When I made it back into the theatre on Friday, I made a point of smiling at all my colleagues, especially the ones who were still giving me the cold shoulder. I was determined to be optimistic and to approach my job with renewed vigour. I had very little time to try to make a difference, and I needed to make sure that every day counted.
Ian was conspicuous in his absence, although he had left a long list of tasks on my desk to make up for not being around. So much for him becoming a hands-off boss. I read through the list and dismissed at least half of his ideas. I wasn’t scared of grafting, but in this situation, we needed to work smarter, not harder. I could film all the backstage reels in the world, but if the content on the stage was no good, people still weren’t going to book tickets. I decided to put those further down the priority list, and instead focused on one of the most challenging parts of my job: persuading people to review our shows.
I wrote a couple of press releases and geared myself up to make personal calls to the journalists who would be receiving them. I knew half of what I sent out would be instantly deleted, but if I spoke to people before I sent the releases, maybe they’d pay more attention. Or that was the theory, anyway.
Unfortunately, it appeared that several of my contacts in the media world had stopped answering the phone, or perhaps they’d blocked the Edinburgh Variety’s number after suffering through too many of our previous productions. At any rate, despite my best efforts, I only managed to get through to one of the arts correspondents, and he sounded distinctly uninterested in my best sales pitch. But perhaps the vague promise that there would be hospitality on offer would be enough to convince him to attend. In my experience, most theatre critics loved a freebie, and I hoped that if I plied him with enough alcohol, he wouldn’t concentrate too hard on the performance.
Our next show was a particularly hard sell as it was a three-hour epic in which a single actor played all the parts in the story of his life. While I was sure the process of writing his autobiography in script form had been very cathartic for him, I wasn’t convinced the theatre lovers of Edinburgh really needed to be subjected to the utterly cringe-worthy section where he re-enacted wetting his pants in Year Four. The actor must be yet another friend or relative of Ian’s because I couldn’t think of any other reason why the boss would be prepared to fork out the overtime necessary to get the backstage crew to stay until the bitter end. I idly wondered if it would be unethical to lock the doors of the auditorium so the audience couldn’t walk out halfway through.
I spent ages on the press release, trying to talk up the show as ‘experimental theatre at its finest’ but despite my best efforts, I didn’t think it was going to get the crowds thronging through the doors. It was a frustrating situation. I thought enviously of Cameron living his dream while I was stuck with the reality of my own thwarted ambitions, then I gave myself a stern talking to. There was no point in moping around, dwelling on what might have been, and passively accepting whatever fate threw at me. It was time to pull myself together and make the best of my Plan B life.
Perhaps I needed to think outside the box. The idea struck me as I was pondering the strongest drinks I could serve to the theatre critic, if he actually made an appearance. As I’d originally suggested to Ian, what the Edinburgh Variety really needed was to diversify. We were stuck with the programme on the main stage, but if we were able to put on events or performances elsewhere in the building, then we would double our chances of getting people through the doors. I’d once been to a production where two plays were on simultaneously, the same cast running between them both, the stage divided up front to back so half the audience was in the auditorium and the other half was in the backstage area. That had been for a specific set of performances, but it demonstrated it was possible to look at venues in a different way.
There was no way Ian would sign off dividing our auditorium like that, even if we had the budget for it, but as I carried out a mental exploration of all the unused spaces in the building, I figured there was perhaps one option worth exploring. One of the many quirks of the Edinburgh Variety was that it had a very large cellar which had been converted into a bar some time back in the 1970s. It had been shut the entire time I’d worked at the theatre, but perhaps these desperate times were reason enough to rethink that. If the space was as big as I had been told it was, then it could be exactly what I was after.
As I tramped downstairs to take a closer look, I bumped into Malcolm who was looking wearier than I’d ever seen him.
‘Are you okay, Malc?’ I asked, concerned by his breathlessness.
He leaned against the wall, affecting nonchalance.
‘Just feeling my age a bit today, hen. I was up and down ladders yesterday, and I’m paying the price now.’
‘Busy doing DIY at home?’ I asked, knowing that it had been his day off.
