The Show Must Go On

Anton pulled into the school car park; his Alfa Romeo convertible roaring before he slowed to a crawl down the slope. He rarely brought his classic car out of the garage, but he was more than happy to bring it out for the Hartley Players Annual General Meeting. As Director of the Amateur Dramatics Society, he felt it gave him more panache.

That night, Anton hoped to be re-elected as Director of productions for the coming year. He had already bought ten copies of an Agatha Christie play, which he hoped would become their spring production once his position had been confirmed. The committee had a voice in the choice of productions, too, but Anton was confident in being able to sway everyone to his way of thinking.

Anton could already imagine his photo in the Hartley Gazette. Celebrating the Hartley players' half-centenary year, he would be surrounded by the committee members and actors, leading them to another successful year.

He parked in a space that was once his, back in the days when he taught drama at the school. Although retired, to Anton it still felt like home.

"Good evening, lovely people. Good evening, one and all." Anton made a grand gesture and bowed to his fellow committee members, the familiar smell of the school hall's wooden floor wax filling his nose as he bent over.

"Hello Anton, I've made you a cup of tea and put two little fruit shortcakes on your saucer, as you like it." Sheila was waiting by the door, stoic and uncomplaining as ever, in a lilac cardigan she had knitted herself. 

"Good name for a play that," Anton laughed loudly, looking around the room for support. Some sympathetic smiles were thrown his way, but no laughs. I said a good name for a play that As You Like It. Sheila, take a letter to Mr Shakespeare."

He mimed the motion of a quill in the air, but he still did not get the response he was hoping for.

"They're in a funny mood tonight." He lowered his voice as he handed Sheila his scarf, taking the tea and biscuits from her that she had patiently held.

"We have a visitor, Anton. Look who has come back." Sheila sounded excited.

From behind the crowd gathered by the tea urn stepped Martin Jones, a former pupil of Anton's.

"Mr Jacobs,” Martin stumbled over Anton’s name, finding their previous teacher and student relationship challenging to overcome. “Anton, I mean, it's lovely to see you."

"Martin Jones, it’s great to see you, too. Do you know Sheila? Martin here is one of my greatest success stories as a drama teacher." Anton turned to Martin. “So, how is London treating you?”

"Well, Anton, acting has been a tough profession to break into," Martin confessed sadly, but Anton was not listening.  

“As I know only too well, my dear boy. Do you know I once tried to walk the boards in my youth?” He looked at Martin and Sheila but didn’t wait for an answer. “However, I think teaching and most definitely directing have always been my forte.”

“You were always such a great director, Anton,” Sheila said respectfully. Again, Anton ignored her and continued.

“It seems like you were in my class only yesterday, Martin, and now here you are, all grown up and an actor. I saw your little turn on Casualty a couple of years ago. Crushed by a lorry, I think. A nasty business. So, tell me, what's your next big role?"

"Actually, Anton, I’ve moved back to Hartley for a while, and the committee here has asked me to be the director this year. What a supportive bunch you all are." Martin beamed and shook Anton by the hand.

Anton frowned and took a step backwards.  

"But we haven't had a vote yet,” Anton gasped, trying to make eye contact with any single committee member. We can't make someone director without having a vote."

Bob Kramer pushed down on his walking stick and stood up. Bob was an imposing figure who had been the long-term Director of the Hartley players before Anton took over fifteen years earlier. Anton knew that the rest of the committee valued his opinions highly.

"We want to give the lad a try, as we did you when you first became director,” Bob's voice filled that hall as he spoke. “You’ve had a good run. Perhaps it’s time to let someone else have a go. Plus, he's got real acting experience."

"For Christ's sake, he was in Casualty, not the Chekov at the National."

"All the same, we've made our decision," Bob's voice was stern. "Unanimously."

Anton looked around at the room full of conspirators before him and then glanced at Sheila, who was staring down at the ground.

"Et tu, Sheila?"

Anton sat slumped on a plastic chair at the back of the room, his copies of And Then There Were None discarded on the chair next to him. Martin was officially voted Director and then took the lead in the discussion about the upcoming year's productions.

“So, I think for our spring production, we could try something like The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, a lovely modern play that our audiences will love, just like they did in London." Martin held a copy of the script book aloft for all to see.

Anton shook his head vigorously and climbed to his feet.

