happened.

“Burt – that man Duncan our producer employed as assistant stage manager – goodness knows why - was acting as prompter at the matinee. It's a long play and we've had a few 'dries'. Well I was in the middle of a long speech and that's what I had.”

“A 'dry'?” I put in helpfully.

“Yes, well everyone has them from time to time, I'm sure Olivier did,” she replied defensively. “I was on stage by myself and there was no-one to help me, so I edged across to the prompt corner and there was the wretched man sound asleep over the book!”

Even my mother couldn't fully suppress a smile, and Emma glared at us “It wasn't funny,” she exclaimed and Mum managed to straighten her face and say soothingly “Of course not dear, it must have been very distressing.”

“So what did you do?” I asked.

“Then or afterwards?”

“Well, both.”

“I managed to fudge my way through it somehow, and afterwards I complained to David the director. It wasn't the first time Burt had slipped up. He's been hitting the bottle again, and as a result he's no longer with us.”

“What happened for the evening show?” asked Mum.

“Well, Robin the stage manager stood by in the prompt corner, and fortunately he wasn't needed, but he can't be expected to do that every performance. We need a new prompter.”

“What about Harold?” said Mum.

Emma turned to look at me. “Harry? But he's had no experience in the theatre. Well, he's done school plays but that doesn't count.”

“But he's got an amazing memory and he's not working – he could start tomorrow.”

Emma thought for a moment.

“Maybe I could get him a trial,” said Emma. “I'll ring Duncan first thing in the morning.”

I should explain that to Emma 'first thing in the morning' means about ten o'clock. After a show she usually doesn't get home until nearly midnight, so that's understandable. Much to my surprise she was actually up and on the telephone by half past eight, and then still in her dressing gown, came into the kitchen where Mum and I were having breakfast,

“I sweet-talked Duncan and he's willing to give you a trial,” she said.

Somehow that didn't really surprise me. My sister is a very pretty girl, a great attribute for an actress, and I have the distinct impression that Duncan had a soft spot for her. The prospect of a job after several months of unemployment was exciting.

“Thanks, Sis,” I said, “I won't let you down.”

“Be at the theatre by twelve o'clock and David the director will see you when he has time during the rehearsal.”

I need to explain a bit about Bridchester. It's situated on the north-east coast of England, some miles to the south of Bridlington. As its name suggests, it originally sprang up as a small settlement around a Roman fort about 300AD. Small remnants of the fort remain, but much of the stonework ended up in town buildings such as the local parish church.

The town really came into its own in the Victorian era when the railway arrived and many visitors came to holiday and bathe in the sea. This was thought to be a cure for many ailments at a time when medical diagnosis and treatment was, to be kind, rather basic. Hotels sprang up along the promenade, and the pier, a marvel of Victorian engineering was built, with a small music hall at the far end. Some people claim that the town is stuck in a time-warp, but this is an attraction for the many people who retire there since it reminds them of their youth.

The theatre company for which my sister works is called the Apollo Players. They are a repertory company, one of the last in the country, playing for ten months of the year in Bridchester's Palace Theatre. Most of the shows run for three weeks during which time the company is rehearsing for the next show. It's a tough life and you have to be a dedicated actor to take it on, but many famous names have started out that way.

The theatre is well frequented by the holiday crowds in summer, and having a good reputation, the locals from the town and surrounding districts make up the numbers out of holiday season. Having seen a number of their productions since my sister joined them six years ago, I would class them as a good standard provincial company. Most of the cast would love to graduate to London's West End of course, but the more practical ones realise that a regular income is preferable to the risky business of trying to succeed in the big time, and possibly spending a lot of time 'resting' – which is the actors' euphemism for being 'out of work'.

I should now tell you a bit about myself. I was eighteen at the time of which I write which is fourteen years ago, and I was unemployed. Christened Harold Arthur Stow, I was living with my sister Emma Jane, aged twenty-two, and my widowed mother Elizabeth. My late father was Dr Harold Oliver Stow who earlier in his career lectured on the Classics and History in a Midlands ‘Redbrick University’. I know that he coveted a position in one of the 'Ancient Universities' – preferably Oxford, but it was not to be. Finding the position too stressful, he resigned about the time I was ten and took up a position as Classics master at Bridchester Grammar School, an all-boys school, and hence we moved to a three- bedroom cottage just outside of town and I joined the school. He taught the boys Latin and Greek and also his favourite subjects of Early and Medieval English History. Perhaps you can now see where I acquired my names.

