Juliet England: A right performance? Treading the boards in a group of hearing actors

It’s Sunday lunchtime. I’m feeling more hung over, grouchy and tired than I wish to admit, and there’s snow on the ground.

Having spent the night (and slept badly) at a friend’s house because of the weather, I’m really not relishing the prospect of the afternoon’s activity – an audition for my town’s annual open air summer Shakespeare, which this year is Much Ado About Nothing.

A little red devil sits on my shoulder and whispers that I could always wimp out. It’s not compulsory, after all, and there was no pre-booking an audition slot, so no one will notice if I don’t rock up. (Somehow, my hearing loss never extends to failing to hear the little red devils.)

Anyway, I eventually grudgingly decide I can’t skive off, check via Facebook that the weather hasn’t cancelled the thing (regrettably, it hasn’t), and catch two buses across town to the theatre. In a triumph of hope over experience, I am early enough to calm my pre-match nerves with a cuppa in a nearby café.

At the venue, I make it clear that I have a severe hearing loss, and will need to be texted rather than telephoned with the outcome of the audition – plus the instructions need to be made clear, and preferably bellowed. The producer and director seem unfazed, as indeed so they should be.

But, suddenly, I’m feeling sick, and it’s not just the hangover. All the new voices and people seem to have exacerbated my hearing problem, and my ability to grasp instructions. One man is charming but with a strong accent, impossible to hear, which somehow always makes me feel awful.

We’re sent off into small groups to practice little scenes before emerging into the main foyer to ‘perform’ for everyone. This makes life a little easier.

I try out for a few of the smaller parts, and it’s hard work following the various speeches so that I don’t miss my cue when I have to chip in with a line. Mercifully, I somehow manage to avoid complete shame and disaster.

I even have a crack at the main role of Beatrice, even though my age makes the playing of a young heroine laughably unlikely.

The break, as we make tea in the theatre’s tiny but well-lit kitchen, offers a much better chance to chat in a more relaxed way.

Suddenly, I’m being informed that I have delighted the company long enough, and am free to return home to nurse my hangover, regretting the lost opportunity for them to quip “Don’t text us, we’ll text you.”

On the bus back, I wonder if my deafie’s loud voice (specifically requested in the audition notice given that performances are outside) will be enough.

Days pass. I have decided that I really, really, really want a part in this play. But I hear nothing. I have auditioned unsuccessfully for this group before, and they have a strong reputation. But my only previous acting experience has been at school, uni and a not especially good (read woefully dire) small-town am dram group.

I am so desperate to have my inevitable rejection confirmed and to be put out of my misery that I contact the theatre’s Facebook page. The reply is slightly cryptic – I am not needed for the call-back auditions. However, I am to continue waiting.

It is another Sunday afternoon and I am emptying bags of shopping when the text arrives.

Hi. You have been cast in the role of Verges. If you are still interested?

Well of course I was. As Joanna Lumley said of that BAFTAS hosting gig, I accepted with indecent haste.

It’s about 10 lines in total, so somewhere between third spear-bearer and a main part – although much nearer the spear-bearer end of the spectrum. Verges is an elderly sergeant of the watch who, along with his colleagues, provides light relief from the main action.

So far, we’ve had two rehearsals. Or, more accurately, an initial read-through and a rehearsal. (For the latter I was an hour late given my confusion as to where we were meeting and the need to get a further two buses to get to the right place, and hear instructions from bus drivers behind glass screens. Still, it was in keeping with the character’s general incompetence.)

And so far I’m luvvying it, and have been seriously impressed by the group’s commitment and professionalism. There are challenges. Lifts home in dark cars, for one, inducing conversational panic. (The one time I did this, I was unaware for the whole ride that there was a third person in the car.)

Being able to hear the director tell me what to do will also be tricky. And, most of all, I worry about being able to hear the cues and follow the speeches of my fellow thespians when I’m on stage but saying very little for long periods. Following the dialogue with my cloth ears is exhausting, and likely to become more so when we move to the outside venue, where words will get lost on the breeze.

But I’m holding out hope for being able to hear all that thunderous applause. I also reckon there’s no reason why I can’t make Verges deaf.

Read more of Juliet’s articles for us here. Juliet England does freelance social media and PR work for cSeeker.