Stage Mum (3 page)

I avoided taking much notice of any of this: mostly because Laurie likes holidays, and I was nervous of raising the possibility of a six-month ban on them in the run-up to our wedding. Especially as, unlike me, he thought Dora had a good chance of winning a part. There were already more than enough, mostly catering-related (if we were refusing vol-au-vents, then
surely
we had to have mini-latkes) disputes to manage. Family members on both sides were muttering that we simply weren’t competent to organise the event ourselves: they seemed particularly worried about insufficiently padded seating, plates with the wrong patterns on, and no bridge rolls.

Also I was slightly hazy about exactly what – should it come to pass – ‘100% commitment’ might involve. Would I need to look after Dora while she was rehearsing and performing? If so, would I be paid? How much? Did ‘no holidays’ mean we were confined to London for six months, or did it just mean no long trips to exotic locations? Anyway, I didn’t waste too much time thinking about it too deeply. She’d only
got
through one audition. All that meant was that she could sing in tune and was under five foot tall. There were still hundreds of children in the running. Watching
The Sound of Music
on video for approximately the millionth time (we did actually wear it out), I did, however, notice that she looked like Kym Karath, who played Gretl, nearly drowned during the boating scene and about whom Christopher Plummer reputedly exclaimed, ‘I’m not carrying that bloody fat little kid up that mountain’ (after which they stuffed a skinny local into Kym’s costume and filmed the scene with her instead).

More of my attention was absorbed by the three pages of sheet music attached to the back of Jo’s letter. Dora needed to learn all three parts of an a cappella harmony extract from the title song, plus fifteen bars of ‘The Lonely Goatherd’. I couldn’t help her with that, nor could Laurie: we didn’t have a piano and I hadn’t tried to read music for over twenty-five years. Not since I’d failed my Grade 5 trumpet exam for the second time.

A little over a month before our wedding, there was still a lot to organise. I wasn’t terribly bothered about things like clothes and flowers. Actually, I was so not bothered by flowers that it hadn’t occurred to me that we might need or want some. Clothes were slightly more of a concern. The feeling of sartorial inadequacy that thrums constantly at the edge of my consciousness was gradually gaining volume and would, I knew, at some point – probably when it was too late to do anything about it – erupt into full-blown neurosis. But I was way behind Lilli, who was threatening to spontaneously combust over Laurie’s reluctance to invest in a new outfit. She had a point: his attachment to the three pairs of well-worn Clark’s lace-ups that comprised his entire shoe collection did seem slightly unnatural, and his trouser-knees were universally shiny. ‘I’m an ascetic,’ he lamented. ‘Or I used to be. All I ever needed was one pair of yoga pants and a prayer mat.’ Which was true. Before becoming a children’s entertainer (how we met), my husband-to-be used to
travel
the world practising and teaching Sufi meditation, dance and Middle Eastern drumming.

I was more concerned that we hadn’t yet sent out the invitations, or even decided exactly who we were going to invite. What was the point of ordering 250 smoked salmon bagels if there was no one to eat them? After a bit of toing and froing between Laurie and me, my dad and Lilli – Dora had already invited about ten of her closest friends (including a couple of boys) to be bridesmaids – we settled on a guest list long enough to include everyone who had to be invited and most of the people we wanted to be there. We just about managed to keep it short enough to ensure that none of the older generation would be trampled in the post-ceremony scramble for a cup of tea (and, obviously, a bagel).

On that guest list was the solution to our audition music problem: Ruth Franks, jazz-singer-turned-children’s-music-teacher – a lifelong family friend of Laurie’s.

Two weeks before her recall – four before our wedding – we dropped Dora off at Ruth’s flat with sheet music, my minidisc recorder complete with blank disc and some garbled instructions on how to use it and what to use it for. Handily, Ruth lives just round the corner from the rabbi who was going to officiate at our wedding. We took the opportunity to visit his house with a packet of kosher biscuits, so we could chat about the service and discuss those delicate matters that needed raising and, more critically, avoiding in his speech.

An hour and a half later, marginally wiser and only slightly confused (did we get the things that needed raising and avoiding the right way round?), we were back at Ruth’s. Dora had had a fantastic time, and Ruth had recorded the melodies she needed to learn. ‘How did she do?’ I asked.

