"The Understudy," a story by Marco Etheridge

Dramatis Personae
BARTHOLOMEW LOWE, Understudy
JEROME BARRY, Stage Manager
HARRY COLLINS, Theatre Director
JAMES, Usher
THE PLAYERS, Cast of A Midsummer Night’s Dream
THE AUDIENCE

*  *  * 

Harry drops his phone onto the desk, not so hard as to break it, but enough to make it thump. Throws a beseeching look to the heavens, plants his elbows, and clamps his balding melon between trembling fingers. A low moan. Your standard theatrical overreaction. What do you expect? We’re theatre people.

I’m Jerome Barry, stage manager. My world begins at the curtains and extends to the alley. Anything in front of the curtain is Harry’s trouble. Harry Collins is the theatrical director, and kingpin of The English Theatre, our little slice of drama and despair. At this moment, despair is the overarching theme.

“What am I going to do, Jerome? We are so incredibly fucked. Forty minutes to first bell, and we’ve lost our leading man. Leading men, since Eugene plays Theseus and Oberon. The gods must hate me. I mean, who gets mugged in Vienna? It’s the safest city in Europe.”

“If I meet the guys who knocked Eugene on the head, I’ll be sure to tell them.”

“Not helping, Jerome.”

“There’s no help at hand, Harry. You bite the bullet, go downstairs, and offer the audience a refund.”

“Are you barking? We’re sold out, two hundred and fifty seats at full price. We can’t issue refunds. We don’t have the money.”

Harry probably does have the money, but he’d rather part with his hair than refund a single euro. Directors are notoriously cheap bastards. They have to be. Live performance exists in a netherworld of impending insolvency. Doesn’t matter if the stage is Broadway, London’s West End, or a back-alley improv. Every company survives from one performance to the next.

An I-told-you-so hover on my tongue and, what the hell, I spit it out.

“Just like we didn’t have the money for an understudy. As you said, we’re fucked.”

I’m working up a great tirade when a timid knocking interrupts my creative process. Harry goggle-eyes the office door. I’m sure he’s going to stroke out right in front of me.

“What the hell, James? We’re sailing a sea of crisis here.”

James, our lonely usher, stands in the doorway. I see someone else lurking behind him. James is smiling. He’s always smiling. That’s why he’s the usher.

“When are we not in crisis, Harry? There’s a gentleman here to see you. Said it was an emergency.”

Before Harry can find a weapon or have a heart attack, James steps aside. A dapper man enters the room looking every inch a gentleman. He’s tall and lean, draped in Harris Tweed, and leaning on a walking stick. The bloke looks like he’s ready to play Professor Henry Higgins.

“Good evening, gentlemen. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Bartholomew Lowe. As I understand it, you’re in a bit of a pickle at the moment.”

The man’s voice is warm and rich, his words precise. The accent is Oxford, with undertones of somewhere far further north. A voice from another era, and from a man of indeterminate age.

Harry looks stricken, his mouth opening and closing like a gasping fish. I’m trying to remember if we have a defibrillator in the house when he finally finds his tongue and spits out words.

“A pickle? No lead actor, first bell looming, and a full house. Yeah, that’s the King Kong of pickles, sure as hell. Look, who are you? And how do you know about Eugene? We only just got the call ourselves.”

Red blotches sweep Harry’s face from cheeks to bald pate, a sure sign of his volcanic anger. I look for a place to duck, but the newcomer merely smiles.

“Ah, there are no secrets in the theatre, Mister Collins. You of all people should know that. I came as quickly as I could, you understand. You are in need of an understudy, yes?”

Harry sags back like someone’s just slapped him with a salmon. There’s no way I’m giving Harry Collins mouth-to-mouth, so I speak up before he shuffles loose the mortal coil.

“Mister Lowe, forgive my directness, but are you proposing to walk in off the street and act the parts of Theseus and Oberon?”

“Yes, Mister Barry, got it in one.”

Lowe smiles at me through a goatee cut sharp as a razor. His eyes are disconcerting, not to mention that he’s called me by name and I’m sure we’ve never met.

