I was with the tea ladies, scurrying between their legs as they balanced trays of scones and chocolate crispies. The table was already groaning with white bread sandwiches, their crusts tidily discarded into their own bag near the piano of the music room. We were in the church hall and the stockinged feet friends of the Alloway Parish Drama Group were in full swing; egg mayonniase poised, vol-au-vents at the ready. With only a few minutes to the interval, there was still the urn to be boiled, still the napkins (paper) to be triangulated, it was all so reassuringly co-ordinated. Even my movements which I thought so subversive and covert must have been expected as though they knew exactly what the 10 year old self-styled food raider must have been after. They turned a blind eye as I scooped chocolate crispies into my hand as I flashed them a smile I hoped would be distracting.
I watched in fascination while my mother and her actor friends were on stage at the church hall. Normally this was a terrible place, a venue for enforced cub scouts until someone, perhaps not me, had had enough. I think I left of my own accord. I think I was thrown out. Either way it was a relief not to be toggled but to be enthralled by the smell of the well to do silently listening to an am dram denouement; or perhaps politely tittering as a Ray Cooney farce or an Ayckbourn witticism rang out. Here I was allowed my privilged scampering between acts because my mother was part of the suburban troupe who performed twice a year in halo'd surroundings.
I remember the excitment and nerve of seeing her on stage in Elvira, her Noel Coward bravura still ringing in memory, still recalled as a special moment. This was what it was like to perform, to be on stage, to be noticed for doing something. Perhaps being a teacher, the utlimate centre of attention, was not enough for her. She needed to feel the nerves of performance, the rush of adrenalin as the curtain parted. I can understand that.
And now I quickly take a look at the two actresses who are performing the adaptation of my Miss Globe X story in a Japanese-run cafe with an Indochine air. This is a first for everyone concerned and I suspect for Saigon itself. We are frivilous expats having an art thing of course but have slipped under the wire the virtues of airing gender roles and sexual stereotyping. In the marvelous performances of the two Miss Globes, there are the nuances of the narrative but also the live emotion of the moment. Leaping from page to mouth it is possible to vibrate with something here. It's such a sad yet angry story and it took on a life of its own thanks to the actresses and their intuitive director. There have been many collaborations over the years from a dingy urban warehouse to a sweaty Den Haag venue and each one has contributed directly or indirectly to the development of my writing.
It does mean the world to me.
There are two short Quicktime Movies. Miss Globe X Premier and Impromptu French Jazz Band. Photos courtesy of Robert Appino. Thanks Bob.
