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February 20th, Woodfield Primary, Chester
First change was my mother's attitude towards my foray into acting. She turned away from her worry so completely that she was now my staunchest supporter. With that came her attempts to drag me over to Hammond as soon as possible. So on this friday as my school finished, she picked me up from Woodfield.
"I've got us a tour! Hammond is pretty popular, always wanted to go there and see. All the fancy girls went there." Mum was saying.
"What's it like?" I asked with some curiosity.
"Don't know now, do I, bach? We'll find out together." Mum laughed.
Mum was in an excellent mood for how much Welsh she was bringing into conversations. I helped her get even more excited.
"Where to is Hammond?" I put on my best Welsh accent.
"Look at that dwtty little eyes. Come e're, give Mum a big cwtch!" She pulled me in, laughing, I hugged her.
—
February 20th, The Hammond, Chester
A glorious mansion stood in a splendid white eggwash. The place looked nothing like what I expected of a school and more like a millionaire's vacation home. Just a short distance away from the M53 stood the mansion and another building that I assumed to be the theatre. Mum took my hand and led me to the mansion. I was taken aback by the inside, not necessarily because it was luxurious but more so for the history that was clearly evident in the building.
The entrance had an honest-to-god Victorian-era fireplace and a church pew–like bench. The floor was tiled in mosaics that you could find at castles—or in poor imitations of linoleum everywhere else. To my left was a tiny pantry, and to my right, a door that led to a reception desk.
"There's lovely," Mum muttered as she took in the sight. I agreed.
"Hello!" A voice called out from the reception. "Anyone there? Come around here!"
The reception area was a cozy and comfortable place with a large wrap around desk where an older brunette woman with deep laugh lines sat.
"Hi! We wanted to tour the school but that can wait. Come, come." Mum nudged me forward for the receptionist.
"My son's in a play in West End, he needs training in dance and the producer recommended your school," Mum said proudly.
"It's actually in Hammersmith, so not West End," I clarified to the receptionist.
"That's brilliant, you must be very talented!" The woman beamed. "We'd love to have you guys. Our Extra courses—that's courses for people not in our school—will start mid-April and renew twice during summer."
"Ah, I'm afraid he'll be in London in April for the rehearsals," Mum explained nervously.
"That's fine, dear. It's probably better that he is in a private class. We have a lot of amazing teachers who would love to teach a pupil the skills that they'll put to use. Being in a big play is obviously great!" the receptionist informed my mum.
"I'm Erin, and this is my son, Wilfred, " Mum introduced herself.
"Beatrice. Lovely to meet you." Beatrice shook my mum's hand. "I'll see if our head of scheduling is available."
"Excuse me—" Mum halted her, "The producer recommended that we talk to someone called Betty… Betty Hassall. Could we speak to her?"
The expression on Beatrice's face was complicated. "No—Betty's been dead for fifteen years."
"Oh. But Leslie told us… Sorry," Mum trailed off awkwardly.
"Not at all, she was an exceptional educator and really brought Hammond to the forefront of the UK. She was a private person too, so there could've been confusion." Beatrice smiled and walked off to satisfy our query.
A few minutes later, Mum and I sat in the tea room talking about my needs.
"He's a supporting role in the show. According to the casting director, he's lacking in his dancing abilities, but we're really looking for improvements across the board." Mum explained.
"What's the name of the play?" Jennifer asked.
"Doctor Dolittle."
"My god, you're in Leslie Brisculle's play?" Jennifer looked me over, surprise evident in her face.
"Yes, I'll be playing Tommy Stubbins along with two other boys on rotation."
"That's amazing! Mr. Brisculle is a legend in theatre community, we'd love to get you up and running. What you need is called triple-threat training. We have teachers with West End experience who can coach you through all the things you'll have to do. I can book you with a dance teacher as well, but that can wait until we see what your level is, so you can get the best teacher."
The following conversation happened in a blur. We were given a time slot that we could choose. I chose five sessions per week and it was only going to cost me £20 per session thanks to the Music and Dance Scheme from the government. My private teacher was a man named Gilles Albert Lagarde. I was informed that he had been in productions in Moulin Rouge. I had a revelation that told me about the place; even as seemingly inept as I was about theatre in my past life, I had memories. Namely, I realized that in just a few years there would be a movie called Moulin Rouge with Ewan McGregor and Nicole Kidman. That was a completely random way to find out some important information. Should I try reading as many books as possible to find out what movies would be coming out in the future? If I get a revelation, I would have an advantage in knowing what the final product was like. Something that I should really keep in mind.
