The cast jostled about her, rehearsals went like a dream, at the pub Brian said “Why don’t you direct? I could do with a break.” Lights, action, applause. The whole of Midhurst loved her. Next year they’d do Pinter. Ros had been so lost in her daydream she’d almost hit a woman scurrying across the carpark at St Richards. She wouldn’t mind directing. He only had to ask. She wrapped her coat around her, and scurried like the woman against the biting cold, following signposts to Mercury Ward, a separate building from the main hospital, brick and square; this is what friends did, they visited each other in fuck awful places. She’d dressed down for the occasion, she didn’t want to stand out, her oldest jeans, trainers, a sweatshirt, her hair scraped up into a ponytail, she’d never been to a psychiatric ward before. In the antechamber of mental illness, a cork board chequered with green elastic holding pamphlets for Pilates and MIND, she waited for a small nurse with helmet black hair to open the next set of doors and show her in. I’m a friend she said to the question. The nurse led her down a corridor, she’ll be happy to see you, and left her at the lounge of The Given Up, that’s what they should have called it, like the day after the apocalypse when everyone was too tired to eat each other. Bodies everywhere. The stink of the place. Couldn’t they open a window? All the closed off atmosphere of hospital with added locks, and there was Tessa, the collapsed heap of her, Ros touched her shoulder. “Hey Tess.”
The magazine in Tessa’s hands fell to the floor. Ros had never seen her move so fast. Up and out of that chair, the two old blokes in the armchairs opposite laughing. The smaller, more revolting one in stained, ill-fitting trousers, the one who’d shouted Eastenders, no, no, Casualty! said “You won’t catch her.”
Ros turned away from the sight of his belly, bursting without shame from the bottom of his lumberjack shirt. The other man laughed. Most people who recognised her asked her what Nurse Fairhead was like, but Tessa hadn’t even made it to the doorway, and they were already onto Brexit. Ros didn’t know there were conversations in places like these. She’d imagined buckles and sadness and Tessa begging to be let out. She’d imagined gratitude. She chased her from stinking lounge to corridor of cheap doors and laminate signs, Polite notice, abuse will not be tolerated, and into a bedroom.
This time she didn’t touch her. “Tessa, it’s me. Ros.”
It was as if another person had stepped into Tessa’s skin, someone demonic, large, and dead of eye, of erratic bursts of action.
“Sorry, Ros. Busy. I don’t have time to see you now.” She brushed her hair, sweep-sweep through the greasy, tangled locks. “Did you bring me my money?”
Ros wanted to do it for her. “Money?”
“Or cigarettes. Or phone. Did you bring me my phone? I told Scott to pack a bag.”
“I didn’t know I could bring anything. I will next time though, if you like? I could bring you your things if you make a list.”
“I need my other slippers.”
“Slippers.” Ros got out her phone.
“And cigarettes. And money.”
“I did bring you this, though.” She held out a copy of Blithe Spirit. She’d got it off Amazon.
“Don’t forget my phone.”
“I’ll leave it on the bed, shall I?” She laid it gently on the cheap sheets. “I thought it would give you something to do, something to concentrate on. I’ve marked your lines.” Ten minutes in that awful place and already she felt like she was dying. No wonder no one ever got better. She’d been planning on tea; she’d imagined a hug.
“I have to go out.”
“Are you allowed out?”
“I have to go to the shops.” Tessa barrelled past Ros and headed for the main door. At the entrance, she pointed at the large green button on the wall. “You have to press it.”
“And also,” Ros pressed the button. “Scott and Clare thought, I mean, we all thought, and it’s only until you’re better, that -.”
The door buzzed. Tessa pushed it open.
“What I mean is, I just wanted to say, not to worry. I’ll keep your seat warm.”
The airlock closed behind them. Tessa didn’t seem to be listening. She held her bag in both hands pressed to her chest, her shapeless outfit. And she still had her slippers on.
“Tessa?” Ros wanted to get out too. “Is there another button or something?”
“And if you’re fucking him, I don’t care.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said if you’re fucking him -.”
They both heard the woosh of the doors behind them. Tessa’s eyes flicked over Ros just once, briefly, as the two nurses grabbed her by the arms and hauled her back inside.
Ros didn’t move. She waited for the airlock to close and pressed the button again. This time the outside doors opened with a rush of air. Ros didn’t look back.
She gunned her BMW away from St Richards, cutting off an ambulance as it pulled out of the drop off bay. Fucking Scott. She undid her ponytail. God knows she’d been at that rodeo before. Forget Tessa, not forget, but don’t worry, worry wouldn’t help anyone. What Tessa needed was support. They couldn’t all go to pieces. It was important for Tessa’s friends to stay strong and keep the ship afloat, first rehearsal was tonight. Tessa was just, she couldn’t find the word, so she smoked a cigarette, grappling for her lighter as she took the turn for Midhurst. Tessa was just ill.
