Mrs Bennet and the Body in the Library

By Susannah Donim

Mike, now a forty-year-old mother of five, starts to inhabit his new role.

Chapter Four – The Leading Lady

We stayed in costume for the rest of the morning. We used one of our hosts’ larger rooms as an impromptu rehearsal studio, running through our lines and moves. By now we were all familiar with the stage set that would represent the Longbourn family room, so we arranged the available tables and chairs as best we could to match the layout. Jack, Derek and Douglas did most of the heavy lifting. I tried to help but my corset, petticoat and skirts made me useless at moving furniture.

“Sit down, Mama!” Holly said scathingly. “We ladies must leave the heavy lifting to the gentlemen. In any case you can’t lift a sideboard at your age.”

“And figure,” added Sam, with a chortle.

“That’s not funny,” I said, reprovingly.

“What?” asked Holly, a picture of innocence. “I’m just trying to help you get in character.”

“Absolutely,” said Sam. “Roll with it, Mama.”

I wondered if their teasing would ever end, but Holly had been quite right about one thing: it was much easier to move convincingly as Mrs Bennet when fully dressed as a middle-aged woman of the 1800s. In fact, in a corset and long flowing skirts it was next to impossible not to.

As Mike, I was an active twenty-year-old. I played squash and ran the occasional (OK, very occasional) half-marathon. As Mrs Bennet, I was trussed up so I could hardly move; I couldn’t see anything below eye level because of my huge bosom; and I was sweeping small objects off tables as I passed, misjudging the extra space required for my skirts and enormous backside. Even sitting down was problematic. My big padded buttocks meant I was never absolutely sure when I had made contact with a seat, and I couldn’t afford to lower myself into a comfy armchair, because I knew I would never be able to get up again without help.

Unfortunately, I had to be very active in our scene. One moment I’m scolding Mr Bennet for not calling on our new neighbours at Netherfield; the next I have to turn round suddenly to admonish Kitty and Lydia for fighting over the bonnet. Every time I turned, I bumped into something or knocked something over. All this action, and being limited to breathing at the top of my lungs, was leaving me short of breath in my confounded corset. Also, my bosom was heaving like crazy and attracting attention, particularly that of the male members of the cast.

“For heaven’s sake, Mama,” said Holly, when I had banged into the dining table for the third time, “can’t you watch where you’re going?”

“I don’t see why we have to do this thing in authentic costumes,” I panted. “It’s only supposed to be half an hour all told! Why not modern dress?”

“MacNair says the clothes convey important information about the characters;” said Amy, “age, social class, profession, and of course, sex. I don’t think your usual scruffy T-shirt and jeans would convince anyone you were Mrs Bennet, Mike.”

“‘Course you could always borrow some of my mother’s things, sweetie,” said Holly. “I can see you in a nice housedress and cardy.”

* * *

We ran through the first scene several times. Jack wasn’t too fussy when people forgot their lines. (He wasn’t word perfect himself.) He was more concerned, quite rightly, with our moves: Mr Bennet wandering around with his nose in a book, trying to escape his wife’s nagging; Mrs Bennet following behind him, tugging on his coat to get his attention; Kitty chasing her mother, demanding she order Lydia to return her bonnet; and Lydia prancing around triumphantly in the said bonnet, checking herself out in various imaginary mirrors. Amy as Hill the maid had no lines, but she had to chase frantically after Kitty, Lydia and me, waiting for instructions from anyone, and fully expecting to be blamed for all the chaos. The scene was hectic and should be funny if we could get the timing right. We weren’t quite there yet.

I wasn’t in the second and third scenes at all, so I spent quite a lot of the morning revising for exams. When I got bored with that, I watched the others, especially Holly who was in everything.

The next scene was my first sight of the second group’s work, Lizzy’s trip to Netherfield to look after her sick sister, Jane. Here the two awful women, Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst, try to demean her, but she is too clever for them. This impresses the normally aloof Darcy. The team’s adaptation concluded with his awkward proposal from further on in the book, and Lizzy’s incredulous rejection of him.

Holly was very good, and thoroughly deserved her leading role. She reminded me of Jennifer Ehle, by far the best Elizabeth in all the adaptations we watched together. Pity Derek wasn’t a patch on Colin Firth.

MacNair’s brief for the third group’s work was to include Lady Catherine’s visit to demand that Lizzy doesn’t marry Darcy, followed by his renewal of his proposal and her acceptance. The core team was therefore Holly, Derek and Amy, who had now taken off her dull maid uniform and become Lady Catherine. In addition to donning a sumptuous and expensive-looking gown, she had replaced the utilitarian maid’s cap, which completely covered her own hair, with a bright red wig in absurd ringlets and an extravagant lace headdress.

