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The play is terrible.
Not just terrible; the play is a travesty. Forgotten lines, missed cues, props dropped and broken and, in one startling case, exploding, causing a fire that the actors all ended up frantically beating out while still trying to deliver their lines. The lead actress plummets through a trapdoor with a squeak and tries to continue the scene by yelling from under the stage. By mutual agreement, Vanessa and her friends leave in the interval.
She can’t sleep that night. She can’t stop thinking about it.
Vanessa’s seen a lot of theatre. She’s seen a fair amount of bad theatre. She’s never seen anything on this scale.
A lot of what happened seemed to be accidents, though, flukes. There were a couple of bad actors in the mix, but for the most part they seemed more or less fine, beset by extraordinarily bad luck. It must just have been a terrible night for them; it can’t always be like that.
Their tenacity was impressive, if nothing else. Any normal theatre company would have called a halt to proceedings five times over. The show must go on, she supposes.
-
Vanessa doesn’t actively keep up with the Cornley Drama Society, but she often looks through theatre listings, and she happens to see a year later that they’re bringing a new play to the stage. She hesitates for a long, long moment.
And then she books a ticket. She just has to know.
She’s annoyed with herself on the journey. The ticket was cheap – unusually so; theatre outside London is typically less expensive, but there’s not a lot you can get for £2.50 – and Cornley is only about an hour away by train, but it still feels ridiculous that she’s giving up another evening to the worst theatre company she’s ever seen.
The play starts twenty minutes late, which does not feel promising. Vanessa passes the time by flicking through the programme. Some of the names and photographs seem to have got mixed up, unless Sandra Wilkinson has grown an impressive beard since the last time Vanessa saw her on stage, but it looks like it’s the same group of actors as before. One of the faces is unfamiliar, but that might be the person who spent half the last performance desperately hammering on the door at the back of the set, unable to get onto the stage.
Honestly, a part of Vanessa has to admire their perseverance. If she’d put on a performance that disastrous, she’d probably have given up theatre on the spot. At least she knows tonight’s show will be better; it can’t possibly be worse.
It’s worse. Three minutes into the play, director Chris Bean, playing the lead role, is knocked unconscious by a falling spotlight. Vanessa jolts to her feet, startled. The play will end there, obviously, they’ll call an ambulance – is he going to be all right—?
Impossibly, the play does not end there. Chris’s fellow actors freeze for several seconds, then resume their performance, physically puppeting Chris’s limp body around the stage when necessary. All Vanessa can do is watch in silent, paralysed horror.
Chris begins to regain consciousness towards the end of the first half, giving dazed, mumbled deliveries of lines that were supposed to come forty minutes earlier. At the start of the second half, though, he walks back onto the set looking a lot steadier. It’s a relief; Vanessa was half afraid she might actually be watching a man slowly die on stage.
“Oh, bollocks,” says the bearded man who, according to the programme, is named Sandra. “We’ve lost the whole audience. This is your fault, Chris.”
“No, look!” One of his castmates – probably Annie, by process of elimination – tugs on his sleeve and points, alarmingly, directly at Vanessa. “One of them came back from the interval!”
“Oh, wonderful!” Chris beams at Vanessa. “Please sit closer, if you’d like; some much better seats have opened up near the front.”
Vanessa hesitates. “I’m – I think I’m all right where I am, thank you.” The closer she is to the stage, it seems, the closer she is to various collapsing objects.
“Very well,” Chris says. “Well, please enjoy the rest of the show.”
The rest of the show is absolutely terrible.
The moment Vanessa is out of the theatre, she looks up when they’re next performing.
-
It’s all deeply bizarre. Vanessa doesn’t understand how this level of theatrical misfortune is possible, unless the cast spend hours chanting Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth before every performance. But she keeps being drawn back, by some sort of horrified fascination, to witness catastrophe after catastrophe.
She doesn’t usually see the same play over and over again, but she’ll watch Cornley Drama Society productions as often as she can. Every evening plays out completely differently, after all.