Harry is bolt-upright now. Random words shoot out of his mouth until his brain finally engages.

“What the hell… A Midsummer Night’s Dream… Four weeks rehearsing… Impossible. Okay, wait, just wait a second. You just stroll in here and offer to serve as understudy. Quick question. Are you insane?”

Lowe shrugs and flashes a smug smile.

“We are all of the stage. Insanity is an occupational hazard of our trade.”

“Do you know even a single line from the play?”

“Ah, you wish my bona fides. We are making progress.”

Lowe flourishes the walking stick, and it flashes through the air. I fight the instinct to duck. The tip of the stick lands upon a script atop Harry’s slovenly desk.

“Perhaps Mister Barry would care to suggest a scene. I will then supply the line. Should I fail, you may consider me gone.”

My eyes ping-pong between Harry and the stranger. Harry catches my gaze, shakes his head in what looks like disbelief, and then throws me the script. I thumb the dogeared pages and land on the opening.

“Okay, Mister Lowe. Act One, Scene One, Athens.”

“Ah, a chestnut.”

He clears his throat.

Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour                                  
Draws on apace; four happy days bring in
Another moon: but, O, methinks, how slow
This old moon wanes! she lingers my desires,
Like to a step-dame or a dowager
Long withering out a young man’s revenue.

Lowe seems to grow in stature as he recites, a proud patrician declaiming to lesser mortals. He stands there beaming. Harry waggles his fingers in my direction. I fan through the script and stop at a new page.

“Right. Act Two, Scene One, a wood near Athens. Enter Oberon.”

Lowe hunches his shoulders. I swear his face goes swarthy.

“A trick, Mister Barry. Oberon opens with a single line, but I shall give that which is requested and more.”

He bows slightly as if addressing an unseen guest.

Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.

He pauses as if listening. The effect is eerie. Then he’s off again.

How canst thou thus for shame, Titania,
Glance at my credit with Hippolyta,
Knowing I know thy love to Theseus?
Didst thou not lead him through the glimmering night
From Perigenia, whom he ravished?
And make him with fair Aegle break his faith,
With Ariadne and Antiopa?

A weird grin breaks across Harry’s jowls, like a gargoyle staring at a bag of gold. It’s a look that tells a clever bloke to check his watch and wallet. And if Harry’s leer doesn’t clue a fellow, his oily voice adds a coup de grâce.

“Perhaps we were a bit hasty, Mister Lowe. Do you prefer Bartholomew or Bart?”

“Bartholomew, please.”

“Great. Call me Harry. So, Bartholomew, what are we talking with regard to a fee?”

“A token is required, of course, a coin being traditional. Yes, a two-euro piece should do the trick.”

Harry’s smile threatens to split his face. He yanks open a desk drawer. After some noisy rummaging, he proffers a two-tone coin. Bartholomew leans forward to take the two-euro piece from Harry’s outstretched palm. He pockets the coin and taps his stick on the floor.

“A bargain struck, Harry.”

A frown clouds Harry’s face. He’s staring at Lowe’s walking stick like he’s never seen such a thing.

“Forgive my asking, but your stick… not on stage, right?”

“Indeed not, Harry. There is no swordplay in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

It’s impossible to stop the laughter that bursts out of my guts. They both turn to stare at me. Harry looks like a confused child while Bartholomew smirks. I’m probably grinning like the village idiot, but I don’t care a whit. I point at the cane.

“A swordstick? Isn’t that a bit cliché?”

“Perhaps, but it’s not for the stage you see. We live in uncertain times. Well, truth be told, the times have always been uncertain. A gentleman must be prepared for any eventuality. For example, I would not have been caught unawares like your unfortunate Mister Eugene.”

“Fair enough. Try not to stab anyone. Harry, if we’re going to do this, we need to move. Tick-tock, you know?”

 Lowe slips something from his waistcoat pocket. I see a flash of gold and what looks like a vintage Patek Phillipe pocket watch.

