•✦—✦•
My audition eventually came; by that time I had already seen five different kids go on as Tommy Stubbins. I still remembered the last kid, James Paul Bradley — he was a ten-year-old boy who was exceptional at dancing. Unfortunately for me and the other boys in the stands, James Bradley was given the honor of doing a dialogue with Phillip Schofield. James stuttered through his lines at first, but on the second one he had seemingly passed by the happy expression on Steven Pimlott's face.
I trudged on the stage and was given a line along with a few actions I had to perform. The first scene I did was the same as every boy that went before me — the duck scene. Steven was a much better scene partner than Anne had been, and I borrowed inspiration from when I had performed meeting Dolittle in the initial audition. Being back in the same room for the same audition made things easier. After that, I threw in some quick improv, giving mundane moves—like polishing a shoe—a touch of flair: rolling my shoulders, rocking from foot to foot, and pretending to whip off a hat to wipe sweat from my forehead. The next action I had to perform involved striding across an imaginary ship, securing ropes to the rail. I improved it by coiling a rope and setting it on a hook, and squinting toward a horizon only I could see. I probably overplayed these actions too much with hardly any subtlety, but I was fighting for the role and hoped that showed.
The final test of my audition was to sing a short line from I've Never Seen Anything Like It. It was a two line that Tommy sang as a solo plus the chorus that would be sung by everyone. When I turned back fully to the judges, they were scribbling away on their sheets. Steven, who was already standing just a few strides away from me, clapped his hands together to signal the end and called for Phillip with a single look.
My blood rose somehow as I saw Phillip join me. My ears rang for no reason other than my nervousness. "Try this part," Steven handed me a sheet.
It was the exact same lines as the one Phillip had done with that James Bradley boy.
"What would you do if you had two heads, Tommy?" Phillip asked me.
"Join the circus, of course," I said, boyish excitement and charm turned up to eleven, almost crazed due to my mind going haywire.
Phillip chuckled softly, as he had done with the other Tommy before me. He became serious, eyes and face hardening as he looked at me.
"Have you seen how the animals are treated in circuses?" Phillip asked, voice full of disgust and sadness. "All animals are beautiful, and even the unusual animals should be respected. Look at him." Phillip pointed at nothing in particular.
I imagined a giraffe with two heads, realized that was scary, and shifted to a dog with two heads. Looking from Phillip to the air he had pointed toward, my expression shifted into curiosity and my hands reached out to try and pet the air where the imaginary animal was. I smiled and giggled as I imagined the animal responding kindly to my petting. I drew my hand back and covered my face, saying, "Oh, hey. Don't lick me," in-between bouts of giggles.
Phillip seemed surprised for a moment before his hands reached to my shoulder. He got to his knees and looked at me. "Let's rescue him — we need to persuade Blossom. Have you any ideas?"
I mostly worked on my emotions and rattled off my remaining lines. When we finished, Steven did his loud clap again; it almost made me gasp in how thunderous it sounded with him so near.
"Amazing job, Phillip." Steven clapped Phillip's back. "Good work as well, Wilfred."
I gave a full-on smile and thanked Mr. Schofield.
"Samuel Carter-Brown!" Steven called out to the crowd. I left the stage with a dumb and happy smile.
•✦—✦•
Dad congratulated me a little, but I could see that he was impressed with my audition. My acting was still pretty bad. My only advantage was through my revelations where I learned how emotions were portrayed. While it may not exactly be theatrical or even acting-related knowledge, it was still immensely helpful to know about body language, human anatomy, and how eyes were the most expressive part of us. The little bit of advice I got from Mr. Ross was added on top of my revelation. Resulting in me making my expressions bigger, almost cartoonish — not quite appropriate for film acting but quite right for theatre.
We watched the auditions — me for professional lessons, and Dad, who seemed hell-bent on trying to guess who the casting directors would end up choosing as the final actors. John Rawnsley spoke to Father a lot, and I tried my best to get them to talk about things that were important to me.
