After the Pantomime

By Susannah Donim

A spare time hobby slowly turns into a lifetime choice for Nick.

Chapter 5 – The Panto

Sarah the Cook starts to take over – and who is Auntie Elsie?

The last two weeks of rehearsals went like a flash – literally so, as every time I was in costume someone from the Society seemed to be taking photos. ‘For publicity,’ they kept saying.

We all knew our lines by now (well, mostly) and knew our moves (well, approximately). A lady who taught dance drama at the local college helped with the musical numbers and dances, but the cast’s two-left-feetedness still drove Charlie demented right up to the dress rehearsal. I was lucky not to be involved, as I can’t sing a note and couldn’t be trusted to dance in high heels anyway.

We wouldn’t be able to get into the theatre until the Sunday before we opened, as the previous show, a zany farce called Up the Bridal Path set among the county horsey set, didn’t vacate the premises until two hours after their last performance on the Saturday, which would be well past midnight. Our stagehands had built all our sets in workshops lent to them by the various local businesses who sponsored us, but they couldn’t start assembling them in the theatre until seven a.m. on Sunday morning.

Then they had until lunchtime, when the cast and orchestra arrived for the Tech Run. This was a full run-through in costume but concentrating on lights, sound and the special effects – like the Bow Bells, and making the Fairy and King Rat appear and disappear in puffs of smoke. The Tech Run is invariably fraught with tension as things rarely go according to plan. Sometimes the techies have to improvise solutions to problems they could never have anticipated. The evening would be reserved for the Dress Run, which was positively the last rehearsal before opening night.

The cast all had to be at the theatre by eleven, to get into costume and make-up. We needed to be ready in case the stage team managed to finish early. I was very pleased to have the star dressing room, but when I went in, I soon saw why it was necessary.

Polly was already there and had laid out everything we needed for Sarah. My three wigs on their stands took pride of place on the dressing table, the rest of which was cluttered by boxes of stage make-up. A rack of dresses and petticoats filled the middle of the room. Bras, panty-girdles, bloomers and stockings were laid out on a long table against the opposite wall, on which Polly had hung our publicity shots and the photos that everyone had been taking throughout rehearsals. I was the only one in costume, so you had to look quite carefully to see that I wasn’t just a fat middle-aged actress rehearsing with the rest of the cast.

Next to them was a cardboard mount with photos and programmes from previous LADS productions.

“Arthur always liked me to put them up in his dressing room,” she said, when she saw me staring at them. “He said it made him feel part of the great theatrical tradition.” She looked bereft for a moment. “Silly old fool!” she sniffed.

“Hey, he’ll be back next year,” I said, touching her shoulder. “He won’t be able to stay away.”

“You’re probably right,” she said, and managed a smile. “Come on, let’s get you ready, love.”

* * *

The first problem we encountered at the Tech Run wasn’t of a technical nature at all. By noon Joe the Narrator hadn’t turned up. At 11.30 Charlie started making frantic phone calls to him and to everyone Charlie could think of who might know him. Nobody had a clue where he was.

By half-past twelve the set was finished and the stage crew were starting to get fidgety. It would be a long day for most of them. So Charlie decided we’d have to make a start. He would read the Narrator’s part. When he did, we all realised why he had chosen to focus on directing. He was flat and limp and completely tone deaf to the jokes. His direction was the epitome of ‘Do as I say; don’t do as I do’. If he had to play the part for real, the show would be off to a dreadful start. The rest of us would have to spend the next hour working to rescue it.

But after the Narrator’s opening monologue the Tech Run went reasonably smoothly. There were a few scenes, especially those with the Bow Bells and on board the Saucy Sal, where the set didn’t perform quite as expected, or the Stage Manager didn’t bring the sounds and the lights in on cue. The storm in the second Act didn’t work the first time. The crew struggled to synchronise the thunder, lightning and the sound of the rain, and the ship’s rocking was unconvincing. But they assured us that these problems were quite normal and exactly what the Tech Run was designed to sort out. We had to run through each of those scenes three or four times, and there was a ten-minute hiatus while the crew secured the rocking ship more securely to the revolving platform.

Our primary school kids provided audience participation when they weren’t on stage being rats. After they had been warned not to do Pete and me any permanent damage, the four of them picked to join in the kitchen custard pie fight had great fun. We had to stand very still, and in some cases bend down a little, to make sure the kids had easy targets for their pies.

The Tech Run was also our first real opportunity to check whether my various costume changes could be accomplished in the time available. We had discovered earlier that a couple of them would be tight, so Polly requested that those be done backstage rather than in my dressing room, which was downstairs and two or three minutes away. So I would now be parading in my bra and bloomers in front of the stagehands. I just hoped they would be professional about it.

So could I change in and out of my elaborate costumes in time? Polly was amazing. For each change I made my way to her in the dark, clambering over ropes and stage weights behind the backdrop, to our corner, which was lit by a small desk lamp, shaded so that its light didn’t shine towards the stage. She had a printed list of the dresses and accessories required for each scene and had arranged everything I needed in the correct order on a trestle table. She must have worked incredibly hard to organise this. Before I had got my breath back from the previous scene, she was already removing my hat and gloves, and unzipping my dress.

While I was standing there in my shift, bloomers and petticoat, she inspected me to make sure everything was in order for the next dress. I stepped into it; she zipped it up; and I sat down for her to renew my make-up. Frequently she would have to dab away the sweat first.

As we were only yards away from the ongoing scene and separated from it by only a few millimetres of painted canvas, everything had to be done in complete silence as well as semi-darkness.

The Tech Run finished at about half-past four and Charlie declared a welcome break for rest and refreshment. He warned us all to be back and in costume by six for make-up, and ready to start the Dress Run at six-thirty. In the meantime he would drive round to Joe’s place and find out what had happened to him.

* * *

At a little after six most of us in the cast were sitting in the stalls with cups of tea. A stagehand was lecturing us on where to stand when the wooden and cardboard Saucy Sal was bucking up and down prior to its sinking. The excited Year 3 kids were up on the stage running round, getting in everyone’s way, and learning new swear words from the frustrated stage crew (which they would later try out on their parents to receive a well-deserved clip round the ear).

Charlie returned looking haggard. We welcomed the interruption, until he revealed what he had found out.

“There was no one in at Joe’s but a neighbour told me he and his wife were at the hospital so I rushed round there. Apparently, he’d been putting up Christmas decorations at work and fell off the ladder. He landed badly and has broken several bones. He’s out.”

We all expressed our sympathy for Joe and promised to go and see him in hospital as soon as possible.

“You’ll have to do his monologue, Charlie,” said Alderman Fitzwarren.

“I can’t! I’m not a performer. The Narrator opens the show. If he’s rubbish it gets the whole thing off to a dreadful start.”

Secretly we were all glad he’d realised that.

“But there’s no one else,” said Pete. “Can we do without it?”

Charlie was looking at me.

“Well, yes, I suppose we could do,” he said, “but how about we merge it in with another piece that’s spoken directly to the audience?”

Everyone else was looking at me now. For some reason I felt that my bra was digging into my shoulder blades a bit more fiercely, and my girdle felt tighter.

“Well,” I began, “I suppose I could do his lines and combine them with introducing myself as Sarah then, rather than later on. We could just move that section up to the opening. It would shorten my piece in front of the curtain after the Town Square scene, which might make changing the scenery a bit tight. I could add in a few more gags there if they need more time. Give me a minute with a script and a pencil, and we can try it out…”

* * *

We started the Dress Run at about ten to seven. The house lights went down. I stepped through the curtains and was immediately dazzled by a spotlight focusing on me. I couldn’t see the audience clearly but it looked like there were more occupied seats than I had expected. I began the opening patter.

“Oh, hello, boys and girls,” I began, in a loud voice full of excitement and bonhomie. “How are you all? Are you having a good time?”

