I could never do it myself - tread the boards. My only theatrical appearance was aged five in a primary school production of The Sound of Music when I was cast as the youngest von Trapp child (normally a girl, I know, but size rather than talent won me the part.) I was small enough to be carried upstairs by the girl who played Liesl (Nicola Bray in year six) when the von Trapp children sang ‘So Long, Farewell’. I was in love with Nicola and wanted her to carry me to bed every night. That was forty-four years ago. Some crushes don’t get crushed.
I recognise some of the cast, including Sienna Hegarty, who is in the chorus. She desperately wanted to play the lead role of Millie Dillmount, but Erin Lewis won the part to everyone’s surprise and Sienna had to settle for being her understudy.
As I watch her move about the stage, my mind goes back to the tribunal hearing and Liam Baker. There are little pictures and big pictures at play. The little everyday picture is that Sienna is my daughter’s best friend. The big picture is that her older sister is Zoe Hegarty, the girl in the wheelchair, who could once stand and dance and run, until Liam Baker’s ‘moment of madness’, which had been coming all his life.
The music stops and Mr Ellis, the drama teacher, vaults on to the stage, repositioning some of the dancers. Dressed in trainers and faded jeans, he’s handsome in a geekish sort of way. A fringe of dark brown hair falls across his eyes and he casually brushes it away.
The scene starts again - an argument between the play’s hero and heroine. Millie plans to marry her boss even though it’s obvious Jimmy loves her. The quarrel escalates and Jimmy grabs her, planting a clumsy kiss.
Erin pushes him away angrily, wiping her mouth. ‘I said no tongue.’
There are whistles and catcalls from backstage and the boy bows theatrically, milking the laughter.
Mr Ellis leaps on to the stage again, annoyed at yet another interruption. He snaps at Sienna. ‘What are you grinning at?’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘How many times have I told you to come in on the third bar? You’re half a step behind everyone else. If you can’t get this right, I’ll put you at the back. Permanently.’
Sienna bows her head glumly.
The drama teacher claps his hands. ‘OK, let’s do that scene again. I’ll play your part, Lockwood. It’s a kiss, OK? I’m not asking you to take out her tonsils.’
Mr Ellis takes his place opposite Erin, who is tall for her age and wearing flat shoes. The scene begins with an argument and ends when he puts a single finger beneath her chin and tilts her face towards his, whispering in a voice that penetrates even at the lowest volume. Erin’s hands are by her sides. Trembling slightly, her lips part and she topples fractionally forward as if surrendering. For a moment I think he’s going to kiss her, but he pulls away abruptly, breaking contact. Erin looks like a disappointed child.
‘OK, that’s it for today,’ says Mr Ellis. ‘We’ll have another rehearsal on Friday afternoon and a full dress rehearsal next Wednesday. Nobody be late.’
He looks pointedly at Sienna. ‘And I expect everything to be perfect.’
The cast wander off stage and the band begins packing away instruments. Easing open a fire door, I circle a side path to the main doors of the hall where a dozen parents are waiting, some with younger children clinging to their hands or playing tag on the grass.
A woman’s voice behind me: ‘Professor O’Loughlin?’
I turn. She smiles. It takes me a moment to remember her name. Annie Robinson, the school counsellor.
‘Call me Joe.’
‘We haven’t seen you for a while.’
‘No. I guess my wife does most of this.’ I motion to the school buildings, or maybe I’m pointing to my life in general.
Miss Robinson looks different. Her clothes are tighter and her skirt shorter. Normally she seems so shy and distracted, but now she’s more focused, standing close as if she wants to share a secret with me. She’s wearing high heels and her liquid brown eyes are level with my lips.
‘It must be difficult - the break-up.’
I clear my throat and mumble yes.
Her extra-white teeth are framed by bright painted lips.
Dropping her voice to a whisper, ‘If you ever need somebody to talk to . . . I know what it’s like.’ She smiles and her fingers find my hand. Intense embarrassment prickles beneath my scalp.
‘That’s very kind. Thank you.’
I muster a nervous smile. At least I hope I’m smiling. That’s one of the problems with my ‘condition’. I can never be sure what face I’m showing the world - the genial O’Loughlin smile or the blank Parkinson’s mask.
‘Well, it’s good to see you again,’ says Miss Robinson.
‘You too, you’re looking . . .’
‘What?’
‘Good.’
She laughs with her eyes. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
Then she leans forward and pecks me on the lips, withdrawing her hand from mine. She has pressed a small piece of paper into my palm, her phone number. At that moment I spy Charlie in the shadows of the stage door, carrying a schoolbag over her right shoulder. Her dark hair is still pinned up and there are traces of stage make-up around her eyes.
‘Were you kissing a teacher?’
‘No.’
‘I saw you.’
‘She kissed me . . .’
‘Not from where I was standing.’
‘It was a peck.’
‘On the lips.’
‘She was being friendly.’
Charlie isn’t happy with the answer. She’s not happy with a lot of things I do and say these days. If I ask a question, I’m interrogating her. If I make an observation, I’m being judgemental. My comments are criticisms and our conversations are ‘arguments’.
This is supposed to be my territory - human behaviour - but I seem to have a blind spot when it comes to understanding my eldest daughter, who doesn’t necessarily say what she means. For instance, when Charlie says I shouldn’t bother coming to something, really she wants me to be there. And when she says, ‘Are you coming?’ it means ‘Be there, or else!’
I take her bag. ‘The musical is great. You were brilliant.’
‘Did you sneak inside?’
‘Just for the second half.’
‘Now you won’t come to the opening night. You’ll know the ending.’
‘It’s a musical - everyone knows the ending.’
Charlie pouts and looks over her shoulder, her ponytail swinging dismissively.
‘Can we give Sienna a lift home?’ she asks.
‘Sure. Where is she?’
‘Mr Ellis wanted to see her.’
‘Is she in trouble?’
Charlie rolls her eyes. ‘She’s always in trouble.’
Across the grounds, down the gentle slope, I can see headlights nudging from the parking area.
Sienna emerges from the hall. Slender and pale, almost whiter than white, she’s wearing her school uniform with her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She hasn’t bothered removing her stage make-up and her eyes look impossibly large.
‘How are you, Sienna?’
‘I’m fine, Mr O. Did you bring your dog?’
‘No.’
‘How is he?’
‘Still dumb.’
‘I thought Labradors were supposed to be intelligent.’
‘Not my one.’
‘Maybe he’s intelligent but not obedient.’
‘Maybe.’
Sienna surveys the car park, as though looking for someone. She seems preoccupied or perhaps she’s upset about the rehearsal. Then she remembers and turns to me.
‘Did that hearing happen today?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are they going to let him out?’
‘Not yet.’
Satisfied, she turns and walks ahead of me, bumping shoulders with Charlie, speaking in a strange language that I’m not supposed to understand.