I Was A Rat!

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Wow, that was an experience! I'm just back from watching an adaptation of Philip Pullman's I Was A Rat at the Theatre Royal in Bury St Edmunds - and I'm worn out! The cast were extraordinarily good - all of them playing multiple parts with impeccable timing and zero time to change.

The boy Roger - played by Fox Jackson-Keen who I wasn't in the least surprised to learn once played Billy Elliot - was fabulous. He had me aching with laughter one minute and all scrunched up ready to cry the next. I think the whole theatre breathed a sigh of relief when things came good for him at the end.

The colours, the lighting, the energy, the masks, the sheer cleverness - it was a fast-paced kaleidoscope of a production with some pertinant messages about society - and very well worth seeing indeed.

(But if you aren't keen on circuses - especially clown faces - you might want to choose that scene to nip out for a comfort break. Don't say I didn't warn you.)

I'm now drinking tea and returning to the real world. And reflecting.

[The show is on until Saturday 20th April, then off on its travels around the country. www.iwasarat.co.uk ]
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Mansfield Park

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Yesterday I went to see a new adaptation of Jane Austen's Mansfield Park for the Theatre Royal Bury St Edmunds. This is going to be a challenge, I thought. A four-hundred page book by one of the wittiest writers I know featuring a largely internalising heroine that takes me well over a day to read even knowing it so well - distilled into a two hour stage play.

But it was BRILLIANT.

A very few characters had melted away, a lot of thinking had been précised down into salient-point speeches, but what was left was pure, rich, essence of Austen. In a lot of ways, the very paring down of the text brought out the humour in the book. It certainly contributed to an instant identification of who each character was and what they were like.

Mr Rushworth declaiming

With a very clever, elegant set designed to suggest the Georgian era, the play flowed effortlessly from one scene to the next. The actors brought masses of energy and realism to their roles and I believed in each and every one of them. One of the lovely things was that the parts had necessarily to be doubled now and then, and it was evident how much the actors really enjoyed the light relief of portraying the raucous, shambolic Portsmouth household for a few scenes after the intense, restrained Mansfield Park itself.

Fanny Price

I can only applaud the stupendous acting from all concerned, the sympathetic direction of Colin Blumenau and the writer of the adaptation, Tim Luscombe. I didn't want the evening to end.

All in all, this was a fantastic production - it's on tour later this autumn, so go and see it if you possibly can.
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The Deserted Daughter - radio style

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Last night I went to Bury St Edmunds (again!) to see another play in the Theatre Royal's 'Restoring The Repertoire' script-in-hand strand. This one was The Deserted Daughter, written by Thomas Holcroft in 1795, and was performed slightly differently to previous rehearsed readings.

As ever, the cast had only got together at 10 o'clock that morning to read through the script for the first time and did fantastically well.

The difference this season is that the plays are being recorded so that a wider audience can listen to some of these forgotten Georgian gems. This is fabulous news for those of us who would like to be able to have a taste of the sort of entertainment available in the Georgian & Regency era. As radio drama, it worked very well. The actors really concentrated on the words and the language and put everything into their voices.

But...

But to begin with it felt ... odd. It was peculiar watching the players talk into their own microphones instead of interacting with each other. I think it was a bit strange for the actors too - having to direct their voices to the mics when their natural instinct was to play to the audience.

They did incredibly well, and quickly found a happy medium where they could look at each other - and us - and still record. In a lot of ways, the radio style suits Thomas Holcroft who - as co-director Colin Blumenau says - never uses one word where ten will do. The characters are sufficiently different that it is easy to tell who is who and the stage business was suggested by scuffles and distance-from-microphone.

So all in all another triumph. Well done, team. Looking forward to the next one!
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Dick Turpin's Last Ride

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As soon as I opened the door to my box at the Theatre Royal in Bury St Edmunds last night to see this horseshoe-shaped scaffolding-and-plank set, I was hooked.

