After the Pantomime

By Susannah Donim

A spare time hobby slowly turns into a lifetime choice for Nick.

Chapter 4 - Rehearsals

Nick learns to be a Dame.

I persuaded Polly to remove the dress, wig, jewellery, and especially the greasepaint, before she went out to meet with her fellow LADS seamstresses. I spent the rest of the afternoon going through the script with Arthur. I had to admit he was very good. He knew exactly how to make the most of every funny line and how to milk the response. He warned me of what could go wrong in the frequent audience participation sequences and how to handle it when it did. He offered situation-appropriate replies to any heckles and suitable put-downs for any smart-aleck kids who might try and disrupt the children’s games.

“You’re a man!”

“Wish I could say the same for you, sweetie!”

“Actually, ‘Are you a man?’ is more likely in your case,” Arthur added with a sardonic grin. I didn’t think that was terribly funny.

* * *

When she returned after her meeting, Polly brought takeaway for three for an early dinner. We agreed to go all together to the rehearsal room, so I would leave my car at their house. I was beginning to feel apprehensive about the evening.

I helped Polly load Arthur and the wheelchair in the special van via the electric platform at the back. She put the chair’s brake on so it wouldn’t roll around and secured it with a special seat belt.

“I feel like a piece of luggage here in the back,” he grumbled as I got in the front passenger seat. I began to see what Polly meant when she said he was a difficult patient.

As we got him out at the other end, Arthur was still giving instructions.

“Don’t forget everyone else has been rehearsing twice a week for nearly two months. Tonight’s read-through is just for your benefit. We’ll only be doing Sarah’s scenes but almost everyone will be there. They’re a good bunch, and they’ll make allowances, but you’ll need to hit the ground running.”

The LADS rehearsal room was the village church hall. Polly explained that the vicar was an amateur thesp himself and had appeared in several of their productions. His bishop didn’t allow him to let LADS use the hall for free, but he gave them a much-reduced rate.

Charlie met us at the door.

“All your scenes are already blocked out,” he said, “and everyone else should know their moves. You’ll just have to fit in with them. I don’t think you’ll be able to make any changes to what Arthur was doing, certainly not anything major. But we’ll just be doing a table read-through tonight so you can meet everyone, try out your lines, and get a feel for the shape of the show.”

Looking up at us all from his chair, Arthur explained that we’d been all the way through the script that afternoon. Charlie was pleased.

“So we might be able to get up and walk through some scenes too. Fantastic! Did you work on her voice as well?” he asked. “The script will help of course. The words are what a woman would say; you just have to say them as a woman would – with feminine intonations and cadences.”

Arthur nodded. He and I had discussed this.

“At first he just sounded ‘camp’ like Julian Clary or Larry Grayson, which wasn’t right at all,” he said. “We worked on feminine rather than effeminate. I think he’s getting it.”

Although he didn’t sound convinced.

“We also agreed that I wouldn’t try to speak in a woman’s voice,” I added, “and definitely not in a falsetto. I’ll stick to the male range. As Arthur says, no one is trying to hide the fact that I’m really a man.”

“You’ll probably have to use your normal voice anyway to have any hope of reaching the back of the auditorium or the people up in the ‘Gods’,” Charlie agreed. “Not that the Victoria Little Theatre has Gods, as such.”

“I don’t dare speak in a higher register anyway,” I said, lowering my voice. “It would sound exactly like Daisy Duquesne, and I’m trying to avoid reminding anyone of her. This is a small town. There could easily be someone in the audience who was at the Club that night.”

“Could be,” Charlie agreed. “Anyway, we’d better get on. Come and meet our cast.”

* * *

We were a little late because of the fuss with the wheelchair, but when we finally got into the hall through the Disabled entrance, everyone made a big fuss of Arthur, which he seemed to enjoy despite his doleful expression. I noticed an older lady, plump and pink-cheeked, making her way over to Polly, presumably realising that she needed as much sympathy as her husband, if not more.

I hung back. I knew no one there, and assumed I would be introduced eventually. I wasn’t looking at the throng around Arthur and Charlie, but I overheard a few snippets of conversation.

“He looks awfully young, Arthur,” said someone.

“Do you really think he’ll be any good?” said someone else. “The Dame holds the whole show together.”

“We think he’ll be very good,” said Charlie. “We’ve seen him doing stand-up. He’s great with an audience.”

“Aye, well, beggars can’t be choosers anyway,” muttered Arthur.

Thanks, mate.

Charlie turned round and pulled me into the throng.

“This is Nick, everyone.” There was a cheerful chorus of ‘Hi, Nick’s’. “Come on, let’s get started,” he said. “We’re only going to read the scenes involving Sarah tonight, so I’ll just summarise what happens in the scenes she’s not in.”

He led me over to the middle of the room where two large trestle tables had been pushed together with uncomfortable-looking metal-framed chairs all around. The tables were already covered in drinks, snacks and scripts. Someone offered me a choice between beer or wine. A LADS rehearsal was no place for soft drinks, apparently. I took a tin of lager, with thanks. Charlie seated me in the middle of one side and pulled up his chair to my left. Polly pushed Arthur’s wheelchair in to my right.

There were about a dozen of us. We went round the table introducing ourselves, as they do in business meetings (where they call it the ‘Creeping Death’). Nobody ever remembers people’s names this way, unless you take the trouble to write them down. I scribbled those I heard clearly on the back of my copy of the script.

First were two pretty girls called Millie and Lily, who were sitting together. They were playing Alice Fitzwarren and Dick Whittington himself, though I didn’t remember which was which at that time. Next to them was an older guy who was Alderman Fitzwarren; then the plump lady who was to play the Fairy of the Bells. The Captain and the First Mate of the ‘Saucy Sal’ were next; and then the Narrator, a short, tubby fellow called Joe. There were also a couple of rat henchmen, non-speaking parts, who had come along to work on some slapstick business. That wasn’t going to happen tonight because of Arthur’s accident and my introduction, so presumably they were only hanging around now for the company and the beer.

Two names stuck with me. One was the vicar, the Reverend Roderick Miller (“Call me Roddy”). He was playing the villain, King Rat. Uncharitably I wondered if he would be any good, or if they’d given him the part because he let them use the hall for next to nothing. It turned out he was very good. They all were.

The other actor whose name I managed to remember was Pete Dobson, and that was because he was playing Idle Jack, and he and I had lots of scenes together.

When it was my turn, I told them my name and limited qualifications – a few evenings of stand-up which was where Arthur and Charlie had seen me. I didn’t mention that I had been in drag at the time, or that I hadn’t actually been in a play since junior school. Most of them had heard of the Club. A couple had even been along on an Open Mic Night, though not on one when I was performing – either as myself or as Daisy.

