Devilish work
The Glyndebourne staff minibus is weaving its way from Lewes to the opera house, and I am sitting next to Blossom. Her giant glasses are perched somewhere towards the end of her nose, and she has a large basket on her lap. ‘It’s my ironing,’ she says, cheerfully practical as ever. ‘I’m going to do it in the lunch break.’ She has even brought her own iron, which makes me smile as the bus pulls over to pick up some singers from outside of Tesco.
After being deposited at the Stage Door, Blossom and I head up to the top floor in the gently-complaining lift. It gets stuck so regularly that I often find myself holding my breath as it grinds through the levels, and no one is supposed to use it to get to the stage during a performance, just in case. Glancing up, I notice that the marker-pen drawing of a cat’s bottom is still loitering in the corner, where it has been for the past few years.
The Running Wardrobe ‘mothership’ is a hive of activity. Boss Lucy is handing out reams of stapled sheets of paper. These are our show plots, with our names pencilled on the front page, and the movements throughout the show of our assigned artists already marked out in orange high-lighter pen. Their entrances and exits on and off the stage are listed, timed to the second, and their costume changes are carefully detailed. These usually happen either in the dressing rooms or in the side-of-stage quick-change booths. ‘Out of black trousers and patent shoes, into blue trousers and lace-up boots. VV quick!!’ On separate sheets we have meticulously comprehensive lists of all costume items, right down to socks, bras, show pants, watches, earrings, and pocket handkerchiefs. It will our job at the beginning of each evening to comb through the items on the dressing room rails and the bit bags, which contain all the odds and sods, and we will have to hunt down anything that might be missing. Usually, missing things will have turned up in someone else’s dressing room, or if they got lost on stage, there’s a chance that Stage Management will have them. Very often, singers accidentally go home in their show socks and forget to return them. Replacements will be procured, but not without a disapproving frown.
Plastic laundry baskets clatter in the corridor as the dressers grab a few each and load them up with freshly laundered towels.
I have been allocated to the Ladies’ Chorus, and I hike my baskets under my arm as I head down to their dressing rooms, stopping off at my locker on the way. I pull out a black apron, festooned with emergency safety pins. My show notes fit into the giant pocket on the front, and I also add in a couple of pens, a small notepad, a head torch, Polo Mints, and an old iPod that I use as a timer.
The Ladies’ Chorus room is full of noise. The (mostly young) women have been rehearsing together for several weeks by now, so they are all familiar with each other and the chatter flows easily. The room is split into ‘bays’, each one consisting of six desks, complete with individual Hollywood-style light bulb mirrors and a lockable cabinet for personal belongings. Windows hover near the top of the high walls, letting in light (and the occasional field mouse), while rails packed with costumes are stationed all along the opposite wall.
I have been entrusted with six girls at one end of the room, while two other dressers take care of the rest of the room. Some of the chorus members have permanent positions, and over the years we have formed friendships. It’s so lovely to see them again, exchange hugs and grab a quick catch-up. Many other faces are new and unfamiliar though, and I will have to work fast at memorising who is who before they put their wigs on, which always completely transforms peoples’ appearance.
I plough through the costumes on the rails, furiously checking things off from my list and making sure the ‘pit pads’ are poppered into sleeves before the items get dragged to people’s desks.
The ladies, who will be playing a mob of devils, are looking amazing in maroon and moss-coloured velvet coats and doublets, stockings, and beautiful shoes that remind me of storybook illustrations from a vintage edition of The Shoemaker and the Elves. I meander from person to person, lacing up coats, coaxing stiff buttons, grappling with uncooperative shoe buckles. Outrageous, birds-nest-like wigs and ghoulish, grotesque masks complete the dark and unsettling look. There’s quite a bit of shrieking and laughter as the girls snap selfies with their phones.
Once everyone is dressed, I go upstairs to the side of stage, and find myself standing amongst a babbling milieu of devils and sprites as we all wait in the blue-tinged twilight of the wings.
‘So Pearl, you’re going to need to be over here to collect the masks.’ I am led across to the back of the set, and stationed with a basket by a towering structure of steps labelled ‘DAM OF FAUST TREAD UNIT A’. Blue fairy-lights are gaffa-taped to the framework, lighting the way.
The conductor, Robin Ticciati, readies himself for the launch of the rehearsal and I perch on the bottom step of the tread unit, listening as a hush begins to descend around us. Ticciati’s arms drift up from his sides as if of their own volition and a moment later, I hear the sound of Allan Clayton’s amazing voice climbing into the air.
Shortly afterwards, there is a thundering racket on the steps behind me. I jump up, grab the basket, and hold it out to collect masks as chorus members gallop past me. I wince as the delicate papier-mâché creations clatter in the basket, but on closer inspection, they have all survived intact. And with that, my assignment for the day is pretty much accomplished.
