Waiting for the Good Times

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Young man hopes patience will win the lady.
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Rex Siter
Rex Siter
286 Followers

Invalided from the army and away from the dry heat and horrors of Afghanistan, Dan Mason had looked forward to loving arms and a civilian life with some meaning. The first hope was quickly dashed when he found there were no loving arms to greet him at the army house he would soon have to relinquish. There was only an envelope on the kitchen table, and inside a note in Sandra's spidery handwriting informing him that, "you must agree, our marriage was a mistake." Dan had to admit to himself that his dream of loving arms had been sheer romanticism..

Two years earlier, home on leave, they had met in a local night club, and within two hours they were sucking and screwing each other until dawn. In that brief time Dan had formed the conclusion that Sandra was the most sex crazy woman he had ever met. Her full breasts were so sensitive to his hands and mouth, and her thighs parted so eagerly to accept his fingers, tongue and throbbing erection. It had seemed that she couldn't get enough of that erection. When it wasn't up inside her she was holding it in her hand or in her mouth.

Aged twenty two at the time, it had seemed to Dan that this was something he could not let go. Sandra had appeared to be impressed with his prowess in bed. So, without too much mention of love, respect or any of the other emotions that might come into it they were hurriedly married before his leave was over.

Yes, a massive mistake. After only one year he had been certain that she was supplying her goods elsewhere. For a further two years she would deny his suspicions. So the note was no real surprise, as it went on to tell him that she would be living in Belgium with a man who was "well set-up in more ways than one."

Sandra was gone, yet he felt no strong pangs of regret, except that they should never have married. Her demanding sexuality would never be completely contained, and Dan was sure that Mr Belgium, whoever he was, would soon find that out.

After accepting the loss of a wife, somewhere to live became the next major priority. In the end he took on the offer of a basement flat, two rooms with shower and toilet. Really it was a bit of a dump, but four weeks of scrubbing, painting and a few trips to IKEA had things looking like something he could call home.

It was on the employment front that he had his first stroke of luck. Early hunting had proved unappealing, when a chance encounter in the local pub set him on a course that was to give him work, and, although he couldn't know it then, was set to change his life forever.

One evening he began chatting to a grey haired middle aged man called Joe Marske, who had listened keenly as Dan talked of his Afghanistan experience, and how he'd been invalided out. When Dan had mentioned his employment difficulties, Joe's brow had furrowed as he took a sip of beer.

"Does the wound bother you now?" he asked.

Dan flexed his left shoulder, before saying, "That's the funny thing. The medics said my shoulder would never be right. Well, it happened, just over a year ago, and I'm hardly aware of it now."

Joe sipped at his beer and, Dan thought, looked to be miles away. Thinking that he had bored Joe, Dan asked him what work he did..

"Dan, I've been assistant stage director at the Alhambra for over twenty years."

A faint spark tickled inside Dan's chest, but all he could say was, "That must be interesting work."

"I've always enjoyed it," Joe paused, and took another slow sip at his beer, before asking."How would being a stage hand appeal to you?"

Dan's hands tightened on his glass. This offer seemed too good to be true. Despite his army service, he'd always been interested in the theatre and had actually seen several plays and musicals at the Alhambra. He could still recall the uplifting experience of acting in a school play during his final year in high school.

Joe detected Dan's clearly enthusiastic response, and he held up a hand, " Don't get overexcited. It can be pretty menial work."

"Any more menial than shelf stacking?" Dan asked.

Joe laughed, "I guess not." He went on to warn Dan not to build his hopes up, normally a full scale apprenticeship, with attached schooling, were the order of the day. But apparently, Joe told him, the stage manager, Sam Murphy, had some sympathy for men coming out of the services."

But, after an anxious few days, Dan learned that there were no hitches and within two weeks he was being shown the general needs of scene shifting. Menial? Moving tables and chairs on and off stage was just that, but Dan didn't mind.. From the outset, given that he had often watched as a member of the audience, he found involvement fascinating. To witness, and be part of, the preparations for a performance really caught his imagination.

As the weeks passed he was drilled in the health and safety, watched how his more highly trained colleagues operated various stage machinery. Most of the more experienced men had no hesitation in allowing Dan to go up into the flies, the high platforms from which curtains, and back drops were operated.

