Juliet England: My deafie diary – it’s open-air theatre season once again

 

Ah, summertime. And while describing the living as ‘easy’, exactly, could be something of a stretch, it’s certainly the season for open-air theatre. For an enthusiast with a hearing loss, that presents a greater than usual number of challenges.

With my theatre company, this summer it’s Great Expectations and I’m playing Molly the serving maid employed by Mr Jaggers, but additionally took on the role of the monstrous Mrs Joe after the first-choice actor for the part dropped out.

I joined the cast late, and the director introduced me as ‘Juliet, whose hearing is even worse than mine’. (He’s also been exceptionally kind in running me home after rehearsals, but we’ve both struggled to hear each other in the car in the dark.)

Not unreasonably, we have done most rehearsals outside, given that performances take place under the sky. (I would say stars, but this is Reading, after all.) Anyway, it means that words can get carried away on the summer breeze, unheard. It probably doesn’t help that the annual open-air show is a complex project on a grander scale than plays in the theatre, with more instructions and directions to get your head around.

I am probably the worst serving wench ever – and would have been summarily sacked were I a real-life one. Wine glasses topple precariously, trays get abandoned in the wrong place at the inappropriate time. and fellow actors don’t have a drink in their hand when they should do or get exasperated because I don’t get off stage sharpish enough – either because I didn’t get the memo, or get it clearly enough.

And, the other night, I missed a cue and scuttled on stage late and flustered.

In fact, hearing cues is a problem generally. You’re stood much further back in the ‘wings’ at the ruined abbey where we perform, meaning no hope of catching the words denoting your entrance. (Again, lost on the summer breeze.) Stand too close and in sight of the audience and you risk the stage manager barking at you. So someone else has to listen in and prod me on stage at the appropriate moment.

I wear three costumes in this one – and the number of actual changes is far greater than that. So thank the good lord for our calm, efficient and ever-helpful wardrobe mistress. I even need her to put my mob cap on, so I can be holding my cochlear implant in place at the same time. And the rapid lifting and lowering of dresses over one’s head can often dislodge the thing.

One such frock is very Pride and Prejudice, since it is my dancing gown – for some reason I have been allowed to take on the mantle of background waltzer in a ball scene. I have two left feet and can’t hear the music terribly well. Not only that but my much-to-be-pitied dancing partner has gout in his own (single) left foot, adding to the sense of fear given the disaster that would ensue in the ever-likely event of my treading on it.

As a deafie, I’m often unaware of just how loud my voice is, and how far it carries. So I often have to be shushed backstage. (Again, by that fearsome stage manager.) Equally, I am tone-deaf as well as actually deaf and so can’t believe I’m allowed to sing in public but join in with the others in singing God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen at the start of the show – invariably a few beats behind everyone else. It’s also deeply weird singing a carol in July.

Then there’s the ever-present threat of rain, with its potential to trash my cochlear implant.

Just as well, then, that with all the hard work and many challenges involved, there is at least one thing I can hear – the applause.

I am writing this halfway through our run, so it’s been hard to think of too much else. (I understand that there’s this thing called work I’m supposed to be doing, but it remains the vaguest of notions.)

However, there have been the usual irritants. Tesco still calling and not texting when grocery drivers rock up, for one. (Of course they do, no matter how many times I shrike and stamp my foot, Mrs Joe-style. I’d almost miss the constant sparring if they finally gave in and communicated with me in a way I could handle.)

I part-rent/part-own my flat in a shared ownership arrangement that I’d never do if I had my time again. In one of its ‘continuous improvement’ drives (not that anything ever gets any better), the housing association from whom I rent a percentage of my gaff held an online meeting recently, to which I was invited. This was held over Zoom or Teams, I forget which, but there was no accessibility for anyone with a hearing issue. So I gave up and left the virtual room after about 20 minutes. There were no closed captions, no BSL, nothing – no way of taking part.

To be fair (not that I especially relish being fair to them), they did send me written notes afterwards giving a summary of what was said, but it’s not quite the same.

In better news, at least one Aged Parent is getting on better with their hearing aids now, largely due to the ear-wax removal services of a private operator. They actually had to pay for this, mark you, maybe not a huge sum but a sum nonetheless, and one you’d be ill able to afford if you were struggling. At least the Aged Parent can now catch more of what the other Aged Parent is saying on visits to their nursing home. The situation is still far from perfect, however, and I still need to ‘interpret’ quite a bit, since even my cloth ears seem to be better than those of Aged Parent 1.

So, there you have it. Another month nearly over, the point of high summer soon to be reached and another show to be consigned to memory in just a week’s time.

Photo: Richard Brown