Stage Mum (2 page)

Five days later when we hadn’t heard anything, I emailed Jo just to make sure the form hadn’t gone AWOL. There was, she replied, a letter in the post, and auditions would be the following Wednesday. That would be the first day of the summer term. Dora attends one of the local state schools, headed by the formidable but twinkly Mrs Kendall. It’s a great school, happily diverse, within which the children are encouraged – pushed even – to work hard and to have high aspirations. The uniform is purple, popular with the girls (and may partly explain why, in Dora’s class, they outnumber the boys two to one). Mrs Kendall strongly disapproves of children missing school for any reason not involving a communicable disease, so I had to summon all my courage to phone the office and seek permission for Dora to skive off for her audition. Permission was granted much more readily than I expected. Surprisingly, Mrs Kendall actually seemed excited at the prospect.

We arrived at the Urdang Academy in Covent Garden half an hour before our appointed time, climbed several flights of stairs and, after a quick loo visit, edged our way into a hot, stuffy studio-type room with scuffed wooden floors. It was buzzing with excited children and anxious parents and the few token chairs were all occupied. Because I wasn’t sure what she’d be asked to do (also I have zero dress sense and my hairdressing talents don’t stretch to
straight
central partings), Dora was wearing trainers, tracky pants and t-shirt, a broad grin and lopsided bunchies. I’d avoided twee, partly for reasons of taste, but mostly because it tends to involve pleats and plaits: both are beyond me. I gave Dora’s name to a woman leaning over a trestle table, managing a clipboard, a marker pen and a long strip of white stickers. She was obviously in charge, so I also handed over the small passport-sized photo we’d been instructed to provide (child’s name on the reverse), which featured Dora in her school uniform, another broad grin and more lopsided bunchies. ‘Aaaw,’ said the woman, looking at the photo and running her finger down the list on her clipboard. Halfway down page three of many, she put a tick by Dora’s name, wrote ‘Dora Gee’ on a sticker which she gave me to stick on Dora’s chest, shuffled through a pile of yellow paper to find the form I’d filled out at the Palladium, and fixed the photo to it. The auditions were running late, but after a lifetime of hanging around in doctors’ waiting rooms (mostly, but not entirely, due to low-level hypochondria), I’d expected this and brought along colouring book, pencils and something to read.

The woman shushed everyone and called out a long list of names. About twenty assorted children bounced into a raggedy line, and were led out of the room. A couple of minutes later the previous group surged back in, three or four triumphantly waving letters, most shrugging and a couple in tears because they hadn’t got through. It was, I thought, a bit brutal to tell them then and there. But maybe better to know straight away: no restless waiting, you could start picking up the pieces immediately. ‘You won’t mind if you don’t get through, will you?’ I asked Dora, anxious that she might be returned to me sobbing her heart out, permanently scarred by the rejection. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s my first audition. I know I won’t get a part. I just want to try.’

Perhaps drumming into her that she’d be highly unlikely to succeed at her
first
audition was a mistake.
First
implied that there might be other opportunities to try out for other shows. That having
taken
her to one audition, muggins here would schlep her along to another, then another and another, cheerfully abandoning work, wedding planning and, eventually, own life in the cause of supporting the aspiring starlet and tending to its every need.

Had taking Dora to her ‘first’ audition inadvertently committed us to a life of kiddie showbiz? Would it turn me into a pushy mum, desperate for the reflected glory blazing off my spoiled child and pathologically and mistakenly convinced that she was better at everything than anyone else? Could today be the first small step on a downward spiral that would see me lying, cheating and demanding special treatment for her, telling directors how to do their job, and competing with other stage mothers, putting them and their children down whilst promoting my own flesh and blood. Would I – like Rose Hovick, immortalised in the musical
Gypsy
, who slathered her child-star daughter June in make-up and pushed her out on to the stage even when she had chicken pox, mumps and measles (although, to be fair, she did let her stay in bed with German measles) – fetch up putting my own, vicarious, ambition over Dora’s welfare? Would I turn into … (dun dun dun) – STAGE MOTHER?????