"John, how much do I get paid if I am accepted?" I asked curiously; I sort of needed that money to afford lessons.
"Hmm, want to buy more sweets, young man?" John teased me.
"I've no idea about theatre or acting. My son's obsessed with the whole thing. We could use some tips and tricks from a theatre veteran," Dad said smoothly, applying some of his tactics that he used on Mum.
"Well, your agent should be able to tell you most of it and help you negotiate," John started.
"—He's got no agent," Dad cut in.
"Right, that's okay. You're the parent and can represent Wilf here, but professional agents are good and won't cost you anything unless he gets roles. Usually about 10–15% of every penny earned goes to them, but they get you jobs you wouldn't be able to get." John gestured vaguely to the church hall.
"Open casting calls are rare. It's more common with unusual shows like Doctor Dolittle, where most of the ensemble will be playing animals. A more typical play — say, something like The Phantom of the Opera that's been on about a dozen years now — that sort of thing won't be open casting, and agents are the only ones who get the casting call and submit their clients."
That was a lot of information; I tried to commit all of it to memory.
"So, we need an agent or he may not be able to play in anything?" Dad asked.
"He just won't get as many opportunities, but it doesn't matter if you get accepted now. Keep the full amount to yourself, I say. Child actors have legal limits, so he can't really be in multiple things at the same time, anyway."
"Ah, right right… How long have you been acting?" Dad prodded; I thought his angle was to get a feel for the industry.
I tuned out the rest of their conversation, considering my future as I watched the auditions.
—
"Wilfred Price," a man with an orange sweater called out to me and my dad. I almost screamed in joy. This man had come a full hour ago to get John, who confided in us before he left the church that he was offered a contract. As a result, I spent the last hour secretly spying on the movements of the orange man, who almost looked like a traffic cone on legs. A blond woman got the role of Emma Fairfax because she was the first to be approached. But then there were a dozen more men and women who got the call. Presumably, they would be the ensemble or understudies. I was the first one to get the call for Tommy which bode well for me.
"Yes, that's me!" I answered, my voice brimming with joy.
Traffic Cone smiled at me, as if a teen caught sneaking about.
"Mr. Price, please follow me. You too, Wilfred."
We came up to the hall that Mum and I were in the last time for some tea — only now the tables had been pushed to a corner, and there were two men sitting at the table at the center of the room.
"Take a seat," Mr. Cone told us, scooting over an extra chair for me.
"Welcome, thanks for coming. I'm Michael Mansfield." Mr. Mansfield shook my dad's hand and, after a chuckle, also took my offered hand.
"John Craig," the other man said.
Everyone seemed to be named John and Michael around this production; I briefly wondered if I should make a bet with Father for a favor. Five Johns and Three Michaels gets ice cream every day, wrong and I won't throw a tantrum. I liked the idea.
"Great job at your audition, Wilfred — we're very impressed."
"Thank you." I blushed, but my mouth moved automatically.
"We are happy to offer you the principal supporting role of Tommy Stubbins."
"Oh my God!" I said almost without expression; my mind raced a million miles an hour — too many things in my mind as I considered the future of working in the entertainment industry. Someone shook me; I rubbed my eyes and looked to my father.
"Hey, are you in there?" Dad chuckled. "Does this happen often with kids, or is my son defective?" Dad joked.
"I haven't done many plays with child actors. John?" Mr. Mansfield asked.
"Too common, but there's usually more screaming and crying." Craig grinned.
"Sorry, I was just shocked. Thank you, I accept." I told Craig and Mansfield.
"Whoa, hold it, lad." Mansfield laughed, his hands up. "We'll have to negotiate fees, agree on the schedules, and see if your father is amenable to some of our demands."
"Demands, is it?" Dad said darkly; he didn't like being told what to do.
