To Step Out and Speak
The “Submit” button on the drama centres website is tiny, but Sarahs palm is clammyas if shes holding not a mouse, but a strangers hand. In the application, she types honestly: 55 years old. Experience: School assemblies, spoke at meetings. For Reason, she first writes for myself, erases it, then types I want to learn to speak aloud, and only then does she click submit.
Within a minute, an email arrives with the address and time for a trial session. Sarah closes her laptop, as if that could undo what shes just done, and heads to the kitchen. Theres a pile of dishes, soup cooling on the hob. Automatically, she reaches for the sponge, but stops herself.
Later, she says aloud, and immediately feels foolish, as if someone heard her.
She hasnt told anyone about the centre. Theres enough chatter in the accountancy office as it is: who said what to whom, who gave who a look. At homeher son, her husband, her mother-in-law on the phone, all the usual demands. Sarah fears that if she says, Im going to a public speaking course, therell be questions, jokes, advice. Worst of all, someones sympathetic But why? What for, at your age? Shes told herself the same thing for years.
On the appointed evening, Sarah leaves the tube and spends ages searching for the right house, even though the address is clear. She walks slowly, checking her bag again: passport, notebook, water bottle. On the stairs, the hallway is crampeda woman passes with a pram and Sarah squeezes against the wall. Her heart pounds, as if shes late for an exam.
The centre is on the second floor, behind a door marked Creative Studio. In the corridor, chairs line the wall; posters from past performances hang above them. Sarah takes off her coat, hangs it on a hook, smooths her hair in the mirror. She notices the grey at her temples and instinctively tries to flatten it, as if she can hide it.
There are about ten people in the hall. Someone is laughing, someone flipping through printouts. The leader, a petite woman with a short haircut, introduces herself: Mrs Julie Barker. She invites everyone to form a circle.
Today well work with our voicesnot volume, but support, she says. Breathe. No apologies.
The phrase no apologies hits Sarah like a stone. She realises shes already preparing to say, Im just here to look. But instead, she silently joins the others.
The first exercise is simple: inhale, long ssss on the out-breath, then zzzz. Sarah tries not to look around, but cant help noticing: a woman in her twenties stands beside her, with scarlet nails and perfect posture; further along, a man in a tracksuit, arms confidently crossed. Sarah feels like an outsider, as if shes at a strangers party.
Now, everyone say their name and a sentence, Mrs Barker continues. Anything you like. Just not a whisper.
When its Sarahs turn, her tongue feels glued in place.
Sarah, she manages, then blurts, Sorry, I…
Stop, the leader says gently but firmly. We dont use that word tonight. Say it again. Just your name.
Sarah swallows.
Sarah.
To her surprise, her voice is not thin as shed thought. It’s low, a bit husky, but real. It’s both more frightening and somehow freeing.
After the session, Mrs Barker approaches her.
Join the class, she says. You have a voice. And a habit of hiding. Well work on both.
Sarah nods, as if this is all about someone else. Outside, she takes out her phone to text her husband that shell be late, and mulls over her words for ages. She sends a brief message: Running late, I have a class. She doesnt specify which kind.
The following week, rehearsals begin. Sarah prints the monologue theyve chosen for their first performancean extract from a modern novel, a short piece about a woman learning to say no. She reads it in her kitchen as the water for pasta boils, stumbling repeatedlyforgetting lines, dropping endings. She gets cross with herself, like shes scolding a naughty child.
What are you muttering? her son asks, poking his head into the kitchen.
Sarah startles and quickly folds up the script.
Nothing. Work stuff.
The word work is a familiar shield. She feels guilty for hiding from her own child, but even more scared to be honest.
At rehearsal, Mrs Barker puts them to the microphone in turn. The mic stands on a post, a cable trailing to the speaker. Sarah dreads it almost as much as the audience. She pictures stepping up, her voice booming out, every tremor magnified.
Dont stretch to the mic, Mrs Barker instructs. Let it come to you. Stand straight. Breathe into your back.
Sarah tries. At first, her shoulders hunch, her breath stumbles. She hears a young woman reading with ease, like a friend talking. Sarah catches herself thinking, Its too late for me. I must look ridiculous. She instantly starts mentally excusing herself.
After rehearsal, a woman about her age, tidy ponytail, grey jumper, approaches.
You hold your pauses well, she says. Im Liz. I was terrified of the microphone toothought it would expose me.
Sarah smiles, for the first time that night.
It does expose you, she admits quietly.
Yes, Liz agrees. But not in the way we fear.
They leave together, walk to the bus stop. Liz says she works at a GP practice, signed up after a rough year that left her numb inside. Sarah listens, feeling something in her soften. Not instant friendshipjust the possibility of not being alone.
After a few sessions comes an awkward moment. Sarahs reading her excerpt, concentrating on her breathing. Midway, she stalls on a word shes always remembered at home, and falls silent. An awkward pause stretches out.
Well, memorys not what it was, mutters the man in the tracksuitnot loud, but enough that everyone hears.
Sarah feels her cheeks flush with heat. She wants to snap back but habitually just smiles.
Yes, happens to us all, she mumbles.
Mrs Barker lifts a hand.
It can happen to anyone, she says. Younger ones too. We dont comment on age here. We work.
The man shrugs as if nothing happened. Sarah stands, realising her habit of smiling away jibes is part of her voice, or really, its absence.
That evening, at home, she opens the monologue and starts again, while her husband watches the news. He glances over.
Are you learning a poem? he asks.
Sarah freezes, throat dry.
No. Im… Ive joined a class. Therell be a performance.
He tears his eyes from the screen and gives her a considered look.
A performance? he repeats, not mocking.
Sarah braces for a joke, but he simply nods.