Recognising that Holly had a lot to do as Elizabeth, the others had elected Amy to be Director and Derek to be Script Editor.

Amy’s Lady Catherine was a triumph. She captured the arrogance and unpleasantness of the old monster’s personality. She had found a walking stick from somewhere and hobbled about most convincingly, pounding the floor with the stick for emphasis. Her scene with Holly had us all cheering.

She then withdrew to the sidelines so that Holly and Derek could perform the last piece: the afternoon walk on which Darcy and Elizabeth were fully reconciled. It was, thanks to Miss Austen, a very moving scene, and our two leads made a very good fist of it – until Derek leaned in to embrace my girlfriend.

“No kissing!” I yelled from the cheap seats before I could stop myself.

Holly and Derek stopped guiltily at the sight of the angry matron leaping to her feet.

“Hang on, Mama!” said Holly angrily. “You’re not our Director.”

“No, but I am,” said Amy, “and she’s – he’s – quite right. There’s no way Lizzie and Darcy would have kissed in public. In fact, they might not actually kiss till their wedding night!”

* * *

Despite that little public spat between us, Holly was in a good mood again that evening and gave our bedtime manoeuvres her all. Afterwards, when we were lying happily in each other’s arms enjoying the afterglow, she murmured, “I quite liked what you did today, actually.”

“What? What did I do?”

“When you stopped Derek from kissing me. I like you asserting your rights.”

“Oh, I thought you meant something I did as Mrs Bennet.”

“Well, you were dressed as Mrs Bennet at the time, so it was like my mother and my boyfriend both together stopping another man from taking advantage of me.”

“I was afraid you might get to like it if I let him.”

“Derek? He’s alright, but he doesn’t make me laugh the way you do.”

“Well, you didn’t seem to be trying to stop him.”

“I was in character. I didn’t think Lizzie would have rebuffed Darcy.” I must have looked sceptical. “It was acting! Honestly.”

“OK, then,” I said, more or less convinced.

“It was still a bit like being told off by mother though,” she said with a grin.

I snorted.

“She’s a size 16 too, you know,” she said, mischievously. “You actually could wear her dresses.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

“We should have taken your measurements while you were in costume.”

“Sheila did that. The padding made me 38DD-33-40, she said.”

“That’s almost exactly my mother’s figure!”

“Right,” I said. “Well, thanks for the warning.”

“What warning?”

“In middle age most women take after their mothers, figure-wise…”

“Where did you hear that?” she said, angrily. “It’s not true!”

“So when you’re forty, and have had our five kids, I’ll be married to a right porker…”

She punched me on the arm. I pretended it hurt.

“My Mum’s not a porker! Anyway, I don’t know what on earth makes you think I’d marry you, you creep!” she said.

“Well, there’s the sex, for one thing…”

“Oh yeah, right... Are you up for going again?”

* * *

The next week and a half belonged to our summer exams, so work on the end-of-term show was suspended. I’d thoroughly enjoyed the course and found the exams mostly plain sailing, and I seemed to spend most of my revision time helping Holly. For me, the far tougher challenge would be the following weekend.

Finally, on the Friday before the show, and with exams happily (or unhappily) behind us, we all trooped into the Little Theatre for the Dress Rehearsals. Fortunately, there was no other show on that week, so we University Drama Course students would have the premises to ourselves all day.

The offerings from the other three courses were before us on the stage. We were scheduled to start at four o’clock in the afternoon, though we were required to report no later than two. We were on last because our costumes and makeup were the most elaborate. The ‘Performing Shakespeare’ lot, who were on immediately before us, were in modern dress (naturally). Also our Regency Drawing Room was the most complicated set, and the crew wanted to put it up and strike it as few times as possible. It would stay on stage overnight, so we would be first on for the Saturday afternoon matinee, and last for the evening performance, after a late interval.

The first person I saw when Holly and I entered through the Stage Door at five past two was Sheila.

“Come along you two,” she said, “you’re late.”

She led us through the rabbit warren of dressing rooms beneath the theatre until we reached a door with a star on it.

“You’re in here, Mike,” she said, “on your own again, for obvious reasons. You’re at the end of the corridor, dear,” she said to Holly, “with the other girls.”

I half expected Holly to grumble at being in a communal dressing room – after all, she was the real ‘leading lady’ – but she just grinned.

“Make the most of the star dressing room, Mike,” she said. “It’ll probably never happen again!”

