Escape from the Panto
written by: Christine Tennent
I am trying to settle the boys down for the night, but a vision of Jamie lounging in Business class en route to America, already on his second gin and tonic, keeps popping into my head.
Our ultra-sensitive seven-year-old, Alex, has taken his dad’s photo upstairs and is stroking the face, tears dripping off his chin as he sobs, “Poor daddy, he’ll be so sad he’s missing the pantomime.” Sam, two years older, bounces up and down on his bed shouting, “We’re getting Christmas presents from America, yay!” Jamie always brings them something back from his trips, although no doubt they will be the usual last-minute purchase at Heathrow airport on his return.
“Sorry, Sal, couldn’t get out of the trip, a problem in the New York office, but I’ll be back in a couple of days, plenty of time to help with all the Christmas stuff,” Jamie had told me as he packed his suitcase.
Which one of us would have to take time off work to look after the boys in the event of inset days, sickness, or other random events? Who could take them to this party or that sleepover? It’s a constant balancing act and a source of some dissension. Thank goodness for after-school and holiday clubs. The thought has briefly crossed my mind that Jamie might have deliberately booked a flight a day earlier than necessary to avoid having to come to the Christmas panto with us.
Alex has recently developed some worrying reactions to flashing lights, loud noises, and the way food is presented on his plate. Only yesterday, he’d burst into tears at the sight of a magpie tearing into the neighbor’s rubbish bags and scattering soggy debris across the pavement. Sam, on the other hand, has become bolder and dafter this year, seemingly completely unaware of risks or danger. He is that child who will leap over a wall, not pausing to check what might be on the other side, with scrapes on scrapes on his knees and elbows—climbing the apple tree at the bottom of our garden and trying to swing through the branches on a rope his latest trick.
Several weeks ago, I’d booked a family outing to an amateur performance of Cinderella at the local Community Centre, needing Jamie there in case Sam became too hyper or Alex too stressed by something in the show. Unfortunately, Jamie’s unexpected escape across the Atlantic means that I’ve had no time to persuade any other sensible adult to accompany us to the panto. Despite Sam’s pleas, I had no intention of offering our spare ticket to any of his equally excitable friends.
Before we set off the following evening, I remind the boys of the Cinderella story. Once I mention the words ‘Fairy Godmother’ and ‘Prince Charming,’ Sam starts making those annoying racing car noises that show he’s totally lost interest. I fear he will be jiggling around in his seat long before Cinderella has started sweeping the kitchen floor. Bless Alex, he asks how white mice can turn into ponies and why the stepsisters are so mean to Cinderella.
“It’s just a silly story,” Sam snorts.
We are in the second row from the front, the boys on either side of me. Provided someone large doesn’t plonk themselves in front of us, we should have a good view. First hurdle over, we are in our seats before the performance starts. I have several backup plans: a bag of chewy sweets in my handbag, the promise of ice cream at the interval for good behavior, but if all else fails, I’ll simply whisk them away to the nearest pizza restaurant.
A somewhat overweight Buttons appears from behind the curtains, dressed in a red jacket with gold buttons and black trousers straining at the seams, a red peaked hat perched precariously on top of his head. His jacket buttons are fighting a losing battle to stay fastened as he prances up and down the stage, rallying the audience to practice their booing and hissing for when the evil stepsisters appear and their cheers for Cinderella. He assumes the kids will be able to tell the difference. I notice a split in the backside of his tight trousers and feel a giggle bubbling up from the back of my throat.
I have been to many an am-dram production over the years—some brilliant, others mediocre, and several a downright disaster. I fear this performance is going to be in the latter category. As I attempt to stifle my giggles, I can feel a flush spreading up my neck, but glancing sideways, I realize that both of my boys are joining in, Sam, of course, vying to be the noisiest child in the room. He leaps up and down booing and hissing. I have to put my hand on his shoulder to keep him in his seat.
“Are you okay, Mum?” asks Alex. “Your face has gone all pink and shiny.”
No amount of makeup could have turned the mature, large-bosomed woman playing Cinderella into a slim, young girl. Her saving grace is her wig, a cascade of golden ringlets down her back. Since anyone over the age of twelve is old to my two, they don’t seem to notice, joining in the cheering and foot-stamping to welcome the heroine in her tatty brown dress and apron.
As for the stepsisters, one is played by a tall, skinny man with a towering purple wig, his ill-fitting lime-green dress hanging off his shoulders, gold tights sagging round his ankles. The other is a short, stout woman in a beribboned pink frock. Her blue wig looks as though the cat’s been at it. Their lips and cheeks are daubed with scarlet makeup. Despite forgetting their lines with alarming regularity, the kids in the audience seem to love them, cheering them on and hissing at Cinderella.
I keep my eye on the seam of Buttons’ pants and the ever-widening split. He’s started sidling round the stage, keeping his front to the audience as Cinderella bemoans the fact that she can’t go to the Ball. I see a tear roll down Alex’s cheek and hold his hand.
“Poor Cinderella,” he whispers.