Ros left her discomfort on the A286. By the time she pulled up outside The South Downs Centre the world was good again. Everything was fine. Tessa would get better, the show would go on, and Ros’ ship wasn’t just afloat, it was sailing. Who knew where this might lead.
She was bang on time. Brian would be thrilled. She slung her bag over her shoulder, pushed open the heavy doors and moved the green curtain aside. The hall was dusty and cavernous, high windows and chairs stacked against one wall. Brian at the far end was already laying out scripts on the stage.
“Ros! Come to keep an eye on us, have you?”
“Didn’t Scott tell you?” she shoved off her coat, pulled a chair from the stack and draped it over the back. She was sure the waft of Mercury Ward came with her.
“Tell me what?”
Ros picked up a script. It had TESSA written in the top right corner. Beside the scripts was a new box of highlighters. Ros chose pink.
“Tell me what?” said Brian again, this time looking at his watch.
The door banged, the curtain moved aside and into the hall swept Diane, trailed by Issy dragging her school satchel.
“Sorry, sorry,” Diane’s scarf wafted behind her. Issy almost trod on it.
“Pick up your bag,” said Ros.
Next came Scott, Clare, and a stout woman in tweed. Ros put her script down and hugged Scott.
“Have you met our Mrs. Bradman,” said Clare.
“Barbara.” The stout woman in tweed held out her hand. “I saw you in Casualty.”
“Tess not with you?” said Brian. He picked up the script Ros had left on the chair.
Scott took off his jacket. Pine needles fell onto the parquet floor. “She’s in Spain. Sorry Brian, should have rung you.”
“Spain?” said Brian.
“Parents,” said Clare and Ros together.
“Ros’ stepping in,” said Clare. “Just until she’s back.”
Ros smiled at Brian.
“You could let her do the warmups,” added Clare. Her Barbour left a scattering of straw. There was binding twine escaping from a hole in one of the pockets.
“Brian makes us do sit ups,” said Diane.
“For the stomach muscles,” said Brian.
“I’m not lying on that floor,” said Barbara.
“I’m sure I’ve forgotten everything,” said Ros, stepping onto the stage.
She got them on their backs in a circle, feet to the centre, hands on their bellies, all except Issy, who refused.
“Now,” said Ros, lying between Clare and Scott, “close your eyes, and feel your bellies moving with your breath. Up down, up down, in out, in out.”
“Do the hokey-cokey?” said Scott. Clare laughed.
“Eyes closed please, Scott. I want you to connect with your breath. It’ll help with projecting. When you project your voice, it has to come from the diaphragm. We want the people at the back of the theatre to hear as well as the people in the front row, don’t we?” The stage was cold and hard. She could feel Scott’s warmth beside her.
“We rather want them to see the play, too,” said Diane.
“I’m not sure I can get up,” said Barbara.
“Can Mrs. Bradman play her part lying down?” said Scott.
“I don’t think we’re supposed to be talking,” said Brian from the other side of the circle.
“I have to be back by eight.” Barbara flashed a view of her undercarriage as she struggled to her feet.
“How about a few voice warm-ups?” said Brian, getting to his knees.
“Okay, if everyone wants to stand up,” said Ros, standing too. “Now, if we all take a space,” she held her arms out, “like this. Find your space.”
She saw Clare and Diane exchange a look. “And drop your arms, hands to bellies, ma-ma-ma-ma-maa, copy me.”
“Mama Mia,” shouted Issy in a song-song voice, “here we go again.”
Diane barked a laugh.
“Thank you, Issy,” said Ros.
“Maybe that will do,” said Brian.
“I can hand out exercises next week,” Ros wiped the dust from her jeans. “They can practice at home.”
Brian got down from the stage. “Come and get your scripts,” he picked up his own as the others crowded round.
“Do pass mine,” said Barbara. Clare handed it to her, and passed Diane hers, too.
“And if you can all move to the side,” Brian directed with his arms. “Issy, you too, yes that’s right, up on the stage, stage left please.”
He pointed stage right, but Ros didn’t bother to correct him. She stood beside Scott, waiting for Brian to decide if Diane should be sitting down or leaning on the mantelpiece. If they didn’t want to know, that was their look-out. She was only trying to help. “How’s Freddy?” she whispered.
“Fine. Fine.”
“And you?”
“Oh, you know.”
“Why don’t I come over one evening, do Freddy’s tea, or something? My girls can look after themselves. It would give you a night off.” There was no point in telling him. Tessa would probably forget, anyway. Some things were best left to sink.
“Ros? Scott? Can I see you in starting position,” called Brian. “Scott, there, there’ll be a sofa there. And Ros, we don’t need you until Act Two. Come and take a pew.” He patted the back of the chair that Issy had been sitting in.
“You mean, Scene Two,” said Ros.
“We’re going from the top,” said Brian.
“You know, that would actually be great, if you could,” said Scott, quietly.
“No problem, of course I could.” Ros bumped his arm gently as they parted.
Moves with such gusto. And always the bold image:
"It was as if another person had stepped into Tessa’s skin, someone demonic, large, and dead of eye, of erratic bursts of action."