I paused for some audience reaction. The other cast members and the kids and whoever else was out there called out ‘yes’.

“Pardon?” I said, my hand to my ear. “I asked, are you having a good time?”

They all answered ‘Yes’ more loudly.

“Why? What are you doing?” I said, which raised a few proper laughs. Ken Dodd, thou shouldst be living at this hour.

The Narrator’s role – now mine – was a bit like a warm-up man in a studio recording of a sitcom. I had to set the tone for the show with a few corny jokes, some topical references, some rude remarks about people coming from nearby towns (Saffron Walden and Bury St Edmunds bore the brunt), and instructions to turn mobile phones off. It seemed to be going quite well.

“Sorry, I should have introduced myself,” I continued. “I’m Sarah the Cook; well, I say Cook. Actually, I seem to do everything for Alderman Fitzwarren.” I paused and gave my audience a suggestive look. “Sometimes I think he takes advantage of me. Anyway, he loves my dumplings.”

I paused again on that line. This was the moment to do something exaggeratedly feminine. I folded my arms under my bust, hitched up my bosom, tossed my head and primped my hairdo. The tiny audience managed a few good-natured chuckles. Whoever was out there – friends of Charlie’s? – had obviously been primed to react to give the cast a bit of a lift. Otherwise the Dress Rehearsal can feel a bit flat.

“Well, he’s a widower,” I continued, “and my husband died a little while ago.” I gave a little, theatrical sob. “I nursed him in his last illness. I used to rub grease all over his back to make him feel better. It didn’t seem to help. He went downhill really fast.”

I paused again to give them time to get the joke. Now for a barrage of one-liners.

“He always used to help me in the kitchen. He had a black belt in cooking. He could kill you with one chop.” Beat. “We had a very happy married life. Mind you, I was naïve and innocent when we met. I used to think Coq au Vin was making love in a lorry.

“I remember one of the last things my husband said to me before he died. What are you doing with that hammer?” Beat. “He came to a sad end. He fell into a huge vat of granulated coffee. It was a terrible way to go but at least it was instant.”

The unseen spectators were chuckling heartily now. I felt encouraged. They’d obviously heard all the jokes many times, but they seemed to appreciate my delivery.

“Ooh, I’m so tired today,” I continued. “I’m absolutely knickered.” I turned sideways, as though talking to someone in the wings. “No, dear - knickered. My breath’s coming in short pants.”

I puffed and blew a little to fit the line. I was fully proficient in feminine phrasing and mannerisms by now. I gripped myself around the torso and panted some more.

“I’ve been trying to lose some weight,” I said. I turned sideways and stuck my chest and bottom out. “Can you tell?” My vision had adjusted to the light now. I caught the eye of one of the girls in the audience – Millie, I think. “Don’t you dare!”

“I’ve always been a big girl,” I sighed theatrically. “In fact, everyone in my class at school was enormous. They had to stop us doing cross country running because we dented a viaduct.” A couple of people laughed out loud at that one. “So I’m wearing my ‘Harvest Festival’ corset today – all is safely gathered in.”

Another pause to leer at any older ladies there might be in the audience.

“Well I have to go now, but I’ll check back with you later on to make sure you’re keeping up. Tell you what – could you say hello when you see me? When I come on, I’ll say, ‘Hello, boys and girls’, and you say, ‘Hello, Sarah!’ as loud as you can. Shall we try it?’

I paused to get some audience reaction. There were some cheerful grunts.

“Hello, boys and girls!” I yelled.

“Hello, Sarah!” they shouted back.

“Sorry? Did you say something?” I said. “I thought I heard a soft whisper on the wind. Come on, you can do better than that! Hello, boys and girls!”

“Hello, Sarah!” they yelled, much louder.

“Mm, all right, but try to do better next time! I’ll see you all later. Now – welcome to Old London Town…”

I stepped back into the wings as the curtains opened. I was followed by flashes. Someone was taking photographs again.

* * *

The first Act ran fairly smoothly apart from a few instances of forgotten lines, Alderman Fitzwarren being the main culprit. I fluffed a couple but improvised my way out. I think Charlie was the only one who noticed. At both the Tech Run and the Dress I had to mime throwing sweets out to the audience from my mixing bowl – the LADS budget didn’t run to any additional goodies for rehearsals – but I didn’t expect that to be a challenge on the night.

My action scenes were still a worry. My next was the bedroom strip-tease with the little rats running around me as I was stripping off my day dress and getting into my all-too-revealing nightie. But we had practised that often enough that it actually went smoothly. There was more flash photography but I was getting used to it by now and barely noticed.

My last scene of the Act was in the kitchen. We’d only done the custard pie fight with actual crazy foam once before, when we discovered that the cardboard plates became slightly heavier and more unwieldy when loaded, so the choreography needed a little tuning. Also if the stuff gets in your eyes, it doesn’t hurt, but you do have to pause to clear your vision. So we had to adjust the timing slightly whenever either of us scored a direct hit. We were confident that the audience’s laughter would cover any pauses for wiping down.

We called for four more volunteers from the rat pack and Alice and Tommy went down into the stalls to pick them. It was actually quite hard to tell the boys from the girls in their little rat costumes. We hoped that wouldn’t be a problem on the night, but these days who knew?

Anyway they had a great time smothering us and each other in foam. This part couldn’t be choreographed, of course, so it was all improvised, which put an additional load on me and Pete. We had to referee the fight; arm our little guests with pies; and take a few more hits ourselves; all while stopping them from actually killing each other.

After about five minutes of this mayhem Pete blew a whistle and he and I wiped the kids down. On the night we would also hand out the sweeties and the paper towels. And that was the end of Act One.

Charlie didn’t want to interrupt the flow of the performance, so I didn’t get any feedback on whether my opening was OK till we broke for the interval. He and Arthur approached while I was relaxing in the stalls with Pete and Polly. My voluminous skirts and petticoats overflowed the seats. I was wondering who the mysterious strangers in the audience were, and where they had gone, because they weren’t in evidence now.

“Your opening was fine, Nick,” Charlie said. “We’ll go with that if you’re OK with it.”

“Not much bloody choice now,” said Arthur in his usual cheery manner. “This production’s doomed. These things happen in threes, you know. Who’s next for the broken bones? You’d better be careful in those high heels, young Nick.”

“Yes, thank you, Arthur,” Charlie and I said in unison. We grinned at each other.

“I’m just saying…”

“Oh, shut up, Arthur,” said Polly. “Not everyone’s as superstitious as you, you know. In fact, I’ll go the whole hog and wish you all good luck for the week.”

The old thespians all looked at her in horror. Wishing an actor good luck before a performance was the ultimate bad luck.

“Well, I’m not saying ‘break a leg’,” she said. “There’s been enough of that already.”

“OK, gather round, everyone,” called Charlie. “Just a few notes from the first Act, then we can get on with the second. Firstly the ‘London Town’ song in the opening scene. That was probably the best you’ve ever done it, but a couple of people were still singing flat. If you can’t keep in tune, for God’s sake, mime…”

* * *

It was after half-past eight when we began the second Act, which opens on the docks. Because of the rat infestation the Alderman needs supplies from Morocco to sell in the store and he hires the Saucy Sal. For some reason, he decides to join the ship himself and brings his daughter Alice along as well, which of course makes no sense at all.

They bring their servants with them too: Idle Jack and me as the Ship’s Cook. This gave me an opportunity for another costume: my girly sailor suit, a short Navy Blue dress with white piping along the collar sleeves and hem. Of course, because it was short, I had to wear yet another pair of bloomers in matching Navy Blue. These came down to just below the knee, with elastic and lace around their leg holes. The lower half of my shaved legs were in full view. The costume reminded me of an old-fashioned bathing beauty outfit. I felt like a sex object. There was a matching bonnet, like a mob cap, also in Navy Blue with white piping.