She’s yet to see Jonathan Harris; she’s increasingly suspecting that he doesn’t actually exist. But she’s getting to know the performance styles of the rest of the actors, and the ways each of them responds to disaster, as they so frequently need to do.
And, disconcertingly, they’re starting to get to know her. Max scans the audience whenever he steps on stage; if he spots her, he’ll give her a grin and a wink. On one occasion, Vanessa hears a call of “Hi! Glad you’re here!” while she’s waiting for the theatre doors to open, and she turns to find Annie waving enthusiastically at her.
Despite being a habitual theatre-goer, Vanessa’s not used to being recognised by the actors. She supposes you become a lot more recognisable if you’re often the only one left in the seats by the end.
“You,” Robert calls to her at the conclusion of one of their plays; the curtain has fallen, but so has the curtain rail, leaving the curtain lying in heavy folds over most of the stage. “Stay behind, please.”
Vanessa does, feeling slightly terrified. But Robert just comes over and signs her programme, unrequested.
“You’ll be able to sell that for a lot of money one day,” he informs her.
A part of her almost believes it. For better or worse, there are no other performers like this group.
-
For her safety, Vanessa never books a seat too close to the stage. One evening, though, the stage manager – Trevor, she thinks he’s called – comes out in front of the curtain before it rises, looking strained, a rope wrapped around his fist.
“Oi!” he calls, pointing at her. “You! Biggest fan! Can you come down and sit at the front?”
Vanessa hesitates. Looks around, as if he could possibly be addressing anyone else. But she doesn’t have a good reason to refuse, or at least nothing she could politely express, so she heads down to the front row.
“Great.” Trevor shoves the rope into her hand. “Hold on to that, all right? Otherwise the chandelier’s gonna fall onto the stage.”
“Wait, can’t you—”
It’s too late; he’s already gone. There’s no secure way she can see of tying the rope to this seat; she supposes she really is just going to have to hold it. Having seen this particular play eight times before, she’s suddenly very aware of how much time the characters spend standing directly beneath the chandelier.
It’s a disastrous evening; it always is. But Vanessa does, at the very least, manage to keep the chandelier from killing anyone. It’s by far the most stressful performance she’s ever attended, but she walks out of the theatre almost smiling, buzzing with adrenaline.
She always books the front row after that. She managed to survive it, after all.
-
Vanessa’s fallen into the habit of searching for news about the Cornley Drama Society every morning, looking for information about upcoming plays. And for the occasional review, invariably scathing. As oddly fond of this theatre company as she’s become, she does appreciate the reviews, just for the evidence that she hasn’t been imagining everything she’s witnessed.
A few nights ago, Chris mentioned to Vanessa at the stage door that they had something exciting coming up; Dennis started trying to be more specific, before several of his castmates seized him and covered his mouth. It looks like the news is out now: an upcoming BBC live theatre series called Play of the Week, performed by the Cornley Drama Society. The BBC are, Vanessa suspects, in for a surprise.
Her eye catches on the penultimate paragraph of the article: “We’re very excited,” says Chris Bean, director of the drama society. “In advance of the series, we’re looking to add another female member to the cast, so we’ll be opening applications soon.”
Vanessa stares at the screen for a long time.
She can’t contemplate this. She likes order; she likes structure; she cannot make this sort of commitment to definite embarrassment and possible injury.
But watching the Cornley Drama Society has been feeding some need inside her that she doesn’t quite understand. In an ordered, structured life, a part of her craves the chaos of these plays.
-
“My name is Vanessa Wilcock-Wynn-Carroway.” It feels strange to introduce herself formally to Chris and Annie, when they’ve spoken so much already. “I’d like to join the Cornley Drama Society.”
Chris smiles broadly. “We were hoping you’d apply.”
Halfway through Vanessa’s audition monologue, a large section of the rigging detaches itself and smashes through the stage behind her. She jerks around, her heart hammering in her throat.
Annie claps her hands together. “She’s one of us!”
“Yes,” Chris says, with a kind of resigned, despairing fondness. “Yes, I suppose she is.”