Mother and I went on a tour because Gilles would be available for a trial session after his dancing lesson finished. Compared with King's School, which had an almost ostentatious grandeur, Hammond felt more grounded—functional yet charming. The Hoole Bank House carried exposed wood and Victorian tiling, giving off a homely, refined air.
The theatre building bustled with activity. Collapsible walls allowed the main stage—large enough to seat hundreds—to be split into many dance studios of varying sizes. Every space was in use or being prepared for use. Mirrors and hand rails dotted the immovable walls.
My favorite place was a small building that was entirely a collection of dance and music studios. It felt odd to go through a building that was so void of anything other than pillars, mirrors and railings. The only rooms that had any sort of equipment or furniture were the few music studios on the third floor. I was already excited about those—in fact, I should ask Mum for a piano. Me sneaking practices on Mrs. Moss' piano just didn't work anymore when I was now a hard-working and money-earning actor. I took in the school tour as I planned how I would present my case to mum.
"Gilles should be free now," Jennifer told us as she checked out her watch.
"Brilliant. Chop chop, Wilf." Mum led me to a studio, a bit smaller one for a private class.
Jennifer made us wait outside, then disappeared into the studio and engaged in a quiet conversation with my eminent teacher. The first and obvious detail was that he was black with buzz cut hair and a sharp moustache. He looked like a more conventionally attractive version of Eddie Murphy in Coming to America. His clothing was the same as almost every male I had seen so far today: short shorts and a tight-fitting singlet, or a tank top for the non-British. I know many people with the same features and moustache would look ridiculous, yet for some reason Gilles looked refined.
Gilles' face went through quite a few expressions as Jennifer told him about my story. He nodded and gestured towards our direction and Jennifer came towards us.
Jennifer smiled. "Trial session, one hour. Please enjoy." She left after pleasantries with Mum.
I entered the studio with Mum behind me.
"Hello, I'm Wilfred Price." When Gilles didn't respond instantly, and because we were too far apart, I continued without missing a beat, "And you are, Gilles Lagarde. Please teach me as much as you can."
I extended my tiny hand toward his large hands.
"Zat is Jill-eh Albegh La-gahrrd' for you." He rolled the syllables with his thick French accent, stressing some parts.
I already started to lose some of my enthusiasm. Because Gilles had the most French accent and seemed pretty rude so far, I went into a sarcastic portrayal of a posh Englishman I had seen on ITV.
"Ah, where are my manners? Jill-eh Alberr La-gard. I'm Wilfred Price, delighted." I bowed slightly.
"Cut it out," Mum flicked my ear.
"Hey—" I cried out.
"Thank you for seeing us," Mum said respectfully, "I'm sure Jennifer has explained everything to you. We want you to get Wilfred in the best position possible to play his role."
"Certainly, Miss Price," Gilles began.
"That is Mrs. Price for you," I cut in.
My mum twisted my ear quicker than a Woodfield chicken chasing worms.
"Apologise," she snapped.
"I was just correcting him—we're in England and that is the correct pronunciation," I grumbled, though I snapped because Gilles was flirting with my mother of all people!
Gilles chuckled in a deep voice. "Zon't worry, young Wilfried. Per'aps I will pronounce it as ze English do when you impress me. My pupils will learn respect and dignité from me. I will reward zem with my respect when zey earn it."
I almost rolled my eyes. The man was being rude to me to start with and now was suddenly demanding respect. What a load of bollocks.
"Right, sorry," I muttered.
"Eh bien, let us begin. Copy my movements ze best you can, I must know your skill," Gilles commanded and suddenly turned away.
"Mrs. Price, you may observe from zere." Gilles pointed to a corner. I smiled at the correction Gilles had done. No one other than my dad would flirt with my mother under my watch.
Gilles went to a cassette player on another corner of the room and put in a new cassette before a song played.
"Shoes off," Gilles pointed at me.
I obliged and in a minute was standing in my socks behind Gilles. He pointed again, so I sighed and was barefoot.
"Always warm up. Skip zis, and you will cry later. Injury—no bien," he warned.
He put on a jazz number of piano and some odd mix of xylophones and flute. Weird pairing but oddly calming.
"Five-six-seven-eight. Roll-two-three…" Gilles started off with a count and rolled his shoulder on the one count, then did some sort of ballet move with hands on the sides like bird wings before popping back on his feet.
I was many things, but a linguist wasn't one of my talents, so I can't really describe everything I did. Best I can say is that Gilles made me engage my whole body, often making me move my shoulders independent of the rest of my body or my hand reaching to the ground in a stretch with my other hand grasping for the heavens. That was a simple one, as it was a simple lunge and stretch combined. I think my schoolmates would laugh at me for the other moves where I was forced to go into awkward poses that I couldn't describe for the life of me. The core warmup was simple in design: it worked all of my joints, and I would shift from shoulder rolls to ankle rolls, knee and hips with each eight count. I had seen a similar thing on BBC once. Birds had a mating dance that they performed for a prospective mate. I felt the same as that colorful bird dancing to an unappreciative crowd.