In this scene everything is haste and confusion as the Captain and his First Mate want to sail with the tide. There was very little dialogue, just lots of tricky choreography with sailors – the chorus boys and girls – running round carrying the ship’s supplies, bumping into each other, dropping boxes on each other’s feet, and so on. We principals had to do much the same, scurrying around each other, having lots of near accidents. Hopefully it would be very funny. The scene ended with me, Idle Jack and the Alderman telling lots of old, off-colour nautical gags before boarding at the last minute.

In the midst of all this confusion, unbeknownst to the rest of us but hopefully very obvious to the audience, Dick Whittington and Tommy the Cat stow away too, in search of fame and fortune.

The second Act went well. The storm special effects were excellent now. The ship rocked alarmingly; we threw ourselves from side to side like Kirk and Spock on the Enterprise. It was so unsteady we hardly needed to act at all, and I was the most off balance in my high-heeled boots. We sank with all hands, as planned. The ‘Under the Sea’ scene in Davy Jones’ locker was spooky and could frighten some of the little ones, so Idle Jack and I had some swimming gags to lighten the mood.

After the technical challenges of the ship and the storm, the scenes in Morocco were relatively easy. I had another costume change for the street encounter in which I try to seduce the Alderman, and he accidentally rips my dress off. Down to my old-fashioned frilly underwear, I scream and run off stage squealing. The Alderman chases after me with my dress. Well, he has to marry me now, doesn’t he?

Then into the Sultan’s palace where Tommy kills all the little rats and Dick kills the big one. The Sultan gives him half his kingdom and offers him his daughter’s hand in marriage, but Dick will only wed Alice Fitzwarren; and everyone lives happily ever after.

The whole show finished with singing and dancing at the Sultan’s Palace Ball. I was now in my mermaid-style ball gown. This was my most difficult costume. It showed my every feminine curve (all padding of course) and I could hardly move in it. I end up with the Alderman as planned, and we have a little dance duet in which he dips me low. Every time we did it, I prayed that his back would hold out, because if he let go of me, there was no way I could avoid falling on mine.

With just a few minor stoppages it was after half past ten when Charlie called us together for his Second Act notes. We all listened carefully and promised to take his comments on board for opening night. His main instruction was to pick up the pace, or we’d have complaints from parents about keeping the kids up too late.

Overall the amateur cast had shown why LADS was so well-regarded locally, and why they regularly won prizes at drama festivals. I had done my best to rise to their standard.

I never got round to asking Charlie who his guests were.

That night at home I promised myself I would read through all my lines one final time, but I fell asleep half-way through Act One.

* * *

On Monday morning I got an exciting telephone call from Gerry MacAulay, the biochemist working on the new hand-held blood sugar testing device. As planned, they had made arrangements with our local hospital to try out their prototype with their diabetic patients, and had completed the first round of clinical trials, with extremely promising results.

With my help they had approached a bank for full financing. Their start-up venture manager was very impressed and he wanted a meeting this week to discuss contracts. I had pointed out that I couldn’t do an afternoon meeting at their London HQ as I needed to be at the theatre by six o’clock. We were offered early Friday morning. I suggested that we should agree as long as the real decision makers would be attending. Otherwise, as I knew from my time in big firm accountancy, these negotiations could drag on for months. When Gerry mentioned that we were in conversation with other banks they agreed.

This was progress, but it meant that Gerry, his partner, Steve, Will Holford and I would need to spend most of this week preparing. We planned to get together at Will’s office, as he had all the relevant model contracts there, and his firm could make a conference room available all week. We were convening at 10.30, so I called in at MyOwnCouture.com before heading off.

Ruth’s office door was partially closed. There was no light on so she was probably out, but there was plenty of natural light in there in the mornings, and I knew she often worked like that to deter visitors and other distractions. She could still hear what was going on outside.

“Hi, Nick! We didn’t expect to see you today,” said Vicky, when I entered the open-plan office.

“I just came round to drop off a copy of our programme. I got them to put in an advert for MyOwnCouture.com. I took the content off the website. It was all a bit last minute, or I would have checked with Ruth for her input.”

Vicky started thumbing through the programme.

“How did your dress rehearsal go?” she asked.

“Very well,” I said, stretching the truth only slightly. “It’s going to be a great show. Are you coming?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. We’re all going on Friday night. Can’t wait to see you in the dresses we made for you!”

I smiled. “I hope you’re not coming just so you can laugh at me? Like Ruth?”

I turned my head to her office door. No sign of life.

“What? No!” Vicky looked genuinely shocked. “Pantomimes are great fun – and we think you’re amazing!”

I wondered who she meant by ‘we’. I knew she and Mike had started dating.

“I could never get up on stage in front of a lot of strangers,” she continued, “especially… dressed like that. I’d be shell-shocked. Respect!”

“Nice of you to say so,” I smiled. “It’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever done, I think.” I pointed over my shoulder with my thumb. “And her relentless mockery certainly hasn’t made it any easier.”

“Oh, that’s just Ruth. She likes teasing people.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and grinned. “Especially you…”

She found the page with the advert. “Oh, here it is! It’s great – and in full colour too.”

The ad said the same sort of stuff Mo had put on the website; indeed, I’d lifted the content directly from the home page, with the same pictures. “Come to MyOwnCouture.com – you can design your own dress, or pick one of our fashionable styles. Choose from our wide range of colours and materials. We can print any pattern or design. Just send us your measurements and we’ll manufacture a unique dress to your exact specifications. Get precisely what you want at a fraction of the price on the high street or anywhere else online.”

“I also got them to put in a credit on the page with the cast list – see there at the bottom.”

“The Dame’s costumes were designed by Arthur and Polly Whitmore, fabricated by MyOwnCouture.com, and finished by the LADS wardrobe team,” Vicky read out.

“That was very kind of you, Nick,” said Ruth, emerging from her office. “Every little bit of publicity helps.”

Had she heard what I said? She must have. Oh well, she would know what I thought of her by now. The smell of burning bridges assaulted my nostrils.

“You’ve still got make-up around your eyes and nose, by the way,” she said. “I hope you don’t have any important meetings today.”

I grabbed my handkerchief and started rubbing randomly.

“Here, let me.” She took my handkerchief and held it out. “Spit, sweetie,” she said.

I spat, just like I’d always done when my mother told me to when I was little. It didn’t occur to me to refuse then – or now. She rubbed my face vigorously. I wasn’t looking at Vicky but I could hear her trying to stifle a snigger.

“That’s a little less obvious, but you need cold cream really. Saliva doesn’t work that well on modern cosmetics.”

“Um, thank you,” I mumbled.

“Eddy and I are going on Friday night too,” she said. “Can we come to your dressing room after the show? Maybe buy you a drink? I know we can’t do that on Saturday night. You’ll have the cast party after the show, won’t you?”

“Er, yes, that would be great,” I said. I was anxious to change the subject. “So how are you getting on with those other orders?”

“They’re done and despatched. I’m going to send out an email asking the customers for feedback.”

We all fell silent.

Awkward.

“The website got nearly a hundred hits yesterday,” Vicky said.

“That’s great!”

“None of them turned into orders though,” Ruth said.

“Still…” I said. “Early days.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“Well, I must be off,” I said. “We have a contracts meeting for the diabetic testing guys. Looks like they may have got more funding.” I turned to go. “I’ll probably be in meetings with them most of this week, so… I may not see you till Friday night.”

I made for the stairs. I sensed Ruth following.

“You know, you really shouldn’t take the things I say so seriously,” she said, quietly.

I turned. “What things?”

But she had gone back into her office and closed the door.

