I presented this one at Writers in the Rafters last week. We each had randomly selected a playbill from Leeds Theatres and told to write about being in the audience or working backstage at the show advertised. I ended up with the Playhouse's 1982 production of The Rocky Horror Shoe...
Cue the Time Warp...
Silver Stackies
Someone asked me, once, if there was anything in my wardrobe
I kept but never wore. Actually, there
are a few things I just can’t bring myself to get rid of. My silver stackies, for instance. 6” heels, and I’m tall anyway. My feet are no longer flexible enough to get
into the things. But they’re not just
shoes, they’re a memory prompt, a mental time machine…
I’d been working for about 18 months as wardrobe mistress
for the Playhouse, and I loved it. All
the glitz and glamour of showbiz seen close up.
That’s what I liked; the smoke and mirrors, the transformative power of
the stage. Seen first hand, the costumes
could be a disappointment; centre seams as straight as a broken nose, failed
zips held closed with safety pins. But
the audience, kept at a distance, never saw any of the hasty repairs and
make-do-and-mends.
We were just in the throes of putting on the touring
performance of ‘The Rocky Horror Show’ for three weeks. In the early eighties, when most people still
thought a tranny was a sort of radio,
the show was said to be a bit of an eye-popper, so when I turned up to
fettle the newly-arrived costumes on the morning of the dress rehearsal, I was
quite looking forward to the day.
Until I walked in and found Derek, our stage manager,
prowling like a seething tiger.
‘Chrissie, we’ve got a problem!’ He grabbed my arm, pulling me towards the
wardrobe room. ‘Or, you have…’
Piled on my worktable in the sewing corner was a heap of
mangled, tangled garments.
‘Oh, no! What
happened?’
‘Some idiot was manhandling the costumes in and dropped them
– right where that dip in the tarmac collects the rainwater…’
I sighed. The show
had just finished a run elsewhere and the production team had ensured us all
the costumes would be properly delivered and all I would have to do was hang them up
and show the dressers where they were.
It should not have involved a massive clean-up operation for me, first.
‘Dress rehearsal’s at two, it all needs to be ready for 1
pm… first show at 7pm darling! Tell me you can help? I’ll buy you shoes!’
I smiled in spite of myself; Derek knew the way to my heart
was through my footwear.
‘Keep the coffee coming.
And I’m not working through my lunch break… and don’t pester me!’
I began untangling the jumble of damp and mud-stained
costumes, intrigued at the contrasts. There were three muddied basques, a
beautiful vintage-style dress that had formerly been cream, and a spongy,
squashy mummy-suit which was far more brown than white. I sighed.
I was never going to get all that clean and dry in time…
I set to anyway,
sponging and dabbing away at the stains, starting with the basques. They were the easiest of the soiled garments
to sort out, a light sponging and most of the mud gave up, and the fabric was
robust enough to give it a scrub where necessary. The dress gave me a bit more trouble; in the
finish, I had to wash it through in my little sink, wringing it out and
allowing it to drip dry over a rail while I tried to perform a miracle on the
mummy suit.
I reminded myself to point out to Derek that I am very good
at my job.
But not even I could revive the mummy suit; made of layers
of stockinette over thick wadding fastened
over a pair of leggings and a shirt, it had absorbed too much muddy water and
was, frankly, doomed until a proper dry cleaner could be found.
A gopher arrived with coffee and a warning that Derek was on
his way to see if I needed anything – Derek-speak for have-you-saved-the-day-yet?
I stuffed clean, dry towels into the cavities of the mummy
suit, rolled it in more towels and was hugging it close to my body in an
attempt to squeeze the excess liquids out when he arrived.
‘Derek, it’s not your fault,’ I told him when he sidled into
my domain. His mouth goldfished as he
watched me wrestling with an armful of betowelled mummy and he shook his head
in despair. ‘You’re only responsible for
the costumes after delivery….’
‘Not your fault, Chrissie,’ he stressed. ‘I’ll still get the blame! How bad is it?’
‘Really, not so bad.
The basques are fine, the dress I can press dry – it’s only this thing
and I’ve had a thought…’ I left off my
improbable wrestling match and laid the mummy suit out on my table, pulling
towels out of the arms and legs as I went.
‘Get me a hairdryer and send out for a dozen crepe bandages and I can
have it wearable for dress rehearsal.’
‘You’re a star, Chrissie; I owe you lunch!’
‘You owe me shoes!’ I told him.
In spite of insisting I wouldn’t work through lunch, I spent
much of it tacking crepe bandages over the dirty arms and torso of the mummy
suit, pausing only to dash to the ironing board and press the last of the
moisture from the dress. By 1pm, the
dressers had arrived and were demanding costumes for their cast, and once I’d
shown them my system and seen them happy, I began to relax.
Presently, I took myself off in search of Derek.
‘Crisis averted,’ I told him.
‘Chrissie, you’re a gem! Now you’ve finished, why don’t
you…?’
‘…go for lunch?’ I finished for him. ‘I’d love to.
And you were going to drop me a shoe-shaped bonus for saving the day?’
