-•✦--✦--✦•-
"So… you speak Spanish, do you? Since when, then?" Nain asked.
Uh-oh.
How was I meant to answer that, now? I couldn't tell her the truth. No, I couldn't. As always, the shadow seemed to creep towards me — it was not real, just my mind knowing exactly where this chat was heading. My brain's way of saying I was getting too close to the drop again.
So, lies it was. Like always. Like that time I'd lied to Mum. Which time? There'd been plenty… She'd seen the drop often enough, and often enough I'd lied to her.
"Yes, I speak Spanish," I said, keeping the worry off my face.
"Right, you've made that clear. I heard you rattling it off in there. So how d'you learn to speak it, then?" Nain clarified.
"Oh?" I said, pretending to be casual. "From that book we bought in Piccadilly. But mostly from watching telly in Spanish. Been at it since back in Chester, really," I said, trying to look distracted — like it didn't matter.
Please don't ask the name of the book, I thought. I'd never opened it — waste of time, that was. And now I was paying for it.
"You're telling me you learned a whole language from a book without a teacher, are you?" Nain said, half laughing, half disbelieving.
I hadn't even bothered to pretend to be learning or practising all this time...
Chuckling lightly, I said, "Telly's is the real teacher — the way people speak is so different from words on paper."
Nain's eyes were no longer the truth-seeker's gaze. Instead, she looked at me with sheer disbelief. It was almost as effective as her usual scrutiny—her eyes suddenly narrowed, as if she could sense my lies, or feel the guilt creeping inside me. Guilt was too much; I wasn't made for lying, even if I could do it convincingly. I could just tell her the truth.
Fully intending to confess about my memories, I opened my mouth.
Suddenly, my stomach dropped, like I'd just realised the kettle was left on and I was miles from home. Goosebumps rose across my body as if I'd seen a ghost, and cold sweat trickled down my back as though I'd suffered a heart attack.
It had been so long since I last got this feeling that I had forgotten how I usually coped with it. Back then it happened so often that I felt a prisoner in my own body.
For all her questioning gaze, Nain had looked away right as it happened. Right as my face had paled.
"Let's walk and talk… So you've been mucking about with your Welsh just so you could learn Spanish of all things?" Nain said, frustration creeping in.
My mouth moved mechanically, the words coming out didn't feel like mine. The drop was always disconcerting.
"I can learn Welsh anytime," I said, almost too dismissively.
"You could've learned Spanish anytime, mind. Didn't have to start with it first," she said, sounding a bit like a jealous kid.
"Do you want me to brush up on my Welsh, then?" I asked; my voice finally felt more like mine.
"No, Wilfred Price. I want you to speak your mother tongue!" Nain said, incredulous.
"My mother's tongue, maybe — but it's not really my mother tongue— Ow!" I yelped, rubbing my ear.
"Your father wasn't even in the same city when you were born. Manchester, he was. No, the first words said to you were me cooing over you — and it was all in Welsh! That is your mother tongue!" Nain informed me.
Humour was helping me. Our usual banter was so familiar. I felt fully back in my own body — no longer spooked out of my shell.
"Wouldn't it be the midwife or doctor going 'It's a boy!'? Reckon that'd be the first words I heard," I said, playing along.
"I think you're right," Nain said. I turned to look at her, surprised — she didn't usually concede points. "Only the doctor was Welsh. So she said it in Welsh." Ah, there it was.
"We'll only speak Welsh in the house from now on. Let's see how quick a learner you are," Nain warned.
"But I have to learn Italian!" I complained.
"Only if they offer you the role," Nain reminded me.
"I think I'll get it," I said, glancing back at the office. The high from that moment rushed through me again.
Now I felt relaxed — my heart calm, breathing steady. Revelations demanded I keep my secret, and I had to lie again to meet its demands.
The drop! I realised what I had never thought of before. I started to grin.
"What's got you grinning, you cheeky sod?" Nain said.
"I'll be speaking four languages by this time next year," I said, making up a reason on the spot.
"Hmph, you've really learned a whole language by yourself?" she asked again.
"Mhm," I nodded.
"Your father might've been right about your brain. I hardly believed him," she said.
"I'm smart!" I insisted.