‘She’s pitch-perfect,’ said Ruth. ‘She might be exactly what they’re looking for.’

‘But she’s got no experience, and with all those stage school kids out there …’

‘They’re probably not looking for stage school kids.’

I thought she was wrong. I was certain they’d be after stage school moppets, old pros by the age of seven, who could cry convincingly on cue like Shirley Temple, sing like Cyndi Lauper, dance like very small versions of Ginger Rogers and all of whom would have been genetically modified using DNA carefully extracted from Jenny Agutter.

I copied each of Dora’s four tunes three times on to a cassette tape, and left her to practise, only interfering occasionally. Or, to be more accurate, only when I couldn’t help myself, which was quite often. When I wasn’t annoying her, she worked hard to learn the songs, and by a couple of days before the audition had mastered all but the bottom part of ‘The Sound of Music’. I figured this didn’t matter too much – surely that was what the boys would be for? She’d probably be singing the top or middle parts. But I made her do a bit of extra work on it anyway, despite Laurie’s very sensible advice that she’d be better off concentrating on the parts she knew well. On the up side, she took to belting out ’The Lonely Goatherd’ like she was born to yodel. Unfortunately, so did I, and I wasn’t. Worse than that, the song wormed itself into my brain. I spent the best part of a year humming it to myself, and occasionally bursting into off-key song, sometimes in deeply inappropriate situations.

We were due at the Really Useful Group’s head office in Covent Garden at 3.30 p.m. on Tuesday, 30 May, half-term, so no need to ask Mrs Kendall for time off. As usual we arrived ludicrously early. As usual, Dora was hungry and demanded food, so first of all, we popped round the corner to a café, where I bought her an apple and a bottle of water, promising something unhealthy after the audition. As we were now slightly less ludicrously early, we wandered back to Really Useful’s HQ. A few kids and parents were leaving. ‘How did it go?’ I asked one father. He shrugged, smiling, and told me that this time they weren’t letting the children know immediately whether they would be recalled. Round the side of the building, a mother was
critiquing
her son’s rendition of the top part of ‘The Sound of Music’. I thought it sounded better than Dora’s rendition of the bottom part. But then he was much older.

I pressed the buzzer, and the door released. To our left was a curved dark wood reception desk, behind which sat a smiley young woman. Rather unnecessarily, given that I was attached to a small, grinning girl, I explained what we were there for. She directed us into the boardroom, which, with its thick carpet, comfy sofas, huge oval dining table and big plasma telly, looked like it wanted to be a lounge when it grew up. There was a grand piano (covered) in the corner and a sideboard with half-empty bottles of water, cartons of orange juice, jugs of tea and coffee and nothing clean left to pour them into. And lots and lots and lots of people. One family of older girls and boys were huddled in a corner practising perfect three-part-harmony singing. Others were bunched together trying to peek through the closed white Venetian blinds into what was obviously the audition room. Groups of children were chatting excitedly amongst them selves. As new people arrived, there were the occasional shrieks of recognition, followed by excited hugs, as children met up with old friends. The adults also seemed to know each other. I didn’t recognise anyone. It crossed my mind that this was what our wedding might feel like.

Dora tugged at my sleeve. ‘I need the toilet,’ she whispered. So did I. But we found a woman with a clipboard first, so Dora could be ticked off the list and stickered. She was wearing tracksuit pants and bunchies again, as these had done the trick last time, and I was very proud that her hairdo was marginally more even. Although I hadn’t exactly achieved the Roman road of all partings, I’d managed to get one or two sections of it quite straight.

There was a short queue for the loo, followed by a long wait for the audition. We’d managed to grab one of the chairs around the big table. Dora sat on my lap and I read to her, whilst trying to listen to the singing that wafted out of the audition room whenever the chatter in the waiting area died down slightly.

Eventually her name was called, and after a few minutes of trying to concentrate on reading a novel, and smiling friendlily at some other parents, I joined the huddle at the Venetian blind. It was almost closed, but if you squinted at the right angle, you could just catch the odd slice of feet, ankles and table legs. If you focused hard, it was possible to hear muffled instructions being issued, although impossible to work out what was being said. These would be followed by short snatches of singing (audible and uplifting), more muffled talking and then laughter. Once or twice I thought I spotted Dora’s Scooby-Doo trainers. But strain as I might, I couldn’t identify her voice. This made me feel slightly inadequate: surely as a concerned parent, I ought to be able to distinguish my own daughter’s singing, even when it was parsed through a double-glazed window and a mostly closed blind.