The magic of the theatre ate into him. Joe Marske watched his progress closely, once asking if Dan would fancy a full apprenticeship. But although he wasn't prepared to admit it, there was one area which had really captured Dan's imagination.

Night after night, week after week, when he was waiting to carry out his next task he would watch the events on stage, the play or musical performed with such bravura and confidence. The Alhambra would occasionally have a major production which had either opened, or was about to open, in London. Top named stars held him in awe as he admired their apparent ease in delivering complex lines of dialogue. The beauty of the actresses would occasionally lead him into erotic fantasies which would never bear fruit.

Engulfed in, and charmed by it all, Dan found himself regretting that he had not found the will nor the confidence to involve himself in an acting career. Instead he had joined the army and nearly had his arm shot off. Good thinking. Now, having picked up a cheap much pawed over copy of 'The Works of William Shakespeare' at a second hand book store, he also bought some paper backed books containing scripts of well known plays. Arthur Miller, Harold Pinter, and Tennessee Williams were just a few he chose to sit and read aloud in the quiet of his lonely flat, fooling himself that he sounded really good.

Then, on the last night of a company performing Shakespeare's 'Macbeth', he had helped with the loading of trucks and had cleared and swept the stage. Most of his group had left, and he was moving towards the stage door himself. To get there he had to pass one of the curtained stage entrances. Glancing sideways he saw the complete open stage, bare of any equipment.

On impulse he strode through the opening and out onto the stage. His grand entrance, he told himself, as he walked purposefully to the stage centre, close to the footlights. At first he waved his arms about in exaggerated stage gestures, before, almost unconsciously words from his rereading of the part he'd once had in the school play formed sotto voce on his lips.

"And for mine own part my Lord, I could be well contented to be there in respect of the love I bear your house-"

Easy, doing it to row on row of empty seats, but could he really perform if those seats had been filled, in front of a live audience? In spite of those doubts the thrill of doing it remained, and he heard his own voice continue, louder and with applied anger--

"He could be contented; why is he not then? In respect of---" The clapping of a pair of hands behind him had Dan turning, his face flushing when he saw Joe Marske standing there, his head nodding, but an appreciative smile on his face.

"Wow, Hotspur from Henry the Fourth-- and with feeling .You catching the acting bug, Dan?"

Swallowing his awkwardness Dan told Joe how he had once played that part, but admitted how much he had been influenced by the experiences of recent weeks.

"You know, Dan, just now, you sounded---well--really convincing." Joe said, as they walked together towards the stage door. "You really fancy acting?"

"I never realised how much," Dan told him, his voice tinged with regret.

"It's never too late. How old are you?"

"Twenty five."

Joe stopped and looked at him, "You should have a word with Mrs Garson. She has an amateur group connected with this theatre. The theatre funds her place just around the corner."

As Joe pulled open the stage door,he suggested, "You could look her up at the place but--" He snapped his fingers as a sudden thought struck him. "They do an annual production right here, and they're due week after next. You want to catch her then, to convince her how keen you are."

The very idea appealed to Dan but he knew how life can kick you in the teeth, "Does she take new people on?"

"She's a charming lady, is Connie Garson. I'm sure she'll at least give you a sympathetic ear."

For the ensuing week Dan's mind teemed with the prospect of just getting into acting. Being a professional was hardly a thought, but the very idea of being involved excited him.

Just to get the time to pass, he worked doubly hard and read more avidly when in his flat. Then, at last, it was Sunday. They rarely worked on Sundays, but the amateur performers were given special dispensation. "Just for stage placings and minor rehearsing." Attendance was optional for the stage hands. But Dan was probably the keenest person there.

Around lunchtime individuals actors began to drift in and soon back stage was buzzing with chatter and much laughter, as small groups formed and drank coffee. Dan was standing wondering which group might contain Mrs Garson, when Joe Marske came up behind him.

"The lady you are looking for is just over there, Dan," he said, pointing to a group of maybe six men and women where a rather large middle aged lady, with grey hair and a stern face appeared to be holding court.

"I've already told her of your interest, so come on, I'll introduce you."

