Eileen Atkins: how I ran away from the circus

http://www.theguardian.com/stage/2014/oct/23/eileen-atkins-how-i-ran-away-from-the-circus

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I was about 19 or 20 and I’d had one job on leaving drama school and couldn’t get another. I had no agent and, like lots of actors, used to regularly do the rounds of agencies in Charing Cross Road. I was living at home and working as an usherette at the cinema in Baker Street. I’d not even had an audition for months. Then one morning in December the agency rang. A girl had dropped out of a show in Norwich, could I get up there immediately? “What’s the part, what’s the play?” I asked. “They’ll tell you when you get there, dear. Someone will meet you at the station by the taxi stand.” I was on a train that afternoon.

It was twilight when I arrived in Norwich and was met by a once pretty but exhausted-looking woman holding a baby. She explained that we had to get the bus. “To the theatre?” I asked. Sylvia, let’s call her, was evasive. We would meet her husband and he would explain. As the bus made its way through Norwich one of our stops was right outside the main theatre and there was a panto on: Cyril Fletcher in Mother Goose. I noticed that the Demon King was being played by Peter Johnson who I had been at drama school with. As we didn’t get off the bus I assumed that wasn’t the show I was destined to be in. There must be another theatre in Norwich.

The bus was now on the outskirts of the town and the woman indicated that we were to get off at the next stop. We alighted at what looked to me like a common where there appeared to be a fair but all was dark except for a few lights from caravans. I followed Sylvia with great trepidation, my hopes failing, until we stopped at one of these and the door was opened by a huge frightening-looking man, and I found myself inside a stuffy, smelly caravan with not only Sylvia, her husband and baby, but also two toddlers and two huge Alsatians. Apparently they were a knife-throwing act and they had to have a girl on the outside of their booth to dance enticingly to get people in to see the show. I said it wasn’t something I could do. I was a serious actress. “You’re perfect,” the man said. “And because I like you I’m going to let you choose any costume you like out of this box of beautiful clothes.”

He pulled a large cardboard box out from under some rubbish and fished out a grimy sequined bra and see-through Turkish trousers and dangled them in front of me. “No, I really couldn’t do it,” I repeated. “It’s an easy job,” Sylvia said. “Not like me, practically stark-naked having knives thrown at me.” “You’ve given a verbal contract,” the man said threateningly. “The fair opens tomorrow night and we’ve lost our girl.”

I felt utterly trapped. I said: “Well, I have to find somewhere to stay,” and stood up with my suitcase. “No need for that, we can all sleep here quite comfortably.” I thought desperately then blurted: “I’m allergic to dogs, I’ll come out in a rash. I must at least sleep somewhere else.” I started for the door but he snatched the suitcase from me and said: “You go and find some digs but we’ll keep this until you’ve sorted that out.”

I was relieved to get out of the caravan but couldn’t go home without my suitcase – it contained the only clothes I owned. I took the bus back to the town and got off at the theatre. I went to the stage door and asked if I could please speak to Peter Johnson. “There’s a show on,” the doorkeeper said.

But he gave in and put out a call for Peter. He was in full demon drag, his face covered in green make-up, a green leotard with a hood and horns, and a huge black cloak lined with red satin. I told him what had happened. He looked at the clock. “I’ve got about 25 minutes before I go on again, let’s get a taxi.” By some miracle we got a taxi. He told it to wait when we got to the common. He banged on the door of the caravan with me quivering beside him. The man opened the door. “I’m sorry but this young woman is not suitable for the job you want her to do. Could I have her suitcase please?”

The man gave the suitcase to the Demon King without a word. We rushed back to the taxi and to the theatre where Peter told the cab to wait while he went to get some money to pay the cab to take me to the station.

There was no late train, I stayed the night in the station and got the milk train in the morning…

• Eileen Atkins is in the RSC’s The Witch of Edmonton at the Swan theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon, until 29 November 2014