As the group who’d just finished their audition left with their parents, we managed to snag a couple of vacated seats. I handed Dora her colouring book and pencils. But she soon found something more interesting to do. We’d been joined by a pretty little girl with long, straight, well-behaved dark hair, deep, sassy blue eyes and a cute grin. Inordinately self-possessed, she was accompanied by both parents and dressed as impeccably as her perfectly turned-out mother. Sitting down, she took her white Nintendo DS Lite out of her impossibly fluffy bag. Dora went shyly over to say hello and to watch her playing, and the girl made space for Dora to join her, while her parents and I made stilted, polite conversation. They had come up from Southend, and it was Adrianna’s first proper audition too, but she was already the star of her dance and drama schools, and had performed in local productions of
South Pacific
and
The King and I
.
Although
much smaller and slighter than Dora, she was a year older. Dora, I figured, stood no chance against this competition. She’s about average height for her age, and I remembered from my sister’s childhood acting days that small kids are usually preferred because it’s easier to work with an older child who can pass for younger than a younger one who isn’t yet mature enough to take direction.

The girls’ names were called, and they disappeared out of the room in a cloud of children. Adrianna’s parents and I looked at each other nervously and made more polite, stilted conversation, without actually listening to anything the other said. A few minutes after the girls had been shepherded off, we parents ran out of conversation. I opened my book, read the same paragraph several times and worried about Dora being upset if – as was more than likely – she didn’t get through. I wondered whether she might actually have a chance. I smiled at Adrianna’s mum and read the same paragraph again. I worried about whether Dora was enjoying herself. What were they all doing in there? Singing? Solo? Together? Sometimes, apparently, auditions can be good, clean, melodic fun. Participating children have been known to form lasting friendships. They go in, sing, do some fun drama games and burst out bubbly and excited, while their parents chat warily and size up the opposition. But often kids are told whether they’ve got through not at the end of their slot, like today, or a few days or even weeks later, but part way through their audition. On those occasions, it’s usual for more than one or two to come out crying.

I was, it turned out, a lot more anxious than I had anticipated being. And, despite my expectations to the contrary, I really
really
wanted Dora to come out with an even broader grin than she went in with… and a letter. An unfamiliar urge was bubbling up in my stomach, provoking vague nausea enhanced by a wishy-washy sense of right-on liberal shame. I was silently willing Dora to open her throat and wow ’em. I don’t consider myself either highly competitive or a particularly ambitious-for-my-child mother (well, not
very).
But every now and then – and this was one of those occasions – a petite and slightly passive-aggressive dragon uneggs itself inside me, mewling quietly for victory. Naturally, I try to conceal it under an ‘I-couldn’t-be-more-delighted-for-your-success’ kind of smile, but I strongly suspect that it’s still visible, pulsing away underneath. If Dora did get any further, could I rein in this obnoxious part of me?

It’s not even as if I ever wanted to go on the stage myself. As a geeky pre-teen I’d been forced into attending a local drama training institution for after-school lessons. The Studio School was run by Miss Jones – a distinctly colour-boosted redhead with terrifying diction and no-nonsense eyeliner – and Miss Hudson, a gentler, quieter soul and a hazier, greyer presence in my memory. It was in my own best interests: I was so mumbly as to be borderline inaudible, and my parents decided that elocution and acting lessons would cure me. I hated it. It was, I felt, hard enough figuring out how to be myself, without having to pretend to be other people, however fictional, and even if for only a couple of hours a week. Nikki, younger than me by three years, much more outgoing, cheeky and tiny for her age, loved performing and had real talent. She was spotted by an agent during one of the Studio School’s annual shows and earned a lot of money (for a nine-year-old) bouncing across a Birds Eye advert, dressed as a giant fish finger.

My father was also a good actor. In his teens he won a place at RADA’s preparatory academy. He turned it down, choosing to study civil engineering instead: it was, apparently, just as much fun, and meant his National Service was deferred (though he was disappointed when it was, ultimately, cancelled as he’d been looking forward to travelling abroad and playing lots of table tennis). And Dad could still exercise his dramatic flair by miming, dressed in a conservative suit and a less conservative curly brown wig, to Shirley Bassey doing ‘Hey Big Spender’ at company Christmas parties.

