Superstition

The announcement around the dusty and dusty old corridors of the once grand theatre broke the eerie silence save for muffled voices from behind closed doors doing their warm up exercises
“Thirty minutes. This is your thirty minute call.” It sang amidst the strange quiet and calmness that was broken suddenly by loud crash and an angry roar.
A few seconds after the roaring had stopped, cracks appeared in the doors and eyes looked at one another with innocence.
Only one door remained shut and Arthur, the long standing Stage Manager, knew exactly where the crash had come from. He sauntered his little round body past the watching eyes, careful not to pay them any attention, actors are a funny breed and in times of stress strangely crave privacy, he thought.
There was always one though who wants to make a name for himself and it was usually young and usually confidently stupid. In this cast it was Nigel, the young lover and understudy to the lead. He poked his Roman nose out of his dressing room into Arthur’s face.
“I think that the noise emanated from Bruce’s room.” He snootily said.
Arthur looked up over his small round glasses at the nose pointing up to the fluorescent light in the ceiling that highlighted the hairs in the young actors’ nostrils.
“Thank you, I’ll deal with it. Go back to your rooms everyone, shows over.”
The dressing room doors all shut leaving behind mumbles like “the shows not even started darling” or “who does that Bruce think he is”.

“He’s the star you moany old…” Arthur stopped himself as he reached the dressing room which read ‘Bruce Noward’ above a single gold star on its door. He knocked.
There was a pause before the booming voice came from inside. “Yes?”
“It’s Arthur.”
The door opened slightly and a beady eye took Arthur in up and down.
“Can I help?”
“Did you fall over?” Arthur asked.
Bruce’s eye scanned the corridor for any sign of life.
“Yes.” Came the reply finally.
“Are you all right now?” Arthur said with little expression or emotion.
“Perfectly.”
Arthur nodded and then turned to go.
“Wait!” the door swung open and Bruce’s fragile beanpole silhouette was revealed in the gloom of the corridor. Arty, I’m in a mess. Get Gray will you?”

Graham Drayton was the Company Manager for the production and Arthur had to call him using the tannoy that was housed in the corner of the stage.
“Could Graham Drayton come to prompt corner please, Graham Drayton.”
Arthur could almost hear the oohs and aahs from the dressing rooms. The Company Manager was only ever called if there was a problem and using the tannoy issues a bulletin throughout all of the rooms backstage. The last thing this play needed was a further loss of morale after poor reviews and ticket sales.
Arthur looked up at the clock above the black sockets on the side of the black wall, the only beacon of light from the dull walls of a stage. It glowed like a full moon and showed Arthur that it was twenty minutes to curtain up. He was about to make an announcement when Graham arrived.
“What is it Arty?”
Arthur turned to the large red cheeked man with heavy sacks under his eyes. He felt like he should not say anything to save the final nail going into this jovial mans heart.
“It’s Bruce.” Arthur sighed. “He says he’s in a mess.”
“Like this play.” Graham said as he rubbed his chin. “Thanks Arty.”

Bruce Noward sat in dressing room on his make-up chair with nothing but his silk dressing gown on. The lights from the mirror opposite him dazzled his reflection but kept the room from getting chilly. His table was littered with make-up, cards, papers, and cigarette packets, on top of them all sat a bunch of flowers, fresh and still in their wrapping.
There was a knock at the door and Bruce readied himself by placing a weary hand to his forehead.
“Come.”
The door opened and Graham poked his head around the edge.
“Bruce darling what is it?”
“Gray. Come in and sit. I’ve been an unutterable fool.”
Graham sat in the leather sofa that took up the opposite wall to Bruce and his mirror.
“I can’t go on tonight Gray.” Bruce sighed. “Nigel will have to take my place thus receive a standing ovation and push me out of this silly little play.”
Graham did not speak to start with, but let the actor finish his personal performance with a sigh and a drop of his head in sorrow.
“Bruce. Are you ill?”
Bruce looked up at his manager and his eyes widened. “Worse Gray. I’m unlucky.”
Graham thought for a moment, trying not to show a hint of emotion or amusement, actors are superstitious beings but to miss a performance is taking it a bit strong.
“Why would you say you were unlucky?”
Bruce sat up. “Please let me tell you of my day.”
He spun around to face the mirror and he kept his eyes on Graham’s reflection next to his own in the brilliant light coming from the surrounding small bulbs.