“Mister Barry…”

“Jerome. We’re all mates now.”

“Quite right, my apologies. Jerome has hit the nail on the proverbial head. I make it thirty-two minutes to first call.”

A quick snap and the pocket watch disappears. Behind the desk, Harry pushes himself to his feet.

“Right, then. Jerome, would you escort Bartholomew backstage? Introduce him to the players, makeup, costume. You know what to do. We’re all counting on you, Bartholomew. Break a leg.”

In a twinkling, Harry’s problem has become mine. I’m out the door and moving down a dingy hallway with Lowe at my heels.

This passageway is but one of many in my backstage labyrinth, a world unseen by the audience. In my invisible world, an actor may drop from the fly loft, rise from the traps, or run offstage and reappear walking down the centre aisle. It’s all sleight of hand, a conjuror’s trick.

Viewed from the seats of our theatre, the stage is a magical place full of illusion and wonder. If we get it right, that is. Behind the curtain, however, all is controlled chaos. Every scrap of stagecraft magic hangs by the thinnest gossamer strand. One quick snip and disaster ensues. And as we hurry down this dim passage, I feel disaster stalking my heels in the form of the mysterious Bartholomew Lowe.

The hall ends at a door. Beyond the threshold, we enter a dark cavern. The way ends at a spiral stair. Two storeys down to the stage, or one up to reach the fly loft. We descend, spinning ‘round the centre pole. Actors below, the lighting guy above, and I sense every eye appraising this stranger behind me.

A good stage manager survives by understanding the basic rules that govern backstage behaviour. The first rule is that there aren’t any rules. The actors behave like petulant children on an all-day sugar jag. The stagehands resent the actors and occasionally try to drop scenery on them. Oops, sorry mate! It is a symphony of chaos played to the percussion of clashing egos.

This is the chaos I descend into, towing an understudy who is about to be thrown to the wolves. The players have assembled at the foot of the spiral. There is no way this ends well. I paste a false smile on my face and begin.

“Hello, everyone. Bit of a change, I’m afraid. Eugene found a spot of trouble on the way here and wound up in hospital.”

“Knowing Eugene, the trouble came from the bottom of a bottle.”

This from Bridgett, our winsome Amazon Hippolyta and fairy queen Titania. She’s also a first-rate bitch, though probably not wrong doubt Eugene. The man is a complete lush. Now I have to introduce her new leading man with twenty minutes to curtain.

“This is Bartholomew Lowe. He will play Theseus and Oberon. Bartholomew, the players.”

A collective groan rises from the players.

Lowe steps forward and is suddenly bathed in a spotlight from above. Trust the lighting guy not to miss a moment.

“Hail, fellow players, and well met. I will make every effort to shine in poor Mister Eugene’s stead.”

A loud snort from Bridgett.

“That won’t be hard.”

“Ah, Miss Bridgett. May I say I’ve never beheld such a lovely Hippolyta. It will be a pleasure to tread the boards with you.”

A few snickers from the cast, but Bridgett is too busy melting to hear them. Lowe is casting a spell and she’s grabbing it with both hands.

This is the moment. I clap my hands for attention.

“Right, kids, let’s look sharp. Bridgett, I want you to show Bartholomew to his dressing room. He needs makeup and costume. The rest of you, do your best to help our new player.”

I nod to our prompter.

“Jessie, I want you script in hand and close to our understudy. Throw him a line if he needs it, although I doubt he will. You all know what to do. Break a leg.”

The company disperses to their last-minute rituals. Bridgett wraps herself around Lowe’s arm. I’m reminded of an octopus engulfing a hapless mollusc. I wish him luck as she drags him away.

I am left alone on the darkened stage, hidden behind the drawn curtain. No, not alone. Disaster lurks beside me, unseen and patient. Beyond the curtain, the first bell rings, calling the audience to their seats. The die is cast.

*  *  * 

As difficult as it is to believe, disaster seems to go hungry this night. Lowe carries the first scene without so much as a stumble. Bridgett is stunning as Hippolyta, positively glowing beside her Theseus. The knot in my guts loosens ever so slightly.