“I’ve reserved this room for you today and tomorrow, Mike,” Sheila said. “None of the other groups have complicated makeup or costumes, so they don’t need as much privacy or space.”

We went in. Another lady was already there, fussing with a wig on a styrofoam stand. She was wearing a maroon polyester smock over dark leggings. She looked up and smiled.

“This is Esther,” Sheila said. “She’ll be doing your hair and makeup.”

“Hello, Mike,” Esther said. “You’re very brave doing this. Aren’t you afraid all your friends will make fun of you?”

“That’s already happening,” I said ruefully. “I’m just hoping they’ll start to be a bit more professional about it soon. And I’m not brave at all. It wasn’t my choice. I was pressured into it.”

“In my opinion, the best thing you can do is jump in with both feet,” said Sheila. “Be the best Mrs Bennet you can be. Show them you’re a real professional, even if they’re not.”

It was good advice, I realised. I wanted people to laugh with me, not at me.

Esther nodded vigorously. “That’s right,” she said. “You want to be so good, everyone will be admiring your performance and knowing they couldn’t do as well themselves.”

“OK,” said Sheila brightly. “Take your top off first and Esther will give you a really close shave. I’ll help you with your underwear and petticoat. Then Esther will do your wig and makeup, and finally we’ll get you into your dress.”

She went over to a table against the wall. She started unpacking my costume from two large garment bags. I stripped to the waist and hung my jacket and shirt in a cupboard by the door. Then I sat down in a hairdresser’s chair in front of one of those mirrors with frosted light bulbs all the way round.

Esther was vigorously scraping a cutthroat razor on an abrasive leather strop. I had never had a shave with such a lethal instrument before and I fervently hoped she knew what she was doing. She saw me watching her.

“Don’t worry,” she said with a smile. “I have a steady hand.”

And she did, manoeuvring the razor around my Adam’s apple and following the contours of my face perfectly. She also removed my sideburns. When she’d finished I couldn’t believe how smooth my face and neck were. There wasn’t the faintest sign of stubble, let alone whiskers. I clearly needed a new electric razor.

“You’ll have to wear a wig cap to get your own hair as flat as possible so that the wig isn’t all lumpy,” Esther said, picking something up from her table. “This is a mesh cap. It’s good for long hair like yours.”

It was just like a hairnet and I must have looked dubious as she went on to explain, “It also prevents the wig from slipping, because of friction between the outer surface of the cap and the inside layer of the wig. That means we don’t have to use grippers or adhesives to secure it. Also a mesh cap aerates the scalp, so you don’t get a rash if you have to wear it for prolonged periods.”

“Well, OK,” I said, “but I obviously won’t have to wear it for long. “I’ll be putting it on just before going on stage for a quarter of an hour, then taking it off again. And I only have to do the whole thing twice…”

Sheila cleared her throat. “Actually, that might not be quite right,” she said.

“What? Why?”

“Well, I suppose we can get you out of your dress and petticoat, maybe even your corset, between the two performances, but you can’t expect Esther to remove all your makeup after the afternoon matinee and then redo it all again for the evening show.”

“She’s right. I’m sorry, dear,” said Esther. “I have to go on to another theatre tomorrow after doing your face and hair. I’ll start work on you at one o’clock. Your group is on last for the evening performance, so I’ll be back to touch it up at – what? – about half past eight, and I’ll turn you back into Mike after the show, but I can’t afford to stay here for seven hours, doing nothing.”

“And the same goes for me,” added Sheila. “Esther and I are both part-time and freelance, so we have to go wherever – and whenever – we can get work, and Saturday is our busiest day. So I’m afraid you’ll look like Mrs Bennet all day tomorrow, “no matter how you’re dressed.”

I slumped back in the chair. I’d been expecting to go back to the flat between shows and maybe take Holly out for an early dinner…

“I might as well put your wig cap on now,” said Esther. “Then I can see if I need to tidy up any extraneous hairs round your neck.”

The wig cap was nylon mesh, shaped like an old-fashioned ladies’ swimming cap, except that it stopped at the hairline. It fit very tightly over my own hair. Esther pulled and tweaked it until she was satisfied with its position, then tucked in a few wisps of hair that had been protruding.

That done, she handed me over to Sheila, who was holding the dreaded body-shaper ready for me. I turned away from the ladies before stripping off my remaining clothes.

Sheila handed me the heavily-padded garment, ostentatiously avoiding looking at my nakedness.

“You have nothing to be modest about, by the way,” she said with a grin.

Esther laughed. Sheila realised that what she had said could be misinterpreted.