“I woke this morning at the normal time and I headed to my usual place for breakfast. As you well know Gray I am a creature of habit and I always attend the café at the end of the road of Marlborough Street. It is such a lovely place, typically English with the most delightful pot of tea this side of...well India. I ordered my usual two boiled eggs and a pot of English Breakfast when Haim, the proprietor, shook his head and bowed in pity. The egg man had not delivered or rather his chickens had not, being underfed or whatever and Haim had subsequently had to go to the local express market chain. I scoffed at such an idea and told him no way. As Haim only had bacon to offer on his breakfast menu and I detest all things pig I made my apologies to him and left. He was very upset by this but I assured him that I would return once the eggs do. I’m not being silly Gray, but you really out to taste those eggs, so rich and smooth not the anaemic ones that come off of a supermarket trolley.
Anyway, there is another small café near to Wells Place and I went in there and ordered the same thing. The lovely little waitress with glasses assured me that these eggs were free-range from a farm not too far from here and I agreed. That was my first error Gray. After a short time of hearing my tummy bubbling I could feel my innards liquefy and I had to run for the rest room. I have been doing that all day like a…well, you know?
After a long sit decided I had to get some fresh air and as I walked out without paying I vowed never to enter that tearoom again.
As I turned the corner out of Wells Place I saw a magpie and I remembered something Mother used to tell me to salute Mr Magpie, one for sorrow and two for joy, all that nonsense. I didn’t have time to salute the scavenging bird because I had the urge to go again and had to rush to the nearest public convenience I could find behind Rolfe’s Solicitors.
I stepped over a black cat to get to the steps and descended into the dingy and smelly hole that we call public conveniences in this country. A man in a green boiler suit greeted me while he pretended to mop the stone floor. I noticed a small bowl of coppers on the window ledge and could not believe that a person who kept a place this disgusting would ask for tip. I finished what I had to do and ran out as quickly as I could in case the over-exposure to germs ensured I caught something. As I ran I bumped into a man coming down the steps and he knocked me into the tiled green wall. I rolled off and into the daylight and ran home before my bowels required another sitting.
As you know Gray, my over-bearing and bossy Sister is sharing my luxurious suite with me at the moment and my luck was to get worse when I was greeted with the most awful sight, a pair of new shoes on the table. Van you believe it, all these things that have happened and yet I made it here alive. All that needs to happen now is for some crewmember to be whistling as we are about to go on. Gray, do you see, I’m cursed. For the safety of the rest of the cast, send me home.”
Graham sat cool as anything attentively taking in every word. When he was sure Bruce had finished he sat up and perched on the end of the sofa, leaning his body toward Bruce.
“So. You’re not going on because of your upset stomach?”
“No Gray No!” came the cry. “I’m not going on because I am cursed. Just take a look at my flowers. That should confirm everything.”
Graham looked over the untouched flowers, bright yellow petals tipping out of the garish plastic covering.
“A little wilted but they’re all right.” Graham re-assured him.
“They’re not roses.” Came the stern reply.
“What?”
“The Theatre Manager said to me this afternoon that for the first time in as long as he can remember the local florist has not got any roses. How can a florist not have any roses?”
Bruce threw his hands in the air and smoothly spun around in his chair to face Graham. Graham, for the first time, saw the stress and worry on his leading actors face and fell back in the leather sofa which squeaked as he re-arranged his sitting position.
“Well.” He said. “I really don’t know what to say.”
“Put Nigel on tonight. Please Gray.”
Graham struggled out of the sofa and took up the bunch of flowers, he paced the room, now he commanded the attention and he made sure he was centre stage for his piece.
“Bruce.”
Bruce did not reply but lowered his head like a schoolboy caught doing something bad, he looked like a child craving the advice and leadership of a peer with his hands folded onto his lap.
Graham continued. “Bruce. All you have had is a bad day like other people. Some people have had worse, some have had better, but the world goes on turning and we go on learning.”
Graham made a mental note to remember that little rhyme before continuing. “Those audience members tonight may have gone through far worse than you to get here this evening and for what? To be told that the leading man is feeling unlucky? No Bruce you need to step outside of yourself and take in the positives. First of all, you’ve learned never to attend that tearoom again. Secondly, every public convenience has steep stairs that are very busy and you cannot avoid bumping into to someone on the step. Thirdly black cats are all over the place as are magpies and that is a ridiculous superstition that has no place in modern society, it was dreamed up to warn of on-coming death off or something. Whistling in the theatre is only unlucky if you happened to be standing underneath a cloth that is being brought in as that is how they used to cue the men in the flies to drop the next curtain. If you really want me to disprove this ridiculous notion of superstition and luck then I have one thing to say and you will notice that the walls won’t collapse and the theatre won’t catch fire, Macbeth.”
Bruce jumped out of his chair. “Good grief are you mad!”
“No!” Graham cried. “Just stressed and penniless and in need of a barnstorming performance from the one person this audience have come to see.”
“But I must…”
Bruce struggled with his conscience. All actors are taught at Theatre School that upon hearing the name of the Scottish play they must perform a ridiculous ritual erasing all the bad karma that the name projects. Graham laughed at the inner struggle Bruce was facing.
“Don’t do it, nothing will happen. You’ve worked hard to get here Bruce. It’s not luck, it’s hard work and grabbing your opportunities and saying yes to the right people. Once you believe in luck or fate then you’re a failure. No amount of roses is going to change that.”
Graham watched Bruces' head rise and he continued to massage his ego further.
“You are a great actor. One of the finest of your generation. You have still got a wonderful career and are adored by fellow thesps and fans alike. Don’t spoil your confidence by resorting to petty beliefs, it is not that which put you on the stage or in front of a camera. It is your talent, your looks, your knowledge of the business and your warmth towards your supporters. That is what matters and that is why you are going out there tonight.”
In his head, Graham heard a loud cry together with thunderous applause. In reality he had Bruce standing up next to him with a single tear falling down his cheek.
“Damn you’re right.” Bruce choked.
“Indeed I am.” Graham replied.

Graham Drayton watched from the wings as Bruce Noward produced his best performance ever, easily outshining the young upstart Nigel. He watched his leading actor receive a huge ovation and cries for more from an ecstatic audience. He watched Bruces' silhouetted figure walk toward him in a blaze of light as the curtain came down after the last call. Graham shook his hand.
“That was wonderful.”
“Thanks Gray. Thanks for everything.”
“Do you know, if you carry on like this you could be up for an award, I think the Evening Standard where in tonight.”
Bruce froze and leaned up against the wall of the corridor leading back to the dressing rooms.
“Don’t say that.”
“What?” Graham laughed.
“My family has a rich history of film and theatre but never an award. It is in the name; Noward is too close to no award. A curse that has never been lifted and one I fear will continue with me after my career has faded.”
“You’re joking. But I said…”
Bruce put his arm around Graham and smiled.
“It is our family curse Graham. The no award Nowards.”