Open Writing

This Christmas as you sit sparking criticisms at the seasonal extravaganzas on stage and screen – spare a thought for the line of dancers hidden somewhere at the back, that decorative row of stocking-fillers who occupy the stage while the stars slip into something more expensive.

Their complicated routines take hours of choreographing and weeks of re-hearsing to synchronise their movements. Often this effort only evokes a cursory glance from toilet-trippers or sometimes it’s the signal for ma to put the kettle on. Having served an arduous apprenticeship as a Christmas fairy, I have some idea of the punishment that goes into a festive production.

Yes – I have waved my wand o’er woodland glade, diced with death on the highflying ballet wires, I’ve done my share of ‘ooing’ and ‘aahing’ as a villager. I was once swept off my feet in Cinderella’s ballroom by ‘Buttons’ – being the smallest sunbeam had its advantages – if you can call three months of enduring two rows of brass buttons being pressed into your chest twice nightly an advantage.

Shambles Lane and our beloved Theatre Royal may have been malevolently destroyed, but for sometime-retired fairies the memories linger.

One dream I had never materialised – unlike a lot of the Theatre stalwarts I never saw the interior of the Bull and Mouth pub on the corner. Being of short stature lying about my age was a pleasure that had to be deferred.

But I was a fully paid-up member of Lindon Smith’s fish and chip shop.
After the show we had a regular three-pen’orth to warm our hands and innards all the way through the Pack Horse Yard to our bus stop.

On Saturdays – ‘treasury day’ – we enjoyed a teatime treat at the Kingsway Café up King Street. If we had enough time we sometimes went higher up to the basket chair euphoria at Heywoods.

Fed up with seeing girls with long curls and ten out of ten on their blue books monopolise the school stage, I answered an advert for ‘twelve-year-old dancers to train for stage work.’ Ignoring the dancer bit – after all I was the right age – I took my place in the audition queue.

Watching the waiting esoterics unload their various dancing shoes, I had my first uneasy stomach flutter. Would a Carmen Miranda impersonation which amused my mum paralytic, plus the desire to be the centre of attraction, be enough to sweep this dancing mistress and sycophants off their feet, I asked myself. Half-an-hour more watching these pirouetting leg-stretchers adjusting the ribbons on their pink satin shoes and I was wishing I had re-painted my old holiday sandals tucked in my coat pocket.

When my turn came to see what was on the other side of the dark brown door I was toying with the idea of sticking with the Girl Guides another year. But the pianist struck up and I faced the three supercilious expressions opposite and crooned in my South American accent ‘I like you vaary mooch.’

If they looked away I sang louder and revolved my eyeballs even faster. As long as the pianist played I sang. We were all blissfully relieved when her strength failed and she stopped. There must have been a shortage of stage-struck twelve-year-olds that year, because after complaining about having to ‘drag the talent’ from me the unsmiling principal said I was accepted.

Her parting threat ‘Once you start there’s no backing out,’ makes my ears go hot even now. Our chief fairy’s technique ran on the same lines as my school tormenter, he could make a tadpole dance. All he did was throw stones and shout ‘Dance!’ Teacher wielded the same power without the stones.

I tried every way I knew to back out during the painful weeks that followed. Twitching, weeping, promises that my parents would have a dead dancer on their hands for Christmas, but neither they nor I had the courage to tell teacher about my change of heart.

The moment we started rehearsals in the theatre life picked up. Not only was the distance between pupil and teacher greater, but we actually brushed shoulders with real life professionals. This fantastic ephemeral world was far removed from ordinary classroom existence. We longed to look ‘theatrical’ and copied every ostentation possible, exaggerated gestures, tied-over hair in coloured scarves.

We were all transformed from ‘Hey you’ to exquisitely pronounced ‘Dears’ and ‘Darlings.’ The exciting journey twice nightly from dressing-room, along a draughty paved corridor, up the stone steps past the hot water pipes to our favourite seat on the old prop basket, was a magical transition to the show-
business world of make-believe.

During one pantomime we were endowed with an imperious looking male dancer – straight from Sadler’s Wells – whom we all fell madly in love with. Every time he approached, our thirty-two-inch bras expanded another two inches. He never showed the slightest interest.

When he came on stage in his Genie of the Lamp gear our desire reached fever pitch. His body was covered in gold paint and he had a sort of shiny tasselled nappy girded about his loins.

His dance in the magic cave was the climax to the first half of ‘Aladdin.’ While he sat cross-legged on a pedestal with a lamp on his beautiful knee we had to glide around him in silent worship. He arranged the sequence, teaching us all to drift and bow our bodies submissively, a feat that came easy anyway, when he was around. When we eventually lie at his feet – his eternal slaves – he would creep slowly down from his perch and perform his exotic solo. We were so besotted we counted it an honour if he accidentally trod on an outstretched hand or foot, which he usually did.

From the auditorium this ‘Cave’ looked magnificent. Giant sheets of coloured tin foil were crushed into raffia tubes to represent jewels. Painted with glittery clusters the scenery sparkled magnificently under the concealed spotlight. Our costumes were most erotic, like transparent pyjamas with certain areas subtly covered in sequins.

One night as we crept on stage to the eerie cave music, my partner’s flimsy trousers became attached to the corner of the ‘jewellery.’ As we floated seductively forward so did all the clanging contents of the raffia container.

The more she tried to shake it off the tighter it clung. Everywhere she danced the ‘tin crocodile’ pursued noisily. We went into a spin and the monster bound us together. When the time came for our submissive flop we had no choice but to drag it with us. To make matters worse we all got the giggles, even the audience sounded amused. In fact Genie was the only granite face to be seen.

When the curtain fell we were ordered to his sacred sanctuary, the smile was duly wiped from our faces and our lust was completely banished. Who needed him anyway – I was already on winking terms with a trombonist.

I often recognise panto pals on television. Peter Drake of ‘Everyman’ series was once a friendly Grand Vizier along with Phillip Locke the actor. Lesley French was once a much respected Widow Twanky. Would they recognise me – I wonder?

But show-business smiles cover a lot of heartaches and I am thankful for me it was only a hobby. I lacked the stamina to make it a career. ‘If you’re looking for a life of adventure and excitement with excellent pay – join The Royal Marines’ said Radio 4 the other day. But I’ll settle for my Christmas tree, family and a comfy fireside, accompanied by the glow of a certain wine to bring out the flavour.

I wish you a happy Christmas too, don’t be lonely, invite someone round – if you haven’t a neighbour, ask the milkman in for a drink!