I wandered back to the table. Someone else had taken my seat, so I picked up my book, found a spare bit of floor to sit on and leaned against the wall. Judging from the laughter – it sounded genuine – the children seemed to be having lots of fun. I wasn’t, but for some reason I was less nervy this time. I knew we wouldn’t find out whether she’d got through that day, so there’d be no immediate consequences to cope with. And we weren’t far enough into the process for a part to feel like it might be a nail-bitingly real possibility. I felt that having got through the first round, Dora had, in some small way, proved herself. Neither of us would be remotely disappointed if this was as far as it went. We would, on the other hand, be quite excited if she got further, even though I was starting to realise exactly how ferrying my little darling to auditions might gobble up large chunks of time and money.

Two things made it feel doable. Having only one child meant I wouldn’t have to factor in any additional school pick-ups, swimming lessons, packed lunches and screaming tantrums. And I work freelance. All I really need to get on with whatever I’m working on is my laptop, a book or two and a small square of reasonably clean
floor.
Table and chair optional, wireless internet access desirable. But I could, in theory at least, beetle away at whatever I was being paid to do and still become a stage mother. Not that I expected to become one. But I could. If I had to.

About twenty-five minutes after she’d gone in, Dora resurfaced.

‘How was it?’ I asked.

‘Great,’ she said. ‘I’m hungry.’

‘Was it fun?’

‘Yes. Can I have a packet of crisps
and
a muffin
and
a drink?’

‘What did you do?’

‘Singing. Can we get some food now?’

‘Did you have to sing all the different parts? Did you have to sing by yourself? Were the other children nice? Were the grown-ups nice?’

‘
Please
can I have some crisps and a muffin and a drink?’

Further grilling (over a muffin and a bottle of that disgusting with-a-hint-of-fruit-and-a-ton-of-aspartame water that Dora loves and that I feel guilty about allowing her to drink sometimes – I drew the line at crisps as well) revealed that everyone, children and adults, was nice, but she didn’t know anybody’s name, except that there were two people in there called Jo, one of whom had long curly hair and played the piano, that they’d all had to sing parts of ‘The Lonely Goatherd’ solo, although they’d yodelled in chorus, and that the youngest children had been asked which parts of the harmony in ‘The Sound of Music’ they wanted to sing.

‘You’ve done very well to get this far,’ I said

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m still hungry.
Please
can I have a packet of crisps?’

There was no news for another week. Fortunately, we were all very busy. Dora had plenty of play-dates to keep her occupied over half-term and Laurie and I were hectic with work and wedding planning. As we were having a Jewish do (hence the rabbi and the bagels), I needed a veil – so that Laurie could do the traditional thing and, before the main ceremony, peek underneath it to check that he was
getting
hitched to the right woman. Or, at least, the one he expected to be marrying. Because of all the friends Dora had invited to be bridesmaids, it had to be a long one. Thank heavens for eBay. Then Dora and I popped down to Bournemouth for a couple of days to visit Lilli. She helped sew tiny gold beads on to my BEAUTIFUL VEIL PERFECT FOR YOUR WEDDING NEW COST £150! (£24.99 + postage) so it went with the dress I’d decided to wear: a tight-fitting, knee-length gold brocade vintage number that my maternal grandmother wore to my parents’ wedding.

On our return to London, we heard.

This is to let you know that
Dora
will be recalled for THE SOUND OF MUSIC but I have no other details such as dates at the moment. All such details will come by email or by post when I know.

Best wishes,

Jo

Oh Gawd. What if the next round clashed with our honeymoon? Couldn’t cut that short just to take Dora to an audition. Not without an entry in the
Guinness Book of Records
for the shortest ever marriage, anyway. Still, it would be a pity for her to miss it, especially as she wasn’t coming with us. My dad would just have to take her: it was all his fault, after all. But what if the details were sent by post and the letter arrived while we were away and we didn’t get it in time? Or we got it in time for her to be there, but not in time for her to learn whatever it was she needed to learn beforehand?