Tim Bannerman's Diary of a Pantomime 6 - Hardy and the Ghost
Hereto I come to view a voiceless ghost,
Whither, O whither will its whim now draw me,
Up the cliff, down, till I’m lonely, lost,
And the sea’s unseen waters’ ejaculations awe me!
From “After a Journey”, Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy may have had the odd bout of over-writing but I’m fairly sure he never wrote the Lower Bockhampton pantomime. Although Gertrude Bugler, whom my mother knew as a Beaminster girl, would have been the person to ask.
Hardy, the gloomy novelist and bard of Wessex – with his brighter exceptions, of course: “Under the Greenwood Tree” and “Great Things” for two of each – was 73 in 1913 when one day he came to see the latest production of the Dorchester Debating and Dramatic Society. They were doing an adaptation of his novel ‘The Woodlanders’ and a young girl caught his eye in the leading role of Marty South. Gertrude Bugler, for it was she, was 16 and radiantly beautiful in the freshness of her first flush.
Well, that was it. Her performance took everyone by storm, no more so than Hardy himself. Her role a few years later as Eustacia Vye in ‘The Return of the Native’ took her to new heights, so much so that Florence, Hardy’s over-protective second wife, remarked to a friend: “(Gertrude) looks prettier than ever in her mumming dress. TH has lost his heart to her entirely, but as she is soon getting married I don’t let that cast me down too much.”
But it was as Tess in “Tess of the D’Urbervilles” in 1924, a sensation that swept through the good folk of West Dorset as they flocked to see her, that put the knockers on it for Gertrude. Florence, consumed with jealousy at Hardy’s ever-growing infatuation, effectively blocked Gertrude’s chance to play the role in a professional production in London. Even though she did eventually play the role in a brief moment of glory on the big stage of the West End, Gertrude effectively abandoned her attempts at professional success. Cutting her losses, she returned to her roots in the local Beaminster community where she stayed thereafter, a married countrywoman and mother, who lived to the great age of 95.
Our talent may not quite reach Gertrude’s dizzy heights and you may be glad to know I’m no Hardy, in any respect, but to return to his poem “After a Journey”, we do have a ghost, even if he’s not exactly “voiceless”.
The whole piece – part pantomime, part mystery play, part who-dunnit, etc. – is based on my original idea for a title: “The Ghost of Garway Hall”. And because, in our story, he’s a goodly knight (not a Templar of that Ilk, as I said mistakenly before, but a Hospitaller, who were much nicer), he gets his head chopped off for his pains.
You see, he won’t fight, let alone take a life. It’s his sacred vow. And because the nasty, greedy Lord comes along and says: “I’ll have that!” – meaning, land, well, precious Wassail bowl, villagers and all – the goodly knight says, well, I can’t let you. I’ve sworn to protect these good folk and all their common goods. You’ll have to kill me first. So the big, bad lord does exactly that.
Thereafter, our goodly, green knight becomes The Ghost, condemned to haunt the lord and all his descendants until the wrongs are put right. Which is where we join the story in the present day. And I, as the Ghost, am the deus ex machina to what transpires.
My friend up the road who also plays the role of the formidable Dowager Countess of Archenfield has designed a remarkable “ghost carriage”. He, for it is a “he”, has a useful professional past as a civil engineer alongside his current retirement status as a small scale gentleman farmer. In his capacious workshop, I visited his creation for the first time and was somewhat awestruck.
It looms, bare-necked in the dim light. I am introduced to the mechanics which consist of a small trolley, with a seat, on castors, above which rises a Michelangelo-esque half-torso, supported by a single wooden strut. I sit on the seat and he pulls the transparent material around me so only my head is showing. And then I propel myself around the concrete floor of the workshop with my feet.
To my amazement, it works! Although some cutting into the torso is required for me to be able to sit properly within it, the effect is both comical and not a little alarming. I only hope those of a susceptible age don’t suffer too much trauma in being confronted with this head-carrying creation. I will have to be a very nice ghost, which was my intention all along anyway.
Meanwhile, the rehearsals progress and I am pleasantly surprised at how well the casting has transpired. It’s actually funny. A long way to go yet, of course, and some hard work to try to ensure everyone’s in the same play, rather than one person in a totally “over-the-top” panto, while another in a down-the-line farce, played straight as a die.
But our Cinderella, known as Ella, is perfect, our clown-builders hysterical, our dodgy holidaying treasure-seekers mastering their elusive accents and the long-lost mother already squeezing tears from our hardened rehearsers’ eyes. Just need to build a team of mice from the local primary school and plug the odd hole in the “Young Farmers”, some of whom have been claiming their pensions for a good while now. A few more songs to carve out lyrics for and then try to fit them in without competing with Dostoyevski’s “Demons” (which lasted for 12 hours, if you must know).
And, last but not least, the final scene which is still far, far too long. Lighting, sound, set?? “It’ll be alright on the night” as they say. Hmmm. Two months to go and I’m not counting my chickens…