“No, no, when I say ‘nothing’, I don’t mean… Oh, you know what I mean!”

“I’ll take it as a compliment,” I said, stepping into the ‘body’, “albeit a cack-handed one.”

She helped me pull it up and adjusted the shoulder straps. I felt Mrs Bennet’s curves weighing me down again. I went to stuff my own clothes and my rucksack in the cupboard.

“OK, stockings and slippers,” Sheila said.

I was well prepared now for the challenges of donning hose when my bust prevented me from seeing my legs or feet, and I managed it with relative ease.

“Corset next,” Sheila said.

I groaned inwardly but stood uncomplaining while she applied the instrument of torture and tightened the laces.

“You’ve got him well-trained, love,” said Esther. “I would have expected more of a fuss.”

“Oh, we got all that over with last week,” said Sheila. “Mike’s a professional. He knows he has to suffer for his art.”

She tied off the laces and I had to get used to taking shallow breaths again.

“Ok, petal - petticoat,” she said with a grin, “then he’s all yours again, Esther.”

While Sheila made fine adjustments to my body shaper, corset and petticoat, Esther had been laying out her cosmetics on a side table.

I sat down, sweeping my skirts beneath me – from habit now. I noticed that I was higher in the chair than before, thanks to my well-upholstered behind, which was further emphasised by the corset pulling in my waist.

“You have really good skin for a man, sweetie,” Esther began, “so my first job is to make it look twenty years older. Also your face is too thin. You need a substantial double chin to match your overall plumpness.”

My professional curiosity was aroused. She saw I was interested and explained.

“This is liquid latex,” she said, showing me a little bottle. “I dab it on those areas where your skin wrinkles up. Then I get you to smile and squint and so on. The latex creases along the natural lines of your face and sets. Your young skin soon straightens out again underneath but the latex stays wrinkled. We’ll give you lines in your forehead; crows’ feet and bags under your eyes; and ‘laugh lines’ in your cheeks and round your mouth. I’ll also plump up your cheeks and spread more latex thickly across your neck. It will cover up your Adam’s apple and give you a nice wrinkly double chin.”

It took her more than half an hour to do all that. Then she applied a fixative and painted the white latex and all of my own skin the same colour, slightly redder than normal to reflect my advanced age. Finally she highlighted the lines with a darker colour. I watched, fascinated. The latex wrinkles were amazingly realistic. The result was that my face looked, as she promised, twenty years older and several pounds fatter. It also looked much more feminine.

“A little ordinary makeup to finish with,” said Esther. “Fortunately, in the Regency period women didn’t wear much – the French Revolution did away with all the heavy white paint, and beauty spots of the Georgian period. They really only wore a little rouge, more delicately applied. So I think we’ll just give you some modern eyeshadow, mascara and lipstick, to emphasise femininity, not to recreate any period look. OK?”

“You’re the expert,” I said. “Go ahead; emphasise my femininity.”

She laughed. “Good to see you taking it so well,” she said. “It will have to be a little brighter and bolder than a lady would wear for an evening date. This is for the stage, after all. There are footlights. We can’t have Mrs Bennet looking all washed out.”

When she’d finished, my first thoughts were that I now looked like an older lady who was trying too hard to look young, but as Esther said, stage makeup has to be exaggerated. Besides what difference could it make? I was already completely unrecognisable. I was aware that Sheila had stepped up to put the little crucifix round my neck. She also gave me my rings to put on.

“Just your hair to do now,” Esther said, reaching for the wig stand at the back of the side table.

The wig was medium length and all fussy ringlets, chestnut brown with more than an occasional hint of grey. Someone had mentioned that Regency ladies didn’t believe in dyeing their hair. Sometimes the aristocracy and the wealthy still wore wigs on formal occasions.

“Can you grip the front and hold it in place over your forehead, please?” Esther said. “I’ll pull it down at the back.”

She stretched and tugged at the wig until she was satisfied that it was in position. She tried jiggling it but as she had promised, it wouldn’t slide over the wig cap, which was tight on my head. So the combination kept my new feminine head of hair securely in place.

“Can you just shake your head a little, sweetie?” I did so. “You didn’t feel it moving, did you?”

“No, it seems to be fine.”

“Well, I still have to brush and spray it. That will be the acid test.”

“This seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to for a fifteen-minute scene,” I said, while Esther was primping up my hairdo.

“You’re a drama student, right?” said Sheila. I didn’t point out that I only wanted to study English; the Drama option was all Holly’s idea. “So think of it as part of your education. You now know a lot more about what goes on behind the scenes to prepare actors for the stage.”