"If you're so smart, why act the fool all the time, then?"
"When have I?" I challenged.
"Stockwell," Nain replied instantly.
"Alright, I'll learn Welsh as fast as I can," I said, neutral as I could.
"You'd better," Nain said, smiling.
We walked to the Tube in quiet company; I'd gone introspective.
As a toddler, I was given my first revelation. It had happened when I was being baptised. Since then, I had learned truths about my environment — facts and information without any personal memories. Those proved a gift to me, as I hardly had to learn anything; I had information appear in my brain to teach me things children bothered their parents endlessly to learn.
I didn't have to point at things and ask my parents, revelations took care of that.
There was a price on the gift, though. If revelations could be triggered by seeing or experiencing new things, then I could also trigger the drop. Revelations giving me the cold squeeze was one of the only ways I knew that these memories were not some kind of defect in me or crazy hallucinations of a sick mind. There were times I got it all the time and worried my mother endlessly. Times I had wanted to tell my Mum about everything. Drop was a feeling that I could only describe as my soul leaving the body — I hated it. I feared it.
Message had been received loud and clear. Lesson had been taught so deeply that I never even imagined haphazardly referencing future information or revealing my advanced memories anymore.
The drop was a fear punch — a guaranteed showstopper and composure breaker. But! That was amazing, wasn't it? Horror scenes, fear, bloodless face, goose skin and cold sweats. It was like having a button for my own body — a sort of control that no one except me could display, not as fast as I could anyway.
This sort of thing — I knew people could do it manually. Crying on command was a real skill, and actors had methods for every little trick like that. Only, I had an invisible button. The moment I decided to tell the truth about my memories, it triggered the drop — something so utterly useless and inconvenient in every situation, and downright dangerous in some. Except actors had a use for that very thing. I was thrilled.
The drop had always been a prison for my body — a restraint, a hold over my own agency. But with a clever twist of its function, everything changed. I could pull the trigger; the gun would still fire as it always did. Only now, I could use those bullets for my own purpose.
I felt free.
[RING!]
"It's Adrian," I said.
"Take it," Nain urged.
"Hello?"
"Wilf! There you are — where've you been?"
"Just finished the callback audition. I'm walking back to the Tube station."
"Huh, that's funny — I just got a call from Clive Parsons. You've been offered the role of Luca Innocenti!" Adrian practically cheered down the line.
I drew a deep breath and let go of all my worries — I was free.
—✦—
Tuesday, September 15th, 1998, Apollo Hammersmith
Recently I'd watched Groundhog Day — and if not for all the wild new things happening lately, I might've thought I was repeating each week. My life revolved around three locations. One was my home in London, a three-storey terraced house originally built for the city's poor. Time had moved on, and now it was fit for upper-middle-class families.
A couple of minutes' walk from there was Oval Station, where I'd take the Tube and alight at Leicester Square for the Piccadilly line, then stop at Hammersmith and walk through the busy streets with the flyover hanging above.
Thousands of cars travelled each hour on that flyover, and right below it stood the Apollo Theatre — my home four evenings a week. Recently, I'd started to break my routine, trying to escape the prison of repeating the same day over and over. On days with matinees, I'd show up early to observe the crew and technical workers plying their craft.
I'd lived my life knowing things so far — but learning would define my next six months. Each new thing I learned was proof I was living a fuller life than the one bound by revelations' old memories.
Every day I spent at the Apollo, I was an employee bound to a contract — with responsibilities and duties to uphold. I loved the people I worked with; cast and crew alike were some of the nicest I'd ever met. Yet, it wasn't in me to be Tommy Stubbins. Revelations had given me knowledge beyond my years, and it had only made me more curious. I wanted a challenge. When I worked on another theatre production in the future, I'd make sure it was something truly interesting. Right now, the Apollo felt like a prison holding me back.
In my dressing room I sat in front of the vanity mirror, in my hands was a contract I'd received from Adrian. It was the key out of this prison. When I signed it, I would get some control for myself — some freedom. Perhaps it was an illusion, for I'd only be thrusting myself into another prison. Only that prison was in Italy — new land, new people, new experiences and, best of all, new challenges. Trigger pulled again, I decided when and where. Control.
