This will be my fourth Christmas as a Charterhouse Brother and it began in July with the question, ‘Do we want another amateur entertainment for the Christmas party?’ The Ayes had it.

Attendance at our mid-December party for Brothers, staff and volunteers is, of course, optional.  Those who dislike homespun productions are free to stay away and wash their hair or take an afternoon nap. Actually, they could attend and fall asleep anyway. It has been known. That’s the trouble with matinees.

They say that when life gives you lemons you should smile and make a Tom Collins. So it is with amateur dramatics. You must work with what you have. In the case of the Charterhouse, what we have are participants who are eager but mainly unseasoned, none of whom will see sixty again. Or in some cases, eighty. A dewy-cheeked maiden would be very hard to cast. This narrows the field of potential themes.

The script is very least of my worries. I’ve been a jobbing writer all my working life, sometimes with dumb briefs and short deadlines. Two months to write a 40-minute skit is sheer luxury. But to write what, exactly, for a company of mainly old geezers?

Last year we shamelessly parodied Dickens. Somehow almshouse life cried out for lame jokes about gruel and rags. This year we’re taking a few liberties with Shakespeare. As a writer-for-hire he’d have had to adapt to whatever shifting circumstances demanded so he would, I think, be forgiving.

Casting decisions are made in September, then the scripts go out. That’s my moment of maximum exposure and anxiety. What if they hate the script? They didn’t. So far, so good.

Rehearsals begin in October. ‘Why so early?’ people ask. If they only knew. Do they think a play just happens? I’ll bet Trevor Nunn has never had to schedule rehearsals around hearing aid clinics and chiropody appointments.

Recruiting a cast makes for an interesting study of human nature. People you think might be natural performers turn out to be shrinking violets and vice versa. It’s a fact that people who are socially shy are often perfectly comfortable stepping out into a stage and playing a role.

There’s no shortage of people offering to Be Generally Helpful. They are willing do anything but act and that’s okay because a reliable backstage crew is important. This year we have some quick costume changes, so a dresser is crucial to everyone’s peace of mind. We cannot have Wall going on without his brickwork. Likewise, a stern props mistress is essential, to prevent the joke sword going walkabout just before the death scene.

In the past, I’ve directed and also written a small role for myself because, if I lurk fretfully in the wings and things start to unravel, I’m powerless. Whereas on stage, I might just be able to improvise us out of a tight corner. Point of information: we don’t actually have any wings. This year, weary of the headless chicken  impersonation that goes with trying to act and direct, I’ve handed over the director’s role and with it, the sleepless nights.

The rehearsals begin. There are actors who like lots of notes, there are those who nod politely and then ignore them. In the professional theatre, the finished product, sharpened and slick, takes shape over many weeks of intense rehearsals. In amateur dramatics you’re lucky if there are six dates that everyone can attend.

When a company is composed almost entirely of pensioners, people may get sick, or tired, or both. One significant gap in our resources is a lack of understudies. Obviously, no-one really wants to be an understudy but what to do if someone can’t go on? There’s nothing for it but a seat of the pants re-cast. From which, hidden talents have been known to emerge.

One can plan, carefully, then fate intervenes. Last year the bad news came in the form of a 7am text informing me that our leading lady was leaving us to spend more time with her family. This year’s late November googly: a change of venue. All we can do is keep on keeping on.

The Charterhouse Christmas play is a low budget affair. A bit of paint for the set, a few quid for printing and that’s about all. We rely on the love and unpaid labour of artists and owners of sewing machines. Costumes and props are almost entirely home-made or self-funded and I encourage the company to go fearlessly into charity shops and haberdashers.

Our upcoming production  – a heavily edited version of the mechanicals’ play from A Midsummer Night’s Dream will be performed in night attire  –  so, effectively a zero-budget wardrobe. I mean, everyone has a pair of PJs, right? Even if kept only for medical emergencies. The Hideous Carpet Slipper section of eBay seems to have been doing a brisk trade, too.

December arrives and nerves start to fray. But enough about me. People who have moaned about having too many rehearsals, suddenly wish we’d had more. This year our Dress Rehearsal is six days before the performance. One hopes for a lousy Dress. It’s a terrifying wakeup call, and fear can be Mother Nature’s invigorating enema. And then the Big Day dawns.

The few hours before Curtain Up (second point of information: there is no curtain) are tense. Panic, regret, jammed zips, total amnesia. Were I to be directing, I’d find this an auspicious time to leave the building for an hour or two, but not before I’d delivered what I think of as my Agincourt speech: ‘You are bravely doing what others declined to do. You have given of your time and energy and dignity. You asked not “what can the Charterhouse do for me, but what can I do for the Charterhouse?”’  Or something along those lines.

On performance day it’s customary for me to announce that nothing, NOTHING, will ever induce me to put on another show. A week later, I begin to hear the weasel voice of temptation. War & Peace (abridged) might be fun, or King Lear, the Musical. Or we could recycle this year’s wardrobe and do Nightwear on Elm Street.

© Laurie Graham 2024

Pyrmaus & Frisbee poster design © Marion Duffin