She was right actually. This was first-hand experience of the wonders of theatrical transformation by makeup, wigs, generous padding, and exquisite costumes. It had been very interesting, and the lesson was all the more effective from having had it done to me, rather than watching it happening to somebody else.

When Esther finished her brushing and spraying, Sheila put my shawl around my shoulders and gave me my lacy gloves. Then she tied my little cap on me and fastened its ribbon under my chin.

“Lift your head up, pet,” she said, “I need to check your neck. There’s no sign of his Adam’s apple under that latex double chin. Nice one, Esther!”

There was a knock at the door. Holly came straight in without waiting for an answer. She’d often seen me naked, so why did I suddenly feel bashful when fully dressed? She was already in full costume as Elizabeth Bennet, and stunningly beautiful.

“I couldn’t wait any longer to see how my Mama is turning out,” she said.

I swivelled round in the chair, curious to see her reaction. It didn’t disappoint.

“My God!” she exclaimed. “You’re so wrinkly and wizened! And I love your hair! You’re perfect!” Suddenly a doubtful look appeared on her face. “Are you really in there somewhere, Mike?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

I spoke in my butchest voice, to confirm my identity to myself as much as to her. I stood up, again very conscious of my additional weight, wobbly breasts and buttocks, and my petticoat and dress. I glanced at myself in the mirror. The last vestiges of Mike Bradshaw had completely disappeared; only Mrs Bennet remained. I was even standing like a middle-aged woman, my hands clasped together and tucked under my bust. The stance had been instinctive.

This was starting to worry me. What did it say about me that a wig, makeup, and a body-shaper were all that was needed to make me a completely convincing woman? And how could Holly possibly see me as her man after all this?

I could feel Sheila and Esther grinning. Fair enough; they had a right to be proud of their achievement.

“You should carry a reticule, Mrs Bennet,” said Sheila, passing me a little bag. “You have no pockets in your dress. You’ll need this to carry your kerchief, lipstick, a little mirror, a hairbrush…”

“…your mobile phone,” added Esther, with a smile.

The reticule was a small pouch with a drawstring. It looked like it was made of some modern artificial fibre made to resemble silk or muslin.

“You can hang it from your shoulder or wrist,” added Sheila.

“Hold that pose, Mama!” Holly called. She was snapping away with her Smartphone camera. “Come on,” she said, “let’s go and show the others!”

She grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the door.

“Gently, gently, dear,” I objected. “Mama can’t run like you young people.”

Well, I couldn’t. Not with my chunky figure, and my petticoats, and my dress, and not being able to see my feet, or where I was putting them…

* * *

The Green Room, where the actors wait for their cue to go on (so that they don’t get in the way of backstage staff), was on the same level as the stage. Holly had dragged me up the stairs from the dressing rooms. Carrying all my extra weight, my lungs crushed in my corset, I was quite out of breath now.

All eyes turned to me as we entered the Green Room. There were gasps and laughs and one or two half-hearted attempts at clapping. Most rushed to offer their congratulations, even though I had done nothing to deserve them.

“Thank you, everyone,” I said. “But I can’t believe I look so old!” I added, mournfully.

Holly chuckled. It was alright for her. She was gorgeous as Lizzy.

“You’ll get away with it easily!” said Sam, who unlike me had been made up to look as young as possible – Lydia was supposed to be fifteen. “You’re a totally convincing middle-aged woman. You look just like my Mum!”

“You look older than my Mum,” said Amy.

She could talk! Thanks to one of Esther’s colleagues, she was old too, and dowdy in her maid costume. Presumably her makeup would be pimped up a bit when she became Lady Catherine.

“Now you know what you’ll look like in twenty-five years!” said Hilary. Never the sharpest knife in the box, she reconsidered. “No, wait…”

Jack approached to inspect me more closely. He and Amy were the only other members of the cast who had been subjected to ageing makeup. He now had white hair and long bushy sideburns.

“You’re still a damn handsome woman, m’dear,” he said with a twinkle.

“Oh, Mr Bennet!” I trilled in character, trying to look pleased but embarrassed. A couple of my daughters laughed.

Holly had obtained an advance copy of the programme from somewhere. She thrust it under my nose.

“You should see this,” she said.

In the cast list for our part of the show I read:

Mrs Bennet ………………………… Michelle Bradshaw.

“Dr MacNair’s idea of a joke, I assume,” Holly said. “But it means we can keep your cross-dressing a secret – if everyone agrees?”

She looked around. Everyone was nodding.

But I knew they would all be calling me ‘Michelle’ for the foreseeable future.

Next: Performance on Stage and off