‘Be back in half an hour, and I’ll treat you to dinner
tonight, too,’ he offered, passing me a couple of nice, crisp bank notes.
‘I’ll think about it.
See you soon.’
I grabbed a burger at the first place I passed, stuffing it
down my gullet as I headed for the shop where I’d spotted the shoes that were
my current obsession.
Pointed toes promising bunions and corns in my future, in
the shiniest of silver, six inch heels – possibly a little extreme, but,
well… a snip at £8.99. There was just
one problem. They didn’t have my size.
‘We sold the last 7 about half an hour ago,’ the assistant
told me with an apologetic wince, seeing me deflate at the news. If I’d had my
lunch break when I’d hoped to, those shoes would have been mine. ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘Let me check something…’
She disappeared into her stock room to reappear a few
moments later with a pair of silver stilettoes dangling from her fingers.
‘We’ve got these,’ she began. ‘They’re a larger size, but
try them anyway…’
They were an eight and a half, but she knocked two pounds
off the price and threw in a pair of insoles which stopped them falling off my
feet entirely. Of course I took them; a
bit of tissue paper stuffed in the toes and they’d be fine.
I got back to the theatre exactly 34 minutes after I’d left.
Derek shook his head at me and tapped his watch.
‘I know – I’ve missed out on a free feed. Worth it, though.’
I took my shoes out and waved them.
‘They were a real bargain – I have some change for you…’
‘Keep it,’ he said.
‘And come to dinner anyway.’
I watched the show from the wings for a few minutes until it
was time to dash back to my lair to help the dressers with the costume
changes. None of them seemed to have
noticed some of the costumes had suffered puddle-dunking, although the handler
for the mummy suit did comment that whatever I’d done to it had made it look
much better on stage.
By 5 pm, all the clothes were back on the hangers and I was
waiting for just one pair of shoes. Instead of being returned to me by the
dresser, the actor himself brought them in, limping and barefoot with the stage
shoes clutched in one hand.
‘Damn understudy wore these in the last two shows… he’s
stretched them; I’m a nine and he’s a tem and they just do not fit! How am I
supposed to do anything in these, darling?’
‘Insoles to reduce them, tissue in the toes,’ I said
promptly. ‘I’ll make sure I let your
dresser have some in time for the show.’
‘There are meant to be spares!’ he said. ‘But one pair went missing in Manchester and
you wouldn’t believe how expensive large size ladies shoes are! And the looks you get when you try them on!’
He limped off, looking for plasters and muttering about how
understudies should be chosen for their shoe size, not their abilities, and
leaving me with the shoes.
They were rather nice ones; black toes and ankle straps and
sliver Cuban heels, striking, but not flash.
I wiped them off and put them with the rest of his costumes, adding
tissue paper and sacrificing my own, as yet unused insoles, to the set. I’d more than an hour before I was on call
again, so I escaped the theatre and campus to get a bite to eat, knowing I’d be
starving long before the post-show dinner.
First night nerves. I
got them just as much as anyone; every item of clothing, every hat, shoe and
feather boa had become my responsibility as soon as it had been delivered and
it was a relief when all the dressers had finished with the costumes for the
first act and I had a short respite before the costume changes began.
It’s strange, being alone in my wardrobe studio when most of
the costumes are on the bodies of their actors; sometimes, I think I’m a ghost
wardrobe mistress, haunting the empty rails of past productions…
The feeling didn’t last long. Flamboyant cursing heralded a visitor, and
the owner of the over stretched shoes came tottering into my domain.
‘I’m looking for Chrissie…?’
‘Me.’ I got up from my seat and went over, but not too
close. Five foot ten of handsome male actor was all very well, but he was
sweating and wearing a basque and stockings which spoiled the effect somewhat. ‘Stretched shoes playing up again?’
‘Yes.’ He sat awkwardly down on a clothes hamper and pulled
off one of the shoes. Remnants of tissue confettied to the ground. ‘But it’s not that, darling – the heels come
adrift. Have you another miracle up your sleeve anywhere…?’
I examined the shoe.
The heel had been worked almost completely off, hanging on by just a
flap of glue.
‘There’s a really good cobbler in Leeds market, I can take
them across in the morning for you, but as for tonight…’
‘Oh, great! Will someone please go and shout ‘is there a
cobbler in the house? What can we do?’
‘I have shoes…’
I almost wrapped my hands across my mouth to stop my words
coming out, but, well, the show must go on… The actor glanced at my feet; I was
in my runaround loafers.
‘Charming!’
‘No…’ I went for my bag.
‘Brand new, got them today, 8 ½…’
‘You’re never that!’
‘I know. Bargain, insoles and tissue, remember? If you could
drop a half size, just for the rest of the
show…’
‘Give them over…’
And so it was that the second act of the first performance
of the Rocky Horror Show at Leeds Playhouse starred an unexpected pair of
silver stilettoes, courtesy of me, watching proudly in the wings as my shoes
stole the show.
The actor returned them to me later with voluble gratitude
and even autographed them for me by way of thanks.
And that’s why they’re still in my wardrobe, more than 30
years later. I’ve never worn them.
That damn actor stretched them too much.
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