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The show must go on

I used to work as the manager of a professional theatre company and the entire time I was there I had a recurring dream. It always came when we were in production, usually in the run-up to the first night. I would dream that some calamity had befallen one of the cast members and I had been nominated to go on in their place. If you knew me, you would know that I am the least likely person to be selected in such a scenario. I once played a keener in a school production of Dion Boucicault’s The Shaughraun which required me to wear a black shawl, shake a clay pipe and moan at the wake of the hero, intercepting every few lines with: ‘Why did ye die? Oh, why did ye die? And lave us all alone to cry? Och hone!’ At the time, I thought it was a serious part. The audience thought otherwise. Beyond this, I have no acting experience, but for some reason, in my dream, it was always me that had to step into the breach. During one particularly stressful production period (we were preparing to transport a show for a tour in India) I dreamed that the entire cast had gone missing and I had to go on alone. I was in the wings, the audience seated in the auditorium, reasoning with the Director, saying I didn’t know the lines, I couldn’t possibly perform all the roles, surely we should cancel the show, but nothing I said made the slightest impact. She was convinced I was the person to carry it. The dream always ended in the same way: with me waking up in a cold sweat, mouth dry, head thumping, in the moment before I stepped on the stage.

I thought I’d left those dreams behind when I left the company around eight years ago to concentrate on my writing, but last night, something very similar happened. I dreamed I had arrived at a reading I was due to give along with two other writers, both poets. The reading was in a church with a slate floor and for some reason, there was sand scattered between the pews and along the aisle. The three elderly female organisers were all a-fluster. I’d forgotten to bring my reading copy of The Butterfly Cabinet (a largish print edition of the original trade paperback with edited extracts and estimated reading times marked in pencil). In fact, I’d forgotten to bring anything to read at all. Neither of my reading partners had turned up. Inexplicably, my husband had taken the car to collect someone from the airport. I asked, tentatively, if there were any bookshops in the town and was told that it had closed. It was well past library opening hours. I was essentially stranded without a script. I turned to assess the mood of the gathering audience, all of whom I suspected, had come to hear my absent fellow readers, and when I turned back, the three lady organisers had donned black boiler suits and welding masks. One of them had begun to hose the sand off the floor with a power hose; the other two were brushing like fury (think Olympic ice curling champions), in an attempt to wash the mixture of sand and water out the church doors. As they went past, one of them turned to me and lifted her mask. ‘It’s no good,’ she said, red-faced, ‘clearly the other two aren’t coming. You’ll just have to go on alone.’

I have two events in Northern Ireland in November. The first is at Roe Valley Arts & Cultural Centre, Limavady at 7.30pm on Friday 18th November when I’ll be reading with poets Moyra Donaldson and Maureen Boyle and fellow fiction writer David Lewis. The second is at the Island Arts Centre, Lisburn at 7.30pm on Thursday 24th November with poet Olive Broderick, a reading hosted by the John Hewitt Society. Neither venue is a church. Nor are they situated in the vicinity of a beach. As far as I’m aware, none of the organisers are professional curlers. Fingers crossed…