“The only other speaking part is the Sultan of Morocco,” Charlie said, when we had finished the introductions. “He doesn’t appear till the second Act, so he’ll be along later. The other big role is Tommy the Cat. It’s a non-speaking part obviously, so he won’t be here tonight. You’ll see a lot of him though. He’s a great mime, really funny. We also have a small orchestra and a chorus of singers and dancers, but you probably won’t meet any of them till much later. You’re not in any of their scenes.”

“You should also mention the kids from our local primary school,” put in Arthur. “They play the rats. We’ve got the whole of their Year 3 – thirty of the little buggers. When they’re all on stage at once you can hardly move for kids. At least half of them will probably be picking their noses at any given time.”

“They should make a quite impressive plague of rats though,” said Charlie, who clearly didn’t dislike children as much as Arthur.

“I’ll read out the stage directions as we go,” Charlie said to me, “so you’ll know what’s going on in each scene. He raised his voice to address the group. “I’d like you all to deliver your lines in character, please. Treat it as another rehearsal. I’m hoping that everyone except Sarah will know their words by now, so try not to refer to your scripts if at all possible.”

There were a couple of grunts around the table. I guessed a few of them weren’t exactly word perfect yet.

“OK, here we go,” Charlie said. “With the curtains still closed, the house lights go down and the Narrator steps on stage from the wings.” We won’t bother with that for now. It doesn’t involve Sarah."

Joe pretended to look disappointed. I suspected he was glad he wasn’t going to be tested on his lines tonight.

“The curtains open on the street outside Alderman Fitzwarren’s house and shop,” Charlie continued. “The townspeople sing and dance to a London song. When they finish, they troop off, leaving the Alderman and his daughter to set the scene: business is bad because of a plague of rats. Then the sky darkens and the rats invade the stage. The Alderman and Alice run off as King Rat comes on and rants at the audience."

Roddy gave us his first speech. He was brilliant. He knew his lines by heart and delivered them with exactly the right balance of menace and humour. He would have the littlest kids quaking with fear then laughing in relief at an unexpected joke.

“Nicely done, Roddy,” smiled Charlie. There was a respectful round of applause.

“But I think I’ll just summarise the scenes that don’t involve Sarah,” Charlie interrupted, “or we’ll be here all night. Fairy Bow Bells appears and promises to help the people against his evil schemes. King Rat sneers and exits stage left. The Fairy exits stage right.”

He turned to me. “OK, your first scene. Sarah comes out of the Alderman’s house carrying a mixing bowl. She is stirring something in it with a large wooden spoon. She catches sight of the audience.”

I started reading from my script. I tried a feminised version of my own voice, deeper than Daisy’s, but with female inflections. The part seemed to be all one-liners – the kind of humour I had specialised in at the Club, albeit rather cornier and more suitable for kids. I began to see why Charlie had gone looking for an experienced comic to replace Arthur. Pity he could only find me.

I got to the end of my opening patter.

“Now are you getting the hang of the plot?” I read. “I know some of you find really complicated stories like this one difficult to follow. So let me catch you up.”

“She takes the spoon out of the bowl and points in each direction as she summarises the story,” said Charlie, reading the stage directions again. “She walks downstage as she speaks and the curtains close behind her, leaving her alone with the audience.”

“So – London Town.” I mimed pointing behind me. “Plague of rats led by the Big Bad.” I pointed to what might have been stage left. “Fairy promises to help.” I pointed to the imaginary stage right. “I didn’t know there were fairies in London…”

Presumably that was intended to be suggestive, so I gave the cast members, Millie and Lily, opposite me a suitably filthy leer. The girls giggled.

“Anyway, I mustn’t keep you, boys and girls. I must get back to my cooking.” I put my head down to my imaginary mixing bowl and sniffed. “Oh dear, I think this has gone off. Better get rid of it.”

I mimed hurling the contents of the bowl out into the audience. The contents of the bowl would be sweets, of course.

“You’ll have to take handfuls at a time, I think; not all in one go,” interrupted Arthur. “So you can scatter the sweets as widely as possible.”

I nodded.

“And that’s the end of your first scene. Well done,” said Charlie.

There was a discreet smattering of applause, not to mention some relieved-looking faces. It seemed Arthur and I hadn’t been the only ones who doubted I could do this. Mind you, he was still wearing his unconvinced face.

“Lot of work to do,” he said, gracelessly.

“The next scene is played out in front of the curtain and introduces Dick Whittington and Tommy the Cat,” said Charlie. “Sarah’s not involved, so we’ll move on. Next: the curtains open again and we’re in the Fitzwarrens’ shop.”

So in this version of Dick Whittington, Sarah wasn’t just the cook; she was a ‘maid of all work’ around the Fitzwarren household. I assumed this was because Arthur was writing himself a bigger part – which I now had to master in just over four weeks.

“Sarah is bending over with her back to the audience, trying to reach something on a low shelf. She is showing off her plump rear. She looks over her shoulder and sees the audience.”

“Oh, hello, boys and girls!” I yelled.

“Hello, Sarah!” the team yelled back, gamely.

“I think we can take the ‘Hellos’ as read from now on,” Charlie said. A couple of cast members feigned disappointment. “This scene introduces Idle Jack,” he continued, “and then the Captain and First Mate of the Saucy Sal. So let’s just do the dialogue that involves Sarah, shall we?”

There followed much snappy patter and innuendo, moving the plot along, and setting up Sarah and Idle Jack as a comedy double act.

Sarah: “Every time I’m down in the dumps I buy myself a new hat.”

Idle Jack: “I wondered where you got them from.”

When we’d finished in the shop, Charlie summarised the next scene, which didn’t involve Sarah. Dick gets a job and meets Alice. We discover that Idle Jack is in love with her too, like Buttons with Cinderella, I suppose.

The next scene was in my bedroom. I’ve put my curlers in and I’m getting undressed and into my nightie when a swarm of rats pour in – with plenty of opportunities for comic business. They knock things over, steal my clothes, shoes and underwear, and so on. I have a few funny lines early on in the scene, but there’s not much dialogue once the rats appear.

It ends with Alderman Fitzwarren and Idle Jack running in with shotguns to save me. There will be a lot of loud bangs here – blank ammunition of course. I will have to do a lot of screaming and trying to conceal my nightwear and general state of undress from the men.

What will make the scene difficult is that most of the rats are played by primary schoolchildren and we won’t get many opportunities to rehearse with them.

In the next scene King Rat comes out secretly and frames Dick for trying to steal the Alderman’s money, and he gets the sack. He and Tommy start off on the journey back to Gloucester. They pause on Highgate Hill, when they hear the bells calling out the famous ‘Turn Again, Whittington’ sounds, orchestrated by the Fairy of the Bells.

