End of Season

Dresser Alison is not at her spot in the Foyer Level corridor, which means she must be backstage somewhere. So I skip down the stairs and slip in through the door to the stage, where I am instantly engulfed in blue-hued darkness, and the impassioned lunacy of Mozart’s Magic Flute. Figures loiter in the shadows, either waiting to go on stage, move scenery, or work on a change. I make my way towards the back end of the Prompt Side wings, weave my way past giant pieces of set, and twist around a corner into a hidden quick-change booth. And there is Alison, looking up with a surprised smile to see me. I lean down and stage-whisper into her ear - ‘I need to ask you something a bit cheeky.’

‘Oh right?’ 

‘Can I have one of the biscuits that are in your locker?’ 

She laughs. ‘Of course, darling! Please, help yourself.’ 

My clean-eating diet goals have gone out the window during these last two weeks of the season. I need caffeine and sugar to propel me through the unrelenting schedule, and tonight will be - surreally - the final Flute and also my last night of the season. The previous evening had been the final Rusalka, and at the end of the show, I’d gone to the side-of-stage to watch the curtain calls. I had looked up with enraptured glee as the water nymphs were winched high into the air, and then pulled across the stage, hidden behind black drapes, before dropping down in front of the audience. The applause had been thunderous, with all the back-stage monitors trembling as the audience hammered the auditorium floor with their feet, whooping and whistling.

At the long interval, the dressers gather in the Running Wardrobe mothership. Claire has ordered in pizza - it is without doubt the worst pizza I’ve ever had, but as we chew and chatter, the mood is warm and bubbly. 

Before long, the other, stage-management Claire, calls the half-hour, and we head back to our posts. 

Once the show has come down and the laundry has gone up, I am back in the kitchen again, moving out of my locker with an ache in my heart. I load into a large shopping bag my flask, my head torch and my spare batteries, my knee pads, my spare lanyard, my show notes, my black apron, my emergency deodorant, and mints. I also take out a bottle of prosecco and a chocolate tart, which I carry with me into the gardens. The evening outside is utterly magical, nestled under a star-drenched sky. I find that Alison has procured a table in the perfect spot, at the top end of the lake, and I join the group of dressers that are gathered around it. We load up the table up with our goodies and, in the light of Alison’s solar-powered moon lantern, we sit back in the soft warm breeze of the night, and our conversation mingles with with the clink of glasses, chatter and laughter of the punters gathered in nearby corners. 

‘Let’s come back for the final-night-party tomorrow,’ urges Blossom, and plans are quickly hatched. The final show of the season will be Rinaldo, which I’m not working on. The break-dancing counter-tenor Jakub Józef Orliński, who has been a huge hit on Instagram, will be heading up the cast. 

So the following evening, like a bunch of well-dressed, over-age teenagers, Alison, Suzi and I meet in the car park behind the Premier Inn. We exchange compliments on each others’ outfits, and then Suzi drives us all to Glyndebourne. It turns out that we’ve arrived way earlier than we needed to, and the third act is only just launching. So we settle into the green room, and Alison gets the night underway with a bottle of wine and we watch the show on the green room’s large TV screen. The audience ooohs and ahhhs as Jakub manages to sneak in some flashy dance moves. The pyro-technics literally go off with a bang, and it’s clear that the energy is high, both on stage and in the auditorium. Once again, as the curtain comes down, the audience are going wild. 

Every year at the end of the season, Glyndebourne’s Executive Chairman Gus Christie will come on stage to give a speech, and I am curious to hear it. So I sneak through the secret door at the back of the kitchen that lets you into the auditorium, and prowl along the back wall behind the rows of well-coiffed heads, hidden in the shadows. I reach a point where I can just about see Gus if I stand on tip-toe. He is talking about how none of this could happen without ‘you, our wonderful audience. So thank you.’ He goes on to say how the House has reached 92% of its targets this year, which is admirable given that Glyndebourne receives no public funding. But, in these uncertain times and with changes ahead, this will become more of a challenge. Glyndebourne will continue to employ singers, conductors and directors from Europe, and will continue to work with European suppliers and partners, even if this means that costs will rise. 

This news is greeted with applause. 

Gus makes a whistle-stop tour of all the fantastic productions that we have staged this year, and introduces the programme for the following summer. Whoops and cheers go out as he names singers, conductors and directors, including Barrie Kosky of Saul glory, who will be making an appearance. Then he goes on to talk about the Jerwood Young Artists programme that supports exceptional new singers with coaching and performance opportunities, and apparently Sahel Salam and Noluvuyiso Vuvu Mpofu have both been recipients this year. When Gus admits that The Royal Opera House beat Glyndebourne at a cricket match earlier that day, the audience cheerfully boos. 

By this point, I feel that I’ve heard enough, and I sneak out again. The show has been put to bed and, clutching paper cups of Champagne, the dressers are gathering on the Upper Circle terrace to watch as fireworks explode in the sky like huge, mushrooming flowers of fire.  

The final-night party is already underway in the Mildmay restaurant, and the PA is booming with music from a live band who are playing covers of rock tunes. It doesn’t take long before the dance floor is rammed, but I’ve been keeping an eye on the time. The hour of midnight is fast approaching, when the final Cinderella pumpkin coach will be leaving for Lewes. 

‘You’re not leaving?’ A drunken, beautiful girl I don’t know is batting her bejewelled lashes at me as I gather up my bag. 

‘The last bus is leaving,’ I sigh. 

‘When?’ 

‘Midnight.’

‘What time is it?’ I nod at the giant clock right behind her head, with its hands inching their way towards twelve o’clock. 

‘Oh staaayyyy,’ pleads the girl, hanging onto my arm. ‘We’ll get an Uber.’ I break out into a smile. ‘Okay.’ 

I wander back out into the gardens, and take a moment to stand beneath the glittering, gleaming, silver crescent moon. 

So there it is. Another summer at Glyndebourne... gone with a glimmer and a wink.