At first I thought that he might have jumped out of the frying pan into the fire, but Dad seemed happy enough in this new position. The boys affectionately called him 'HOS' (his initials), not to his face but of course he was fully aware of it. It was a little strange being at the same school and having to call my father 'Sir' while in class, but we managed the situation alright. Sadly, when I was fourteen, he suffered a massive stroke and died. It was a great shock to us of course and left us living in greatly reduced circumstances. My sister, who had just started her theatrical career offered to resign and get a 'proper job' – probably secretarial work, but Mum knew she had her heart set on the stage and felt she should continue with her career, so long as she was getting a regular income from it. Her contribution, plus a small pension paid to Mum who was not well enough to work, enable us to get by.

I was allowed to continue at school, where I studied arts-related subjects having no aptitude or enthusiasm for science or mathematics. I grew to a height of five feet six inches and there I stopped. I was, and still am, very slim, with blonde hair which I liked to wear rather longer than was fashionable.

Since I went to an 'al- boys' school, I had very little to do with girls except for my sister. I admired her greatly. Some people have called her a 'girly girl' which I feel is an insult. I preferred to think that she she was very feminine and enjoyed being a girl with all its advantages. While so many girls and young women seemed to prefer wearing trousers Emma wore skirts or pretty dresses at least half the time and why not? I couldn't help thinking that boys are limited in what they can wear, and since girls have access to such a wide variety of clothes, why did so many dress almost like boys? I should mention that despite my feelings, I never felt the urge to try on any of Emma's clothes. I knew they would never look as good on me as they did on her.

One thing I did like was the dramatic arts. Each year the school staged a play, and when I was fifteen I was selected to play the part of a girl. I think there were three reasons for this – it was in that era of strict segregation of the sexes, before girls from local schools were called in to play female parts in plays produced at all-boys schools; being small I was the only boy that fitted into the dress they had acquired for the character, and finally I have a remarkably good memory, for which I claim no credit, it just happened.

It seemed I acquitted myself so well in the role that I was asked to play a girl again the following year. It didn't really feel like being a girl since I just wore a dress over my normal underpants and vest, and wore a rather unconvincing wig.

I detested contact sports and preferred the company of other boys like me – the school 'swots' or 'nerds'. We were despised by the boys who loved sport. There was one exception. Reggie was the exact opposite of me, tall, athletic, good looking and an excellent sportsman, but not quite so good academically. By pure chance, we had sat together on the bus to school one day and he had confessed to not having completed his Latin homework. I asked to have a look at it, and by the time the bus stopped outside the school, it was done, but not too well of course, I was too smart for that. The new classics master would never believe a perfect translation of Caesar's Gallic Wars from Reggie.

From then on, we developed a symbiotic relationship. A few of the boys had started bullying me, including calling me 'Nancy'. I was too naïve to understand the implications of that, but Reggie let it be known that if this continued, they would have to answer to him, and the bullying stopped. From time to time I called in at Reggie's home to help him with his homework. His mother was very welcoming, and most of the time we did the homework in Reggie's bedroom since he had two younger sisters who tended to make a lot of noise and distracted us.

We became really close friends, and it was during one of these homework sessions that we were laughing over an elementary mistake he had made when suddenly we stopped laughing and looked intently at each other. I was convinced that he was going to kiss me, and what's more I wanted him to. He had just started to make a move towards me when his mother knocked on the door and appeared with a tray of milk and biscuits. Whether she noticed anything I do not know, but the spell was broken and after she left, we carried on with the homework as though nothing had happened. That was the only time we nearly joined lips, but in my dreams, I often thought of what it might be like to be Reggie's girlfriend.

I completed my General Certificate of Secondary Education with passes in English Language and Literature, French, Latin, Greek, Citizenship and Information Technology, but staying on at school for ‘A’ levels and going to university was not really an option in our financial position, and it would really help if I got a job. Reggie, who had made great strides academically, was more fortunate since his parents could afford to send him to university, so he stayed on at school another year to do 'A' levels with the intention of applying to York University to study Economics. I couldn't help feeling a bit jealous as I would love to have studied Theatre there, but it was not to be. Sadly, with our lives going down different pathways we drifted apart.