* * *

The rest of the day passed agonisingly slowly. We made good progress at the meeting at Will’s office, but my mind was hardly on contract negotiations. Tonight was opening night! I rushed off to the theatre as soon as I could get away.

Too nervous to eat dinner, I soon found myself in the little dressing room with Polly. She helped me into my padded bra and panty-girdle. Then I pulled a fresh pair of white patterned stockings up my legs and Polly helped me secure them to the girdle’s suspenders.

“Nervous?” she asked.

“As a cat on a hot tin roof,” I said.

She laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s Panto, not Tennessee Williams. Everyone’s here for a laugh and you’re a good stand-up comic, totally at home with an audience. If things go wrong, you’ll improvise something and they’ll love it.”

“I wish I had your confidence.”

“It’s the anticipation; you’ll be fine as soon as you get going.”

I stepped into my frilly bloomers and sat down so that Polly could do up my high-heeled boots. I wriggled into my shift.

With my underwear and padding in place, she began on my wig and make-up; the false eyelashes, heavy eyeshadow, thin arched eyebrows, the rouged cheeks, the bright red lipstick, and the little upturned prosthetic nose, with its own touch of rouge – to suggest a heavy drinker, maybe?

Polly paused to check her work. We both examined my image in the mirror. And slowly the magic started to happen. Sarah came out and looked around her.

I looked from my reflection to Polly’s and back again. I saw two plump, middle-aged ladies, one too heavily made-up. I was over the moon to be one of them.

“What do you think, Sarah?” Polly said.

“It’s fine, sweetie,” I said in Sarah’s voice. “Just darling!”

Polly laughed. I was preening myself, checking my hair and make-up like any matron at the mirror in the Ladies’.

“She’s taken you over, hasn’t she?” Polly said with a smile. “That’s good – it means Nick has gotten out of the way, and you – Sarah – will give a great performance. This always happened with Arthur, though perhaps not as much as this. Are you sure you’ve never done this before?”

“Only in my dreams, lovey.”

“There are other differences too,” she mused. “Arthur’s age and figure meant he had to play the Dame as a roly-poly mum; or Granny in Little Red Riding Hood; or occasionally the stern headmistress type. So there was always a generational gap. The kids saw him as a parent figure. You come across as younger. You could be the cool aunt, younger than their mums and dads, and more fun. Maybe even a big sister.”

I thought about that, and whether it might change my performance. Perhaps in the slapstick scene?

Polly was holding out my petticoat for me to step into. The rustle of nylon was thrilling. Then she was zipping me into my garish day dress and adding a matching ribbon to my hair.

And there I was: Sarah the Cook, ready to go out and kick bottom. I giggled at the excitement to come.

* * *

It was 7.25 on Opening Night. The curtains were still closed. I was standing with Charlie in the wings looking through the little one-way hatch at the audience.

“I thought you said the Monday was usually the worst house, not much more than half full? I can hardly see any empty seats.”

“Word must have got around,” Charlie said.

“How?

“The review in tonight’s paper probably helped. It was really good – best we’ve ever had.”

“What review?”

“Oh, didn’t I mention? I invited the staff of the Echo and the Post along to the Dress Run. They brought their families. They had about a dozen kids between them.”

“So that’s who all those extra people were!”

“Yep, and they all had a great time. Most of the kids are going to drag their parents in again later in the week.”

“I didn’t see any of them in the interval.”

“No, I sent them off for free drinks and ice creams in the bar. It was a rehearsal after all. We didn’t want them listening in while we did Notes and fixed problems. It would’ve spoilt the magic. I dare say they rushed off quickly at the end to file their reviews for the morning papers.”

“What did they say?”

“Very enthusiastic. Both singled you out for special praise. ‘Best Dame in years,’ one of them said. Arthur’s fuming.” He chuckled. “Mind you, the amount of our booze they guzzled, the reviews should have been good.”

The house lights dimmed. The buzz of conversation fell to nothing. The opening music started.

“Hey up!” he said. “You ready for the off?”

A spotlight fell on my side of the stage, a couple of feet from my high-heel boots. I stepped out into its glare.

“Oh, hello, boys and girls,” I began, as though surprised to see all those strangers outside my home and place of work. “How are you all? Are you having a good time?”

* * *

It was every bit as wonderful as I’d hoped.

I found out a lot about myself that night. You need to expunge every drop of cynicism from your body to play Panto, especially if you’re the Dame. Panto is all about innocence. Fortunately that message had permeated the minds of our audience, young and old alike, and they had taken it to heart. They laughed loudly at my better one-liners and groaned cheerfully at the corny jokes. They joined in enthusiastically with the calls of ‘Hello, Sarah!’

My early scenes went well. I got a lot of laughs in the bedroom scene. I went behind a screen to take off my day dress (which Polly had unzipped for me just before I entered), and reappeared wearing my skimpy baby doll and frilly bloomers. This was greeted by whoops of surprise and delight from the audience, who had probably never seen a Dame in such a revealing outfit. Not that it actually revealed anything, of course; it was a triumph of titillating design by Polly. The whoops turned to belly laughs when the little rats entered and I jumped squealing onto the bed.

But I’d been dreading the kitchen slapstick scene. I was in now my white Cook’s outfit with long, frilly bib apron and Chef’s hat, which wasn’t going to stay on my head for very long once the custard pies started flying.

“He’s behind you!” the kids all shouted, their excitement, frustration and panic evident in their high-pitched voices.

I whipped round, just in time to see Idle Jack duck behind the table, but of course as Sarah I didn’t see him. I turned quickly back to the front, my skirt and petticoats swishing round with me.

“No, he isn’t!” I yelled at the audience.

Behind me, I knew Pete would have popped up again.

“Yes, he is!” they all yelled, even louder.

I whipped round again. Pete ducked again. I turned back.

“Oh no, he isn’t!” I yelled.

“Oh yes, he is!” they yelled back, as Pete popped up again to make rude gestures to my turned back.

I folded my arms under my enormous fake boobs, and hoisted them up, resulting in two outrageous and dramatic wobbles, which yielded whoops of delight from the audience, though for some reason the laughter from the mums was loudest.

“Now, look, boys and girls…” I went on.

The kids were screaming with laughter now, and their mums and dads were clearly happy that their offspring were happy. I had the audience in the palm of my hand. Time to turn round…

…and receive a custard pie right in the face.

“Why didn’t you warn me?” I squealed, removing my hat and wiping crazy foam from my face. “I thought we were friends!”

“We did!” all the children yelled at once.

“Oh no, you didn’t!”

“Oh yes, we did!”

Pete and I then got into our choreographed custard pie fight. The idea was that I would keep just missing him, and he would connect with a pie in my face or my bottom every time I missed.

Eventually I called a truce and stepped downstage.

“I think I’m going to need some help here,” I said, with a mouthful of crazy foam. “Would any little girls in the audience like to come up here and help me?”

I thought little girls were supposed to be shy? But there were lots of calls of “Me! Me! Me!” – which was a relief. Lily, as Alice Fitzwarren, appeared from the wings stage left and made her way into the stalls. Mindful of her instructions, she picked two hysterical but harmless-looking five-year-olds to come up and throw a custard pie in Idle Jack’s face.

“Hang on,” he said. “That’s not fair! “Would any little boys in the audience like to come up here and help me?”

More cries of “Me! Me! Me!” and Tommy the Cat, appeared from stage right and went down to choose a couple of frantic little boys.

When they got on the stage one of the boys, a ginger-haired little horror, turned to me and said loudly, “Are you a man?” Just as Arthur had predicted.

“Not tonight, sweetie,” I said. “And what’s so great about men anyway?”

The women in the audience gave an almighty cheer.

