On the beach she builds a fire with gnarly driftwood and sits a copper pot above it. Stirs in sea creatures like a witch.
Hot chillies and pinches of spice: ginger; turmeric; paprika, for flavour. She knows the aroma will drift on the sea breeze to sunbathers at the swanky hotel
who lie sweating under palm umbrellas sipping coloured cocktails brought to them by young men in uncomfortable clothes.
In the midday heat a couple strolls hand in hand towards the woman
who stirs her pot in the shade of sarongs that hang from a line behind her.
She sells them ladles of soup in mismatched bowls.
They sit on rocks by the aloes to slurp and agree it’s the best fish broth they’ve ever tasted.
When bowls are empty she points to her line of bright sarongs Only 40 she says,
The woman says ‘they’re pretty’ and the man pulls just 20 from his fat wallet.
The old woman yields and watches
them sashay back along the beach, back to the sunbeds, where they’ll try and tan without burning, or turning as brown as her.
She wipes her dusty hands on a rag and casts the dregs of soup in an arc across the sand,
back in her hut she eats boiled rice and stale bread, then drops her skinny frame down onto her single mattress.
At 10 she hears the music from the hotel start. Singing and laughter cling to the wind. She snuffs her candle and tries to sleep.
They may dance until dawn but she will be heading to the market then.
I was only young,
eleven, twelve,
when the old brown horse
turned up on some bombed-out land near home,
its big soft snout snuffling
over the fence searching for sugar.
I lived in a brown town
punctuated by red buses,
not a place for country creatures.
No sweet greens,
just scratchy weedy, unknown things
to graze. No dapples, just
blocks of shade.
Skipping to school with sticky hands
I stopped each day at that wasted land
where the horse shone
and softly took the treat,
then thanked me with a stroke
of his conker coat.
Until we knew each other.
He always waited and watched
at the right o’clock
and greeted me,
delighted,
I named him ‘Horse’.
He knew me as ‘sugar lump girl’
One day the land was waste no more.
The builders came and built some flats
where old Horse once stood
and waited,
waited.
I met my husband at an amateur dramatics group nearly 40 years ago. We fell in love during a production of Charley’s Aunt, got engaged while rehearsing for Middle Age Spread, and got married post What the Butler Saw. This was over the course of three or four years, and including these plays, we were doing at least two productions a year – mostly performing, but sometimes working backstage. Working alongside a group of like-minded folk to produce something entertaining, and as top-notch as am-dram can be, was, I remember, fun, but also, hard work, frustrating and nerve-jangling,
When I got pregnant with twins we decided, quite rightly, that we couldn’t commit to gruelling rehearsals and set building any longer and hung up our make-up bags. Neither of us have acted since.
Well, that’s changing. You may know we moved, nearly a year ago now, and have begun building a new life some 200 miles away from the old one. We left lots of good friends behind who we miss terribly. We belonged to various groups: art group; poetry group; writers group, yoga class…. (gosh we sound a bit dull… but they were all fun… honestly!) and now we’ve lost all that. So we had to go out and find some new way of belonging, and the best fit for us locally seemed to be the local amdram group.
‘It’ll be fun’ we said
‘like the old days’ we said
So we joined.
The people in the group are lovely and we’ve been attending the socials and readings and have now been given parts in a one act play which is part of the next production.
Aaaaggghhh……. I don’t think I thought this through…. I’ve only got a small part, but there are lines to learn, cues, and remembering to be in the right place at the right time. My brain is forty years older. I can’t even remember how to remember lines. And….. and wait for it…. I have to sing! Alright, the character is not supposed to be a good singer (I can do that bit), but I’ve never had to sing on stage before, and it has to be a song from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, the one blooming musical in the world that I’ve never seen! (I’ve been watching bits on youtube… my goodness its dire!)
Dear god, what am I thinking! Currently we’re rehearsing twice a week, and yes, it is fun, and the play is funny (well, makes me laugh). But I do feel a bit like the weakest link.
Lets get this straight, I’m not, and have never been, a talented actress. Not naturally talented, I have to work, think it through. I am rubbish at accents. It takes time for me to get it right. My husband on the other hand has a natural talent that everyone recognises (hence his immediate leading role!). He can employ any accent at the drop of a hat.
I know my limitations. But 40 years ago I was getting leading roles, and my nerves didn’t get the better of me (not too often anyway) and I enjoyed the challenge. Now, I must get over this inner panic, put my big girl pants on, stop being a drama queen, and learn to love the spotlight again. So I’m off to learn my lines, and exercise my vocal chords….. ‘Oh the banyard is busy, in a regular tizzy…………….’
Cast of Middle Age Spread, Ashtead Players, circa 1983
Me and Him, The Merry Wives of Windsor, Polesden Lacey Open Air Theatre, 1984
Time and the Conways, Ashtead Players, circa 1985
Me and Him as Arthur and Sybil in Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime, Ashtead Players, circa 1985
It’s like going to the seaside really. The adrenaline coursing, the fairground scare of the bone shaker rocket, making footprints in the sand, and the bouncy castle feeling.
I grew up to the sound of needles click clacking through my childhood like nanna’s loose teeth. My mother’s fast fingers manipulated wool, turning it from a wayward ball into scratchy sweaters far from the cosy swaddle of soft baby blankets.
She fashioned me a swimsuit in blush pink which the North Sea sucked at while I paddled and splashed and squealed. I emerged almost bare initially unaware that the wool, heavy with brine, sagged around my skinny knees.
Tears laddered my face like dropped stitches. Sniggering kids in their 10 bob nylon suits pointed, while mum tiptoed across the sticks and stones of Brighton Beach to shield me in betowelled arms.
My protests never stopped her knitting lace garters for my wedding day, blankets for nuptial nights, and bonnets for new babies.
Now here I am, alone, in silence, sifting through a box full of sixties models smiling from the dog-eared patterns of memories.
Rebooting 