Authors: Lisa Gee
In fact, the cringing only stopped finally a year and a bit later, when I discovered that even Sylvia Young had had her own stage mother moment. ‘When my daughter did her first audition for a commercial,’ she told me, hands covering her face, ‘and came out, I asked her how it went. She said, “It was very good. They asked me if I liked cornflakes, and I said ‘No, not really.’” I went back in,’ Sylvia continued, ‘and told them that she did like cornflakes. I was just very naïve and I thought I was being helpful and giving them info that they might need! Now I go red with embarrassment thinking about it.’ Then she added, ‘If you put that in the book, let me see it before you do, so I’m not embarrassed.’
I asked her why, in her opinion, stage mothers have such a terrible reputation, and whether we deserve it. She thought for a moment. ‘There are certain stage mothers who will not recognise their own child’s limitations and the talent of others. And that is where it gets very stupid. It’s not just the mothers, fathers can be worse. And grandparents. My God! Face an angry grandparent … The problem is the minority who build their children up in their own mind and to their child, and they mislead their own child and expect too much. And that’s very sad when that happens.
‘But the majority of mums are not deserving of that stage mother title. They’re quite sensible and take it in their stride and don’t boast.’
I asked Redroofs’ Sam Keston, too. She waxed eloquent. ‘Why the reputation? Because they are a nuisance. They have aspirations beyond those of their children and are always looking for glory because they have produced a genetic marvel. They are often seen as living their own dreams through their children. Real stage mothers, although I’m pleased to report that we don’t see very many, are quite repulsive, get in the way of the job in hand, and are honestly quite scary. They do more damage to their children than they will ever know and are guilty of ruining their children’s childhoods. Of course stage mothers have their equivalents in academia – at least these kids aren’t forced to take extra maths!’
She paused for breath. ‘They can,’ she added, ‘be retrained. If the zoo is very firm.’
‘Are a lot of us like that?’ I asked, worried. ‘Without realising it?’
‘It’s okay,’ she replied. ‘You’re safe.’
Given the Julie Andrews and the Blue Peter Badge Incidents, perhaps not as safe as she might think.
Just before Christmas, the adult cast of
The Sound of Music
clubbed together, organised a party for the children and bought them all presents. If the spot-on appropriateness of Dora’s present – a decorate-your-own cuddly unicorn – was anything to go by, a great
deal
of care and thought had gone into the whole arrangement. One of the Nazis dressed up as Father Christmas and distributed the gifts. There was a sing-song. Everyone had a lovely time. The children also did a ‘secret Santa’ for each other. Dora (or rather I) had to buy something for Greg, the Kettles’ Friedrich. We were supposed to spend five pounds or less. Dora’s secret Santa – who turned out to be the Kettles’ Brigitta, Caroline – gave her a pair of blue Disney princess slipper socks with individual toes. She was thrilled. They were, she said,
exactly
what she wanted (apparently Molly-May had some). I didn’t have a clue what to buy Greg, but having found out from his mum that he liked chocolate and practical jokes, I settled on a book of
Immature Pranks
, which wouldn’t really be immature for a twelve-year-old, but he could always save some of them until he was older, and something called an Oops-a-Daisy: a plastic cow key-ring that pooped little brown sweets. At home, Dora, Laurie and I watched the BBC documentary about Connie, Dora providing extra commentary. At the Palladium, I’d stand at the back of the stalls about once a fortnight, sometimes alone, sometimes in the company of one or more of the other mums, loving the warm, soft feeling of almost belonging.
There’s a moment in the show – the supreme Kleenex moment – when the children sing ‘The Sound of Music’ to Baroness Schraeder, and the captain realises, as Maria has just shouted at him, that he doesn’t know his own children. All the girls – except Liesl – run to him for a cuddle. Then Kurt holds out his hand manfully for his father to shake, which he does, and pulls him in for a hug. I wasn’t watching (Dora wasn’t on) when, two days before Christmas, during the matinee performance, Kurt and the captain miscalculated and Kurt’s head connected painfully with the captain’s chin. Michael, who was playing Kurt, managed to keep it together for the rest of the scene, but as the show progressed, he developed a headache and started to feel sick. He was whisked off to hospital by Elizabeth, one of the chaperones who, handily, used to be a nurse.