"Well, it's just part of the contract." Mansfield said, spreading his hands in a placating gesture. "We want the best performance from Wilfred; that means he needs to practice dancing and singing. We'll need at least ten sessions with an accredited performing arts teacher and timesheets signed before we go into rehearsals in April."
"Right, that's a lot to demand. Private sessions are expensive; we won't do it without a guarantee or an advance," Dad said flatly, fingers drumming once against the tabletop.
Mansfield gave a side-eye to Craig, then bulldozed on, "No one has to do anything until the contract is signed by you and your son. Unfortunately, we won't be paying any advance fees. Standard Solt/Equity contract, so you'll get paid weekly from when the contract is signed."
"Oh, how much is it?" Dad asked almost eager. I kicked his boots in anger because I had promised to stay away from his shins.
"Equity minimum is sitting at £402 per week at the moment for Category A. That's for adults only; child actors are guaranteed 50% of the minimum rate," Craig went on, laying out the terms slowly.
£201 — that was a lot of money for a child, or maybe even for an adult.
I saw Dad's expression soften considerably, his rudeness suddenly absent on his face.
"I understand," Dad said after a pause, nodding as he weighed the amount.
"Right, we'll need you to fill out this information." Craig pointed to a form, "I'll need details regarding school, year, and more so we can draw up the contract and book you with the local council here for tutors and chaperones." Craig read my other form from before with a small frown. "It says here you're from Chester."
There it was; I felt like I would fail at this moment — so close to the finish line. But I would snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.
Father just nodded in confirmation.
"You'll have to find a place to rent during rehearsals. Happens pretty often, so if you're interested, we can get you in touch with other people looking for a living arrangement once the cast signs their contract. Rent's expensive, after all." Craig told my dad.
"Thanks!" I nodded. My dad's lips pursed.
"Right, our offer is for a six-month contract, renewable upon renegotiation. Basic salary at £325 per week, three evening shows and one matinee per week, one week off every three weeks. Two school days per week…" Craig continued to rattle off contract terms while I went over a newly given revelation.
There wasn't much in there — at least when relating to a theatre contract — but negotiation had two parties. I felt I could push for more compensation, though I should stay realistic so that I wouldn't burn up for being too greedy.
"I would like the adult equity minimum," I spoke up.
"Deal." Craig and Michael both agreed instantly.
"Whoa, hold up there." My dad stepped into the negotiation. "We have to travel here all the time and pay for lesson. How much do dancing lessons cost?"
The two men looked at each other, aware where the conversation was leading towards.
"Subject to the teacher, really. Royal academies are only about 5-15 quid per session. Private ones could cost up to thousands; it's always different," Mansfield told my dad.
"Chester's where Hammond is — that's a sponsored school. So £15 sounds fair," Craig mused.
That was the second person who had mentioned Hammond. I felt the need to check the place out. People in London never cared about Chester — even Liverpool and Manchester didn't care much — but these theatre people knew about a school in Chester. It was a glowing review as it could get.
"Allowance of £50 per week for travel and lessons," Dad tried.
The two nodded quickly again. My stomach seemed to be eating itself; they were way too amenable, and that meant these two were scamming the hell out of us. Should I erupt at that? Was the risk of burning up like Icarus too high for me to attempt it? I had no idea. But as I thought about it deeper, I realized I didn't care much about the money. I needed the opportunity more than the money.
I nodded at my dad, and he let out a quiet sigh, then said, "Sounds good."
Michael and Craig smiled brightly at my dad. "Great! We'll send the contract to your house. You'll need to sign it and send it back to us before the 23rd — get it notarized as well because we can't meet face to face."
Hands were shaken and pleasantries exchanged. I walked absent-mindedly with my father. Acting was an industry that I had literally stepped into with a school play three months ago, and now I would be in a play with Phillip Schofield and Julie Andrews. I slapped my cheek in a beat to a song, unsure if I was dreaming.