Mental gymnastics to deal with my issues? Hell yes. But the number on the contract was juicy enough to convince me all on its own. Two months of work would pay me to the tune of €40,000. So much money that I could hardly believe it. In British pounds, that was only £27,000 — but that was four thousand euros per each week I worked. I was in the big leagues, the salary seemed to be anyway.
"Will you stop staring at that thing, will you?" Granddad complained.
I couldn't be alone in the dressing room — safety law for child actors in theatre forbade it. We were so used to the routine that it was easy to forget he was even there.
"It's so much money! Look!" I spun my chair around and shoved the contract in his face.
"I know how much it is! You're going to earn more than your mother. That just isn't right," Granddad grumbled.
"What can I say? Simple demand and supply — there's only one Wilfred Price," I said, nodding proudly.
"Really doesn't take much to puff up your ego, does it?" Granddad chuckled.
"Ahem, I need to get into costume," I said, doing my best to look and sound professional.
Financial freedom was a key to more improvements, in life and in skill. I wouldn't see that money for ages, but I could budget for the future. Bryan had an expensive training from a vocal coach — could I get one for piano? Someone exceptionally good at the craft, someone who could impart knowledge that even my revelations couldn't provide. I had the width but I needed to add some breadth. There were so many possibilities and things I could improve on.
Someone knocked on the door. Granddad went to open it. I turned to see who would come in. Ten times out of ten it would be Mad-Eye Maddie. Only, this was someone completely different — a face I hadn't seen in ages, a name I had completely forgotten until that moment.
Paul Gregg — the producer who was bankrolling this whole production.
"Tommy Stubbins?" Paul asked.
"Yes, that's me. Hi, Paul!" I said casually — the contract had even loosened my tongue. Job security was a powerful thing.
"You remember me! We must've met only once or twice," he said, easy smiles all around.
"You were there for quite a few rehearsals. I remember," I replied.
"Indeed. Lots of money riding on this. Have to make sure it's in good hands," he chuckled.
"What brings you here?" Granddad interjected.
"Ah, just wanted to say hello to the cast and crew. Show my face — make sure everyone's enjoying themselves," Paul said cheerily.
I didn't buy it. It was no secret that everyone was tangled up in contract drama. Most of the cast had six-month contracts — unusual, but telling of the producers' confidence in the show. And yet, audience numbers were still strong, full houses ever since autumn. I'd even heard that a few had been offered year-long extensions.
Paul's presence could only be explained by one thing — money.
"So, are you enjoying the theatre? Having a good time?" Paul asked.
"It's good. I love the cast — everyone's been so nice," I said.
"So, you'd like to stay on?" he asked, the question hanging in the air.
It was a hard question. Could I really say no?
"I don't mind," I said, feeling a bit dumb.
"You've got a new agent. Maybe he's not the right fit — asking for a ridiculous contract like that. Some agents just try to squeeze every penny out of you — shameless, especially for a cute kid like you. Honestly, the gall on some people. Ask your grandfather about those sorts — he'll know," Paul said.
Paul and I hadn't really interacted before, and he spoke as if I were a toddler.
"Adrian's perfectly fine, thank you," Granddad interjected.
"He is," I said, eyes widening. Playing daft to match the man's expectation seemed wiser.
"Right… um — Mr Price," Paul continued, turning to my Granddad. "Are you aware that this Mr Baldini has asked for £1,500 per week and a five-month contract? It's highly unusual," he informed.
"Yes, Wilfred here is booked for a role starting in April. We had to cut out the last two weeks of the contract extension," Granddad explained calmly.
"I see," Paul said, giving my Granddad a look of polite disdain. I made a mental note — excellent expression for my acting toolbelt.
"You understand you're putting me in a difficult spot," Paul continued. "We don't have time to train a new child actor. I can't even use Darien Smith or James Paul Bradley for the role because of child safety laws. We need at least three kids in the part. Your agent is trying to extort the production."
I just looked between Paul and my Granddad, eager to watch the showdown. Paul saw a child actor — and I acted the child.
"Seems a fair wage to me," Granddad said, picking at his ear casually.
"It's fifteen hundred pounds per week — more than the adult roles get!" Paul protested.
