‘Right you are, Jon.’
So after my coffee and my usual enjoyable chat with John, I bid him farewell and headed off in my car.
That evening I got a phone call from the vet with the results of Pollyanne’s X-ray. There was a small amount of pedal bone rotation in both feet, he told me, but fortunately she wasn’t in imminent danger of her bone slipping through her sole. She would need some remedial care to correct and settle things, which would take time to resolve, but he was optimistic that she would be sound in plenty of time for the opera. It was encouraging news and, although he’d already told a very relieved John, I rang him to check in.
‘Hi, John, I’ve just spoken with the vet. It sounds like it’s really the best possible news.’
‘So it is, Jon, I’m mighty relieved and very grateful to you for your help. If all goes to plan, there’ll be no holding her back in six weeks.’ The anxiety I had heard in his voice that morning had gone. ‘And Jon? As this is the last year she’s performing, you’d be more than welcome to come up with us to one of her performances and be with us backstage.’
‘I would love that, thank you!’
‘That’s settled then. It’s the least I can do. I’ll get Wendy to send you a list of possible dates and then you can let me know which one suits you.’
‘Perfect, I’ll really look forward to that.’
‘Good. It’s quite an experience – and you’ll have to excuse my outfit.’ He laughed. ‘I look quite the character when I’m all made up.’
‘I’ll wait to hear from Wendy. Thank you, John. And let me know if I can help any further with Pollyanne, but it sounds like she’s in good hands.’
After a couple of weeks’ slow progress, Pollyanne suddenly turned a corner, and a month later she was back to trotting around the field as though nothing had happened and, much to everyone’s delight, the opera was back on. Wendy sent me a list of dates when Pollyanne would be performing, and I was pleased to see that I’d be in London for one of them, which sounded like a fun way to finish a day of meetings.
And so on a cold, crisp Tuesday evening in November I found myself turning off Bow Street into a virtually deserted Floral Street. Parked up next to the tall black double doors of the backstage entrance, John’s elderly maroon converted Ford Transit horsebox looked entirely out of place. The stage doors were so tall you could walk a giraffe in through them with ease. A security guard stood on patrol, eyeing me suspiciously as I headed over towards the trailer, but before he could engage me, John appeared out of a nearby door, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.
‘Perfect timing, Jon,’ he said, shaking my hand. ‘I’ve just had a lovely dinner courtesy of the Opera House in their restaurant. Have you eaten? They’ll feed you if not? You have? Oh, very well, very well.’ He turned to the trailer. ‘And what about you, Pollyanne, is it time for your pre-performance snacks?’ The trailer shook as she stomped inside, responding to the familiar voice. ‘You’ve been a very patient girl, as always.’ He started unbolting the backdoor to the trailer.
‘Are you ready to take her in, John?’ the security guard suddenly piped up.
‘Yes please, Keith,’ John shouted back.
‘Right you are.’ He spoke into a receiver on the wall. ‘Lift for John and Pollyanne coming onto stage.’
John had meanwhile lowered the ramp and was climbing onto the trailer. ‘Jon, would you mind taking some of the chickens over to the lift?’ he said, handing me a crate containing two live chickens.
Somewhat baffled, I did as I was told. Returning to the trailer, I could see that Pollyanne was getting impatient now, stomping and braying.
‘All right girl, I’m just coming,’ John assured her, handing over a second crate of chickens. ‘Jon, can you close up the trailer behind me?’
He handed me the keys before climbing back onto the trailer, untying and leading Pollyanne down the ramp. It was such an incongruous sight that my brain could scarcely process the image I was seeing: a donkey trotting the streets of London. I lifted up the ramp to close and lock up the trailer and joined John in the elevator. This was already becoming an evening of firsts; I was now in a lift in the Royal Opera House, with four chickens and a donkey … It felt like the start of a joke. Keith shut the doors behind us and with the press of a button sent us on our way, up to the stage floor.
The stage manager, dressed in black jeans and a T-shirt, complete with clipboard, a radio and earpiece, greeted Pollyanne warmly.
‘Here she is!’ she said, ignoring John and myself as she opened the elevator door. ‘I’ve missed you, Pollyanne.’ There was obvious affection in her voice as she rubbed Pollyanne’s mane. Pollyanne responded, with equal affection, nodding her head and nuzzling into the stage manager’s arm, but then she started sniffing her pockets for a treat. They clearly had an established routine. ‘OK, OK, here it is,’ she said, pulling out a carrot, which she grabbed before it was offered. ‘You only love me for my treats, don’t you, Pollyanne?’ she said with an air of pretend resentment. Greetings done, she turned her attention to us. ‘Evening, John. You’re in the same place as usual, let me know if there’s anything you need.’
‘Thank you, Emily. On top of things as ever, I see! Can I introduce you to Jon? He’s Pollyanne’s vet. He couldn’t miss her last season performing.’
‘Welcome, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m sure John will show you the ropes, but if there’s anything you need just let me know. Feel free to watch the performance from the wings. You’ll see some tape on the floor. Anyone past that line can be seen by the audience, so can I just ask you not to go beyond it at any time.’
John stepped off the elevator platform leading Pollyanne, and I followed with one of the crates. As we came out from behind a black screen, a hive of activity greeted us and I realized we were actually already back stage. To the right of me was the stage itself, but the large forty-foot-high set panels blocked my view of it. The high ceiling was full of scaffolding on which the lighting rigs could be hung and moved. Cables ran along the floor in all directions, taped down at regular points to prevent people tripping on them. Messages, instructions or directions were chalked on the floor at various points. A lady attended to a rack of costumes and table of props. A multitude of people dressed in black like Emily were all busy at work on their various jobs. On this side, the back stage area was probably 15 feet wide. Halfway along it, a 6-foot by 6-foot pen had been erected, complete with straw bedding and a bucket of water. Next to it hung a rack with John’s costume. He opened the pen and Pollyanne sauntered in with an eager familiarity. The lady on the props table walked over to join us.
‘Evening, John. Your costume is all here, do you want assistance dressing this evening?’
‘Thank you, Mary, I’ll be fine.’
‘No problem,’ she said, disappearing back to her table.
‘When I first started doing this, I used to be dressed every night like some earl,’ he whispered to me. ‘It was all very odd, but now I know how to put it all on, I prefer to do it myself.’ He busied himself getting Pollyanne settled with her hay net and unpacking her bag of brushes. Meanwhile I returned to the elevator to grab the other crate of chickens. ‘There’s a little drinker and a bottle of water you can fill up for each of the chicken crates,’ John instructed me.
As we settled our charges into their temporary accommodation, the stage workforce were increasingly distracted by our arrival, coming over to greet Pollyanne enthusiastically. It was evident that she was a very popular addition to the performance. One old chap suddenly appeared with two carrier bags, full to bursting, one with sweets and the second with apples, carrots and other such donkey delights. ‘Here you go, John, your evening supplies.’