And although Dora had no previous acting experience, my father’s
suggestion
that she might like to try out for
The Sound of Music
wasn’t completely random. After their (very happy) time in daycare, Dora and her two best friends were each about to start a different school. To ease the pain of separation and ensure that they could still get to hang out regularly, we parents got together and enrolled them into the littlies ballet class at Adele’s Dance School. I was ambivalent. I knew Dora would have fun dancing with her friends and hoped (rather optimistically) the discipline might calm her down a tad. But it was already perfectly clear that with her three-year-old proto-warrior physique and habit of barrelling into people head-first for ferocious, spine-shattering cuddles, she was never going to mature into the kind of quietly bendy, baby-pink stick insect that gives good ballet, and I felt that it was important to protect her from thinking that she should. There’s more than enough pressure on young girls to starve themselves unnaturally thin, without over-exposing them to the extremes of that particular part of the dance world. But given that she and her friends were only three, and this was local, inexpensive, conveniently timed ballet-for-fun, where the teacher welcomed children of all shapes, sizes and abilities, I decided that my worries were, if not excessive, at least previous. If, at some point, doing ballet did start having a negative impact on Dora’s sense of self, I’d just have to divert her into tap or Kathak instead.

One Tuesday afternoon, a year after the three of them had skipped into their first lesson, wearing their favourite 100% polyester fairy dress-up costumes, I arrived late, someone else having delivered Dora for me. Unlike many dance schools, at Adele’s, parents and carers are encouraged to stay and watch. This is sometimes cute, sometimes hilarious and sometimes tortuously boring – especially as you get told off for chatting. To my dismay, I discovered everyone except my daughter standing in line, swaying along to the opening strains of ‘Do-Re-Mi’. Dora was fidgeting off to one side, watching. Adele’s Dance School is determinedly and cheerfully inclusive. What terrible sin, I wondered, could Dora possibly have committed to get
herself
excluded from the line-up? It didn’t look like anyone was bleeding …

She hadn’t, it transpired, done anything wrong. The class was starting to rehearse its contribution to the school’s annual show. Earlier in the lesson, her hand had shot up and she’d volunteered – possibly without knowing what one was – to sing a solo. She was merely waiting on her cue. Striding out purposefully in front of the other little girls, she took her place and sang loudly, clearly, confidently and with evident gusto. Afterwards, Adele’s pianist Carl – who, in addition to accompanying little girls’ dance lessons, has also posed as Liberace for the entertainment of guests at Matt Lucas’s wedding party – took me aside. ‘Where did she get that voice?’ he asked. ‘She’s like Shirley Bassey.’

Er … From her grandpa?

A few of the kids trickled back in. It looked like there was a higher concentration of letters in this group. Adrianna was waving one. ‘That’s brilliant. Well done!’ I said, with as much enthusiasm as I could muster – which was, fortunately, quite a lot – while her parents cuddled and praised her. I looked anxiously towards the door. Dora was nowhere to be seen. Then, suddenly, there she was, leaping into my lap and shoving a piece of paper into my face. ‘I’ve got a recall,’ she announced proudly.

I gave her a big hug and told her she’d done fantastically, especially as this was her first time, and that it was completely brilliant to have got a recall, and asked lots of questions. Did they sing together or by themselves? Did they have to do anything else? Was it scary or fun? And I reminded her that she had only got through the first stage and that it didn’t mean that she’d get a part, which she still definitely wouldn’t.

It was almost a month and only one anxious email (I exercised impressive restraint) from me to Jo Hawes before details of the next audition plopped into our messy hallway. The two-page letter from Jo explained that there would, most likely, be several more rounds of
auditions
, which would be quite spread out, ‘with final casting not taking place until well into August’. She explained that they were looking for three Friedrichs, Louisas, Kurts, Brigittas and Martas, four or five Gretls ‘since she is such a young child’, and no Liesls: the role of the oldest von Trapp child would be played by a grown-up, sourced elsewhere. We were also urged to ‘make sure you understand the commitment involved with a show like this’, and to check with the children’s schools that they’d be happy for them to take part. ‘Rehearsals,’ she continued, ‘will be arduous and require time away from school although the statutory 15 hours’ schooling a week will be applied. Either this will take place at your own school or we will hire a tutor.’ Also, ‘Please note that no holidays will be permitted during the contract which will be from the start of rehearsals until March/April 07.’ The schedule would not be changed to accommodate anyone’s special occasions ‘or to allow time off for any reason during rehearsal and performances apart from illness – we require 100% commitment’.