Warmups gave away to jumps. Gilles launched himself in the air sort of like how ballet dancers do, but without any flourish. Just straight up in the air, bring your legs close and land. We did that for a few minutes until Gilles went to the cassette player, changing to a new song.
I liked the beat of the new song, mostly because it didn't sound weird as a practice song.
"Focus and do your best!" Gilles shouted.
The first few moves were simple: jazz hands followed by kicks and a small jump to shift my weight from one ball of my feet to the other. Do the opposite to round up the eight count.
"Don't look at ze floor, eyes up here!" Gilles chided me.
His moves were getting more complicated by the moment. My neck hurt from the sudden way we had to roll our head. I started to lose my rhythm and went on the backfoot.
"Catch up!" Gilles encouraged me.
I stood there like a scarecrow until I saw Gilles' move and my brain caught up enough to jump back on the count.
"Jazz hands!" Gilles said.
I did my best John Travolta impression.
Music suddenly made a click, shifting to another track, slower and classical.
"Bring up your legs like zis!" Gilles instructed.
My legs bent into a weird shape, imitating a crab.
"Up, up, good, back down slowly. Zis time we go higher up and to ze toes."
Gilles looked graceful in his weird pose while I looked like a troll.
"Toes! Hands up like a doll on music boxes. Good, now do it quicker, more smoothly."
I failed and failed again. My feet didn't like the dance moves and were making it clear to me. Ballet was not for me, but Gilles spent more time on it than the simple jazz dance we performed before. When I was almost ready to beg to stop, the speakers made that loud click again. Upbeat and folksy music that made me think of black-and-white movies came on.
We did jumps to the sides as we had in the warmup, followed by hip shakes, then shoulder-roll-like moves, rope pulls and more. Our movements were upbeat, optimistic and bigger more expressive. I felt it would fit the theatre style the most.
"Click!" Gilles actually said out loud and the track shifted, as if by magic.
A faster beat that sounded too much for me to dance to came up.
"Give me soft taps, don't hurt yourself," Gilles warned before going into a jig.
Tap dance, I realized. Funny thing about tap dance was that you looked really stupid if you didn't know what your feet were supposed to do, and when you looked at someone in the mirror making those fast movements, it's really hard to follow which leg is forefront and not. While I made more mistakes than the ballet dance, I also laughed and chuckled more because it was fun in a way that other dances just weren't. Tap dance was special because I could play along with the music, giving it a percussion, and together it became a full performance. Visual and audio joined together, and thugh my bare feet didn't make much sound, it was easy to imagine a drum tap in my mind going along to the music.
"Double time!" Gilles cried and our movements became frankly insane.
I almost fell over from trying to follow Gilles, so instead I just improvised my own moves—simple and fast enough that I could stay on beat. Spin and turn and do the moves I had seen before and didn't fail at before.
"Stop!" Gilles shouted out and I finally relaxed.
Mum gave a cheer, her hands making tiny claps near her mouth.
"That was amazing, Gilles. You are very good! You too, of course, bach!" Mum gave me a compliment from afar. Gilles seemed taken aback from being compared to me, and I didn't enjoy a backhanded compliment either.
"Oui, thank you. Mrs. Price, your son has a lot to learn." Gilles answered. My mum ate it up even though he was critiquing me. An exotic man with an exotic accent— I didn't know it was my mum's weakness.
Gilles dropped his voice to a near whisper. "You are decent," Gilles started. I stood a bit taller. "For a kid off ze street, you have no feel about your body, your movements are crude like oil. How old are you, leetle boy?" Gilles asked me. My shoulders slumped.
"Eight."
"You should be limber and loose, but you move like an eighty-year-old senior citizen. Where is ze vivre and ze esprit?"
I shut my mouth so that I wouldn't rise up to his scathing remarks. Gilles only grinned.
"You will improve, I'll add some savoir-faire." Gilles looked to the only wall without a distraction standing in the way. "Yes, I'll drag you from ze hell you are born in and bring you to ze land of ze cultured and intelligent. Uncultured swine to a vintage vine."
My rage cooled but my confusion increased. Was Gilles monologuing in front of me?
Giles deflated, "Mon dieu! We have much to work on. Now show me acting, dancing and what have you."
I sighed before asking what songs he had on his cassette player. Gilles chuckled.
"Acapella comes from ze espirit! Your mouth is an instrument, get used to wielding it." Gilles grinned brightly.