We got the little ones lined up with their pies and Pete blew his whistle. Five minutes of mayhem ensued. Pete and I tried to make it look like we were dodging but we had to make sure we stood still enough for all of the kids to score at least one hit each. They were just starting to turn on each other when Pete blew his whistle again to signal the end of hostilities. We took our respective little ones by the hand to the front of the stage. Jack led his little boys in a bow, and I and my little girls curtseyed. (They were surprisingly good at that. Do they still teach little girls to curtsey?) The audience clapped and cheered for all they were worth.

We gave the little ones their paper towels and chocolates and Alice and Tommy led them back to their seats and their proud parents. Jack and I waved and retired upstage as the curtains closed and the house lights came up. I was delighted that Charlie and most of the cast came on to congratulate us.

“That was brilliant, Nick, Pete!” said Charlie. “I don’t think I’ve seen the kiddy audience participation bit done better.”

There were cries of “Hear, hear!” and a little round of applause. We thanked them and staggered off to recover and get cleaned up.

Polly gave me a hug when I stumbled into my dressing room, and showed me a copy of the paper with our review in it. It was glowing, to say the least.

“I knew you’d be good,” she said. “They were eating out of your hand – and this is only the first night!”

“Thanks, Polly, but I had no idea it would be such hard work. I’m totally knickered.”

She laughed. “You’re coming down from an adrenaline high. You need to eat something to keep your blood sugar up, and drink to stop yourself getting dehydrated – just like tennis players do between sets.”

She handed me a banana and a weak orange squash.

“I couldn’t do this without you,” I said, honestly. “You couldn’t put a drop of Scotch in that, could you?”

“I certainly couldn’t, you naughty girl! Now come on, let’s get your dress off. The interval’s half over.”

* * *

In the second Act the docks, ship and underwater scenes all went well. The technical problems were all behind us, it seemed.

After the interval I didn’t have so much to do in Act Two, just a little two-hander joking with Idle Jack and my futile attempt to seduce Alderman Fitzwarren, which led to him accidentally ripping my dress off. Most of the drama was with Dick, Alice and King Rat.

So we made it to the end unscathed. As we came on to take our bows, the audience showed their appreciation. We came on in little groups or pairs, according to our significance. First the chorus boys and girls; the Captain and the First Mate; then the Alderman paired with the Sultan. King Rat and the rat kids came on next. Roddy pranced around menacingly, scowling and hissing at the audience, who cheered and booed him delightedly.

Pete and I came on together next and the cheers got louder. Pete bowed and I curtseyed, of course. Some of the audience actually leapt to their feet clapping and cheering. We separated and dropped back to let Dick and Alice come on last. The applause that greeted them didn’t sound as loud, but I’m probably biased.

We took three curtain calls. I was in seventh heaven.

* * *

Having had only a banana since lunchtime I was starving, so after Polly had helped me change back to Nick, we met up with Arthur and Charlie and went to a local Indian restaurant that stayed open late. There was an inevitable post-mortem on the evening’s performance. Charlie admitted that he was pleased, but still not satisfied. There were still areas where we could be slicker, more professional, he said, and the pace was still too slow in places, but – he admitted – not in any of my scenes. If anything, I could slow down a little.

Arthur had a quite different, but familiar, point to make.

“You’re still not really a Dame,” he grumbled. “I’ve watched the whole show three times in the last two days, and you get more feminine every time.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” asked Polly. “Tonight’s audience clearly loved him. He’s holding up a mirror to all our feminine foibles – but not in a nasty way. The women in the audience were in fits…”

“But the Dame isn’t supposed to be a Drag Queen,” he spluttered. “In fact, it’s worse than that. You’re doing female impersonation. It’s only your masculine voice that gives away that you’re a man at all!”

He was getting worked up. Maybe his leg was hurting, but I knew he felt strongly about this. Charlie and Polly tried to argue with him, but I interrupted.

“No, Arthur’s right,” I said. They all looked at me, surprised. “I’ve taken it too far. Quite honestly, I don’t know what Sarah is now. She’s not a Drag Queen, I hope, but she’s certainly not a traditional Pantomime Dame.”

Arthur looked a little mollified.

“But I’m afraid I don’t think I can change anything now. I can only do it like I did tonight. It was comfortable; anything else would be too much of a strain.”

“Quite right,” insisted Charlie. “Don’t even think of doing anything different. It would put everyone else off, for a start.”

“Maybe I’ve invented a new type of Pantomime Dame,” I suggested, not too seriously.

“Don’t give yourself airs,” Arthur snorted. “There’s plenty tried to do it like that. It’s still not right.”

“And when did you last get a standing ovation, Mr Gloomy Guts?” asked Polly.

If she were only thirty years younger…

* * *

The rest of the week followed Monday’s pattern: hard work with Gerry, Steve and Will during the day; mad panic at the theatre to get ready, Polly running round with my dresses, wigs and make-up; hard work and laughter in the performances; and happy audiences of families having a great night out. How lucky was I to have been asked to join LADS, the best amateur theatre company in England? The word had got around and we were sold out every night.

I went out to eat after the show each night but not with the Whitmores again. Polly apologised, but she didn’t want to hear Arthur criticising me again for not playing the Dame his way.

Friday came around all too soon. I had to exchange Sarah’s padded bra and girdle, petticoats and garish dresses for a formal man’s business suit, which I was amazed still fitted me. I had got so used to my big wobbly boobs and padded bum.

Gerry, Steve, Will and I went up to the Bank’s headquarters in London on an early train. Having been wide awake, giddy with excitement at one o’clock in the morning, I was still half asleep.

But the meeting went well. Gerry gave a PowerPoint presentation outlining the technology and its benefits, and Steve followed him with graphs and statistics of the results of the clinical trials. I then managed to wake up in time to present our financial projections, which as expected generated a lot of interest. We were also able to tell them that the Department of Health were very keen and intended to offer us a contract on a trial basis.

The Bank’s consultants gave us a grilling but we were well prepared and had answers to all their questions. We tabled Will’s draft contracts and their lawyers declared themselves mostly satisfied. That meant that they would crawl all over them for the next two weeks and demand numerous pettifogging changes, but the real decision makers were in broad agreement.

This was a big step forward, and it meant that I now owned twenty per cent of a potentially great business and might soon have an alternative source of income. Also, poor Will might finally get paid for his excellent work. We opened a bottle of East Coast Main Line prosecco on the train home.

This meeting was also good practice for the similar one we would be having soon for MyOwnCouture.com.

* * *

The Friday night show was the best yet. The audience were the most enthusiastic and vociferous so far. I staggered back to my dressing room to find Polly and Ruth there with enormous grins on their faces. Ruth rushed up to hug me.

“You were brilliant, Nick!” she gushed in a manner completely unlike her. “I had no idea. Now I see why we haven’t seen much of you lately. You must have been working so hard!”

“It’s been a labour of love though, hasn’t it, dear?” said Polly before I could acknowledge Ruth’s uncharacteristic compliments.

She pulled me down into my chair and started unzipping my dress. This was the mermaid ballgown of course, and I was always glad to be able to get out of it.

“So I’m going to take you out to dinner,” continued Ruth, “by way of congratulations, and to acknowledge everything you’ve done for us at MyOwnCouture.com.”

Polly had removed my wig and was now attacking my make-up with cold cream. Meanwhile Ruth was reaching for a garment bag that was hanging from the handle of a cupboard. She unzipped it with a flourish. Inside was a dark blue cocktail dress covered in shiny spangles. I recognised it as one of MyOwnCouture.com’s standards.

“Ta daa!” she announced grandly. “I made it from your measurements, of course, and with a high neckline. Polly warned me that you wouldn’t be in a position to show any cleavage.”

“Wha-a-a…?” I began. It was a conspiracy!

Any further questions from me were silenced by Polly rubbing away at my lipsticked mouth. She took up the story.

“Ruth explained why you can’t go out with her as yourself, so we came up with this idea,” she said. “You’ll look lovely in that gorgeous dress.”