It’s meant to be a quiet, sad moment, Cinders sobbing as she’s left behind to do all the housework while her evil stepsisters head off to the Ball. As Buttons pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket with a flourish and leans over to hand it to Cinderella, the split in his trousers widens even further, and an unseemly amount of pale, podgy flesh is revealed. I burst out laughing, hand over my mouth trying to mask the sound.
“Shush, Mum,” Sam hisses, poking me with his elbow. “I can’t hear what they’re saying.”
At that moment a pall of green smoke rolls over the stage, Alex whimpers and buries his head in my lap. This is clearly meant to herald the grand arrival of the Fairy Godmother. A frail, white haired woman clutching a shimmering fibre optic wand with a pink star on the end, emerges from the smoke. Her silvery eye shadow is running down her cheeks. Multi-coloured fairy lights have been sewn into the skirt of her voluminous, blue dress. It must be heavy since she struggles to make her way across the stage towards Cinderella.
At least now the smoke has dispersed, and Alex is no longer shaking or hiding his face. He stares open-mouthed at the elderly Fairy Godmother. I’m worried her flashing frock and wand might set him off again.
“Don’t look if it makes your eyes hurt,” I tell him.
But he’s totally engrossed in the story, body rigid with excitement. Sam bounces up and down, alternating between hissing and cheering, as the Fairy Godmother declares to Cinderella in a booming voice that belies her years, “I am your Fairy Godmother, and you will go to the Ball.”
With a wave of her sparkly wand, the Fairy Godmother sends Buttons off to find a pumpkin and some white mice, while Cinderella disappears behind a screen. After several more flourishes of the Fairy Godmother’s wand, Cinderella eventually reappears wearing a gold and silver ball gown. Someone has gone to town with the sequins—she looked better in her raggedy dress.
Buttons hurries back on stage, wearing a different pair of trousers that are far too long and drag along the floor. Three white mice, their little whiskers quivering, are crouched on the red cushion he’s carrying.
Who in their right mind thought it would be a good idea to introduce real animals into the performance? As Buttons heads over to the Fairy Godmother, he trips over his trouser legs and drops the cushion. Panic ensues when the terrified mice shoot across the stage, sending Cinderella and her Fairy Godmother into hysterical screaming.
The children clearly think this is part of the performance and cheer as Buttons rushes around, shrieking, “Someone catch the little beggars!”
This leads to some impromptu audience participation, particularly from several of the dads, who keep yelling, “They’re behind you!”
Eventually, the mice are cornered, and to resounding applause, a heavily perspiring, out-of-breath Buttons grabs them before rushing off stage. The Fairy Godmother hastily tells Cinderella the dire consequences if she’s not back from the Ball by midnight, as the curtain comes down abruptly, signaling the end of the first half.
Another three-quarters of an hour of this?
“If you want to leave, it’s okay, boys,” I say. I want to sink into my armchair at home with a glass of wine and a good book.
My sons look at me wide-eyed.
“It would be rude to go home now, Mum; they’ll think we don’t like it,” says Alex.
Sam is already out of his seat. “Don’t be silly, Mum, it’s brilliant. Can I have a choc ice?”
There are free mince pies and mulled wine on offer, the smell of cinnamon and cloves drifting in the air, but Sam has spotted the woman near the entrance with a tray of assorted ice creams and lollies. He’s like some kind of heat-seeking missile when it comes to sniffing out anything with sugar in it.
We join the lengthy ice cream queue. I wonder what Jamie is up to, probably stuffing himself at a ‘working lunch’ in some exclusive New York restaurant.
The second half starts with Prince Charming, who looks about twelve and is a head shorter than Cinderella, proclaiming in a reedy voice that he’s looking for the most beautiful girl in the land to be his bride. My bag of sweets comes in handy to keep Sam occupied during what he terms the ‘soppy bits.’ Alex remains enthralled by the story.
The dancing at the Ball, which I thought would have Sam squirming in his seat, has both boys convulsed with giggles. Whether deliberately or not, the stepsisters keep tripping each other up as they clomp around the floor, trying to attract the Prince’s attention, barging into Cinderella, and at one point knocking Prince Charming off his feet. When their wigs become dislodged, they end up being kicked around the stage in a random game of football, between Cinderella and the Prince on one side and the stepsisters on the other. The Prince turns out to have a strong left foot and boots the purple wig into the middle of the cheering front row.
The final scene with the slipper passes in a blur. After a struggle to jam it onto Cinderella’s sizeable foot, the Prince hauls Cinderella up. He attempts to spin her around the dance floor in a slow waltz, totally out of time with the music, while the rest of the cast throws confetti over them and the audience.
“Prince Charming and Cinderella lived happily ever after in a beautiful palace. The end!” announces a still-perspiring Buttons, with what looks like squished black pellets of mouse poo sticking to his jacket.
Sam and Alex join in the standing ovation for the cast. I have to drag Sam away.
“That was the best,” he says. “Can we get a pet white mouse for Christmas? Please, Mum. We promise we’ll look after it, won’t we, Alex? Do you think Dad would bring us one back from America?”
“That was so fun,” adds Alex. “Can we come again as soon as Dad’s back from America so he doesn’t miss out?”
- Escape from the Panto - December 14, 2024