“OK, Act One finishes with the kitchen slapstick scene,” said Charlie. “This only involves Sarah and Idle Jack. Everyone else can take a break. Who’s going to the pub? My shout.” Alderman Fitzwarren and Second Rat raised their hands. “Mine’s a pint of IPA, please. You want anything, Nick? Pete?”

The others went off to the pub and we got down to the big comedy scene. Charlie resumed.

“The kitchen of Alderman Fitzwarren’s house. There are ranges and cooking utensils along the back wall and a large old-fashioned chef’s table upstage. Sarah, in her cook’s uniform, is rolling pastry at one end of the table. The rest of the table and every other surface around the stage is covered in custard pies. At least two dozen will be needed.”

He stopped reading.

“They’ll be cardboard plates covered in Crazy Foam, of course.” I nodded. “Sarah breaks off rolling pastry. She comes downstage to address the audience directly.”

That was my cue. My dialogue included cooking jokes and sympathy for poor Dick.

“As Sarah is addressing the audience, Idle Jack tiptoes in. The audience see him; Sarah doesn’t. Jack picks up a pie in each hand.”

The kitchen scene was especially complicated as we have to throw pies at each other, ducking and dodging, hitting and missing. Then we ask for volunteers from the audience to come up and help us.

“We’ll get members of the cast to go down into the audience and pick two boys and two girls,” said Charlie at this point. “There’ll be a team fight – Sarah and the girls against Idle Jack and the boys. There’ll be funny, fast music throughout. It should be like something out of Benny Hill.”

“Make sure you pick small, innocent-looking kids,” said Arthur. “One little bleeder gave me a black eye last year. My make-up had to be even heavier than usual to hide it.”

“Point taken, Arthur,” said Charlie, eyes raised to heaven. “It’ll probably be Alice picking the girls and Tommy the Cat picking the boys. I’ll make sure they understand the selection criteria. Anyway, everyone will get covered in Crazy Foam and the kids will go back into the audience with boxes of chocolates and paper towels. Oh, that reminds me – I need to insert a note in the programme that the foam is harmless; it won’t sting the eyes; and any kid selected for the custard pie fight will come out cleaner than they went in!”

I laughed but I was particularly worried about the kitchen scene. I could see it would take a lot of rehearsal. Pete Dobson and I would have to choreograph some precision pie-throwing or the whole thing could turn to complete anarchy; worse: it wouldn’t be funny. Really funny slapstick is much harder than it looks.

The others started appearing again, back from the pub. They had Dave, the Sultan of Morocco, with them. When everyone was settled, we went through the second Act as we had the first. It was exhilarating – and terrifying. I had so much to learn.

The evening continued. There were no great problems with the dialogue, but it became apparent that future rehearsals would have to focus on the actors’ movements, rather than their words. In addition to the kitchen custard pie fight, there was a scene near the end in which Sarah tries to seduce Alderman Fitzwarren. I keep trying to throw my arms around him, and he keeps ducking out of my reach. We would have to choreograph lots of variations of this theme if it was to be funny rather than just repetitive.

That was the scene that ends with Fitzwarren accidentally ripping my dress off, leaving me in my old-fashioned underwear, shift and bloomers. I run screaming off the stage, Fitzwarren chasing after me with my dress. The dress removal, aided by the fact that it would only be held on by Velcro strips, would need a lot of practice.

So Charlie’s last thought of the day wasn’t surprising.

“You’d better start learning your lines, please, Nick,” he said, a little apologetically. “It’s very difficult to get your movements around the stage right if you’re reading from a script and all your attention is focused on your dialogue. Also, if you wouldn’t mind, I think you should do all your rehearsals from now on in costume. You need to get used to moving around in full old-fashioned female clobber.”

He turned to Polly as she was getting Arthur and his wheelchair ready for the return journey. She was way ahead of him.

“No problem, Charlie,” she said. “I’ll sort him out a suitable rehearsal dress and shoes. You’ll probably need all the padding too,” she said to me, “because it will affect how you move. Come round some time tomorrow.”

Charlie asked all the cast members who had scenes with Sarah to be back at the hall for the next evening. They were mostly able to oblige. One of the girls couldn’t make it because of an evening class, and Roddy had a squash match, but would come along afterwards.

After returning to the Whitmores’ house and picking up my car, it was eleven o’clock before I got home. Having had plenty to eat and drink during the evening I went straight to bed with my copy of the script. I might have managed to learn my lines for the first scene before I fell asleep…

* * *

I arrived at the MyOwnCouture.com office the following morning at around ten o’clock to find everyone hard at work. Ruth and Vicky were poring over Arthur’s designs, working out how to encode them for the NC cutting machine. Eddy and Mike were down in the cowshed fine-tuning the printer and adjusting the tension in the sewing machine.

“Nice of you to join us,” Ruth said when she saw me.

“I didn’t think you’d need me first thing.”

“We don’t,” she snapped. “You might have helped yesterday afternoon though – with finding fabrics and dyes and placing orders…”

“I was busy.” I got my phone out and found the screenshots of Polly’s notes. “Here are the new Dame’s measurements, by the way.”

“Oh,” said Ruth, nonplussed. “I expected to hear from Charlie or Polly Whitmore. How come you have them?”

“I met up with them yesterday,” I said vaguely, “and offered to bring them round.”

“If you had them on your phone, you could have just texted them over, or you could have given Polly my number and she could have sent them straight to me.”

I feigned not listening. I busied myself with switching on my computer and logging in.

Vicky was looking uncomfortable, like a timid forest creature sensing a gathering storm.

“I think I’ll just go and… er… see if Eddy and Mike need anything…” she muttered.

Ruth didn’t seem to notice her leaving.

“Anyway, why were you there?” she asked sharply. “You don’t have anything else to do with LADS, do you? Apart from helping us get the contract to make the new Dame dresses?”

Why was she so curious about my movements all of a sudden? She clearly sensed a mystery. You could almost see her nose twitching.

“Charlie and I went round to see Arthur,” I said. “He came out of hospital yesterday.”

“I didn’t realise you knew him so well.”

“Well, I don’t really,” I admitted. “We went to see if there was anything we could do. Charlie was afraid Polly would struggle to cope on her own, with Arthur in a wheelchair and all the costumes to finish. We had a very nice afternoon, looking at Polly’s costume collection and talking about the Pantomime tradition. Arthur’s very knowledgeable. Then we helped Polly with the wheelchair. Arthur had to get to the village hall in the evening for a rehearsal.”

“Did you see the new Dame?

“Oh, er, yes. They had a read-through with him last night.”

“Is he any good?

“No, he’s rubbish…” I began.

Shit, this wasn’t going to work, I thought. I might as well come clean. She’ll find out eventually anyway, and then she’ll be cross with me for keeping it from her.