“Hang on…!”

Then I noticed that Polly had started putting new make-up on me, which seemed to include little strips of wrinkly latex. And now she was reaching for a different wig, one with curls and streaks of grey.

“Hey – grey wig? And you’re doing ageing make-up too, aren’t you?”

“We thought you would look more convincing as an older lady. That’s why we haven’t changed your padding. Your figure is just right for late middle-age. Now get those silly Dame tights off. I’ve got a lovely pair of light grey seamed stockings for you – your girdle has suspenders – and these shoes should fit you.”

I did as I was told, not sure why I was going along with this.

“These glasses will help your disguise, just in case there’s someone at the restaurant who was at the show. They’re theatrical props with plain glass.”

She handed me a pair of women’s cat’s eye glasses. I put them on and gazed in the mirror. The ageing make-up, the grey wig, and the glasses made me look like I was in my sixties. I also looked more like my mother than ever; not at all like Sarah; and not even remotely like a man.

“The finishing touch!” laughed Ruth. “You’re brilliant, Polly.” She held out the dress for me to step into. “Now, most of the people around here who know me have also met my mother, so you’ll have to be my aunt. Come along, Auntie, put your lovely dress on!”

“Wait a moment,” said Polly. “That dress needs a slip – here.”

She passed Ruth a pretty, cream-coloured underslip, which I started to put on over my head. I hesitated, feeling that some token resistance was required. “I’m not sure about this…”

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” said Polly. “You’re not afraid of a little challenge, are you? Just make sure you use your ‘Daisy Duquesne’ voice, not your ‘Sarah the Cook’. She’s too mannish.”

“I’m not confident I can fool people that I’m a woman in public – in a well-lit restaurant!”

“Are you kidding?” said Ruth, holding the dress out again. “You’ve just spent three hours being a woman, and you were completely convincing in your femininity. Everyone said so.”

Polly was nodding. “Remember to take little steps, and sweep your skirt under you when you sit down. You’ll be fine. I’ll pack your men’s clothes in your suitcase,” she said.

“And don’t worry, I’ll help you get undressed later,” added Ruth, with a twinkle that wasn’t like her at all.

Polly giggled. “Now a lady of your age would definitely be wearing some jewellery.” She brought out a silver necklace and fastened it round my neck. “This will also cover up your Adam’s apple, not that you have a prominent one. I doubt most people would notice it. I have some clip-on earrings and a ladies’ watch somewhere. She started rummaging in her case. “And don’t worry – this is all stage stuff, completely worthless.”

She clipped the earrings and the watch on me, and slipped an engagement ring and a wedding ring on my finger.

“Oh, and you’ll need this,” she said, passing me a weathered cream-coloured handbag.

I held it open while she transferred my wallet and keys into it. She added the cosmetics she’d just finished using on me. Then she went over to the corner and started packing up Nick’s belongings.

“I don’t understand why I’m doing this,” I said. “Why am I letting it happen?”

“Well either you want it,” Ruth said with a knowing smile, “or you want me.”

“Or both,” added Polly, helping me into a smart ladies’ overcoat.

* * *

We took Ruth’s car, as I didn’t want to risk driving in unfamiliar high heels, or being stopped while disguised as an old lady. I wondered what happened to the other members of the MyOwnCouture.com team. I assumed Ruth had told them she wanted me to herself tonight.

We went to Agnelli’s again, which proved to be a mistake. It was nearly eleven o’clock and, afraid that the kitchen might be closed, we rushed in. I was tottering slightly on the high heels Polly had shoved on my feet, and didn’t realise that Ruth had stopped suddenly in front of me. I nearly barged into her.

“Ruth, darling! How nice to see you again,” called Angela Cross. “Come and join us.”

She waved. I grabbed her elbow to hold her back.

“I can’t sit with them! They’ve already met me as Nick!”

“You don’t look anything like Nick,” she hissed. “Try not to talk too much and you’ll be fine.”

“Ruth, I can’t…”

“Oh for God’s sake, grow a pair!” She giggled. “And I mean boobs, not balls, of course.”

She grabbed my hand and led me over to the Crosses’ table. A waiter appeared from nowhere to seat us and take our coats. I ordered a white wine spritzer and Ruth asked for a half of cider.

“Are you hoping to eat? You’re awfully late,” said Bill.

“Yes, we’ve come straight from the theatre…” Ruth began. The Crosses were looking expectantly at me. “Oh I’m sorry, This is my Auntie… Elsie. Auntie, this is Bill and Angela Cross.”

“We’re friends of Ruth’s fiancé’s parents. Have you met Eddy?”

This wasn’t fair. It took me weeks to get into the mindset of Sarah the Cook. Now I had seconds to become Ruth’s Auntie Elsie. Why Elsie, for Pete’s sake? At least it was better than Gladys.

“Er, yes,” I began in my higher register voice, the one I had developed for Daisy Duquesne. “Sweet boy.”

Ruth looked at me in surprise. She hadn’t expected me to sound like an actual woman. Was she disappointed that I might actually get away with this?

“We’re just finishing our coffee, but we’ll keep you company till you’ve ordered,” said Bill. “What did you see at the theatre?”

“Dick Whittington – the LADS Panto,” Ruth said.

“Any good?” asked Angela.

“Not bad at all. They’ve got a new Dame this year. She’s absolutely brilliant – had the audience in the palm of her hand. Oh, you’ve met her – him, I mean – haven’t you? It’s Nick Rawlinson, our Finance Manager.”

My face felt flushed. Did she really think I was good or was she just having a laugh?

“He’s a bit young to be playing the Dame, isn’t he?” said Bill.

“Yes, I would have thought he could be the leading man,” said Angela. “He’s quite good-looking.”

I tried hard to look unconcerned, but I was blushing hard.

“Oh, do you think so?” said Ruth innocently. “I hadn’t noticed. Anyway, in Panto the Leading Man is always played by a girl. She was quite good too.”

“Perhaps we should go and see it,” said Bill. “Will there be tickets left for tomorrow night?”

“I think Nick said they’re sold out,” said Ruth. “There might be some left for the matinee.”

“No good,” he said. “I’ve got a golf tournament tomorrow.”

We just managed to get our order in before the kitchen closed. Fortunately Ruth and Angela dominated the conversation so I didn’t have to say much. I just sipped my spritzer in a ladylike manner. The Crosses showed no sign of recognising me, or indeed of noticing anything suspicious at all. I began to breathe more easily, my over-tight girdle notwithstanding. I would have to eat sparingly tonight or risk severe indigestion. How do women wear these things all day?

My reverie was broken when Bill got to his feet and said, “Well much as I’m enjoying squiring three such beautiful ladies, I have an early tee time tomorrow, so if you’ll excuse us? Come along, Angela.”

“Oh, him and his golf,” his wife grumbled. “Well it was lovely to meet you, Elsie. I hope to see you again soon – perhaps at the wedding?”

I was about to get to my feet, but Ruth clung onto my dress to stop me rising. Oh yes, I’m a lady not a gentleman tonight. I smiled and muttered appropriate pleasantries.

“What did he mean by ‘squiring’,” I asked in my feminine voice, after the Crosses had gone. “Does that have sexual connotations? Was he propositioning us?”

Ruth burst out laughing.

“That was brilliant! Where did that voice come from? You sounded just like a woman! Why didn’t you talk like that as the Dame?”

I explained that the Dame is supposed to sound like a man. That was half the joke, but she didn’t get it.

“What are you going to do when they tell Eddy’s parents they met your Auntie Elsie?” I asked. “Hideous name, by the way; thanks for that. And what if they invite her – me – to the wedding?”