For every other one of Michael’s performances during his run, at least one of his parents had been around. But that day they’d dropped him off and headed up to the north of England, where they were performing a Christmas show with their ABBA tribute band, Y’Abba D’Abba. They’d arranged for one of the other von Trapp kids’ parents to pick Michael up and return him home, where his almost-sixteen-year-old brother would be in charge until their parents returned – which they were due to do in the early hours of the morning.
His trip to hospital nixed that. Even though checks revealed him to be completely fine, the doctors couldn’t release him unless he could be discharged into the care of an adult. When, earlier in the day, I’d heard about what happened, I’d rung his mum, Carol, to offer help if needed. I knew she’d do exactly the same for me and Dora, plus we live nearby and have a spare room. At half past ten, Elizabeth dropped Michael off at our house. I pulled out the sofa bed, fed him cheese on toast, lent him one of Laurie’s vests to sleep in and left a note for Dora to say there was a surprise for her in the spare room, and it was called Michael. Next morning – Christmas Eve – Carol and Steve popped round to collect him with a huge tin of Celebrations and stayed for a while and it felt like an impromptu party. Laurie taught Michael a couple of Arabic drumming techniques and lent him a drum. The rest of us laughed and chatted and ate chocolates until it was time for me, Laurie and Dora to start packing to go to my father’s house for Christmas.
I watched the show on Boxing Day, when Dora was on with Geese. Even after repeated viewings, the magic of
The Sound of Music
wasn’t palling. Christmas Day had marked the mid-point of Dora’s contract, and although there were more performances ahead of her than behind her, I was starting to feel conscious of time passing. As we headed into the New Year, everything seemed to be happening much quicker: the weeks, the shows, the gaps between them – everything, in fact, except the cold night-time waits by the wheelie
bins
– seemed to whizz by. A couple of weeks later, I was in again. This time she was on with Kettles, and most of the other parents were in the audience, several standing with me at the back of the stalls. ‘Did you see?’ one of the dads said. ‘Andrew Lloyd Webber’s in tonight. He’s standing at the back of the sound desk.’ I looked over. There was no one there. But the door into the bar behind was swinging.
Of the three teams’ parents, whilst the Mittens mums probably spent the longest on the phone to each other, the Kettles mob were by far the loudest and most boisterous. When we met, we did a lot of jumping up and down and squealing, whilst clutching each other’s arms. On this occasion, we were, if anything, slightly more over-excited than usual, and before Russ took them into the theatre, we wound our children up to fever pitch too. They ended up getting told off for talking and mucking about backstage. Dora came out that night feeling upset and sheepish – it was the only time she and Molly-May had been in trouble. I was surprised that we didn’t get told off too, given how much noise we made, clutching each other’s arms and squealing in the auditorium.
Although I never tired of watching the show, after a couple of months of schlepping Dora to the Palladium and picking her up after ten at night, I got progressively more fed up. The temperature had dropped and the dark wheelie-bin waits were becoming increasingly unpleasant. When I set off from home to collect her, I yearned for the evenings when I wouldn’t have to leave my warm, paper-strewn sofa to stand and shiver, waiting for a small girl to come out, sign a few autographs, climb into her car seat, have a short tantrum (although in a mid-January epiphany I discovered that the application of a pain au chocolat and a carton of apple juice could prevent these) and then fall asleep. But every time I went in and watched the show, I felt completely different. My inner stage mother and I were in perfect agreement. We wanted it to go on for ever.
But of course, it couldn’t.
*
On 12 January, Jo emailed all the parents:
Hi guys.
Today we had the final casting for the next teams and inevitably we are going to have some gaps. To assist us make decisions would you let me know whether you would stay on if you were asked.
This is not an offer
to anyone at this stage but it would help us if you could let us know. I realise it is a big decision but I would be really grateful if you would let me know as soon as possible! The new contract would finish in August and we will be unable to accommodate any holidays.