“Oh for heaven’s sake… It’s me, alright? I’m going to be the Dame. Those are my measurements. And I’m not going to be around here much because I’ve only got four weeks to learn a really difficult part.”

“You?” she said, incredulously. “How on earth can you be the Dame?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Well you’re not old and fat, for a start.”

“And the compliments keep coming…” I said. “I don’t think there’s an actual rule that the actor playing the Dame has to be old and fat, it’s more like a guideline.”

“But the Dame is a really key part,” she said. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll make a fool of yourself?”

“Well, that’s rather the point, isn’t it?”

I smiled. She didn’t. She continued staring at me like I owed her a further explanation.

“Look, I’ve been doing some stand-up at the Club in the village. That’s where I met Charlie and Arthur.”

There was no need to mention that the introduction came through Josie when I needed to borrow Arthur’s high heels. Ruth was still staring at me, non-plussed. It seemed further explanation would be necessary.

“So I’ve had some experience of telling jokes to a live audience.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why should I?” I asked, genuinely puzzled. “It’s nothing to do with… here.”

I nearly said ‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ but that would have sounded mean. But it wasn’t, was it? Sure, we’d moved on from being just business partners to a more cordial relationship, but we still weren’t exactly close friends, were we? I meant back then, of course, before last week’s bedroom antics. That might have changed things a bit.

“It’s what I do after work,” I tried to explain. “We’ve never discussed our hobbies with each other, have we? I mean, you’ve never invited me to join you for an evening of… actually I don’t know what you do in your spare time.”

“Apart from going out to dinner, getting pissed, and screwing around,” she said, humourlessly. “Apparently we have those leisure interests in common.”

“Fair comment,” I said, hoping to make peace. “But my last performance on Open Mic Night was ages before we… er, hooked up.”

Actually Daisy’s performance was the previous Friday, but ‘ages’ is a nice vague time period and the said ‘hooking up’ happened very suddenly.

“And we didn’t talk about our personal lives in the heat of passion, did we?” I persisted. “We were too busy… wrestling.”

“I would have liked to have seen your act though,” she said, slightly mollified. “When are you on again?”

“Oh, I won’t have time now till the New Year. I’ll be too busy with the Panto. But you shouldn’t be feeling left out. The only people I know who’ve seen me perform are my brother and his wife – oh, and…”

Oops.

“…and?” she prompted.

“… and Eddy,” I confessed.

“Eddy’s seen you do stand-up?” I nodded glumly. “Well why didn’t he mention it? Why didn’t he invite me? Wait till I get my hands on him!”

She stood up and stormed out, not mollified anymore, and slammed the door behind her.

I was just starting to get my breath back, when she threw the door open again.

“And I am definitely going to the Panto, if only so I can throw rotten fruit at the Dame!”

Not if Sarah the Cook can stun you first with a glacier mint from her mixing bowl, I thought, but didn’t dare say.

* * *

Each of the MyOwnCouture.com team trooped in during the morning to offer their best wishes for my forthcoming starring role, and to chortle about looking forward to seeing me in women’s clothes. Eddy waited till Ruth went out to lunch before coming up to the office. He looked a little shell-shocked. She had obviously given him a hard time for not inviting her to go with him to see me perform.

“I suppose we should have invited her,” he said, “but she does rather cramp my style. She told you about our little arrangement, I understand?”

“Yep, but don’t worry, I haven’t told anyone else. Mike, Vicky and Mo don’t know, do they?”

“No, and I’d like to keep it that way, mate. You know why.”

“I’ll keep your secret, if you keep mine.” He looked blank. “Daisy Duquesne,” I whispered. (Walls have ears.)

“Oh right,” he laughed. “No need for her to know that the Dame isn’t the only drag act you’ve been doing! She likes to wear the panties in any relationship.”

He hurried back to the cowshed before Ruth returned. I wondered what he meant by her ‘cramping his style’. Then I remembered that he had been very friendly with Frank, the Club pianist. Developing a liaison with another gay man would be much more difficult if your fiancée is sitting next to you.

As requested by Ruth, I spent most of the morning on the internet and the telephone looking for suppliers of fabrics and dyes, checking their prices, and negotiating.

* * *

After a hurried lunch at the Manor House I went back to the Whitmores. Polly explained that Arthur had gone into their office. He wasn’t really needed there but Polly had begged Rob, their eldest son, to come and get him to give her some relief. She seemed glad to see me.

“If Charlie hadn’t asked you to wear dresses and padding for the remaining rehearsals, I would have suggested it myself,” Polly said, as she led me back up to the costume room. “Moving in skirts and high heels is difficult enough if you’re not used to them, but your underwear affects your movement too. Remember that a woman’s stance and gait, even her mannerisms and gestures, are all influenced by her shape, her weight, and her clothing, particularly her underclothing. That’s especially true if her body is, shall we say, ‘abundant’ – as yours will be – and if she wants to wear firm control shapewear to mould her ‘abundance’ into something more acceptable.”

I laughed. “I remember what it was like parading around your living room yesterday in that Playtex girdle. It made my bum sway from side to side and I had to restrict my stride. The elastic in the girdle was really tight. And the bra wasn’t much better. It was like wearing a harness. As you said, the padding inside was springy and not too heavy, but I couldn’t see over it. I had no idea where I was putting my feet.”

“Right,” she said, “and that means you have to take delicate, little steps, and hold your hands up high to keep your balance. We can practise that. So strip off and let’s get your shapewear on. This time take your underpants off too. I have a nice pair of satin bloomers for you. I’ll go next door if you’re still feeling shy. Call me when you’re ready.”

The bloomers were baggy on me. They were frilly round the waist and leg holes. They came down to just below the knee. They were white cotton and very soft to the touch. When I had them on, there was one very obvious, very large problem that Polly hadn’t warned me about. With no alternative, and totally mortified, I called her back. She sized up my difficulty, so to speak, immediately.

“Yes, Arthur had the same problem,” she grinned, “though maybe his was not quite so… extensive. We’ll put that padded Playtex girdle over… it all. That should make it go away.”

She held out the girdle for me to step into, and helped me pass the frilly bloomers through the padded girdle’s tight confines. My little problem did go away eventually, though it was very uncomfortable for a while.

“Wouldn’t it be better to wear the bloomers over the padded girdle?”

“That’s the plan, yes, especially as you will be seen in just them and your shift. But if the girdle is going on first, we’ll have to make it a panty-girdle, and you’ll need at least three of them as they’ll have to be washed after each performance. And of course you’ll need a larger size in bloomers. But don’t worry; that’s all in hand. Now that we have both your real and your padded-up measurements, Mary, my assistant, and I are off to the specialist ladies’ underwear store in London tomorrow. I should have it all ready by the weekend, so you’ll only have to put up with this lot for a couple of rehearsals.”