"Maybe for the animal voices, but I know some of these lads and lassies are earning a tidy sum," Granddad said. "No problem with my grandson getting his due."
"No problem with — right… fine. We can go up to £1,250. Can you get Wilfred's agent to agree?" Paul asked.
"Two hundred and fifty pounds? That's about eight people's tickets. You have three thousand seats filled each night. Must we haggle over this?" Granddad said, utterly shameless.
His attitude was breaking Paul's brain.
"Is this what you want?" Paul asked me, turning over to study me.
"Erm — I let my Granddad handle the money thing," I said dismissively.
"Ugh — fine. Thank you for your time," he muttered, nodding to Granddad. "This is all fine! Just fine, goodbye! Even the kid wants more money… simply absurd, ten actors…" he kept mumbling as he stormed out.
Once he had gone, Granddad closed the door.
"Sour bunch, that one," Granddad said.
"Every penny not paid to actors is money in his pocket," I explained.
"Well, he isn't taking a penny from you. I'll make sure of that," Granddad said, puffing his chest out.
"Thanks," I said with a chuckle.
The entertainment industry was tiny; bad blood with a producer could ruin a career. Child actors faced unfair competition from nepotism babies, but I had one clear advantage — my family spoke for me, my agent spoke for me, and I could act dumb. They could hate my agent, but that was his job, so they couldn't hold it against him or me. They could dislike my family, but they weren't actors to employ.
Still, I was taken aback by Paul actually showing up himself to save five thousand pounds. This production was easily clearing half a million each week. Money-grubbing at its finest.
—✦—
Wednesday, September 16th, 1998, Covent Garden
I had rarely come to Adrian's office since April, but lately I was visiting almost daily. I had a show in the evening, so I'd come to sign some documents. Ah, who was I kidding — being a child had disadvantages, namely I couldn't sign anything. My grandparents were my legal guardians, so they could. But Adrian preferred my parents signing the document. I was here to give my consent to Adrian's negotiation tactics. To get us aligned on what we each wanted.
"Take a seat, I have a surprise for you," Adrian said, smiling.
"Did Dolittle agree?" I said incredulously.
"Oh, them? I'm sure they will. Don't worry about that for now, you've got leverage. Child actors never get that, they're just recast — these guys at Hammersmith hardly produce musicals. Should've offered a year-long contract, should've got extension talk going before previews." Adrian shook his head. "No, I've got something else! But that's for later. For now, we'll talk Tea with Mussolini."
"I am ready to sign," I said eagerly, standing up.
"Whoa, hold it there, Will. That's only the initial contract offer. Forty thousand euros is pretty big. Franco Zeffirelli is a big name. He must have a good budget — we can get more."
"I don't want to lose the role by asking for more," I grumbled.
"Oh come now, you were all too happy to stick with the £1,500 on Dolittle, you wouldn't even budge when I asked for some room for negotation. But this, it'll be easy to get at least sixty, maybe more. How did Franco react exactly? You tell me that," Adrian demanded.
So I told him how the audition went.
"Maybe we can get eighty," Adrian chuckled. He held up his hands at my protest. "Just leave it to me, Wilf. Trust me, I got this."
"Fine," I agreed. "When can I start my Italian lesson?"
"Might take a while. Once the contract's signed, they'll have to hire someone. Depends on their end," Adrian said.
"Maybe you could teach me in the meantime," I suggested.
"I don't speak Italian," Adrian said sourly, almost embarrassed to admit it.
"But you're Italian!" I protested.
"I'm English — my grandparents were Italian," Adrian insisted.
"Sure… I reckon you just don't want to teach me," I said, rolling my eyes.
"That too," Adrian grinned. "I'll get all the paperwork sorted. There are some documents needed for the licence needed so you can work in Europe. Your parents will have to go to the Magistrates' Court for it. I'll let them know when they sign the contract. You won't need a tutor in Italy, but if you want one, I can get it written into the contract."
"No thanks," I said quickly.
"Okay, I'll call as soon as the production agrees on the salary. You're quickly becoming my biggest-earning client," Adrian laughed.
"You can celebrate when we sign the contract," I said, mimicking his accent.
"Well, you can celebrate yourself — you've got another booking," Adrian said, his eyebrows doing a little dance.
