by Phyllis Burton
flat beer
The Buntonian Theatre nestled almost
apologetically, in the centre of the town of Sanderwood. Most of the town’s
larger buildings were built after the war, but the Buntonian first opened its
doors in the year 1899, and looked slightly at odds with the more modern
buildings surrounding it. Nevertheless, the town’s inhabitants loved their
theatre, and looked forward to all the productions which were held there. Every
month, the local repertory company performed plays, ranging from Shakespeare, to
Victorian melodramas, and the most up-to-date plays written by young
writers.
It was two weeks before Christmas on a
bright Tuesday afternoon. The theatre’s staff, the producer and the back-stage
crew were busy making sure that everything was ready for the final rehearsal for
their production of Cinderella. The actors were gradually entering the
auditorium, chattering away and trying to ignore all the hustle and bustle of
the final technical rehearsal.
The intercom system from back-stage,
blared out noisily…
“WOULD ALL PERFORMERS PLEASE GO
UPSTAIRS AND CHECK THAT THEIR COSTUMES ARE WHERE THEY SHOULD BE, AND ANY PROPS
THEY REQUIRE ARE IN THEIR RIGHT PLACE IN THE GREEN ROOM.”
As soon as the intercom
message had finished, Lady Priscilla Prendergast’s haughty aristocratic voice
boomed out over the heads of the assembled cast
‘I want everyone involved in the
opening sequence up on stage now, please, as I have a few things that I want to
say to you, so check on your costumes and props afterwards.’
But nobody moved. They were far too
busy talking to listen to her.
‘Will you please listen to me?’ she said,
desperately fiddling with the microphone. ‘I said that I wanted everyone up
on stage for the opening,’ she repeated stamping her feet in temper.
‘We’ll never get through this rehearsal if you all insist on talking all the
time.’
Most of the stage lights were on, and
the lighting in the auditorium was dim. Lady Priscilla couldn’t see anything
clearly. Her hazel eyes flashed, and she put her hand up to her forehead to
shield them from the unforgiving lights. She was tall, slim and her long
blond-to-grey straight hair, swung around her head wildly as her anger
increased. ‘I won’t tell you again. You have to remember that this is your
final rehearsal, and if your pathetic efforts last night were anything to go by,
you all certainly need it. You won’t get another chance.’ There was no
response to her pleas. ‘All I can say is, that the dress rehearsal last night
was dreadful. Several of you forgot your lines, and as far as some of your
make-up is concerned, you looked like a lot of pasty faced, idiots.’ She
peered out into the gloom. ‘Is the Dame here yet?’
‘Yes,’ a squeaky voice
replied.
‘Well, your wig is totally wrong, so
would you please contact the Wardrobe Mistress, when you have a
moment?’
The assembled cast looked chastened, but continued to
chatter.
‘You have a paying audience tonight, so if you care about what
people think, and I hope that you do, then please come up on the stage now.’
The cast gradually began to move, and Lady Pricilla’s imperious gaze alighted on
one of the few people in the whole theatre, who was not in awe of
her.
Jack Smithers’ eyes twinkled as he
returned her gaze. ‘She’s going about it all wrong,’ he whispered to himself as
he walked slowly up the old wooden steps and on to the stage. ‘Lady
Prendergast?’ he said eyeing her up and down.
She looked at him with distain, and
irritation. ‘Yes, my man? When I said that I wanted everyone on stage, I didn’t
mean you. What do you want, can’t you see that I’m busy. I’m trying to start
this important rehearsal. You should have sorted out any problems you may have
had during the Technical Rehearsal, and NOT now.’
‘I’m not your man and unlikely to be
so, and in my ‘umble opinion, you won’t get any of this lot to do anything if
you shout at ‘em all the time: ask ‘em gentle like,’ he said as he ambled
towards the back of the stage. His old shoes squeaked and squelched as he
reached the ladder which was propped up against a bank of stage lights. ‘These
‘ere lights need some urgent attention before yer re’earsal starts.’
Even as he uttered these
words, one of the lights flickered a few times, before going out. Jack’s clothes
had all seen better days, and some would even say that they needed a good wash
too. His jacket had elbow patches made from different materials, and the baggy
lining hung down at the back. Jack had been “Sparks” at the theatre for 40 long
years and had seen many Producer/Directors come and go. He shook his head,
because he considered her Ladyship to be one of the worst.
‘Well make sure that you do whatever
you have to do, quickly’ she said. ‘I can’t wait any longer, or this production
will not be ready for the first performance this evening.’
Jack coughed and spluttered as he
climbed up the ladder. ‘Alright, alright, I’m doing me best,’ he said. It seemed
that every time he climbed up now, it became more and more difficult. His chest
felt tight and he stood on the top rung for a while to get his breath
back.
By this time, Lady Prendergast’s temper
was turning into a rage. ‘Smithers, I say, Smithers’ she began to shout. ‘Please
hurry up and move this ladder, as the cast are coming on the stage. We can’t
possibly have you cluttering everything up.’
‘Don’t you get all ‘igh and mighty with
me,’ he wheezed, as he looked down at her. ‘I just won’t stand for it, do you
‘ere, and if I don’t do these ‘ere lights, there won’t be no performance
tonight.’
‘Well do hurry up then,’ she retorted.
‘What is this world coming to? I’ve never had so much trouble with the lights
before. It’s just not good enough.’
‘I’m going as fast as I can,’ Jack
replied.
‘Well it’s not fast enough. In fact I’m
not at all satisfied with your work, Smithers. You are too slow
and too old for this job. I’ll be speaking to the management about
you.’
Lady Priscilla Prendergast was wearing
a twin-set with pearls and a tweed skirt. Jack Smithers stared at her and felt
an almost overwhelming urge to tighten the beautiful necklace around her neck
until she squealed. He clenched his gnarled old hands tightly. He wasn’t a
violent man, but he’d had enough. ‘If I don’t leave now,’ he told himself, ‘I
won’t be responsible for me actions.’ Jack climbed slowly back down the ladder,
walked over to his tool box, and closed it with the finality of a pistol shot.
The noise echoed around the theatre.
He smiled at
her.
‘Well, that’s it, yer
Ladyship. If I’m not good enough, or I’m too old for yer, just see ‘ow you get
on without me. Bye,’ he said giving her a wave as he walked down the steps and
limped slowly towards the door.
Lady Priscilla looked as if she was
about to explode, and then panic began to set in. ‘But you can’t leave
now,’ she shouted ‘What will we do. I… I…?’ For the first time in her
life, she was lost for words.
Jack Smithers doffed his cap, picked up
his tool-box, and sauntered out of the hall. He felt triumphant. For once in her
sheltered and privileged life, someone had stood up to Lady Priscilla Prendergast and had won!
He smiled. He’d had enough. Peace and
retirement beckoned to him as he walked out into the brilliant
sunshine.
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