‘Something like that,’ he said, not quite meeting my gaze. I wondered if he’d found himself a side hustle to lessen the uncertainty of his future. All the more reason for me to find a solution to our crisis. Malcolm was a stalwart of the Variety. He deserved to be the one to decide when his career here would end, rather than being forced out because of Ian’s mismanagement.
‘Where are you off to anyway?’ he asked, steering the conversation away from my query. ‘I thought you were tied to your desk with all the extra admin the boss is siphoning your way.’
‘You noticed?’
‘We’ve all noticed, hen, and some of us think it’s very unfair. But that’s Ian for you. All talk and no trousers. Don’t distract me. You haven’t answered my question.’
‘I’m off to inspect the Cellar Bar to see if it’s big enough to be suitable for an idea I’ve had.’
‘I seem to recall it being pretty vast, but in my experience, most things are smaller than our mind tells us they are, especially when you reach my age of seniority. Would you mind if I came along too? It’s been a while since I had a proper look in there. I remember the controversy when Ian’s dad had it converted. I was starting out in the profession at the time. The local historical society were up in arms about the desecration of the place, but when he pointed out that it was a choice between creating the bar and shutting down altogether, they suddenly went quiet. The wolf has never been far from the door of the Variety, that’s for certain.’
I’d not heard that segment of the Variety’s history before. It was interesting to note that there could be a precedent for my idea.
The door into the bar was stiff and it took some persistent shoving on both our parts to get it to open. Eventually it submitted to our efforts and creaked open wide enough for us to shuffle in sideways. The air inside was a little musty, but no bats came flying out in my face, and I couldn’t detect anything more sinister than the stale scent of lack of use. I felt around on the wall until I found the light switch, relieved I didn’t encounter any creepy crawlies during my search.
I flicked the switch, but nothing happened, which I suppose was hardly surprising given that the place had been locked up for so long. I got my phone out and shone the torch around the room. The orange and brown floral décor screamed the 70s, even though the posters on the wall revealed that the space must have been used until at least the mid 90s. There was a pile of chairs stacked up in the middle of the room, and various tatty cardboard boxes were spilling their contents onto the floor. But to my inexpert eye there was nothing which a good clean couldn’t sort out. Perhaps with some tidying up and better lighting, the old-fashioned surroundings could be repurposed as vintage, a classic marketing move to make the best of what we had.
‘Goodness, I’d forgotten some of the big names who came here in their early days,’ said Malcolm leaning down and fishing a programme out of one of the cardboard boxes. He blew the dust off the cover, making us both cough, then held it up next to his face, mimicking the moody expression of the performer on the front. ‘There’s probably a decent market online for some of these bits of memorabilia. Leonie’s a dab hand with that kind of thing. I’m sure she’d be happy to help flog them. Perhaps it could ease the cash flow problem.’
‘Maybe.’ I nodded. ‘Or we could keep them and use them as part of the attraction here. They’d help to complement the vintage vibe.’
‘What are you thinking about? Opening a mini museum in the basement? I hate to break it to you, hen, but that’s probably another saturated market in this city. Tourists are too used to getting into places like that for free, and much good that would do us.’
‘Can I sound you out about my idea? And before I say anything, it’s still very early days, and I definitely haven’t considered any of the details yet.’
‘Disclaimer heard and understood,’ said Malcolm.
‘As you said before, a big part of our problem is that we’re very limited by the programming we can put on. We only have the one auditorium, and that gets booked months in advance.’
‘True. And it gets booked by whatever bizarre act Ian thinks is going to be the next big thing, or by one of his old pals who should have changed professions long ago. Both of us know that he’s less of a tastemaker than he’d like to believe himself to be.’
‘So, what we really need is another space to try some alternative acts. By which I mean less alternative than the ones in the main auditorium. Open mic nights, writing groups,’ I hesitated, ‘musicians.’
Malcolm nodded. ‘I think I can see where you’re going here.’
I turned around on the spot, shining the torch beam once again on the unloved space. ‘If we diversify our events, then we can appeal to a broader range of people. It doesn’t take much for word of mouth to work its magic. Why not use this room for something more productive than being a dumping ground? It’s a good size. I reckon we could get fifty or so punters in here. Which, at the rate we’re going, is probably about forty-eight more than we’re going to get on a good night in the main auditorium.’
