Step Forward and Speak Out

Stepping Up and Speaking Out

The “Submit” button on the drama schools website was tiny, and Ninas palm was clammy, as though she was gripping a strangers hand and not just the mouse. On the form, she filled in the truth: 55 years old. Experience: reading poems at school events, spoke at PTA meetings. For the question about her reason, she typed for myself, erased it, typed I want to learn to speak aloud, and only then did she press send.

Moments later, an email pinged through with the time and address for a taster class. Nina snapped her laptop shut, as if that might somehow undo what she’d just done, and made her way to the kitchen. There, an Everest of washing up loomed, and the soup on the hob was growing cold. She reached for the washing-up sponge, then stopped.

Later, she said out loud, and immediately felt awkward, as though someone had overheard.

Nina hadnt told anyone about the studio. There was enough chatter in the accounts department at work already: who said what to whom, who gave whom a funny look. At home it was all the usual stuffher son, her husband, her mother-in-law on the telephoneall requiring the right kind of answers. Nina dreaded that if she said, Im going to speech and drama classes, the questions, the jokes, the advice would pour in. The worst thing would be the gently surprised, Really, what for?the very thing she’d told herself for years.

On the evening of her first class, Nina stepped off the tube and spent ages hunting for the right house, though the address was clear. She walked slowly, checking her bag over and over: ID, notebook, bottle of water. The stairwell was crowded, someone coming down with a pram, and Nina pressed against the wall to let them pass. Her heart beat as if she were late for an exam.

The studio was on the first floor, behind a door marked Creative Workshop. In the corridor were rows of chairs and faded posters for past shows. Nina took off her coat, hung it on the hook, smoothed her hair in the mirror. She thought the grey at her temples looked too obvious, so she tucked it away, as if she could hide it.

Inside, there were about ten others. Some laughed, some flicked through scripts. The leader, a petite woman with a pixie cut, introduced herself as Janet Robinson and beckoned everyone to form a circle.

Today were going to stretch our voices. Not just volume, but support, she said. Breathe. And dont apologise.

The phrase dont apologise struck Nina in the chest. She realised she was on the verge of saying, Im only here as a visitor. But she kept silent and stepped into the circle.

The first exercise was simple: breathe in, long out-breath on ssss, then zzzz. Nina tried not to glance at others, but couldnt help noticing: nearby, a girl of around twenty with bright nails and perfect posture; further along, a man in a tracksuit, broad-shouldered and self-assured. Nina felt she was gate-crashing someone elses party.

Now, everyone says their name and then any sentencejust not in a whisper, Janet instructed.

Ninas turn came, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

Nina, she managed, then blurted out, Sorry, I

Stop, said Janet softly but firmly. That word is off-limits tonight. Try again. Just your name.

Nina swallowed.

Nina.

Suddenly, she heard her own voicericher than she expected, rough but alive. Frightened and relieved all at once, she stood her ground.

Afterwards, Janet approached her.

Come to the full course, she said. Youve got a lovely tone. But youre good at hiding. Thats what well work on.

Nina nodded, as though Janet were speaking to someone else entirely. Outside, she reached for her phone to text her husband shed be late, deliberated over the words, then simply sent, Will be home later, Im at a class. She kept which class to herself.

The following week, rehearsals began in earnest. Nina printed the text theyd chosen: a monologue from modern prose, about a woman learning to say no. She practised in her kitchen as the kettle boiled, stumbling at every turn. She missed lines and dropped word endings, scolding herself as though she was a naughty child.

Whats that muttering? her son asked, popping his head round the kitchen door.

Nina startled and quickly folded the sheet away.

Nothing. Work stuff.

Worka comfortable curtain. She felt bad for hiding even from her son, but the thought of explaining was worse.

At rehearsal, Janet lined them up at the mic standmicrophone, wire trailing to a battered speaker. Nina dreaded the mic as much as the people. She imagined the sound of her voice amplified, exposing every tremor.

Dont reach for the mic, Janet told them. Let it meet you. Stand tall. Breathe from your back.

Nina tried. At first, her shoulders hunched, her breath faltered. She heard the young woman nearby read her piece as though she were chatting to a friend. Nina thought, Its too late for me. I must look daft. And then began silently making excuses.