The play itself is an incredibly clever piece of writing from Daniel O'Brien with music by Pat Whymark which takes a legend and deconstructs it in a way that emphasises the romance whilst laying the truth behind the myth brutally bare.

cast in rehearsal

Played and sung BRILLIANTLY by a cast of five, Dick Turpin's Last Ride weaves together the fact and the fiction of Richard Turpin, born 1705, hanged 1739, who was a poacher, housebreaker, rapist and thief - and certainly no hero. The myth endures because a Victorian storyteller cobbled it together from half a dozen other sources, dressed it in poetry and sent it out into a world hungry for romance.

The characters of historian Thomas Kyll, disillusioned colleague Richard Bayes and writer William Harrison Ainsworth recount the life, death and legend of Dick Turpin. The five actors turn effortlessly into about fifty different characters in such a way that the audience is never in doubt as to who they are. The music, the fusion of modern and Georgian costumes, and the fluid movements around the set are a joy.

I was blown away.


Theatre Royal always puts on high class productions and this is no exception. I want to follow it round the country on tour and watch it every night. I want to applaud until my hands are sore. I want to stand here and yell out to the whole country, "THIS is what The Arts should be about. This."

Go see it. Seriously.
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Off at a party

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Today is the first of the month, so I am over at Historical Romance UK talking about one of my very favourite places, the Theatre Royal in Bury St Edmunds.

William Wilkins (1778-1839)

As yesterday was the birthday of William Wilkins, architect, theatre proprietor and all-round control-freak, the post is about his present to the town - and how it nearly went horribly wrong.

Happy birthday for yesterday, WW.
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Mugs and mementos

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Have you seen my awesome mug from the Theatre Royal, Bury St Edmunds?

It starts like this........

and then, as soon as hot tea is poured into it, it turns into THIS!

(So naturally, I have to keep it filled up often)

It's all glowing and glossy and shiny and a pleasure to drink out of. Quite the nicest memento I have.

What's yours?
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Lunchbox theatre!

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Bored with sandwiches? Try something different at lunchtime - like going to a play!

At the Theatre Royal in Bury St Edmunds all this week, the Little Bear Theatre Company are putting on a compressed 50-minute version of the five act Georgian play A Bold Stroke for a Husband.

Waiting for the actors

It was thoroughly enjoyable - a lot faster and more furious than Hannah Cowley intended, but just as funny and very accessible indeed. I did miss the leisurely setting of the scene and the asides to the audience which are a prominent feature of Georgian theatre, but as a cultural lunchbox, this stylish, snappy (and very clever) performance is hard to beat.

Well done all - I look forward to the next adaptation.
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Crashes and bangs

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Quick blog post today to remind myself to do it more regularly.

Lovely presentation yesterday at the Theatre Royal, Bury St Edmunds on the famous Mr McCready's four-day visit to the theatre back in 1826. There were tiny scenes throughout capturing the goings on at the theatre (he was rather forthright on the subject of provincial acting, but didn't object to trousering the profits from the plays), and also a talk on special effects, Georgian style.

This is a reproduction wind machine - a beautiful thing made of wood and canvas. When I turned the handle it sounded rather like a sick banshee, but in the hands of a professional it produced everything from a gentle zephyr to a full-blown storm. There was also a thunder sheet. Interestingly, the term "stealing my thunder" came from an actor whose own tempestuous play folded, was replaced by Macbeth complete with storm scene, and the actor complained very loudly that the Scottish play had - quite literally - stolen his thunder.

And this is a star-trap for those beloved sudden appearances. Or occasionally not - they were famed for often being real star traps, with the actor being pinioned firmly around their middle!

At the Sign of the Pestle and Mortar

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I do love the local history talks at the Bury St Edmunds record office. Today's was about apothecaries, of which I knew not a lot until this morning.

In the 17th and 18th centuries, apothecaries occupied the middle ground in the medical hierarchy, below the physician who would diagnose and prescribe, but well above the surgeon. The thought was that anyone could chop a leg off, but it took someone really clever to stop the pain.