Finding a job wasn't so easy, and for two months I was unemployed except for stacking supermarket shelves at night – not exactly a job with career prospects. Finally, I did manage to find a position as a receptionist in a medical practice. It was a maternity leave replacement and I was told that the lady in question was unlikely to return. Unfortunately, after nine months she decided she needed the money and there being no other position available I had to leave. They gave me a good reference, but getting another position was not easy no matter how many I applied for, and once again I was unemployed. Hence when Emma suggested I might be able to work at the theatre, I jumped at the chance.

I arrived at the theatre about eleven-thirty, looking as smart as I could, and entered as directed through the stage door. Just inside was a sort of cubicle where a grisly old man looked up from his newspaper and asked what my business was. After I explained who I was he told me to continue on down the corridor and take a left and then right which would take me to the front of the stalls on the OP side. He rather obviously waited for me to ask what OP meant, but having a sister who is an actress I knew it meant 'Opposite Prompt' or in other words the left side of the stage from the audience's viewpoint, also referred to as 'stage right' by the actors as they faced the audience, so I thanked him and started off down the corridor.

Following his directions, I arrived at an open door which led into the theatre's auditorium which was in semi-darkness. The stage, however, was brightly lit and the light spilled over into the stalls where I saw two people sitting in the middle, about five rows back with a board propped up on the seats in front of them. Several people were on the stage, my sister amongst them and they were rehearsing a scene, so I stood there quietly and watched them. I remembered that Emma had told me she was playing the part of Alice Dearth in a play called “Dear Brutus” and that it was a comedy by J.M. Barrie who wrote 'Peter Pan'. When I asked her if it was about Romans, she laughed and explained that the title comes from a Shakespeare quote from Julius Caesar “The fault dear Brutus is not in our stars but in ourselves.”. I didn't totally understand what that meant, and the rehearsal didn't help either.

After about ten minutes, one of the men watching the rehearsal called out “We'll take a ten minute break, then I want to run through the scene with Dearth, Alice and Margaret.” and he got up and walked along the row of seats and down the steps to where I was standing, offering his hand.

“Hello, I'm David the director, and you must be Harry,” he said with a smile.

“Yes sir,” I replied, “Emma said you might be able to give me a trial.”

“Call me David,” he replied, “Everyone else does. Come up on the stage and I'll show you around.”

I followed him as he climbed the steps at the side of the now-empty stage, and walked over to the far side which I knew was the Prompt Side. Walking into the wings he stopped by a table which had a number of objects on it which I assumed to be props. In addition, there was a telephone with a lead running into a box with several switches, a microphone, and a large ring-folder which David picked up.

“This is 'the book',” he said, “In other words the script of the play with stage directions. I take it your sister told you we are rehearsing 'Dear Brutus'?”

“Yes S...David.” (Old schoolboy habits die hard.)

“We're rehearsing Act Two at present, The cast are going quite well, but there may be the odd stumble, so I'd like you to follow the script and if they dry up, give them the next phrase. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes David,” I replied.

He opened the book and leafed through the pages and said “We'll begin here with Dearth and his daughter Margaret.”

With that, he left me and returned to his seat in the stalls. I felt my heart beating faster, but I was determined not to screw up. Two cast members had wandered onto the stage, an older man and a young girl, about my age and very pretty. From his place in the stalls David called out “Alright Sandy and Mary, we'll take it from your entrance.”

I noticed that there was an artist's easel set up in the middle of the stage with a chair before it, and a few other chairs placed apparently at random. Looking at the script I saw that they were supposed to be in a wood, so I presumed the chairs marked the position of trees. The two cast members left the stage and then came running on, Mary arriving at the easel first.

“Daddy, daddy, I have won,” she began.

I followed the script carefully as they went through the sequence. At one point I thought Mary was going to 'dry', but after a moment's hesitation she carried on before I could give her the line. Later in the sequence, Emma entered the stage too and I remembered her telling me she played Alice Dearth, the artist's wife, although Dearth didn't seem to recognise her. Sometimes it's not easy to follow a storyline when the actors aren't in costume.

The sequence ended on a dramatic high note as Mary ran off the stage and into the wings where I was standing with the book.

“Oh hello,” she said, “Are you the new assistant?”

I could feel myself blushing as I replied, “Yes, I'm Harry.” I hesitated and said, “You were very good.”