"No, no, no. This will not do at all. This is too modern for our audience. They are not ready for modern London plays.” Anton felt his face flush. “The Hartley Players do three types of play per year. We perform an Agatha Christie in the spring, then we do the summer Shakespeare, and a comedy or a farce for Xmas. It’s what our audience has come to expect from us."

Bob Kramer interrupted a concerned-looking Martin.

“Maybe the 50th year could mark new beginnings for us all.”

Anton could see most of the committee members were nodding.

Anton cornered Martin before he could leave at the end of the meeting.

“Why are you here, Martin, when you have your big career in London?” Anton realised how bitter he sounded as the words left his mouth.

Martin was staring at him, the corners of his mouth drooping with a deep crease between his brows.

“I came back because of you. When my acting career didn’t take off, I wondered what else I could do with my life. That’s when I remembered how, as a young boy, you had inspired me and given me a dream. I thought maybe I could do that for others. Over the past few years in London, I qualified as a teacher.”

“You’re not working here, are you? At my school?”

“I am, yes. I started last week. And re-joining the players was the icing on the cake.” He looked at Anton for a sign of understanding. “I had hoped you would become a mentor to me. I didn’t expect my coming here would cause you so much concern. I really hope that can change."  Martin held out his hand again, but Anton didn’t take it.

“How much of my life do you want to take away from me, Martin?” Anton walked quickly away to his car.

Anton sank despondently into his sofa at the house he lived at alone. He looked around his compact living room walls in desperation at framed prints advertising past Hartley Players productions, his name on most as Director. But more glaring was the blank space he had made for the coming year’s posters that would now not be filled.

Anton sat and thought about the conversation with Bob. He knew that he had been a great director. But he felt like the coming year, the half-centenary, would have become his crowning glory, and he would be remembered for it. Now, sadly, that chance was gone.  He wondered what he should do next.

The following week, Anton returned to the school for another committee meeting. In his pocket was an announcement he intended to read: He would resign from the committee immediately. Better that than watching everything he valued being slowly taken from him.

As Anton approached the building, he saw a delivery van parked on the slope by the entrance to the school kitchen, at the back of the car park, and next to the room where the meeting was to take place.

Anton saw Martin at the bottom of the slope, bent over, examining the wheel of his bicycle. His large headphones were over his ears, blocking out all noises from the outside world.  

Anton felt the blood rush to his head. Here in front of him was the reason for all his current unhappiness. If only he could say or do something to stop this awful chain of events. Anton saw the van door open, and the delivery driver was nowhere to be seen.

Anton climbed into the van and carefully released the handbrake. He quickly jumped out as it began to slowly edge forward on the slope. Anton watched the van move forward very slowly, and he ran to enter the meeting room, his heart thumping in his chest. He could hear behind him the sound of the van picking up speed before he closed the meeting room door.

"Good evening, lovely people. Good evening, one and all."

“Good evening, Anton.” Sheila had a cup of tea with biscuits ready for him as usual. “Have you seen Martin?”

“Yes Sheila, he just outside Bike problems I...”

Anton was interrupted by a deafening crash from outside, and the room instantly fell silent. Anton froze, suddenly seized by fear.  What have I done?

“Somebody help me.” came a shout from outside.

It wasn’t Martin’s voice. Was that the delivery driver? Anton wondered if somebody had seen what he had just done.

Outside, Anton, Sheila, and Bob saw Martin’s limp body pinned against the wall by the delivery van, the twisted wheel of his bike visible behind him.

The delivery driver sat on the tarmac, transfixed by the scene before him.

“I’m sure I put the handbrake on.” He repeated over and over like a mantra.

Anton could hear Bob phoning for an ambulance.

“Oh my god,” Sheila was shaking. “It’s just like his Casualty episode.”

“Life imitates art” Anton whispered quietly.  He was astounded by his own actions.

He knew there was only one thing he could do to make things right again.

 

Anton spoke to a muted room at an emergency committee meeting a week later.

“We are all worried about Martin and the terrible accident that happened to him last week. He has multiple broken bones, but in time, he will recover. I’m sure we were all looking forward to the brave new direction he wanted to take us in, and I’m sure he may get that chance at some point in the future. But for now, it makes me proud to direct this year’s plays, which are dedicated to Martin.”

Anton looked at the committee before him. He had never been much of an actor, but this was his finest acting performance. His face dismayed and reverent, while inside his heart was singing. He was officially Director again, and his world was complete.

“Martin, as a true professional of the stage and screen, would be with me on this, of that I am certain,” Anton paused for effect. “The show must go on...”