she was asking their permission to forgo college for marriage, only courtship. A courtship she was a hundred per cent certain would lead to a perfect and wonderful new life with the man she loved.
As for college – how could she bear to leave Peter in Pontypridd and go to Swansea? Forty miles and an hour and a half away by train had never seemed so distant.
Chapter Five
Judy Hamilton tied the laces on her tap shoes, straightened her shorts and blouse, and joined the two dozen girls vying for position in front of the long mirror fixed to the wall of the dressing room. Before she had a chance to catch more than a glimpse of her reflection, a brisk, business-like woman, dressed in a black skirt and white blouse, shouted, ‘Numbers eighteen through twenty-three, inclusive. Follow me to rehearsal room nine.’
Judy knew her number was twenty-one, but she checked the card she’d been given before joining the other girls rushing out of the door.
Rehearsal room nine was a large hall at the end of a long corridor. Three walls were covered in mirrors with practice barres screwed in front of them. Two men sat on chairs close to the door. Both were holding pencils and notepads. An enormously fat woman flowed over a stool in front of an upright piano that had been pushed into a corner. She ground out the cigarette she’d been puffing when the girls clacked, taps ringing, into the room.
‘You’re all third recalls, right?’ one of the men asked. He waited for the girls to answer.
‘We’re doing “What France Needs”, chorus and King. You’ve all had the score and practised the dance steps?’
Judy nodded earnestly along with the others.
‘King?’ the man shouted.
A middle-aged man wearing thick theatrical greasepaint, which made him look positively geriatric, walked in front of the line of girls.
‘And piano … go!’
Judy sang, danced and acted for all she was worth. She tried to practise all the maxims her dance teacher had taught her, but it wasn’t easy. She wasn’t in the mission hall of Old Angelina Street now, and the stern-faced producers were very different from kindly Mrs Rossiter who had taught her and the other Bay girls basic ballet and tap.
She could hear Mrs Rossiter’s voice in her head: ‘Head up, chest out’; ‘Shine, but not so much that they mark you as an individual, or they won’t want you in the chorus’; ‘Smile as though you’re having the time of your life - so what if your feet are killing you? So are everyone else’s’; ‘Acting is reacting to everyone else on stage’; ‘Sing for the man in the back row of the gods.’
The piano player hit the last note, the ‘King’ walked off without glancing at the girls. The two men conferred. After five minutes the younger of the two shouted.
‘In a straight line. Numbers at waist height.’
Most of the girls, Judy included, were still gasping for breath after the energetic dance, and she found it an effort to hold her number steady. But she was determined not to show any sign of nervousness.
The two men carried on whispering and making notes. Judy saw them looking at her several times. Once she even thought that they were going to comment on her performance, but they merely carried on pointing and scribbling.
‘Thank you, girls, you can go and change. But don’t leave yet. Miss Hedley, we’ll have the next- half-dozen in.’
Miss Hedley led the way back to the dressing room and the girls trooped after her. Judy held her head high and tried not to look dejected. She was the only coloured girl there, although there had been three at the first audition. But, she reminded herself, it was a call-back. And no theatrical impresario ever invited a performer to a call-back unless he was seriously considering that person for a role.
She slipped off her blouse, buttoned her dress over her chemise and pulled off her shorts under cover of the skirt. She was untying her tap shoes when she saw the make-up artist working on one
As for college – how could she bear to leave Peter in Pontypridd and go to Swansea? Forty miles and an hour and a half away by train had never seemed so distant.
Chapter Five
Judy Hamilton tied the laces on her tap shoes, straightened her shorts and blouse, and joined the two dozen girls vying for position in front of the long mirror fixed to the wall of the dressing room. Before she had a chance to catch more than a glimpse of her reflection, a brisk, business-like woman, dressed in a black skirt and white blouse, shouted, ‘Numbers eighteen through twenty-three, inclusive. Follow me to rehearsal room nine.’
Judy knew her number was twenty-one, but she checked the card she’d been given before joining the other girls rushing out of the door.
Rehearsal room nine was a large hall at the end of a long corridor. Three walls were covered in mirrors with practice barres screwed in front of them. Two men sat on chairs close to the door. Both were holding pencils and notepads. An enormously fat woman flowed over a stool in front of an upright piano that had been pushed into a corner. She ground out the cigarette she’d been puffing when the girls clacked, taps ringing, into the room.
‘You’re all third recalls, right?’ one of the men asked. He waited for the girls to answer.
‘We’re doing “What France Needs”, chorus and King. You’ve all had the score and practised the dance steps?’
Judy nodded earnestly along with the others.
‘King?’ the man shouted.
A middle-aged man wearing thick theatrical greasepaint, which made him look positively geriatric, walked in front of the line of girls.
‘And piano … go!’
Judy sang, danced and acted for all she was worth. She tried to practise all the maxims her dance teacher had taught her, but it wasn’t easy. She wasn’t in the mission hall of Old Angelina Street now, and the stern-faced producers were very different from kindly Mrs Rossiter who had taught her and the other Bay girls basic ballet and tap.
She could hear Mrs Rossiter’s voice in her head: ‘Head up, chest out’; ‘Shine, but not so much that they mark you as an individual, or they won’t want you in the chorus’; ‘Smile as though you’re having the time of your life - so what if your feet are killing you? So are everyone else’s’; ‘Acting is reacting to everyone else on stage’; ‘Sing for the man in the back row of the gods.’
The piano player hit the last note, the ‘King’ walked off without glancing at the girls. The two men conferred. After five minutes the younger of the two shouted.
‘In a straight line. Numbers at waist height.’
Most of the girls, Judy included, were still gasping for breath after the energetic dance, and she found it an effort to hold her number steady. But she was determined not to show any sign of nervousness.
The two men carried on whispering and making notes. Judy saw them looking at her several times. Once she even thought that they were going to comment on her performance, but they merely carried on pointing and scribbling.
‘Thank you, girls, you can go and change. But don’t leave yet. Miss Hedley, we’ll have the next- half-dozen in.’
Miss Hedley led the way back to the dressing room and the girls trooped after her. Judy held her head high and tried not to look dejected. She was the only coloured girl there, although there had been three at the first audition. But, she reminded herself, it was a call-back. And no theatrical impresario ever invited a performer to a call-back unless he was seriously considering that person for a role.
She slipped off her blouse, buttoned her dress over her chemise and pulled off her shorts under cover of the skirt. She was untying her tap shoes when she saw the make-up artist working on one
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