She handed me a cheap pair of stockings and helped me attach them to the girdle’s suspenders.

“I keep forgetting – you’ve done this before,” she laughed. “Now let me help you on with your bra.”

With the padded bra and girdle on I was beginning to feel like Sarah again. Polly handed me an old-fashioned shift.

“Victorian ladies would have worn a corset over this,” she said, smiling. “I’m assuming you’d prefer to avoid that?”

“I think the girdle is quite tight enough,” I said. “I do need to be able to move about.”

The shift was similar to a modern camisole, but matched the bloomers in material – white cotton – and frilliness. This one was short, only coming down to the top of the thighs, and it had an elasticated waist. With the two on together I felt like a cheesecake actress from a 1960s comedy film.

“Petticoat next,” she said. “I’m hoping that your people will get the dresses to us in time for us to sew the petticoats into them. That will make dressing and undressing you that little bit quicker, which might make all the difference. It’ll be essential for the dress the Alderman tears off you anyway.”

She held out what looked like a big bell-shaped explosion in a chiffon factory for me to step into. It had an elasticated waist and reached down to mid-calf. All this femininity was becoming overwhelming. Polly noticed.

“You’ve gone quiet, dear. All becoming a bit much, is it?” She smiled sympathetically. “Arthur always says the key is to embrace it – jump in with both feet. People respect commitment and professionalism. You can’t let anyone see that you’re embarrassed or afraid of making a fool of yourself. You want them all to be saying ‘Wasn’t the guy who played the Dame brilliant? I could never do that’.”

She was right of course. I gave her a grateful smile but was still lost for words. She reached for the ‘Jack’s Mother’ dress I had worn the day before. She dropped it over me and zipped it up.

“This will be fine for rehearsing,” she said. “We might as well put your wig on too. Then you can see what it feels like to be wearing a wig while you’re running around tonight.”

I didn’t actually see why I would need to do that. Was she afraid it might slip? But then I remembered seeing a boy actor in one of our school plays jerk his head round too sharply, and the audience all watched in horror as his wig flew off and hurtled across the stage. No amount of clever ad libbing would enable an actor to recover from that indignity. I made no protest as Polly pulled the wig cap over my head.

“A little tip, by the way,” she said, as she adjusted the wig and gave it a good brushing. “You’ve probably noticed that women wave their hands around a lot more than men. We use them to emphasise what we’re saying, I suppose, but it’s also because we don’t have pockets in our skirts and dresses to stick them in. So cock your wrists.”

I did so and immediately recognised the femininity of the gesture. I remembered Josie’s instructions when she and Tom took me out to the restaurant as Daisy.

“Then hold your hands up and out for balance and move them around a lot for emphasis as you talk. All that, plus your swaying backside, will give a very feminine appearance to all your movements, albeit turned up to eleven, as Arthur says.”

She reached down below the dressing table for a large shoebox.

“And just wait till we get you up on high heels,” she smiled. “If you think your bottom was swaying before, wait till you’re in these babies!”

She drew a handsome pair of black, patent leather, lace-up high-heeled boots from the box. They were ankle height and I was glad to see they had good, solid blocky heels, rather than stilettos.

“Arthur found lace-ups were essential,” Polly said. “Running around the stage in high-heeled slip-ons was just too dangerous. Fortunately you can wear the same shoes throughout the show, and you’ll be able to get all your dresses on and off over them.”

I slipped my nylon-covered feet in, and she began to lace them up.

“I’ll do this for you at the show too,” she said. “I realise you’ll have trouble bending down with your big boobs and tight girdle.”

“Thanks. I can’t even see my feet over my bust, and I don’t think I could get down that low anyway.”

“OK, stand up now, and walk around a little. Tell me how it feels.”

It was amazing. I was obviously a Pantomime Dame and could in no way pass as a real woman off-stage, but I felt totally feminine. With my hands out wide as Polly had advised, and my rear swaying from side to side, I started to believe in myself as Sarah the Cook. On the minus side, I felt fat and old.

“I feel like somebody’s mother,” I said.

She laughed. “That means you’re half-way there. Arthur says that sometimes on stage you can just disappear into the character, almost like an out-of-body experience. Of course, you have to surrender yourself to the role. Forget about Nick for a while and become Sarah. That’s method acting and maybe it sounds silly for a comedy role in a Panto, but you should try to imagine Sarah’s life, her back story, her desires and aspirations.”

“So Sarah is… that is, I am a plump, middle-aged widow, working as a cook and housekeeper for a rich bloke, who I fancy and want to marry…”

“You’re getting it. OK, let’s try some more feminine actions. Take hold of your skirt in both hands and lift it, as though you were climbing stairs or negotiating a puddle.”

I did so, and received more flushes of female feelings.

“Now let’s try a curtsey.”

“I don’t remember a scene where I would have to do that.”

“Don’t you have to acknowledge an order from Alderman Fitzwarren?”

“Oh yes. I suppose it might be appropriate then. I’ll see what Charlie says.”

I tried a curtsey, as instructed. It was more difficult than I expected because of my padding and tight underwear. With some help from Polly I eventually got it.

“That’s good,” she said. “Now you can curtsey at the end of the show when everyone else is bowing.”

* * *

I couldn’t go anywhere dressed as I was, and it wasn’t worth getting changed when I would only have to put all my Sarah clobber back on for the evening’s rehearsal, so I spent the rest of the afternoon pottering around the Whitmores’ house with Polly. She said I could help her with her chores to get into the feminine mindset; maybe explore Sarah’s back story as a housewife. I didn’t think that was likely to help much but I could hardly refuse after her kindness. Also fetching and carrying for Arthur since his accident had left her behind schedule with her housework. So I found myself vacuuming, ironing, and baking mince pies for Christmas. She gave me a frilly bib apron from her Dame accessories to keep the flour off my dress. I was reminded of my mother every time I passed a mirror.

She also gave me a sewing lesson and we sat down together to add some lace and frills to the Principal Girl’s costume. I quite enjoyed that and she said my stitching was the neatest she’d ever seen by a beginner, especially a male beginner.

She also called me Sarah all afternoon, to reinforce my immersion in the role, I suppose. But I couldn’t help remembering what she’d said the previous afternoon about Arthur in lingerie getting her motor running. I really hoped dressing me up as Sarah wasn’t getting her all worked up. It wasn’t that she was unattractive, but that would be a complication I didn’t need right now.

Arthur’s son, Rob, brought him back at about half-past five. He was highly amused to see the strange lady in his mother’s kitchen taking mince pies out of the oven. When he saw it was me in my costume he laughed heartily. I realised this was a precursor of what I would have to put up with from everyone I knew, so I forced myself to laugh with him.

