The Submit button on the drama schools website was tiny, but my hand was sweating like I was about to shake a strangers. On the application, Id written honestly: 55 years old. Experienceschool assemblies, read reports at parents evenings. Under Reason, I typed out for myself, deleted it, wrote I want to learn to speak aloud, and only then did I finally click.
A minute later, I got an email with the address and time for the taster class. I closed the laptop, as if that could somehow undo what Id done, and walked to the kitchen. There was a mountain of washing up, and soup cooling on the hob. Instinctively, I reached for a sponge, but stopped myself.
Later, I said out loud, and the sound of my own voice made me uneasy, as if someone had overheard.
I hadnt told anyone about the drama school. There were enough conversations at work in the accounts office: who had said what, who looked at whom. At home, my son, my wife, my mother-in-law on the phoneeverything familiar, all needing something. I dreaded that if ever I uttered the words, Im going to speech and drama classes, Id have to field endless questions, jokes, advice. And worst of all, the sympathetic, Oh, whys that, what for?the same thing Id told myself for years.
On the day, I left the Tube and wandered around for ages, even though the address was clear. I walked slowly, checking my bag: passport, notebook, a bottle of water. In the stairwell, someone was struggling with a pram; I pressed myself against the wall so they could get by. My heart was pounding as if I was late for an exam.
The studio was on the first floor, behind a door marked Creative Workshop. Chairs lined the corridor, old production posters hung on the wall. I took off my coat, hung it carefully, and checked my hair in a dusty mirror. I thought the grey at my temples looked obvious, so I absentmindedly tried to smooth it, as if that would help.
There were about ten people in the studio. Someone was laughing, someone flicking through printouts. The tutor, a sturdy woman with close-cropped hair, introduced herself as Jill Harding and asked us all to stand in a circle.
Tonight were going to practise using our voices. Not about volume, about support, she said. Breathe. No apologising.
No apologising landed right in my chest. I realised I was already ready to say, Im only here for a bit, just trying it out. Instead, I joined the circle wordlessly.
The first exercise was simple: breathe in, then a long hiss out on ssss, then on zzz. I tried not to look at anyone, but noticed anyway: next to me, a girl of about twenty sporting bright nails and perfect posture; further off, a man in a tracksuit top standing shoulders back, full of confidence. I felt out of place, as though gate-crashing someone elses celebration.
Now everyone say your name and a short sentence, Jill said. Anything, just not in a whisper.
When it was my turn, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.
Arthur, I said, and immediately added, Sorry, I
Stop, Jill said gently but firmly. Were not using that word tonight. Just your name. Again.
I swallowed.
Arthur.
And then I heard it: my voice wasnt as thin as Id always thought. It was low, a little husky, but full of life. That made it scarier and somehow easier all at once.
After the session, Jill came over.
Come to the course, she said. Youve got a great timbre. And a habit of hiding. Thats what well work on.
I nodded as if it was about someone else. Outside, I took out my phone to text my wife to say Id be back late, cycling through possible excuses. In the end, I sent, Running lategot a class. No details.
Regular rehearsals started the next week. I printed out the passage we were to perform: a short monologue from contemporary fiction, a woman learning to say no. I read it out in the kitchen while the kettle boiled, stumbling over the lines, forgetting where I was, swallowing the ends of sentences. I was furious with myself, as if dealing with a wilful child.
What are you muttering in here? my son asked, poking his head round the door.
I jumped and quickly hid the sheet.
Work stuff, I said.
Work was a familiar mask. I felt ashamed hiding from my own son, but confession felt even more frightening.
At rehearsals, Jill had us use the microphone, one by one. It stood there on a stand, cable trailing to the speaker. I was nearly as afraid of the mic as I was of people. I pictured my voice echoing around the room, every tremor amplified.
Dont lean in to the microphone, Jill told us. Let it come to you. Stand straight. Breathe into your back.
I tried. At first it went badly: my shoulders lifted, my breathing faltered. I could hear the young girl beside me reading with ease, as if chatting with a friend. I caught myself thinking, Its too late for me. I must look ridiculous. Then, instinctively, began making excuses in my head.
Afterwards, a woman about my age in a grey jumper and neat ponytail approached me.
You really hold your pauses well, she said. Im Claire. I used to be terrified of the microphoneI thought it would give me away.
For the first time that evening, I smiled.
It does give you away, I said quietly.
Yes, Claire agreed. But not how you think.
We walked out together, chatted at the bus stop. Claire told me she worked in a GP surgery, joined the group after a hard year when everything inside felt numb. As I listened, something inside me started to thaw. Not instant friendship, but the beginnings of not being alone.
A couple of sessions later, there was an awkward incident. I was reading out my piece, trying to focus on my breath, when I stumbled on a word I knew perfectly well at home. Silence hung in the room.
Well, memorys not what it was, muttered the man in the tracksuit topnot loudly, but enough to be heard.
Heat flooded my face. I wanted to snap back, but instead I smiled, my usual defence.
Yes, it happens, I mumbled.
Jill raised her hand.
That happens to anyone, she said. Young or old. We dont comment on age here. Were working.
The man just shrugged, as if nothing had happened. But I stood there, thinking how my habit of smiling off barbs was part of my voice, or rather, its absence.
That evening at home, I opened my script and read it again while my wife watched the news. She asked,
You learning poetry or something?
I froze, my mouth dry.
No. Its I signed up for some classes. Theres a performance coming up.
She paused the TV and actually looked at me.
A performance? she saidnot mocking.
I braced myself for a joke, but she just nodded.
All right if it helps, go for it. Just dont stress.