A late Stuart/ early Georgian apothecary would make up all the pills and draughts himself from his extensive stock of herbs, spices and opiates. His most valuable book would have been his Herbal (Pat had got out John Gerard's exquisite 1633 and 1636 Herbals for us to read and lust after), followed by his own recipe book for medicines and potions. Frequently these were a 'work-in-progress' with notes as to their efficaciousness. They would also be passed down from master to journeyman or father to son. Apprenticeship lasted seven years, after which you were free to start up on your own.

This print shows a standard apothecary shop interior with a giant pestle and mortar on the left, an alembic (or still) on the right, jars on the shelves and lovely graduated drawers for ingredients and ointments. The pestle&mortar was so useful it was the standard advertising device. The photo at the top shows where an original apothecary's shop stood in BStE - pestle&mortar still there above the door.

Apothecaries didn't only supply medicines, they were also much in demand as a source of food flavourings. Inventories show vast quantities of items such as caraway seeds that would make their potions palatable as well as having a medicinal effect. They also used plenty of sugar (various kinds) and, er, senna. One really weird ingredient was gold-leaf: to coat the pills of the better-off patients. (I can just see that catching on with the NHS)

Blood letting was a favourite remedy, and all apothecaries had a leech jar. One eminent BStE citizen apparently used to fish out a leech and clap it to his forehead whenever he had a headache!

All in all, good apothecaries with a fine client list had high social standing and were able to amass a reasonable degree of wealth. Both the apothecaries, Thomas Macro senior and junior, were members of the Corporation of Bury St Edmunds - a very prestigious position indeed.

One last photo: Pat always makes us authentic Georgian snacks to go with our tea. These are "jumballs" flavoured with cumin and caraway. Delicious. They are also quite, er, firm, so we were given permission to dunk!
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Procrastinating, moi?

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I have a novel, a revision, a serial, three short stories and a raft of critiques to get on with. I have a To Do list rather longer than my arm. I desperately need to decide whether to wear sensible apricot or swirly scarlet to the Pure Passion Awards Lunch (I have mentioned Fair Deception is shortlisted for Love Story of the Year, have I?).

So I thought I'd ignore all of them and go to a nice soothing lecture on "Historical Bury St Edmunds through Paintings and Prints" instead.

These photos are of the remains of the old Precinct Wall in Bury St Edmunds. Look at the thickness of it! I just love the way all the buildings butt onto it and have grown around it.

The past in the present.
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Last Wishes - Georgian style!

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Hooray! The Spring Season of lectures (Spring? So what was that sleet doing outside?) from Bury St Edmunds Record Office has started!

Today's was on the Wills left by various members of Georgian society in and around BStE. On a serious note, it is possible to learn a great deal about the historical mind-set from Wills. On a not-so-serious note, some of the Last Wishes are priceless (and a goldmine for historical novelists).

Wills in the 1760-1820 period were not nearly so dry and stuffy as they tend to be today. Dr Pat Murrell read out some lovely snippets, including one chap who wrote in his will that he was "making this will sitting in the inglenook next to the chimney with my leg raised upon a footstall". There was also the Rector who noted - also in the legal document - that even though he had made his Last Will some years previously, this was a new Last Will since every year he had less and less to leave.

And then there was the woman who left "all my land, buildings, plate, linen and effects to my daughter - BUT NOT IF SHE MARRIES THE SHOEMAKER!"

But how about this one? Pat saved it until last and it's an absolute floorer if ever I heard one. Just imagine the faces of the assembled family as they gathered to hear William Ruffell of Shimpling's last wishes in 1803. (It's a bit long. Bear with it.)



"As this life must soon end, and my frame will decay,
And my soul to some far-distant clime wing its way.
Ere that time arrives, now I free am from cares,
I thus wish to settle my worldly affairs.
A course right and proper men of sense will agree.
I am now strong and hearty, my age forty-three;
I make this my last will, as I think 'tis quite time.
It conveys all I wish, though 'tis written in rhyme.
To employ an attorney I ne'er was inclin'd.
They are pests to society, sharks of mankind.
To avoid that base tribe my own will I now draw.
May I ever escape coming under their paw.