“Well it doesn’t matter, does it? Because there isn’t going to be a wedding. Anyway, if the worst comes to the worst, we can always drag you up again. You make a fantastic Auntie Elsie. But this is why you’re here dressed like that. I couldn’t risk going out with you as Nick again.”

Despite the excitement of the evening’s performance, the unfamiliar clothes, the tight girdle, and the sheer terror of being outed as a geriatric cross-dresser, I thoroughly enjoyed the meal, and drank too much, seeing that Ruth was driving again. So when we got back to her flat, and Eddy wasn’t there as usual, I was a pushover.

She soon had my dress off but I insisted on removing my wig and glasses before we did anything. I didn’t think I could make love to this beautiful and confusing woman when I was looking so much like my mother – or grandmother. I peeled off the latex strips and she gave me some cold cream to work on the rest of my make-up.

“You’ll have to help me with my bra,” I admitted, slightly embarrassed. “I can’t reach the fastenings behind me and it’s too tight for me to wriggle out of. Polly usually does it for me.”

“Well, this is new. I don’t think I’ve ever had a sexual partner who wears a padded bra and girdle before. I’m tempted to leave it on you,” she laughed. “It’s dead sexy. To say nothing of your big, round, womanly rump.”

“That’s padding too. You know that, right?”

My pitiful look must have moved her, or else she was afraid I wouldn’t be able to perform while wearing such feminine garments. She couldn’t see what was happening down below because of the restraining effect of my panty-girdle.

“OK, come here then, Auntie,” she said. “Your stiff undies would probably scratch me in my sensitive places anyway.”

She then took enormous pleasure in slowly stripping me of my slip, stockings, and bra. With each item her breath grew more ragged. By the time she reached my panty-girdle, she was practically panting with desire and my erection was getting painful.

“Polly said that she and Arthur had fantastic sex with him dressed as a woman,” she breathed. “At first I thought they were weird, but I totally get it now.”

“Too much information,” I said, and tossed her onto the bed, just to show that I could.

There followed a longer and even more exciting lovemaking session than last time. Afterwards I was just dozing off when she murmured quietly in my ear.

“If you’re going to sleep over regularly, we’d better get you a nightie,” she said. “By the way, who’s Daisy Duquesne?”

But I was asleep, or at least pretending to be.

Ruth was corrosively honest, controlling, confrontational, and I was afraid might just be the love of my life…

* * *

She woke me in the nicest possible way at about eight on Saturday morning. This time – and for the first time – we actually made love, as opposed to just fucking like demented rabbits. It was slow, soft, gentle, and affectionate. It wasn’t as sensual as our two previous mad, passionate trysts but in many ways I enjoyed it more. I hoped she did too. I didn’t dare ask for feedback, or a status update on our relationship, in case I got a disappointing response – and I knew Ruth wouldn’t lie to spare my blushes. But discretion is the better part of valour, I told myself. It was just cowardice really.

“You know this is the third time we’ve done this,” I said, diffidently.

“I haven’t been counting,” she said. “And your point is…?”

“Well you’ve heard the old expression: ‘once is happenstance; twice is coincidence; but the third time is…’”

“Enemy action?”

“I was going to say, ‘getting to be a habit’.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“Not to me, but I would like to think it was a little more than just… y’know… physical.”

“Mmm, well I admit that you’ve been gradually creeping around my mental block, posh girl…” she said.

“I wasn’t trying to. You’ve made it very clear I’m from the wrong side of the tracks, as it were.”

“Well sometimes you don’t seem like an aristocrat at all.”

“That’s because I’m not. My Dad’s a landowner, not a lord, for God’s sake. And do you know how difficult it is to make a living from owning land? Assuming you don’t sell it to developers, which he couldn’t even if he wanted to, ‘cause it’s designated as agricultural land and they’d never get planning permission to build on it.”

I don’t think she was listening. She snuggled into me. Her long hair was tickling my nose again.

* * *

We lay in till nearly eleven, when I had to get up and have something to eat. I needed to be at the theatre for one o’clock in time to get ready for the afternoon matinee. Ruth went down to her car to fetch my suitcase and I dressed as a man for the first time in what felt like ages. Later she ran me back to the theatre so I could pick up my car and go home to the manor for a change of clothes.

In the car I invited Ruth to the cast party but she thought it would be too risky. In a large gathering it was too likely that us being together – again – would get back to the Deveres.

“No, I’ll see you in the office next week,” she said. “We have to prepare for the presentation to the Bank. You will be able to come, won’t you?”

“But I’m an investor, not an employee…” I began.

“But I don’t know the financials as well as you do. If they ask me any questions about our accounts, I’ll be lost.”

“Well if you want to be the MD you’ll need to learn all that.” She looked worried. “OK, I’ll give you a thorough briefing before the meeting.”

She wasn’t entirely reassured. In the end we agreed that I would attend the presentation but not speak unless they asked a difficult financial question that she couldn’t answer. I didn’t see what the fuss was about anyway. MyOwnCouture.com’s accounts weren’t complicated.

“So do you want to get together tomorrow?”

“Better not,” she said. “You need to wind down after this week, and try to remember how to be Nick again. Besides if you’re not Dame Sarah or Auntie Elsie, I won’t be as turned on.” She laughed.

“You’re a pervert, you know that?” I said.

“I’m a pervert? I don’t go to restaurants dressed as elderly people of the opposite sex!”

* * *

I reported to Polly before the Saturday matinee. While I was undressing, she asked me how my evening with Ruth went.

“It was very pleasant,” I said, discreetly, “and thank you for your part in it.”

I handed her the suitcase with Auntie Elsie’s clothes and my padded bra and girdle in it.

“No, no,” she said, “this is your dress. Ruth made it for you. It’s lovely but LADS has no use for it, and it certainly won’t fit me.”

“Thanks, but I can’t see myself wearing it again.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” she laughed. “Not if you’re going to go on seeing Ruth! By the way, I suggested the ‘older lady’ thing as I thought you wouldn’t want to look like Daisy Duquesne – in case you bumped into someone at the restaurant who had seen her at the Club last month. Of course, I didn’t tell Ruth that; just that men are more convincing as older ladies.”

“Yes, I hadn’t thought of that. I’m sorry, I thought the two of you had concocted a little plot to embarrass me.”

“Well perhaps there was a little of that too,” she laughed. “Here, I’ve got you clean underwear for today – brand new bra and panty-girdle,” she said. “I sewed the padding into them just this morning. Let me help you with your bra.”

I put my arms through the straps and she secured the hook and eye fastenings. Then she handed me the new panty-girdle. I knew my way around ladies’ shapewear well enough now to struggle into it unaided. Then I sat down for her to fit and dress my wig.

“So are you and Ruth an item now?” she said, conversationally. Butter wouldn’t melt…

“To be honest, I don’t know what we are,” I sighed. “She needs everyone to think she’s still engaged to Eddy. She explained why, did she?”

Polly nodded. I really didn’t mind sharing this with her. She was like a surrogate mother. Not that my own mother was dead or anything, just never around, and I would certainly not have discussed my love life with her.

“She seems fairly keen on you.”

She had finished setting my wig and was now giving it a good seeing-to with the hairspray.

“Sometimes she seems to be, yes; other times she goes out of her way to embarrass me. When we first started working together, she made it clear she disapproved of me and my family background. You can’t tell from her accent but she comes from working-class Northern stock.”

“Oh an inverted snob, eh? The only good Tory is a dead Tory?”

She reached into her make-up kit for my prosthetic nose and some adhesive.

“Something like that. Didn’t stop her taking our money though. She doesn’t seem to realise she’s a capitalist herself now.”

“Careful! Arthur always says the Theatre should be a politics-free zone.”

“Well that’s just daft! Every good playwright in history, from Shakespeare to David Hare, has been political!”

“Not Panto though.”

“No, not Panto. Thank heavens!”

We laughed.