Dan was just wondering why he should be feeling so nervous, as they moved forward, when a voice called out, "Joe, a quick word."

They looked round and saw Sam Murphy, stage director, standing just beyond the rear curtain, beckoning. "He has a smile on his face, " Joe murmured grinning himself, "so it can't be bad news."

As he began to move towards Murphy he glanced back and said, "Just go and introduce yourself. She's half expecting you."

Feeling unexpectedly nervous Dan moved across the stage. Would she ask questions about his experience? Would there be a place for him? Nearing what had been a small group he found that it had largely dispersed, and the large lady facing him was talking to a smaller trim figured woman whose fair hair was pulled back into a pony tail.

His eyes firmly fixed on the darkly sour face of his target, Dan saw her eyes look beyond her companion as she noted his approach, and a small querying frown furrowed her brow.

"Excuse me, Mrs Garson?"

The dark eyes shifted with a slight nod towards the other lady, whose head was already beginning to turn. Before she even spoke a strange warmth had begun to flow through Dan's body, as he found himself looking at no ordinary face. His breath seemed to catch up in his throat.

Almost automatically she was saying, "I'm Mrs Garson," as she turned fully. Delicately formed lips smiled at him before the smile faded. But not before that smile, the wide blue eyes, the way her cheeks sloped to a delicate chin, had Dan gazing stupidly at her, his heart rate rising.

She was absolutely beautiful. He had never thought that way of any woman so instantly. All the sound and movement around him just drifted away, and he was only vaguely aware of the big lady excusing herself and moving on.

For what could only have been seconds they stood there looking into each others eyes, and she, in an almost subdued uncertain voice said, "Call me Connie." After drawing on a deep breath she became more positive."You must be Dan. Joe told me about you."

Dan was desperately trying to control his thinking, away from wondering how that face would look with the hair loosened, away from the trim figure in tight black pants white vest top that looked to be filled out just right. At last he managed a stammering, annoyingly immature response, "He said you might---find space for me—in your group."

"My groups are very flexible," she told him, the smile returning, and charming Dan further, "Joe said you were very keen—and quite impressive."

Dan loved the way she said that, as though it was her own personal opinion. Dream on, Dan Mason. "He exaggerated," he said, "But I do wonder how I might cope."

"What time would you have? I guess most evenings are out." And her hands made a general gesture around the theatre at large.

This was something that Dan had worried about. His weeks were very full now. "Tuesday is my day off and most Sundays, of course."

Dan soaked up the pleasure of her face brightening as she said, "Oh, well, that will be useful. We have a session on Tuesday evenings from six thirty, and there's a longer session on Sundays from eleven."

Connie Garson went on to indicate to him that since her group was at the theatre that week there would be no sessions until the following Tuesday.

"But you'll be seeing how good or bad we are this week, and then come to our more usual sessions a week Tuesday."

It seemed like a long time to Dan, but he soon found that he had the pleasure of being able to watch her every evening during that week as she directed her actors. She was so easy to look at, and while he had to concentrate on his job, and admired the ability of the actors, it was Connie Garson his eyes constantly found. .

He had to control the direction of his thoughts and his imaginative powers as he wondered at times whether he had caught her looking in his direction. Yes, you wish, he told himself.

This was a married lady, and no matter that her face delighted him, or her lithe sensuous movements of her slender body thrilled him, Connie Garson was beyond his reach. That saddened him, and equally, it was galling to note that there was no deliberately applied eroticism in the way she moved. Every sway of her was completely natural.

On a couple of occasions during that week of performance they exchanged brief 'hellos', and she would accompany that with, what Dan read as, a warm smile. He would lie in bed and see her face and curse himself for this craziness, this infatuation for a lady he hardly knew.

Maybe giving up the idea of even attending her class was the solution. That way he could avoid the risk of being constantly tantalised by her looks. Yet, the idea of not being able to see her at all was a much more daunting prospect.

So, on that first available Tuesday he arrived at the acting studio, which happened to be the actual wording on the small metal sign on the left of the door, with added words,with under it, 'Director: Constance Garson'. Constance, that sounded so right for her, Dan thought. The door led to a flight of stairs up to a large room above a drapery shop.

