Reading this filled me with a deep melancholy that was only partially alleviated by a particularly satisfying bowel movement. Above the noise of the water rushing into the cistern as I flushed, I heard another mournful calclass="underline" Ding dong! Hoiking up my jeans, I went to answer the door.
It was the postman, with an envelope in his hand. Why hadn’t he just put it through the letter box?
‘Outstanding postage due. One pound and eleven pence. That’s eleven pence owing because the postage now costs fifty-three pence. And one pound administration charge.’
‘Blimey. Let me see the letter.’ I didn’t want to be paying out all that for junk mail. Besides, I wasn’t sure I had one pound and eleven pence. He handed it over. It was a small white envelope, handwritten to Mr Berthold Sidebottom. The postmark gave nothing away. ‘Hang on a minute.’
I could have just stepped back into the flat with it in my hand and slammed the door, but looking down I noticed a solid black chukka boot resting on the threshold. He had obviously been in this situation before. I had ten pence left over from my shopping, there were three twenty pences in the loose change jar and I found a fifty-pence coin in the pocket of Inna’s black cardigan hanging in the hall. The postman took it all, gave me change, and made me sign something.
‘Thanks, mate. By the way, your zip’s undone.’
The letter was from someone called Bronwyn at The Bridge Theatre in Poplar, asking me whether I was available immediately to take up the role of Lucky in their production of Waiting for Godot, for which I had recently auditioned. Apparently the actor who had been playing Lucky had unluckily tripped over the rope, slipped off the stage and broken his leg, and the understudy was re-sitting his finals. She apologised for writing, but said that they had tried to phone and got a ‘number out of service’ message. They didn’t have my mobile number. She added a PS on a personal note, saying that she’d been at the audition, had loved the way I delivered Lucky’s speech with a stammer, and hoped I would integrate it into my performance.
The stammer. Yes. I recalled that it was the rope that had brought on the stammer, and I had stammered helplessly all through the audition. One of the panel had had the bright idea of tethering me with Lucky’s rope while I spoke to see how I looked, and I had come out in a cold sweat. Unfortunately, Beckett’s broken lines did not work the same flowing magic as Shakespeare’s; in fact they made it worse. ‘God with white b-b-beard … since the death of b-b-Bishop b-b-Berkeley … it is estab-b-blished b-b-beyond all doubt … that man … for reasons unknown … lab-b-bours ab-b-bandoned …’
The letter was dated two days ago. I phoned straight away. Bronwyn was ecstatic. She would email over a copy of the script right away, she said. What was my email address? Could I start tonight?
‘Tonight?’
‘Would that be okay, Mr Sidebottom? You’re familiar with the play, aren’t you? Our bar manager has been standing in, but he’s been struggling, even with the text in his hands.’
‘I’m not sure I could memorise it in a couple of hours. It’s quite complicated.’
‘Just do your best. It doesn’t matter if you get the odd word wrong. In fact it might enhance the audience experience, if you see what I mean. If you could get here for six thirty, we could just walk it through.’
Bronwyn had quite a sexy voice, deep and smooth with a slight regional burr, so I replied, ‘No problem, Bronwyn. See you later.’
Ha! That would be one in the eye for Nazi McReady and his tarrgets. But how the fuck would I get to Poplar with no credit on my Oyster card? The problem was solved when Eustachia called back to say she would love to go out to see a film.
‘There’s that new George Clooney on release.’
‘I’ve got a better idea. Wouldn’t you prefer a night at the theatre?’
Berthold: Lucky
Bronwyn turned out to be not nearly as sexy as her voice — tall and toothy, sporting long beige dreadlocks with coloured beads on the ends and rainbow-patched dungarees — in fact my stereotype of a lesbian. Was she or wasn’t she? I studied her carefully, but it is hard to tell nowadays. Anyway, I decided not to pursue matters. But she was nice. She gave me a £20 advance on my stipend, ordered a double espresso and a cup of tea for Eustachia from the relieved bar manager, and led me backstage to meet the rest of the cast.
Then the ten-minute bell rang. Soon that hush of expectation settled on the audience, which hit my blood like a drug. My pulse quickened. My senses were alert. My breath was controlled. I was ready.
When you’re onstage with the lights on you, it’s hard to make out the faces of the audience, even in a space as small as The Bridge. Squinting, I scanned the dark, steeply tiered benches, which were about half full, mainly with young people funkily dressed like arts students. There was a smell of damp socks and patchouli, and you could hear in the background the hiss of the espresso machine, a hum of conversation from the bar, and the rumble of trains passing overhead. It all added to the atmosphere. Then I spotted Eustachia in the front row, smiling with a bemused expression as she watched me shuffling on with the rope around my neck.
I wondered what she made of the play, and of my performance. It isn’t easy to stammer on command, but when I declaimed, ‘P-p-plunged into torment … stark naked in the stockinged feet in Connem-mara,’ I fancied I caught the glint of a tear in her eye. She had never heard me stammer seriously before, but the funny thing is, this time it wasn’t real. I was acting. Even when Pozzo tugged on the rope, I felt a professional calm run through me. I took control of Lucky’s lucklessness and made it my own. I didn’t need anyone to tell me: I knew I was good.
She waited for me as I came out of the dressing room, and threw her arms around me. ‘You were wonderful, Berthold! I’m so glad you brought me to see that, instead of wasting an evening on some George Clooney trivia. It was so profound — a scathing indictment of local government bureaucracy. People hanging around endlessly waiting for something that never appears. Actually — what was it about?’
‘PhDs have been written about it.’ I brushed aside her question as if I knew the answer but couldn’t be bothered with it. ‘Did you really mean that about George Clooney?’
‘Oh, absolutely. Give me Berthold Sidebottom any day.’
I pulled her towards me and kissed her long and hard on her lips. She gasped with surprise, then melted like a warm marshmallow in my arms.
The actors who were Estragon and Pozzo passed us on their way out and gave us a little round of applause.
I settled like a habitué into the passenger seat of Eustachia’s car and we glided swiftly through the near-empty streets of the old East End, close to where Grandad Bob had worked on the docks and Gobby Granny Gladys had ended her days. Even Poplar had become trendy enough to boast its own theatre. This creep of culture can only be a good thing, I thought, spreading enlightenment to the de-industrialised wastelands.
As we approached Madeley Court, Eustachia slowed down. ‘Would you like to come back to my place and meet Monty?’
‘Who’s Monty?’ I imagined some aged relative or lurking lover.
‘Monty the Mongrel. Have you forgotten?’
Indeed I had. ‘There’s nothing I’d like more.’
Actually, there were several things I would like more, including another exchange of body fluids, but you can’t say that to a woman, can you?
Eustachia lived in a one-bedroom flat in the basement of a four-storey house in the almost trendy area north of the Pentonville Road, not far from where my repossessed flat had been. When she had picked me up at the Priory Green Estate and driven me to Madeley Court, she had said it was on her way home; in fact I realised she must have driven well past her destination. Out of fancy, or out of pity? I might ask her one day.