She flashed me a smile. “Why thank you,” she said.

At that moment, David appeared. “Mary darling, can I have a word?”

She followed him onto the centre of the stage where they engaged in earnest conversation. Obviously his assessment of her performance was a little more critical than mine, judging by the look on her face.

After this, David called for the cast to rehearse the start of Act Two, and I didn't see Mary again. This time I had two opportunities to prompt cast members. The rehearsal finished at four o'clock so that the cast members who were performing in the evening play could get some rest and refreshment. That included my sister Emma.

At this point the man who had been sitting next to David in the stalls appeared, carrying a clipboard, and introduced himself as Robin, the Stage Manager. I realised that he would be my immediate superior, provided I secured the job. He welcomed me on board, said 'well done', and then said he had to go and attend to some things but that he would see me at the evening's performance, so that was good news. Emma came to get me and told me that David was pleased with how I had picked up on the two prompts, I could attend the evening performance and I could come back again the next day.

One of the advantages of having a sister as a cast member was that she was able to get free seats for Mum and me. I had already seen the evening's play, J.B. Priestley's “They Came to a City” in which Emma played the part of Dorothy Stritton. It might seem strange for the company to be producing two relatively old plays in succession, 'Brutus' was written in 1917, and “City” in 1943, but they were part of a 'Classic Series' by famous writers that the company performed every couple of years. They performed some of Shakespeare's plays too, but most of the works were much more up to date, especially during the holiday season when the town was filled with visitors. The permanent town residents being mainly older people enjoyed seeing the classics.

It's one thing to be sitting in the audience enjoying a play, but quite a different experience to be standing in the wings following the play, providing props as needed and being ready to prompt. It's surprisingly tiring to be concentrating hard for about two hours, knowing that the cast might need your assistance at any moment. Robin was hovering nearby, but I didn't need to call on his help. Now that the cast was a week into the season, they were very comfortable with their lines and no prompting was needed.

For the next two weeks, I attended the morning rehearsal of 'Dear Brutus' and the evening performance of 'City'. I formed a friendship with Mary who was the only cast member of about my age. She told me that she had wanted to be an actress since she was a little girl, and this was her first big break. She confided in me that her ultimate goal was to play in London's West End, and I encouraged her by saying I was sure she was good enough. Whether this was actually true I wasn't sure, but I had already realised that many actors have fragile egos that respond well to being boosted.

Over the following two weeks, I learned a lot about stage management from Robin, who was generous with his time, explaining many things to me. I also memorised the scripts of both plays, not through any special effort, but because I am one of those fortunate people with what is termed a 'photographic memory'.

The season of “They Came to a City” came to an end on the Saturday, and “Dear Brutus” commenced on the following Monday. The newspaper reviews were eagerly scanned the morning after the first performance, and they were universally good without being 'raves'. This was the last play of the season leading up to Christmas when we would have a break, so David took the opportunity to have some extra rehearsals and make a few tweaks to the show which I thought worked well, although as a junior member of the team I didn't dare to venture an opinion.

Mary and I continued to spend time together which we both enjoyed. It wasn't really a boyfriend and girlfriend relationship, we were just friends. I actually felt a little jealous of her that she was on the stage and enjoying applause every night. There was another reason to feel jealous of her too, but I tried not to think about that.

The first two weeks of the season passed quickly. I had settled into my role as a prompter and effectively assistant stage manager and was really enjoying myself. There is something about theatre which I found then and still do, alluring, one might even say seductive (if that's not too theatrical an expression). Unlike a film, where a single performance is recorded and can be endlessly repeated, in live theatre, even though the script remains the same, each performance is slightly different.

I remember David speaking to the cast of one show where he felt that that nearing the end of the season, some members were just going through the motions.

“To you, this is another performance of something you've done many times already, but to the audience, this is the one and only time they will see this play, and they've paid good money to do so. Therefore you owe it to them to make it the best and most memorable performance on stage that they have ever seen.”

I think that should be printed out and stuck on the mirror of every theatre dressing room in the land. It had the desired effect and the laggards immediately lifted their game.

All went well with the performances of 'Brutus', and the house was nearly full most nights. Then something happened which had a profound effect, not only on me but my family too, and things would never be the same again.

To be continued

I would like to acknowledge the assistance of Louise Anne in proofreading the text and giving me a great deal of useful advice about modern-day Britain.