How the Light Gets In by Hyland M. J

Author:Hyland, M. J. [M. J. Hyland]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780802197764
Publisher: Canongate U.S.
Published: 2004-04-02T05:00:00+00:00

15

The auditions are held in the school’s dark basement, in the vast auditorium, where all assemblies and prize presentations take place. I take a few sips of gin and then sign up at a table outside the entrance.

The musical is an original called Hippydrome: Hits of the Sixties and Seventies. It’s not so much a musical as a collection of hit songs strung together with a script written by the musical director, David Babbitt, and his drama students.

‘Name?’ asks a boy with fat fingers and big ears.

‘Louise Connor,’ I say.

‘You’re number eighteen,’ he says. ‘You can wait here if you want, or go somewhere else. It’s gonna be about twenty minutes, at least.’

I sit and wait and I feel sick with nerves. Then I imagine singing on opening night with the Hardings in the audience and I am nauseated, even though one of the reasons I want to do this is to show off to them. I go to the toilet and drink some more gin.

My number is called and I go into the auditorium. A woman wearing a red poncho waves me over to the piano and I walk with my hand shielding my eyes from the floodlights. Only the front rows of the audience can be seen, but it’s noisy out there. There must be a hundred people or more.

I don’t care. The alcohol has settled in. I am edgeless, tall, light, quick and powerful.

‘What are you going to sing?’ asks a man in the front row.

I have decided on a song from Annie Get Your Gun. A stupid idea, but I thought they might like it. I’m not even sure I know the right title. ‘“I Can Do Anything Better Than You Can”,’ Isay.

‘No you can’t!’ screams a joker in the back of the auditorium. I couldn’t care less who it is. I even think this is a fairly funny remark.

A man cries out, ‘Keep it down.’

The woman in the red poncho asks me what key I want her to play in and I don’t have a clue. I want to say, You could play the front door key for all I care but instead I say, ‘It doesn’t matter. You choose.’

Somebody laughs with a short snort. It sounds like James. Perhaps it is James. I don’t care. I’m indestructible. I’m not even blushing. I’m high as a kite.

I sing better than I ever have, as though some kind of spell has been cast. It’s a voice I didn’t know belonged to me and I don’t want to stop singing. I don’t have to stop. I get all the way to the end of the song without interruption. From what I know of what happens at auditions, at least in the movies, this must be a good sign.

I peer into the front row. The director introduces himself. His name is Paul, a skinny man with a skinny moustache. Beside him is David Babbitt, bald, without a moustache.

David calls out, ‘Okay, we’ll see you back here tomorrow.

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