Page 31 of Second Act at Appleton Green
Quietly setting her bag down, Lily went to the window and peered out into the dark garden, seeing nothing and thinking about tonight. The read-through today had been truly awful, worse than any university or professional production, and Jess’s criticisms were so nasty and so clearly pointed squarely at Lily but also directed at Nick. Nothing was worth this, and certainly not an amateur drama production in a little village.
She glanced over at Gran, and Lily wondered what Jess’s anger seemed to be based on – something more than just professional rivalry?
Her ideas swung back and forth: should she approach Jess one on one, dismiss her, or just leave the show altogether? She had come to care for Gran, and work out her own life, not to participate in this silly heated drama for the summer.
Mr Mistoffelees leapt from her arms and onto the windowsill, his gaze tracking hers across to her grandmother, and he walked confidently along the backs of chairs and landed on the back of Gran’s armchair. He nestled there, on the old patchwork comforter, curling into a tidy ball, claiming his space.
Lily went over to the little side table and picked up the framed picture. It was of her and Gran from their early years, both of them smiling for the camera, Lily with a crown of daisies that Gran had made for her. Everything about being with Gran as a child was magic, from the daisy chains to the little songs they would sing, from watching old musicals on video and Lily spending hours listening to Gran’s old records of musical soundtracks.
Lily softly put the picture back and walked to the bookcase. She knew she should wake Gran and help her to bed, but she was drawn to something. Nestled among a stack of papers and paperback books was a big, dusty photo album. Lily hadn’t looked at it in years, perhaps ten or more. She carried it carefully to the sofa, opening it gently.
Inside were black-and-white pictures of a young Gran, vivid and full of life, posing in several theatrical costumes. There she was as Lady Macbeth, a malicious glitter in her eye and knife in her hand, wearing a lot of tartan. Another displayed her in a chorus line fromSouth Pacific, arm in arm with other players, all of them laughing. A decaying playbill dropped out between the covers, and Lily delicately picked it up. ‘Amateur Dramatics Society Presents:A Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ it read. The role of Titania played by Violet Baxter.
Lily developed a lump in her throat. It was in her genes, she thought, so why was everything so hard? Why had her voice failed her in London? Why was Jess making it so uncomfortable at the first rehearsal? Why was it so difficult for Lily at the moment? Why couldn’t she just enjoy it like these pictures of Gran, who had given her heart to the stage for pure joy and nothing more.
She looked across at Gran, still asleep, her face calm. Gran had often told her stories of those days, of the excitement of opening evenings and the friendship of the actors. It had never been about perfection or honours. It had been about the love of creating, about living totally in the moment, about passion. Lily knew that this summer was about rediscovering that feeling of delight and purpose, not only about looking after Gran.
Mr Mistoffelees jumped down from the back of Gran’s chair, padded over and jumped onto the sofa next to her. He drew her back from her thoughts by pushing his head into her arm. She reached out to massage him absentmindedly, a calm resolve growing inside her chest. This had nothing to do with Jess or the theatrical tension or her voice or wondering if she was worthy enough. This was about honouring the passion of theatre her grandma had passed on. Gran wanted to see her sing the role of Eliza in her village and she would. Nothing would be better than Gran seeing her sing again. Jess could throw all the arrows she wanted. This wasn’t about her; it wasn’t even about Lily. It was about the ninety-seven-year-old woman sleeping across from her. She needed to make her proud.
Rising from her seat she kneeled down beside her grandmother’s armchair and softly held her hand in her own. Gran shook slightly, her eyes flickering open.
‘Sorry to wake you, Gran,’ Lily murmured.
Gran spotted Lily and blinked slowly, a gentle grin crossing her lips. ‘Good, darling. You arrived back late. How was the rehearsal?’
‘Fine but you should be in bed,’ Lily admonished gently.
‘I wanted to stay up to hear all about it,’ she said, her voice croaky with sleep and age.
Lily hesitated then started to grin. ‘It was… a challenge,’ she said. ‘But you know what they say: the show must go on. Come on, up to bed and I’ll help you get ready and we can have a long gasbag about it in the morning.’
Gran’s eyes gleamed, a spark of the old theatre lover still blazing inside them. ‘A challenge hey? I can’t wait to hear about it. I bet you held your own.’
Lily nodded and tightened her grip on her grandmother’s hand. ‘You bet I did. I learned it from an old lady I know who loves the theatre.’
Gran caressed Lily’s hand and her smile grew wider. ‘That’s my girl. You’re a trouper.’
‘Righto, let’s go to bed. I’m knackered,’ Lily said and slowly she and Gran climbed the stairs together.
Letter
To my sweet Lily, aged ten,
Once again, summer is coming to an end. I’m writing you this letter at the kitchen table while the last of the apple sauce cools on the windowsill. I hate apple sauce, but I might give it to Old Mr Campbell up the road. He’s likes it on his cereal.
The cottage still smells like apples and nutmeg and cinnamon, a lovely scent as the air becomes crisp as autumn draws closer.
This year’s apple harvest was really excellent, wasn’t it? There were so many apples on the trees that their stems almost touched the ground. I can still picture you out there with your basket, gathering the drops and tiptoeing up to reach the ones that were just too high.
I think I might be done with apples now though. We made pies, crumbles, chutneys, jams and cakes. We tried everything! I know that making the apple tarts was your favourite part. I can picture you carefully putting the slices in order and layering the pastry.
It’s been lovely having you here these past few weeks. When I think about all the summers we’ve spent together, I’ve noticed that you’ve changed. This year, I’ve heard your singing voice in a way I haven’t heard it before and even though we’ve always sung together, sitting at the piano, something feels different now. I think your voice is maturing, and it’s lovely to hear.
Lily, I know you’re starting to understand that your voice is unique and stands out, but I want you to remember something important. Yes, your voice is a gift, but it’s your gift. You don’t have to use it if it doesn’t make you happy, not even if it makes someone else happy. I know your mum has been saying you need lessons and the like, but hang off until you’re sure you want them.
Things we love can become duties in this world, but I don’t want that for you. If singing makes you happy, go ahead and sing your heart out. But if you don’t feel like it some days, that’s okay too. You own your voice.
Being aware that you’re able to choose is a very important thing to know. I remember that when I was younger, I felt like I had to do certain things because other people wanted me to, and that took away some of the fun. That is not how I want you to feel at all, not about something as important as your voice. People will always have their own thoughts, but only you can choose what makes you happy.