It was ordinary, undramatic, but I felt supported in that matter-of-factness. Not well done! or Im proud of youjust space to not have to explain.
Rehearsing wasnt easy. I set my alarm half an hour early so I could practise breathing before everyone else wokestanding by the window, palms on my ribs, counting my breaths. Sometimes I coughed, sometimes I laughed at myself. My notebook filled with scribbles: dont clench jaw, pause after no, look out, not down.
At one session, Jill asked us to imagine someone in the front row we wanted to say our lines to.
Immediately, I envisioned my mother-in-law. Then my old boss. Then my own mirrored reflection, with the ingratiating smile I wore like armour. My hands trembled.
You dont have to address everyone, Jill said, seeing my struggle. Pick just one person.
I chose myself. It felt strange and frighteninglike admitting, for the first time, that I also mattered.
The day of the performance arrived far too quickly. I woke before my alarm, stomach tight and hollow. I crept into the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and drank it in slow sips. My script lay folded on the table. I unfolded it, scanned the lines, and suddenly couldnt recall the middle. Not entirely, but as if there was a blank.
I sat down, pressing my palms to my temples.
Im not going on, I thought. It was a sweet, tempting thoughtan escape. I could claim illness, or a crisis at home; no one would die.
Just then, my wife wandered in, sleepy-eyed.
What are you doing up so early? she asked.
I looked at her and, to my own surprise, told the truth.
Im scared. Im afraid Ill forget everything.
She scratched her head, picked up the sheet from the table.
Read it to me, she said. However it comes out.
I almost refused, but stood up already. I mumbled through the lines, stumbling, pausing. She never interrupted. When I slipped into another apology, she just raised an eyebrow.
Arent you meant to be learning not to use that word? she said.
I grinned.
Yeah. Easier said than done, even here.
Youll manage, she said, handing the sheet back. Youll still go, wont you?
Backstage at the studio, the space was cramped. People fussed over costumes, collars, quietly running through lines. I clutched my printout in its folder so I wouldnt crease it. My fingertips were icy even though the room was warm.
Claire handed me a water bottle.
Drink. And dont rehearse now,” she said. Its too late to study. Now you just have to breathe.
I nodded, slipped my folder into my bag, zipped it shut. Knowing my things were in place gave me an anchor.
About fifty people filled the small auditorium. Black curtain, two bright side lights, a solitary microphone centre stage. From the wings, I glanced out and instantly regretted it. Faces blended together, but I spotted a few I knew: my wife sat near the aisle, my son beside herhed come after allwhich made my stomach curl with a rush of affection and dread.
I cant, I whispered to Claire.
Yes, you can, she whispered back. Look at me, Ill stand to the side.
Jill came over and placed a hand on my shoulder.
You dont have to be perfect, she said. Just be real. Get out there, breathe, say the first line. The rest will follow.
I closed my eyes. My mouth was dry, my tongue foreign. I breathed in the way wed practised, not lifting my shoulders, feeling my ribs expand. Not magic, but physicsand it held me up.
They called my name. I stepped out. The floor was solid, just slightly slippery. I stood by the mic, leaving a hands width of space. The lights dazzled, making the audience a blura relief, it turned out, with fewer eyes to see.
I opened my mouth but nothing came for a heartbeat. My mind felt empty. Then I saw my wife in the front row, her hands in her lap, calmly watching. My son, not glued to his phone, but really looking at me. Suddenly, I understood: they didnt expect perfection. They were just there.
Ive got used to speaking quietly, I said, my voice trembling but audible.
The rest flowed. I didnt remember each word in advance, but my phrases followed, one after another. Once, I lost the order, heart in my throat, but I paused, breathed, and said the next thought as best I could remember. No one gasped, no one laughed. The hall was quiet, and instead of feeling oppressive, the silence seemed to listen.
When I reached the line with no, I paused, just as Id marked in my notebook. I didnt smile to soften it. I just spoke.
At the end, I stepped back, leaving the mic on its stand, and kept my hands visible instead of hiding them. They shook, but I didnt close them into fists. I bowed, brief and awkward.
The applause was not thunderous, but warmreal. Someone called out Thank you, and I heard it, clear as day, as if it were meant for me alone.
Backstage, I leaned against the wall. My knees had gone to jelly, as after a hard climb. Claire hugged me quickly, matter-of-fact.
You did it, she said.
I nodded. I wanted to cry, but found no tearsjust something else: the feeling that, at last, Id stepped into a place Id always avoided.
People milled around, collecting their bits and pieces, snapping the odd photo. I went straight to my chair by the wall, checked my bags zip, retrieved my folder. The script was a little crumpled, the corner bent. I traced my finger along the paper and couldnt bring myself to throw it awaynot yet. Proof, I told myself, that it had really happened.
My wife and son met me in the hallway.
Not bad, my son said, trying to sound detached, but his eyes were shining. Actually interesting.
My wife nodded.
You sounded different. Not like in the kitchen.
I laughed.
In the kitchen, Im always in a hurry, I said. Then, before I could chicken out, I added, I want to keep going.
We stepped out into the evening. I buttoned my coat, adjusted my scarf. Inside, I was still trembling, but now from the new memory of having taken that step.
The next day, I arrived at the studio before class. The corridor was empty. I went to the admin desk, took a form, and signed up for the next level. Under Reason, I didnt hunt for clever wordsI simply wrote: To speak.
When Jill came out of her office, I looked her straight in the eye.
Im staying, I said.
Good, she replied. Pick a new piece, then.
I took the folder she handed me and pressed it to my chest. Leaving the office, I realised I hadnt offered a single excuse. It was a small, almost invisible changebut inside, it rang louder than any applause.