To Ezra Dalton, my nephew, I give all my land,
With the old Gothic cottage that thereon doth stand;
'Tis near Shimpling Great Road, in which I now dwell,
It looks like a chapel or hermit's old cell,
With my furniture, plate, and linen likewise.
And securities, money, with what may arise.
'Tis my wish and desire that he should enjoy these,
And pray let him take even my skin, if he please.
To my loving, kind sister I give and bequeath.
For her tender regard, when this world I shall leave,
If she choose to accept it, my rump-bone may take.
And tip it with silver, a whistle to make.
My brother-in-law is a strange-tempered dog;
He's as fierce as a tiger, in manners a hog;
A petty tyrant at home, his frowns how they dread;
Two ideas at once never entered his head.
So proud and so covetous, moreover so mean,
I dislike to look at him, the fellow is so lean.
He ne'er behaved well, and, though very unwilling.
Yet I feel that I must cut him off with a shilling.

My executors, too, should be men of good fame;
I appoint Edmund Ruffell, of Cockfield, by name;
In his old easy chair, with short pipe and snuff,
What matter his whims, he is honest enough;
With Samuel Seely, of Alpheton Lion,
I like his strong beer, and his word can rely on.
When Death's iron hand gives the last fatal blow.
And my shattered old frame in the dust must lie low,
Without funeral pomp let my remains be conveyed
To Brent Eleigh churchyard, near my father be laid.
This, written with my own hand, there can be no appeal,
I now therefore at once set my hand and my seal.
As being my last will; I to this fully agree.
This eighteenth day of March, eighteen hundred and three."
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The Rent Day

I went to see another rehearsed reading in the Restoring The Repertoire series this evening - this one was The Rent Day by Douglas Jerrold, first performed in 1832.

Fabulous stuff! A lovely rounded boisterous drama in two acts. Just enough comedy to make the tragedy stark and real - and subtle propaganda to the audience not to gamble their inheritance away, thus ruining their tenant farmers back at home on the estate.

I love these rehearsed readings put on by the Theatre Royal in Bury St Edmunds. The actors only open the scripts at 10 o'clock that morning - and are giving a performance full of enthusiasm, insight and simple joy-in-acting at 7 in the evening. Long may you run, guys!
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Georgian Lectures

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I'm having an Autumn feast of all things Georgian. A couple of weeks ago I went to a lecture at the Bury St Edmunds Records Office about the Cullum Library that they store. Today it was the turn of a batch of letters sent from Thomas and Susan Macro (Thomas was a prominent apothecary in the town) to their daughter and son-in-law Mary and John Wilson between 1713 and 1718.

As all writers know, there is a huge amount of social history to be found in letters. Mild complaints that letters had been left at the delivery office for too long, worries about lyings-in, sensible advice on settling into a new home, anecdotes of neighbours - all these things add up to a background in which to set our own writing.

And as a bonus - Dr Pat Murrell had baked us wigs to go with our tea. These are spiced buns with a scattering of sugar-coated caraway seeds. (The idea was to cleanse the palate and perhaps sweeten the breath!) Strangely enough, one cannot buy sugar-coated caraway seeds these days but Pat had discovered Indian shops sell a very acceptable substitute in sugar-coated fennel seeds.

They were extremely tasty - and when we were told they were even better hot out of the oven I asked if I could take a second one home with me to try it warm. This is it just before I ate it. Delicious!
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"He's Much To Blame"

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Oooh! I do like a nice revival!

Steeping myself as I am in Regency theatre research for the Work In Progress, I was overjoyed to open the latest Theatre Royal brochure and discover that the main Restoring the Repertoire play this Autumn is He's Much To Blame by Thomas Holcroft.