“OK, hold still now,” she said. “False eyelashes time.”

Soon Sarah was looking back at me in the mirror. I thrust the unpredictable Miss Braddock to the back of my mind. After all she was hardly a suitable partner for a middle-aged widow lady like me.

* * *

At two o’clock precisely, I stepped out to give my opening monologue. The audience responded well – they might have been the best bunch so far. There was lots of laughter at even the oldest and corniest jokes. As I came to the end, I stepped backwards as usual, calling, “Welcome to Old London Town…”

The curtains failed to open.

I stopped involuntarily. Someone – Charlie, I think – whispered, “Improvise!” from the wings behind me.

Every actor’s worst nightmare. I put my hands on my hips and hitched up my bosom – feminine mannerisms came naturally now – and stalked back to centre stage. I turned to the audience and rolled my eyes. Sniggers. Some people probably suspected something had gone wrong; others were prepared to believe it was part of the show.

“Apparently, London are out,” I said. “We may have to leave one of those little red cards. You know: ‘We called but there was no answer’.”

The sniggers had turned back to decent laughter. Most of the grown-ups now knew there was a hitch. I turned round to face upstage, knelt down and stuck my head under the curtain, like a charlady scrubbing the steps. I thus presented my enormous round backside to the audience, which generated the biggest laugh yet.

“What is it? Early closing?” I yelled.

Lots of good-natured laughter from the audience now. This lot seemed determined to enjoy themselves. I turned back to face them.

“Apparently rats have eaten through the ropes,” I said. “You may have heard we have something of a rat problem? If you feel them running over your feet, or up your skirt or your trouser leg, don’t worry. They don’t bite… much. Have you all had your tetanus jabs?”

I was running out of ideas now. Suddenly I felt tension in the cloth and, to my relief, very slowly the curtain started to rise.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” I said, “we apologise for the late running of this service. Something to do with leaves on the line, or the wrong kind of snow, or something. And now, “Welcome to Old London Town…”

And I sashayed off stage right, my ample hindquarters wiggling violently from side to side. The audience clapped enthusiastically. Some of them actually cheered.

“Well done, Nick,” said Charlie in the wings. “That could have been nasty. Great improvisation! We may keep it all in for tonight.” He grinned.

“What happened?”

“The automatic gear failed. They had to raise the curtain manually. It’ll be like that throughout the first Act, I’m afraid. They’re hoping to fix it at the interval.”

“Oh well, the show must go on.”

* * *

After that shaky start it actually went very well. The audience appeared to have enjoyed being part of a traditional amateur theatrical cock-up, and admired how we – I – recovered and made the most of it. Also, according to Charlie and Arthur maybe as many as half of them – mainly the kids – had no idea that anything had gone wrong.

We had about three hours between the last curtain call of the matinee and the start of the evening performance. The main event was the ‘Little Rats’ Feast’ for the kids, as they wouldn’t be allowed to stay up after the show for the cast party. It was held in the theatre cafeteria, and it was a LADS tradition that for shows with children involved, we Principals had to serve the food at their party. As Sarah the Cook, in my kitchen costume and frilly apron, it was my job to bring out the sausage rolls and the jellies. Happily it was Idle Jack and Dick who had to stop the inevitable food fights, and Polly’s team who had to tidy up everyone’s costumes afterwards.

Polly offered to help me change back to Nick after the children’s party so that I could go out and get something to eat, but I didn’t think it was worth it for just an hour and a half. It wasn’t just the dress and the underwear, I would have to take Sarah off, and then put her back on again later. I didn’t want to do that. I was perfectly comfortable being her, and I wouldn’t have the chance again after today. Irrationally, that made me sad. Maybe I could bring her, or someone like her, back for next year’s Panto?

Charlie ordered in pizza and sandwiches for those of us who weren’t going out, so Polly, Arthur and I ate in my dressing room. Arthur was friendly and even cheerful – for him. He seemed to be reconciled to the fact that I was a very different Dame, and that it wasn’t that I had deliberately chosen to ignore his teaching. He accepted that Sarah was the Dame I had to be. We spent a jolly couple of hours, mainly with the Whitmores reminiscing about their years with LADS.

My mother and father were coming with Tom and Josie to the evening performance and to the cast party afterwards. At my invitation they dropped into my dressing room half an hour before the start. I was sitting at the mirror in my padded lingerie but with a ladies’ negligée (borrowed from Polly for the occasion) over it, to keep me decent.

I introduced them to Polly who was brushing my wig and repairing my make-up.

“We’re not putting you off, are we?” my Dad said. “Do you need to meditate, or ‘centre yourself’, or any of that bollocks?”

“No, Dad,” I smiled. “We amateurs don’t need to do any of that stuff. In any case this is our seventh performance. We know what we’re doing now.”

“I still can’t get over this,” said my mother. “You never showed any interest in ‘am dram’ at school, and now look at you – a great actress!”

She, Polly and Josie laughed. Tom and Dad looked a little uncomfortable.

Mum and Dad went to look at all the LADS photos and programmes on the far wall. At their request, Polly went over to tell them all about their previous productions.

Josie turned to me when she was sure my parents weren’t listening.

“You’ve come a long way from Daisy Duquesne’s ten-minute performance on Open Mic night,” she said.

“It’s true,” added Tom, “and apart from that silly nose and the over-the-top make-up, you actually look like an older version of Daisy.”

“I must admit, I never saw this coming when I helped you create her,” said Josie. She turned serious for a moment. “You do realise it may not be easy to put all this behind you?”

I felt Sarah wake up inside me and take an interest in the conversation.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

“Oh I think you do,” she said. “Some of my friends came earlier in the week. They were raving about your performance – something about how you made Sarah ‘real’.”

“It’s just acting,” I insisted, with a confidence I didn’t feel. “Just a bit of fun for all the family. It will be over and done with tomorrow, and on Monday – back to work.” I called across to Dad. “Things are starting to take off with Gerry and Steve, as well as MyOwnCouture.com. I need to update you. How about a pub lunch tomorrow?”

“Sure. That would be great,” he said. “But we ought to go and take our seats now. I want to order some interval drinks and get a programme.”

“Take a couple from the box over there on the table,” said Polly, squirting my wig with hairspray.

“I’ll sign them for you as well, if you like,” I said.

“As Nick Rawlinson or as Sarah the Cook?” asked Tom. “Anyway, break a leg, mate.”

Polly and I winced. Tom, Josie and Dad made to leave. My mother lingered.

“What’s this I hear about you and Ruth Braddock?” she asked.

My mother had always been Gossip Central for our area. As a vet she travelled around a lot and met everyone. People told her things while she had her hand up their cow or was worming their dog.

“Nothing to hear. We provide finance to her business. She’s engaged to her partner anyway.”

“Nick, I always know when you’re fibbing,” Mum said sternly.

My mother has a natural authority about her. People just instinctively did what she told them to. That had been true for my entire childhood, and Tom admitted freely that she was the only person he had ever been afraid of.

“I think I should leave you to it,” said Polly, clearly embarrassed. She knew I was fibbing, but she also knew why. “You’re all ready anyway, Nick. I’ll see you backstage.”

She left. My mother got up to follow her.

“We’ll talk about this at lunch tomorrow,” she said. “I don’t want to upset you and ruin tonight’s performance…”

Too late, Mum.

“… But I’m sure you realise that you’re in a very delicate situation. If she’s engaged, it can’t go on. Someone’s going to get hurt.”

The ten-minute warning sounded just after she left but I needed to take a minute. I stared into the mirror until I couldn’t see Nick anymore, only Sarah. I wet my forefinger and primped my hair a little. I took out a lipstick and touched up my lips.

I hitched up my bosom, got to my feet, and taking my skirt in my hand, prepared to climb the stairs.

Sarah the Cook made her way up to the stage for the last time.