Arthur grumbled something about, “You’ve made him look like a proper woman,” to Polly, but she ignored him.

After Rob had gone, the three of us sat down to soup and sandwiches, then got ready to go to the village hall. Polly produced a suitcase to put my own clothes in.

“I’ll help you change back after the rehearsal,” she said. “We’ll put all of Sarah’s things back in the suitcase afterwards. Then you can practise being her at home if you want. Also I may not always get to the rehearsals, so you’ll need to be able to get into your costume and padding by yourself – well, as much of it as you can manage anyway.”

* * *

When we got to the hall everyone gathered round me and Polly, congratulating her on how well I had turned out.

“She looks great,” said Pete Dobson.

“Well, it’s an old dress of Arthur’s,” said Polly modestly. “We don’t have her proper costume yet, and of course she’ll look much better with make-up on.”

“She’s already much prettier than Arthur was,” said Millie, or maybe it was Lily. I really must work out which of them was which before Opening Night.

Predictably, Arthur scowled. “She’s not supposed to be pretty.”

It didn’t escape my attention that everyone was referring to me as ‘she’. I supposed that could only help me get into character. I would have to get used to it.

“OK, everyone, your attention, please,” called Charlie. “A couple of announcements before we start.”

He read out a rehearsal schedule for the next week. We all took notes. Not unexpectedly I was on call for every evening.

“Act One tonight,” he continued. “We’re going to run all the dialogue, without scripts.”

There were several groans around the room. He turned to me.

“How are you getting on with that, Nick?”

“I think I’ve got my first couple of scenes memorised,” I said nervously.

“Crawler,” someone behind me said, good-naturedly.

“Excellent,” said Charlie. “Keep up the good work.”

He turned back to address the whole group again.

“Finally, I’ve arranged for publicity photos to be taken on Saturday afternoon. It should be fine weather. So I need all the principals to come with their costumes, or as much of them as you have so far. We’ll meet at the Theatre at two o’clock. Go in by the Stage Door. Polly and her team will be in the dressing rooms to do your make-up and help you get presentable. Anyone got a problem with any of that?”

No one objected.

“OK, let’s make a start. We won’t be doing the musical numbers or dances tonight, just the dialogue and moves. Act One, Scene One, beginners, please.”

Joe the Narrator, the Alderman and Alice (who turned out to be Lily, so Millie must be Dick) made their way up the side steps onto the stage. The rest of us settled in canvas chairs round the room. I remembered to sweep my skirt underneath me as I sat down.

“No books, please!” Charlie called.

The Alderman looked guilty and dropped his script on the steps.

* * *

The rehearsal went well. Everyone knew their lines except the Alderman and me, and even I managed quite well for my first two scenes. Arthur had been through all my words with me, suggesting the timing for each joke and pointing out opportunities for comic business. Now I was fully equipped with high heels, skirt, padded bust and bum, I could milk all the innuendo, jiggling my bosom and patting my curly coiffure as a Dame should.

But me not knowing my moves slowed us down. Charlie told me to improvise, and he would only correct me if where I went didn’t fit with how he had blocked out the scene with the rest of the cast. A couple of times he had to tell me to move downstage or upstage or to the left or to the right, and sometimes he had to come up and walk me through a more complicated move.

It was hard work, and Arthur didn’t exactly speed things up with his many ‘helpful’ interjections, but I could hardly object as I had begged him to coach me. Eventually we managed to get through the whole of the first Act in a little under three hours. It should run an hour and a quarter, and we had had to leave out the action scenes which would be choreographed in more detail later.

We called it a day a little after ten, and Polly and I withdrew to the office where she helped me out of my dress and shapewear, and removed my wig.

“I’d better look after this,” she said. “It shouldn’t be packed flat in your case. I’ll bring it back for every rehearsal I can get to – at least until your people get the dresses to us. Then I think all us seamstresses will be working flat out.”

“Yes, I’ll check on their progress tomorrow morning,” I said, taking the gentle hint. “But now I need to go and learn some more lines.”

I put on Nick’s clothes and packed Sarah’s away in the suitcase. Strangely, I was sad to see her disappear. I was already looking forward to becoming her again tomorrow night, when we would do the same for Act Two.

* * *

It was just before nine. I’d tried to get in early, not wanting to give Ruth the opportunity to be rude about my time-keeping again, but I’d been learning lines till one o’clock in the morning, and I struggled to get up any earlier.

“Well, if it isn’t Dame Sarah,” she said, when I got into the office the following morning. “Show us your knickers, love!” she called in a raucous Northern accent.

“They don’t say that in Pantos,” I said primly. “Such language isn’t suitable for kids.”

She snorted. She clearly still resented Eddy and I excluding her from what she thought would have been a fun evening, and her sense of humour still hadn’t rebooted. We couldn’t work together like this. It didn’t seem fair, but I would have to apologise. Now might be the best opportunity as Vicky wasn’t in yet.

“Look I’m sorry I didn’t invite you to the Club for Open Mic Night,” I began. No need for her to know there had been several Open Mic Nights. “But I had a good reason.”

“Oh?” Snort.

“Yes. It started on my brother’s Stag do,” I blundered on. “You and I hadn’t even met then. We all did stand-up on a Club Open Mic Night, and the manager suggested I had another go. I agreed but I thought I’d probably be crap, and I didn’t want anybody to see that, except Tom and Josie.”

“What about Eddy?”

“Well he knew about it because he’d started hanging out with us at the Club by then.”

“And you turned out to be good enough for Charlie to invite you to take over as Dame?”

“Er, yes.”

“Why didn’t he ask any of the other amateur comics at the Club?”

“Maybe he did. He never said I was his first choice.”

This was getting to be kind of fun. Maybe I could have a go at improv?

“But why would he think you’d be any good in drag?” Ruth said, apparently still unconvinced.

“Dunno, but a panto dame isn’t a drag queen. Anyway people say I’m a little… androgynous.”

She stared at me closely.

“Yeah, I can see that. That’s why Eddy wanted to hang out with you, of course.”

“What? You mean he thought I was gay?”

“Yes, and that’s why you haven’t seen as much of him socially since he found out you weren’t. And why you’ve seen more of me… as it were.”

“OK, well how about dinner tonight, to celebrate us being friends again?” Was that a smile? “Oh wait, I can’t. I’ve got a rehearsal – and lines to learn.”

The smile vanished, if it had ever been there.

“Rain check?” I asked hopefully.

“Until after the Panto, you mean?” she said scornfully. “I don’t think so, posh boy. Or maybe I should start calling you ‘posh girl’ considering how you’re spending your time off now.”

“Please don’t.”

“I think I’ll ask Charlie if I can come and watch one of your rehearsals…”

Christ, no!