Holcroft was one of a band of radical thinkers who sought to change people's opinion by means of incorporating telling scenes and speeches into his plays. Very witty and sharply executed, a lot of the exchanges on stage are as true today as they were 200 years ago. Billed at the time as a comedy, He's Much To Blame (first performed in 1798, but they'd still have been putting it on in the Regency era) nevertheless produces moments of stark tragedy designed to make the audience stop and think.

So what's the story? Maria has come to town disguised as a man in order to prevent her brother (Delavel) and her erstwhile suitor (George Versatile) from fighting a duel. George had been going to marry Maria until he was suddenly taken rich and had his head turned by Society.

George has now fallen in with Lord and Lady Vibrate and their celebrity German doctor Gosterman. Versatile by nature as well as by name, he has lost his own true self in making himself pleasant to everybody and has apparently forgotten the love he left behind. Lady Vibrate (who lives only for pleasure) wishes him to marry her daughter Jane. Jane, however, is in love with Delavel.

And - as could only happen in a play - all of them are now staying in the same hotel!

The Bury St Edmunds production was an absolute joy, and as I had secured a seat in the box right on the stage again, I felt as if I had slid not only into the past, but also into the play itself.

And on Monday the cast is taking a day off(!) to do a rehearsed reading of Holcroft's comedy The Road To Ruin. I am a very happy Regency writer.
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Warning - electrical fault

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My car has one of those delightful intermittent faults which brings up a scary orange light right in the middle of the dashboard. Every time this happens the car and I go into the garage where they clear the fault, speculate interestedly about what might be causing it and tell me to come back next time it occurs. A couple of times it has been a real fault entailing the changing of various expensive parts. Even if it doesn't cost money - it always involves loss of time.

This time, however, the garage decided Action Was Needed (possibly they were getting fed up with me plugging Nymph into their power supply, using their free wifi and drinking all their tea). They stripped the engine down ("No cost, Mrs Jones") and found - a broken wire.

Sadly, it seems wires don't get mended any more, they get replaced. The entire wire loom gets replaced. At a cost of £150+.

While my car was being investigated, the garage driver ran me into Bury St Edmunds for an excellent lecture at the Theatre Royal on the Georgian playwright Thomas Holcroft and picked me up again afterwards. Then (as my car was in pieces) he took me home. Tomorrow he is going to collect me, drop me off at the Records Office for a lecture on the Georgian Gentleman's Library and pick me up after a matinee of He's Much To Blame by the said Thomas Holcroft at the theatre.

"There," said the service receptionist. "At least we've saved you the parking fee."

To park in Bury St Edmunds all day costs £1.80 !!!
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A Georgian Gem of a Day

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Lovely research day on Thursday in lovely Georgian Bury St Edmunds.

First was a lecture in the Guildhall on the problems of directing Georgian plays for a modern-day audience. This was given by Colin Blumenau (the artistic director of the Theatre Royal BStE) whose enthusiasm for the repertoire of the Georgian era just spills out of him. At several points during his talk I thought "Ahh, right!" and "Yes, of course!". As my Newmarket-Regency-in-progress revolves around a certain touring company, this will come in very useful.

Next it was off to meet my good friend Elaine to show her the Subscription Rooms (where we spent some time being Lost In Austen)

and then up to the Market Cross art gallery which used to be the theatre before the Theatre Royal was built in 1819.




Then in the evening we went to the Theatre Royal itself to watch a rehearsed reading of The Wolf and The Lamb (a one-act farce by Wilks and enormous fun). I cannot BELIEVE these guys had only had one day to rehearse this. They were fabulous! After the interval came Katie Bonna's The Celebrated Mrs Inchbald, in which Katie very cleverly shows key moments in Elizabeth Inchbald's life. Inchbald was a very witty playwright (who just happened to have been born near Bury St Edmunds) who believed in reform by stealth. Certainly her work changed people's opinions in a rather more peaceful way than radical revolution!

I had said to Elaine earlier that in the interests of research, I'd chosen seats in the end box right on the apron of the stage itself. It proved to be a brilliant place, so close to the action and really making me feel part of the period.

Roll on the next 'Restoring The Repertoire' offering from the Theatre Royal!
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