Well… if you want to do it, do. Just dont fret.
His words are plain, without drama, but Sarah feels supported by their very ordinariness. Not good on you, nor Im proud, but room not to have to explain herself.
The work is hard. Sarah sets her alarm half an hour early to fit in breathing exercises before the house stirs. She stands at the window, hands on her ribs, counts her inhales. Some mornings she coughs, some mornings she laughs at herself. Her notebook fills with reminders: Unclench jaw, pause after no, look at the audience, not down.
One day in class, Mrs Barker asks them to picture someone in the front row while performingthe person their words are for.
Sarah instantly sees her mother-in-law. Then her boss. Then herself in the mirror, with that practised smile. Her hands start to shake.
You dont have to speak to everyone, Mrs Barker notices. Choose one person. Speak to them.
Sarah picks herself. Its strange and terrifying, as if shes admitting at lastshe too belongs in that first row.
The performance day arrives too fast. Sarah wakes early, before the alarm. Her stomach is hollow and cold. She walks quietly to the kitchen, pours water, sips. The script lies folded on the table. She unfolds it, skims the lines, and realises she cant recall the middle. Not completely blank, but as if theres a gap.
She sits, palms pressed to her temples.
I wont go through with it, she thinks. The idea is comfortingas if she could escape. She could claim shes ill, invent an emergency. No one would die.
Then her husband appears, hair sticking up.
What are you doing up so early? he asks.
Sarah looks at him and, to her surprise, is honest.
Im scared. I might forget everything.
He scratches his head, picks up her script.
Give it a go, read it to me, he says. However it comes out.
Sarah wants to protest, but is already on her feet. She reads quietly, stumbling, sometimes stopping. Her husband doesnt interrupt. Except at one point, when she starts apologising again, he raises an eyebrow.
Arent you lot meant to stop saying that word? he reminds her.
Sarah grins.
Yes. Seeeven at home, it slips out.
You can do it, he says, handing her back the paper. Youll go anyway.
Backstage before the performance its packed. Costume bags rustle, people fix collars, whisper lines. Sarah clutches her printout, keeping it neat. Her fingers are icy though the room is warm.
Liz sidles up, offers her a bottle of water.
Take a sip. Dont read now, Liz tells her. Its too late to study. Breathe instead.
Sarah nods, slips her papers into her bag. She places her bag on a chair by the wall, zips it up. She needs to know her things are where she left them, an anchor to return to.
There are about fifty chairs in the hall. A small stage, black curtain, two spotlights glaring in her eyes. The microphone stands in the centre. Sarah edges to the wings, peers out at the audience, instantly regrets it. Faces blur together, but she spots a few she knows: her husband near the aisle, her son beside himhes shown up after all, sending a rush of panic and pride through her.
I cant, she whispers to Liz.
You can, Liz whispers back. Look at me. Ill be at the side.
Mrs Barker joins them, places a reassuring hand on Sarahs shoulder.
You dont have to be perfect, she says. You have to be real. Go out, breathe, say your first line. The words will follow.
Sarah closes her eyes. Her mouth is dry, her tongue awkward. She inhales as shes been taught, feeling her ribs brace. Not magic; just physics. But it holds her up.
Shes introduced. Sarah walks on. The floor beneath her feet is solid, faintly slick. She stands an arms length from the microphone. The harsh lights helpshe can see less, fewer eyes.
She opens her mouth, speechless for a moment. Blankness flickers in her mind. She finds her husband in the first row, calm-faced, hands on his knees. Sees her son, not on his phone but watching her. And understandsthey dont expect her to be flawless. Theyre simply present.
Ive always spoken quietly, Sarah says for her first line. Her voice wavers, but sounds.
It continues. She doesnt recall every word ahead of time; sentences chain one to the next. At one point she jumbles the order and her heart drops. She pauses, breathes, says the next thought how she remembers. No one gasps, no one snickers. The hall is silentthe listening kind.
When she reaches the line no, she pauses just as her notebook said. For the first time, she doesnt soften it with a smile. She just says it.
She ends with a step back, remembering the mic stays put, and keeping her hands at her sides, open though trembling. She bows swiftly.
The applause is not wild, but warm and genuine. Someone says thank you aloud, the word landing clearly, as if for her alone.
Backstage, Sarah leans against the wall. Her knees feel weak, like after climbing too many stairs. Liz gives her a quick, friendly hug.
You did it, says Liz.
Sarah nods. She wants to cry, but no tears come. Instead, she feels shes finally claimed the space she always skirted around.
After, people lingersome search for belongings, some pose for photos. Sarah grabs her bag from the chair, checks her papers. The script is a bit crumpled at the corner. She runs her hand over it and realises she wants to keep it, for proof that it happened.
Her husband and son join her in the corridor.
That was alright, her son says, aiming for casual but his eyes bright. Even interesting.
Her husband nods. You had a presence. Not like when youre at the kitchen sink.
Sarah laughs. Im always in a rush in the kitchen, she replies. She adds, before nerves can set in: I want to carry on.
They step outside. Sarah buttons her coat, tucks her scarf in. Inside, she still feels shaky, but its not fearits her body remembering: she has moved forward.
Next day Sarah arrives at the centre early. The corridor is deserted. She heads to the office, finds the sign-up forms, and fills one for the next level. This time, when she gets to Reason, she doesnt search for the right wording. She just writes, To speak.
When Mrs Barker emerges, Sarah looks up.
Im staying, she says.
Good, the leader replies. Pick your next piece.
Sarah takes the folder offered, hugs it to her chest. As she leaves for the hall, she notices she hasnt made a single excuse. Its a small change, almost invisible, but it rings louder inside her than any applause.