“Anyway, I’ve already explained why you and I can’t be seen out together. It would be bound to get back to Eddy’s parents and then we’d be in big trouble.”

“Well, let’s hope MyOwnCouture.com takes off soon and you can be independent. Talking of which, how are the Dame dresses coming?”

“Good question,” she said, reverting to her business-like self. “Vicky and I have finished all the programming. Let’s go down to the cowshed and see how they’re getting on with setting up the fabrication.”

When we got down there, Eddy was lying underneath one of the cutting machines grunting, and Mike was tapping away at the control console. He waved when he saw us.

“Eddy thinks he’s found the alignment fault. These are old second-hand machines, as you know, and one of the bolts that holds the platen to the table had worked loose. That may have been all it was. He’s tightening it now. Then we’re going to try making your first day dress.”

He turned back to the console monitor.

“The suppliers delivered all the material late yesterday afternoon,” Ruth said, “and we did all the dyeing we needed to do last night. The cloth should be dry by now.”

“We’ll do one run with our cheap test material,” said Mike, “but we won’t know whether it’s working properly until we try it with the real fabric. This scrap stuff we use for testing has a completely different thickness and weave.”

The grunting stopped and Eddy emerged, looking a little greasy and dishevelled.

“OK, Mike, try it now.” He saw us and called, “Hey, you two – great timing! You’re about to see us make our first successful garment.”

He made his way to the washbasin in the little kitchenette we’d installed and started scrubbing his hands and arms with industrial cleanser. He usually had to do this several times a day as oily machines and fine ladies’ frocks don’t mix.

“He’s been saying that all week,” Ruth said dubiously.

But Eddy was right this time, at least for the cutting process. The design of the dress was fairly simple but still required three pieces to be cut. As each piece came off, he gave it a cursory inspection then transferred it to the fabrication machine which would stitch the pieces together according to the pattern.

“This is the tough part,” he explained. “I put each piece on this plate here and Mike enters its ID number. The machine then ‘knows’ where it should go and how to stitch it to the other pieces. In this test run we’re using just one cheap fabric, but we could use several different materials. We’ll have to do that for you, ‘cause Pantomime Dame dresses are always bright colours and bizarre patterns.”

“Don’t you have to put each piece on the platen in a particular position?” I asked.

“No,” Ruth explained, “you only have to get it roughly right. The software running the machine knows the shape of the piece and how to align it on the fabrication bed for stitching to the other pieces. This is how we’ll make the more complicated dresses which use several fabrics in different colours and patterns.”

When Mike entered the ID number of each piece, the machine hummed and a roller started up and moved the cloth into position. When all three pieces had been added, everyone crossed their fingers and Mike pressed the ‘Go’ button. Immediately two robot arms swung around. Each one grasped a piece of cloth and held it in position in two places along its length. The arms moved together, then a third arm with an attachment that looked like a sewing machine dropped down and started stitching. The whole thing was blindingly fast.

“Wow!” I said. “It’s quick.”

“Yes,” Ruth agreed. “You can see why we need to get some sort of conveyor belt to move the cut pieces from the cutter to the fabricator. As it is, the human interaction there slows the process right down. If we could automate the interface, we could speed everything up dramatically. The operator would only be needed to monitor the process and throw the stop switch if something goes wrong. We should be able to make literally hundreds of dresses a day – all computer-controlled, and with no limit on the number or variety of designs.”

This was why I wanted to invest in MyOwnCouture.com. Ruth and Eddy had real vision. They could make a fortune with this…

“Here you are, Dame Sarah,” said Eddy, thrusting the test dress in my arms, a stupid grin all over his face.

“Gosh, my first dress!” I smiled.

“But not your last,” Ruth chuckled, examining the garment closely. “It’s perfect, Eddy, not a flaw anywhere. Let’s do the real thing now. Then Nick can take it over to Polly.”

“Wouldn’t you like to try it on?” said Eddy. There was a little sparkle in his eye.

“Not much point really,” I said, “not without all my padding.”

Eddy looked a little disappointed. He and Mike went over to their stock room to get the bolts of cloth they would need for Sarah’s first day dress.

“What a relief!” Ruth said after they’d gone.

She displayed one of her rare smiles. It lit up her entire face. She went from being merely beautiful in an austere way, like a marble statue, to seriously attractive.

“We’ve actually had a handful of other enquiries come in via the website,” she went on, interrupting my train of thought (and just as well too), “but we’ve got to prioritise your dresses because of the tight deadline. We really needed Eddy and Mike to crack this so we can get on with serving new customers.”

* * *

The team worked solidly through the day and by mid-afternoon had finished four dresses to the basic pattern – my first and second Act day dresses, and two kitchen outfits. I would take those over to Polly before going on to today’s rehearsal.

“So that’s all the simple stuff done,” said Ruth.

The team were celebrating. We were enjoying a special afternoon tea of sticky buns and sparkling wine – my treat.

“So we have your nightdress and ballgown still to do,” Ruth continued. “We can adapt our mermaid dress for the gown, but we need a decision regarding the nightie.”

“What decision?”

“If you remember, I suggested you might go with a baby doll – funny and sexy.”

“Arthur won’t like it,” I said. I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to parade in front of hundreds of people in such a feminine garment. “And I really don’t want to have to shave my legs.”

“But Charlie is the director, and he sounded all in favour, and Polly will provide you with long bloomers or directoires knickers, won’t she? You won’t have to get rid of any body hair, except maybe below the knees.” She grinned wickedly. “Though it wouldn’t do you any harm to get your legs waxed and see what real women have to put up with.”

“Hard pass on that one.”

“Of course, if you’re wearing a baby doll nightie, you’ll probably need a negligée as well. Ask Polly if she has a suitable one, because we’ll have to choose the colour and fabric for the baby doll to match it.”

It seemed as though the decision had been taken regarding my nightie.

* * *

As it happened, today’s rehearsal was to start early as the primary school children were coming in straight from school to rehearse the rats’ scenes. They were doing the Act One town square scene first, then the climactic scene in the Sultan’s palace where Tommy kills King Rat. The bedroom scene only involved the Alderman, Idle Jack and me. It was fairly simple, so Charlie decided to leave that till last. That way if they ran out of time and the kids had to go home, we could work on one of my other scenes.

As I wasn’t in the Town Square scene I didn’t have to be there early. So I called Polly and told her I would come over with the four dresses we had made that day. She was delighted but insisted on checking them before mobilising her team of seamstresses to add all the accessories. I therefore had to put on my shapewear in her back room again and get ready for more costume fittings. The fit was perfect and Polly was very pleased.

“As long as the other two are as good as these, you can tell Ruth that we’ll come to her for all our costumes from now on,” she said. “LADS do four shows a year at the Victoria Little Theatre, one for each season, plus an open-air Shakespeare in the Palace Gardens. They won’t all require anything as elaborate as the Panto, but we often do period dramas and our choices are constrained by the cost and time required for making costumes. If your company can make the basic clothes this quickly, that will expand our range.”