‘And there are some chairs going spare here already, so we wouldn’t have to invest much in infrastructure. A bit of a polish and a quick check to make sure they’re structurally sound, and they’ll be good to go, no problem.’ The fatigue had gone from Malcom’s voice as he expressed his enthusiasm for the idea. It was good to hear him sounding hopeful again.
I flashed the torch up to the broken light fitting on the ceiling.
‘What about the lighting? If we do this, we’ll have to create a proper studio theatre feel. We need to offer something more than a bog-standard community centre.’
Malcolm pursed his lips. ‘I can’t see it being a problem. We could set up some spotlights on stands in the corners, make a virtue of simplicity if you will. That kind of thing is all the rage. We have a couple of rigs in the store room which could work very nicely, so we wouldn’t have to hire in extra kit.’
‘The idea has potential then?’
Even though my instincts were telling me it did, the insecure part of me still needed reassurance.
‘I’d say so. Good on you, Amy. I’m glad we’ve got you fighting our corner. Now you just need to run the plan past the boss.’
That was going to be the biggest challenge of all.
From: cameron.a@myemail.com
To: a.cameron@myemail.com
Date: 20 Jan, 10:47
Subject: re: Penguin Passion!
Hi Amy,
Who knew, my spam filter obviously isn’t as strong as I thought it was, because your passionate penguins made it straight through, although maybe they’re the reason that the internet then went kaput for a bit. The subject line did raise a few eyebrows in the crew office where I have to go to check my emails on the ancient computer which sounds like it’s going to explode as it starts up. We’re out of phone range here, so at the moment my device is being used for photography or as a glorified music player, although I have limited choices there. I’m seriously regretting not bringing my old iPod along. Yes, I am one of the few remaining people in the world who still has one, although as a musician yourself, I assume you’ll appreciate the need to have as much music at your fingertips as possible. My phone’s storage normally gets clogged up with all the pictures I find myself taking when I’m out and about and don’t have my proper kit with me. There are some people in the photography world who are very much purists—only film, and only the best lenses will do. I respect their choices, but they are not mine. Of course, it’s a joy to be able to luxuriate in the technical side of things sometimes and obsess over focal points, shutter speeds and the like. But I realise that some of my favourite photos are ones which were more of a spontaneous affair, a serendipitous moment that I was lucky enough to capture. And more often than not, these were taken on my phone. I know you’ll get it.
Your description of the theatre had me picturing it in my mind’s eye immediately. It sounds like exactly the kind of place I’d like to photograph. Although I’m all about nature and wildlife now, I first got into photography when an architect mate asked for my help taking pictures of interesting buildings for a project he was working on. In my naivety, I thought it would be easy—just a matter of pointing and pressing. After all, buildings don’t move, and they’re not unpredictable in the way people and animals are. But I soon realised there was much more to it than that. It taught me so many lessons about the importance of paying careful attention to angles and light. Get it wrong and an award-winning building can look like a hovel. A lot of the structures I photographed were modern ones. Endless panes of glass and shiny steel exteriors. I could admire the feat of them, the way they seemed to defy the laws of gravity. But my favourites were always the older buildings, the ones with character which had been worn and moulded over several centuries of occupation. It’s amazing how often buildings reflect the personalities of those who occupy them. Or maybe it’s the other way round and the people adapt their behaviour to their environment.
Cameron
PS: in answer to your question, I’ll know what the one dream photograph of the trip is once I’ve taken it. Not a helpful answer, I appreciate, but sometimes you don’t know what you don’t know, if that makes any sense. In return may I ask you where is the one place you’d like to perform, and what piece would you play? Or perhaps you’ve already achieved that ambition. In which case, I’d love to hear about how it went. And can you share any tips with me about how to control the nerves in front of an audience? Talking about photography in front of a group isn’t a patch on having to perform in a concert hall I realise, but I still succumb to dry mouth syndrome.
PPS: the penguins say they’re supremely unconcerned by any threat from Eliza and Fraser and reckon they would probably end up being very good friends with each other.