"Sorry, what did you say?" I asked, sitting up straighter.
"You've booked another role — no callbacks, straight to booking. You must've made quite the impression," he said.
"Is it David Copperfield?" I asked, springing to my feet.
This could be everything! Beating out Daniel Radcliffe here could secure me Harry Potter — or maybe it would inflame him to do more. Regardless, I would know I was better than him. That would mean the world to me.
"No, it's Great Expectations. Another Charles Dickens adaptation. There's a slight overlap in filming dates, but only a day. I'll inform them and let both productions sort it out — they usually only bother for big stars, but a day's just a day."
"Sorry… Great Expectations? It's been over two weeks," I said.
"You'd be surprised — some people aren't booked until a year after their audition. Depends on the production. Oh, you'll be filming in Norfolk," Adrian said, scanning the offer.
"Can I see?" I asked, curious.
Great Expectations had a very low budget; I was to be paid £600 per week. It was almost laughably little after Adrian had been filling my head with big numbers — numbers almost reaching six digits.
"What? Too little?" Adrian chuckled knowingly.
"No," I said, blushing. "I'll do it," handing the offer back.
"Good. What did I say about booking jobs? They come and go—"
"—But sometimes it pours," I finished for him.
"Exactly. I'll keep sending you to auditions as they come in. But there's an easy way to get more bookings. There's always—"
"Please don't say commercials," I interrupted.
"Commercials are a great source of revenue, and they're not as time-consuming as these," Adrian pointed out, nodding to the two contract offers.
"No commercials," I said firmly.
Adrian rubbed at his face, unhappy at my stubborn attitude about commercials.
"Have you heard anything from the other two Dickens adaptations — Oliver Twist and David Copperfield?" I asked.
"I know Ros' associate — Oliver Twist has already been cast, or so I hear. David Copperfield too. One of my friend's kids got the role. Just heard about it yesterday," Adrian said.
"Oh… I was hoping to get David Copperfield. But I messed up at the audition," I muttered, wincing at the memory.
"You've got two roles. Great Expectations is as good as David Copperfield. It's a TV movie too — trust me, better than a miniseries," Adrian reminded me.
"I guess…" I sighed. "Who got the role?" I asked, curious.
"Dan Radcliffe. Cute kid. Looks just like Marcia — that's my friend. She's a newly minted casting director. Worked as an associate before Dan."
"Dan? Daniel Radcliffe?" I said, dumbly. "Of course… it's him. His mum's a casting director?" I felt anger creeping in.
"Yeah, what about it?"
"Uh… nothing. It's just — everyone's parents are actors, agents, or casting directors. It's frustrating," I muttered.
"That's how it all works. My father was an actor, and here I am," Adrian chuckled.
It was my turn to rub at my face. The entertainment industry was rotten to the core. I doubted Daniel got Harry Potter because of nepotism — the books were too massive for that to make sense. Adrian had even told me that Daniel's dad was a literary agent, the kind of person who got books published. I could see how Daniel landed David Copperfield: casting directors knew each other, and they could help out their friends' children by getting them cast in roles.
Casting directors couldn't choose the final actor who'd be cast in the role — theirs was to recommend actors for the roles. If CDs wanted to be hired for more productions, they would have to cast actors well. They couldn't just cast their friends in every role. Child roles were one place where no one had many expectations from the actor's performance — you could only ask for so much acting skill from a nine-year-old. So this was the area where casting directors could really get kids cast without much problem. Recommend three choices, all three were kids of friends and family.
Did Daniel have this happen to him? There was no way of knowing, but I was getting tired of competing in such an unfair playing field. I did my relaxation exercise, breathing in deeply and out slowly. Dickens was done and dusted now — I'd succeeded at getting one of them. I was made up about it.
I was free of waiting for uncertain news. I was free to move on to the next phase of my life.
A year from now, I would be competing for the role of Harry Potter. By then, I would have appeared in at least four TV projects and one theatre production. I had a year to improve my acting and stack up even more credits. I could fight nepotism by booking more and more roles — each new credit was a point in my favour, a reason to choose me over the child of someone famous or well connected. I just had to build my reputation, brick by brick, credit by credit.