“That’s fantastic,” I said. “Ruth also mentioned that she wanted to talk about the possibility of the ladies in your team working with us on the more elaborate dresses we sell. You know, the accessories and frilly bits – pardon my technical jargon – that we can’t make with our machines.”

“I’ll ask the girls next time we’re all together. Some of them might well be interested.”

“Oh, and she wanted me to ask you about the nightdress…”

Polly thought the Dame in a baby doll would be an absolute hoot and quickly dismissed any objections Arthur might raise.

“I’ve got a negligée that he wore in Panto a couple of years ago,” she said happily. “If Ruth can make a shortie nightie to match it, that would be wonderful. I’ve got a nice pair of lacy bloomers you can wear under it to keep you decent, but they only come down to the knees, so we’ll have to shave your legs. I’ll do it for you, if you like. It’s not as easy as you might expect. You’ll probably cut yourself several times if you try.”

* * *

Still in my rehearsal outfit of shapewear and an old dress, I helped Polly get Arthur’s wheelchair into the van and we all went on to the rehearsal together. Arthur made his usual interjections but on the whole it quite well. The children were getting tired by the time we got to the bedroom scene, but they loved acting with a man in a dress and they seemed to wake up. The highlight was me standing up on the bed, screaming, with my dress up around my waist, my underwear on full view, while the little rats ran around me squealing.

Afterwards, I grabbed a quick word with Charlie.

“Ruth wants to know if she can come along to watch a rehearsal…”

“Sure, why not?” he said. “We encourage people to get involved with LADS. That’s how we keep the membership fresh and growing.”

“I told her you wouldn’t allow it.”

“You mean you fancy her rotten and you don’t want her to see you pretending to be a comic middle-aged woman?”

“No, no, it’s not that…” I protested, astonished at Charlie’s sharp insight.

“OK, Nick, I’ll be the bad guy for you,” he laughed. “Tell her that it’s a strict LADS policy not to allow members of the public to see us in rehearsal. She’ll just have to buy a ticket like everyone else. She’ll see you being Sarah eventually anyway though, won’t she?”

“But by then I might actually be good at it, and I won’t feel such a fool.”

* * *

The rest of the week saw more rehearsals, more lines learning, and more costume fittings – still behind closed doors; I never let anyone at MyOwnCouture.com see me en femme.

On Saturday we prepared to do the publicity shots in full dress and make-up. I was terrified of being seen out in public in full Sarah mode, not to mention being photographed and my picture appearing in the local press. But I had made my bed and was now going to have to lie in it. The only way to escape total humiliation was to be a very, very good Dame. As Polly had said, I would have to embrace it and not let anyone see I was afraid of making a fool of myself.

I had to be at the theatre an hour before everyone else so Polly could put together a suitable costume and do my wig and make-up. Her team hadn’t finished with the accessories for any of the dresses we had produced, so I would have to wear an old dress of Arthur’s. She had brought several along to try, so I struggled into my shapewear and we tried each one. Eventually she chose a gaudy yellow bell-shaped dress with diamond cross-hatching in red and orange tones. It had a lace-up bodice which Polly tightened as much as she could. This pushed my bust up dramatically to form a great round shelf almost under my chin.

The dress came down to mid-calf and I wore a pair of red and yellow striped tights underneath it. At least I wouldn’t get too cold standing around outside in the bright November afternoon sun. By now I was used to my high heels and my big padded bra, not to mention the feminine stance and mannerisms that went with them.

I wore a curly blonde wig which Polly had styled into pigtails wrapped around lengths of stiff wire, so that they stuck out at silly angles. She crammed a ridiculous yellow chef’s hat down on top of it all to indicate that Sarah was the Cook. The impression was reinforced by a big lacy pinny. With the over-the-top make-up she had developed that first afternoon I realised, to my relief, that I would be unrecognisable as Nick Rawlinson.

The photo shoot took over an hour, during which time we were all standing around outside the theatre, smiling and waving at passers-by. I had to be in most of the photos, so I didn’t have the chance to get too cold. Inevitably, Charlie selected one of me with Dick and Idle Jack for the posters which would appear all over town.

* * *

Early the following week MyOwnCouture.com delivered my ballgown and my baby doll nightie, which was ridiculously revealing.

“I can’t wait to see you in that, posh girlie,” she said. “We’ve got our tickets for the Friday night. I think I’ll ask Polly if I can have it back afterwards. Then you can wear it just for me in the privacy of my bedroom.”

“You’re weird,” I said. “You do realise it’s just a part in a play, don’t you? It’s all make-believe.”

“I don’t think I’m the only one who’s weird. Anyway, that’ll be the only way you’ll get in my bedroom again.”

* * *

Polly’s team finished their work on my costumes in plenty of time. The basic dresses were now much more elaborate, with aprons and bodices and frills everywhere. They also provided petticoats and crinolines, stockings and knickers. Just trying on my outfits and learning to move in them was becoming a full-time job.

The baby doll nightie with matching negligée and bloomers was utterly outrageous. I would have another wig with curlers in it and a sleeping bonnet on top. The whole outfit was completely over-the-top and I fully expected gasps of astonishment and howls of laughter when I appeared in it. Oh well, that’s Panto.

* * *

And as the hectic rehearsal period continued, and opening night drew inexorably closer, a strange thing happened. Sarah started to come alive in me. At times she seemed to take me over completely. My movements around the stage became more feminine. When I was at home or in the office, and wearing my usual clothes, I found myself sweeping my non-existent skirt under me as I sat down. My speech patterns, based on Sarah’s lines which I now knew by heart, were those of a middle-aged woman. I was becoming a method actor.

The MyOwnCouture.com team must have noticed me walking funny and several times I only just stopped myself calling someone ‘Dearie’ or ‘Sweetie’. I definitely did call out ‘Hello, boys and girls’ as I went into the cowshed one morning. Eddy and Mike looked at me nervously, but we all laughed it off. If Ruth had been there, she would never have let me hear the end of it.

More worryingly, I found I now had Sarah’s entire life story in my head, updated to the 21st century. I ‘remembered’ being a little girl in a poor family; leaving school at fifteen and working in a bakery; marrying young and having two sons who joined the navy, and whom I never saw; and becoming a widow in my early forties.

None of this was anywhere in the script, and it was obviously silly to imagine a back story for such a grotesque comic creation, but it helped me to ‘find’ the character on stage, and even if it was a comedy role it would make my performance ‘truthful’. Charlie complimented me on how well I was doing and even Arthur mumbled a few guarded words of praise.

But what would become of me – the Sarah me – when this was all over?