I consulted with Laurie and we agreed that, although both Dora and my inner stage mother would love to continue, as responsible adults we should overrule them both. Dora was tired and I felt that six months of her life was a lot – and certainly enough – to dedicate to a musical. The following term she’d be doing her SATs, and although she was keeping up well with her work and the school had been delighted for her to take part in the show, I thought Mrs Kendall would not take kindly to her absences continuing. She had also grown quite a lot in the nine months since she’d first auditioned, and was turning into a giant Gretl. She was, I suspected, probably too big to stay on in the role. Unlike her co-Gretls, all of whom were small for their age, Dora isn’t, and, at nearly seven, looked like a nearly seven-year-old. Even if I’d been wavering, which despite Dora’s pleading and my inner stage mother’s desires I wasn’t, I suspect I’d have decided it was better not to say ‘yes’ only to be told that they didn’t want her to continue.
There were other reasons too. Whilst waiting outside the stage door in the cold dark of winter wasn’t exactly my idea of fun, it was, I thought, preferable to Dora spending her long summer evenings in a theatre when she could be outside playing with her friends. In
winter,
when the alternatives were messy craft activities that never produced results equal to either the effort we put in or what we’d envisaged in the first place, or nagging her away from too much telly, it was the perfect way for her to spend her time. But summer is mostly for fresh air, running around and being noisy: it’s not the ideal time of year to be spending two days a week trying – and usually managing – to control your natural ebullience while waiting quietly in the subterranean dark of backstage. Then there was the matter of my relationship with Laurie. Not many newly married husbands have to spend most of their first year of wedded bliss playing second fiddle to a bunch of nuns, Nazis and stage mothers. Despite occasional bursts of irritation at my obsessive interest in the show and everyone and everything to do with it, he’d been astonishingly supportive and tolerant. But if Dora had ended up carrying on, I think he would have divorced me.
A lot of the other parents said ‘yes’ to their children continuing. Six of them stayed on for the second run. We arranged to go on holiday to France at the very beginning of the Easter holidays – leaving the morning after the last night that Dora might possibly be performing. We were all looking forward to the break – especially Laurie, who hadn’t been this long without a holiday in years, but was bearing up remarkably well, especially given that he was simultaneously being horribly neglected by his wife and recovering from an operation. Towards the end of the month, Song, the younger of our cats (named after the Korean footballer who scored the penultimate goal against Turkey in the 2002 World Cup playoff), died and we were all sad.
As January froze into February, the emails from Jo started to thin out. There were odd rehearsals and vocal clean-ups to tell us about, and the final version of the Gretl schedule, which had Dora finishing on Monday, 19 March, and then a big thank-you to all of us. But overall it felt like the end of a love affair – the kind that fizzles out when you gradually find you have nothing more to say to each other,
rather
than the sort that ends in an explosion of argument and recrimination. I found a couple of ways to fill the void. I was worried that our remaining moggie, Jarvis (who, being fat and stupid, was badly misnamed after Jarvis Cocker), was feeling bereaved and lonely, and whilst I didn’t want to hurry him through the grieving process, I felt he needed a companion. We were all feeling a bit bereaved and lonely: Song had been an engaging animal who demanded lots of attention, and we missed her. I started looking for another cat. Or, more accurately, I threw myself into a full-on cat research programme, and although at first Laurie appreciated the fact that my conversation had broadened to include a second topic, the novelty wore off pretty quickly.
Russ and his colleagues were organising little parties for each team of children, which would take place between the matinee and evening performances of the last Saturday they were on. These would be lovely, but meant that neither the kids nor us parents would have the opportunity to celebrate together and say goodbye properly. So a few of us mums got chatting and decided to organise something ourselves. I emailed round asking everyone for ideas for venues and themes, and Tracy Lane wrote back immediately, generously and possibly foolhardily – did she know what we were like? – offering her and David Ian’s beautiful house in Buckinghamshire and volunteering to help with catering. After a lot of information-sharing and a little bit of discussion, the parents all agreed that this would be fantastic, and we settled on Sunday, 18 March as the date most people could make.