I usually arrive early at the theatre, which leaves time to sort out costumes, make and drink tea, greet fellow thespians and crew, chat about this, that and nothing, hearing and watching each individual's eccentric physical and voice exercises as they gradually shifting into character. The five-minute call has us all scurrying to empty our bladders before beginners' positions, leaving we three Cardinal's Men in an empty auditorium, Alex performing his slow-motion martial arts movements, Phil staring into space and I repressing the urge to dance to the jaunty pre-curtain music.
In come the audience, the vanguard inevitably slow and grey-haired. They briefly notice me looming above them before they choose a seat and settle down glasses in hand. There is conversation and fiddling with mobiles for a few minutes until the lights darken, the opening music begins and Antonio (Darren Stamford) enters. I bark out my announcements ("The Cardinal of Aragon" etc) at the appropriate cue, come off-stage briefly, return a few minutes later, and then I'm off for twenty minutes.
Sitting in the office with Phil and Alex, occasionally interrupted by other players as they deposit or pick up props, we chat desultorily, but are more often silent. I sometimes read and sometimes do the Metro or Standard sudoku. Phil has taken to leafing through copies of Spotlight, looking for actors he has worked with, while Alex stares into space.
The longer the production goes on, the more it seems we are silent off-stage. Occasionally there are whispers - as last night when Antonio had problems surreptitiously dropping the letter that Bosola picks up, or when another gaffe, hopefully unnoticed by the audience, occurs - but usually we sit or stand motionless until our cue approaches and we slowly and more or less silently glide into position. In my own case, I am hovering between reality and fiction, not quite myself and not quite the character I am about to play. It keeps me both calm and alert, listening not just for my cue, but the story as it develops.
At the end of the first act, I stride onto the empty stage and take my time to look round the auditorium, briefly staring into the eyes of each audience member before walking off without comment. Then I join the rest of the cast hiding in the office as the auditorium is cleared to allow changes of set and costume. It's a leisurely break - we are all prepared in advance - with time to make coffee and tea and once again to head to the water-closets before we are secluded in our positions for the second half.
The conclusion of the play is much darker and stronger than the opening. It also gives me much less free time. My first appearance is as a masked executioner in the shadows, revealing the wax figure of Antonio and murdered child. Shortly afterwards, we three faceless figures slide silently onto the stage, prepared to execute the Duchess and her maid. It's a slow powerful scene, from which we recover by our change into the comic madhouse keepers. Then it is back to the Cardinal's Men presenting a scary, authoritarian backdrop to the action. Finally we return to the stage for the applause - which always seems genuine - before the rush to get changed and leave for home. Within quarter of an hour most of us have changed and headed out of the door. Two or three times a week some of us gather in the Novotel bar (where the service is abysmally slow), but more often it's the train back to London Bridge and the bus all the way home.
At the end of the day, although my body is tired, my brain is alert and I need an hour in front of the television to numb it to sleep. By half-past twelve or one o'clock, I've crawled in beside the Other Half and almost immediately I'm asleep, pleased with another good day.
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