The room had chairs spaced around the walls, with a piano standing in one corner but the central floor area was spacious and empty apart from the twenty or so people scattered around. They looked like a very mixed group, with equal numbers of men and women with age differences that ranged between mid twenties to, in one case, a grey haired man in his sixties.

Dan's early uncertainty disappeared as Connie Garson, delightful in her ubiquitous tight black pants and clinging white T-shirt, emerged from the group and, bathing him with that smile, hurried towards him.

"So glad you came, " she said, touching his arm with electric fingers. "Come and meet the others."

Introductions were swift and friendly, and Dan began to feel more relaxed as they agreed that it would take a while for him to remember all the names. The older man, whose name, he quickly learned,was Vic greeted him like a long lost friend. "Good, another service man. I was in the Falkands, just before I came out. You'll love working with Connie."

Dan could not comment on just how much, in his own mind, he would love working with Connie. But then Vic, his lined face becoming grave, added, "Poor lass. She doesn't deserve---" He was stopped by the clapping of Connie's hands as she called them together.

As they moved around her, Vic, smiling broadly said loudly, "Of course, I always get typecast—in the grandad parts."

The others laughed and Connie joined in as she said, "Not always Vic, you made a very good grave digger two weeks ago," And as the laughter welled again, she went on in a more business-like tone, "Right, let's make a start." She turned to Dan and said, "Perhaps you'd like to sit out and watch for a while, until you feel comfortable. You'll see we do a lot of improvising in pairs and small groups."

Still puzzling over Vic's 'poor lass' comment, Dan took a seat against the wall and was soon joined by others who were not in the first improvised sketch which included Vic and two ladies, one closer to Vic's age, the other in her late thirties, inventing a scene in which the younger lady played a social worker at the front door of a married couple where wife beating has been suspected. Dan couldn't help admiring the way Vic feigned being a loving husband, with an arm around the older lady. But when the social worker left he lashed out with what appeared to be a cruel blow to the head.

The others gave a round of applause in which Dan was happy to join in. The evening developed along similar lines and Dan found it very entertaining, and he noticed how occasionally Connie had no qualms about stepping in to demonstrated how a role might be played. He could appreciate what a talented actress she was, but always he had to fight the urge to watch her constantly.

After about an hour, Connie turned in his direction, her held tilted questioningly, a slightly uncertain smile on her lips as she asked him, "Would you feel confident in trying something?"

For you, anything, was in his mind, but he said, "If I can."

As he stood up she told him, "There is a tenuous military connection, so it might suit you." Her smile was wider now as she turned and nodded towards a pretty young lady, "Greta, if you would partner Dan through his first sketch."

Greta, neat in an open neck blue blouse and flared skirt, treated Dan to an open smile as she was quickly at his side while Connie outlined their task. "You, Dan, are the commandant of a Nazi concentration camp, while Greta, you are a prisoner who happens to be an accomplished concert pianist. You are going to refuse his request to play the music he wants."

Connie handed Dan a short cane, "Your only prop. Tuck it under your arm and strut as a Nazi commandant might. The rest I leave to your imagination, and don't worry yourselves too much with accents."

Dan could not believe how nervous he felt being in this exposed situation, but he tucked the cane under his arm and adopted a stiff legged strut around Greta, who stood, every inch a subjugated prisoner. Dan eyed her up and down with what he hoped was a cold, heartless stare.

How to open the dialogue? Face to face with Greta once more, it was she who opened up with, "I will not play Wagner." After a weak demand, Dan began to gain confidence, and he tried to apply a Germanic accent.

After a few demands with Greta's solid refusals, Dan became more confident. "You would do a private session for me. Yes?" Was that rather suggestive? An uncertain glance towards Connie, and he saw her looking very intently at the action..

"You are the commander."

"I demand you play Wagner."

Further sharp refusals from Greta feeling more comfortable Dan saw that the exchange needed to move on. Accordingly after another refusal he brought the cane from under his arm and strutted once more around the still figure of Greta. Now he had to be more threatening. He growled, "I can make life pleasant for you, or very unpleasant," he pointed the cane at the open neck of her blouse, and with suggested force flicked the cane as though to pull the blouse open.

Rex Siter
Rex Siter
286 Followers