The Mechanicals bumble through Scene Two with appalling skill, leaving the audience in stitches. Full belly laughs fill the theatre.

Act Two opens with Puck and the fairies. Enter Titania and Oberon. Sparks fly as their anger smoulders. The audience is rapt. Oberon plots his revenge with The Puck as his agent. Every line is perfect, every mark hit, and not a cue missed. I find myself slipping into the cardinal sin of stage managers. I am enjoying the play —an error in judgment.

The lovers stumble through the forest night, magic flowers dispense their potions, and general mayhem ensues. Somehow, all confusion hovers, about to be put to rights.

Standing in the wings, I have forgotten disaster, my long-time companion. He is a phantom best not ignored. At the opening of Act Five, he seizes the stage.

The curtain begins to rise. Bridgett, as Hippolyta, moves to her mark. She looks the perfect Amazon Queen from toe to chin, but she still wears Titania’s beflowered fairy wig on her head. She’s so besotted with her new leading man that her costume sense has vanished.

I’m on the wrong side of the wings, too far away to help. The curtain is up, and the audience applauds. Time stands still, balanced on a knife edge. Jessie is rushing from backstage, waving the proper wig. Lowe sees disaster’s charge and springs into action.

The understudy springs into an impromptu dance, sweeps his Hippolyta into a waltz, and spins her upstage and behind a painted flat. Jessie yanks the fairy wig free, rams home the Amazon wig, and gives Lowe the thumbs up. Without missing a step, Lowe waltzes Bridgett downstage, spins her to a halt, and bows. An ad-lib cue if ever there was one.

Beaming through her new-found lust, Bridgett hits the opening line like the professional she rarely is.

’Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of.

Bile and relief surge through my guts in equal measure. I don’t know whether to vomit or dance a jig.

The audience loves the dance, and the other players take it as rote. Unbelievably, the show goes on. The lovers tumble onstage, full of joy and mirth. All is revealed, and every misunderstanding forgiven.
The Mechanicals butcher their play within a play, the royals are amused, and no one is hung. Peace is made, and each lover marries the perfect partner.

Bartholomew Lowe, the understudy, is at the centre of the entire performance. Even when not on stage, Lowe’s presence shines a light onto the players, and the players in turn reflect that light into the audience.

Robin Goodfellow orates the closing, but no pardon is needed. Our company has escaped the serpent’s hissing tongue. So, good night unto you all. The crowd is on its feet. Three curtain calls and still they applaud for more.

The actors take their last bows, the curtain closes, and delirium ensues. Corks are popped, libations poured, and ganga sparked. No one seems to notice that the understudy is nowhere to be seen.

Harry appears bottle in hand and a maniacal grin stretched across his kisser.

“Where is he, then? Where’s our hero of the stage?”

I must admit, I half enjoy breaking the news.

“Gone, Harry. Lowe is gone.”

Harry screws his face up like I’m speaking Gaelic.

“What do you mean gone? Gone where? Out for a pack of smokes?”

I felt like the mean clown smacking the sad-face clown.

“Gone, Harry. As in no longer present, has flown the coop. Er ist verschwunden as the locals say. Lowe has disappeared.”

“He can’t! We’ve four performances left in the run. And we must have our star understudy for closing night.”

“Eugene will be out of hospital tomorrow.”

“I don’t want Eugene. The man is a hack. I want Lowe!”

Harry looks about to weep. I want to kick him and hug him and can’t decide between the two, so I reach out and lay a hand on his quivering shoulder.

“I don’t think it’s about what we want, Harry, but what we need. We were in big trouble and the understudy appeared out of nowhere. The play is done, and now he’s gone.”

“But…

“No buts, old friend. Think of this and be content. You witnessed that rarest of theatre events: a perfect performance. All’s well that ends well. Let’s not spoil that.”

Harry looks at me through sad eyes.

“It was grand, wasn’t it?”

“That it was, Harry. That it was.”