After rehearsal, a woman her own age, grey jumper, neat ponytail, came over.

You pause really well, she said. Im Claire. I was terrified of the microphone too, thought it saw straight through me.

Nina smiled for the first time that night.

It does see through you, she replied quietly.

It does, Claire agreed, just not the way we think.

They walked together to the bus stop. Claire shared that she worked at the local health centre and had come to the workshop after a tough year, when everything inside felt numb. For the first time in ages, Nina felt something thawinga chance not to be alone.

A few weeks in, something nasty happened. Nina was reading her monologue, doing her best with her breathing. In the middle, she froze at a word shed never forgotten at homecomplete blank. Silence clung to the room.

Memorys not what it was, muttered the man in the tracksuit, not loud, but enough.

Heat rushed to Ninas face. She wanted to retort, but instead she offered her usual tight smile.

Yes, happens I suppose, she mumbled.

Janet raised her hand.

Happens to everyone, she said. Young people too. Here, we dont comment on age. We work.

The man shrugged off the rebuke. Nina stood, realising her reflex of smiling through little jabs was part of her voice tooor rather, the lack of it.

That evening, at home, Nina reviewed her script again while her husband watched the news.

What are you doing, learning poetry? he asked.

Nina hesitated, swallowed.

No Ive joined a group. Therell be a show.

He turned away from the TV and looked at her.

A performance? he repeated, without mocking.

She braced for a joke, but he simply nodded.

Well if you want to, go on then. Just dont get too stressed.

Simple words, nothing spectacular, but Nina suddenly felt a deep support in the everydayness of it. Not good for you, not Im proud, but permission not to keep justifying herself.

Preparation was hard graft. She set her alarm half an hour early to fit in breathing exercises before the family woke. Standing by the window, hands on her ribs, counting breaths, she sometimes coughed, sometimes laughed at herself. In her notebook, she scribbled reminders: Dont clench jaw, Pause after no, Look at the audience, not the floor.

One rehearsal, Janet instructed everyone to imagine someone in the front row who most needed to hear their piece.

Ninas mind pulled up her mother-in-law. Then her boss. Then, unexpectedly, herself in the mirror, with the smile she used to mask everything. Her hands started to shake.

You dont have to address everyone, Janet noticed. Just pick one person. Speak to them.

Nina chose herself. It was strange and frightening, admitting that maybe, just maybe, she was the person who needed to hear herself most.

Show day arrived quicker than expected. Nina woke before her alarm, stomach hollow and cold. She tiptoed into the kitchen, poured a glass of water, sipped slowly. The script lay on the table, folded in half. Unfolding it, she realised she didnt remember the middle sectionnot completely, anyway. It was just a blank stretch.

She sat down, pressing her palms to her temples.

I cant do it, she thought. The idea was sweet as reliefa way out. She could say she was ill or invent some emergency. No one would suffer.

But then her husband wandered in, yawning.

Youre up early, he said.

Instinctively, Nina told the truth.

Im scared. I think Ill forget everything.

He scratched his head, picked up the sheet.

Go on, read it for me, he said. It doesnt matter how it sounds.

Nina wanted to refuse, but she was already standing there. She read it quietly, stumbling, stopping and starting. He didnt interrupt. Just once, when she began apologising again, he lifted an eyebrow.

Youre supposed to be learning not to say sorry, he said.

Nina chuckled wryly.

See? Cant manage even at home.

Youll manage, he replied, handing back the sheet. Youll go anyway.

Before the show, the studio was bustling. Carrier bags rustled with costumes, someone tugged at their collar, another whispered their script over and over. Nina clutched her script in its folder so she wouldnt crumple it. Her fingers were ice, though the room was warm.

Claire sidled up, offered a bottle of water.

Take a sip. And dont practise now, she said. Its too late to cramjust breathe.

Nina nodded and stashed her script in her bag, zipping it up, letting the surety of her belongings anchor her.

About fifty people filled the little hall. Tiny stage, black curtains, two over-bright spotlights. The microphone stood centre-stage like a tiny sentry. Nina peeked out from the wings and regretted it instantly. The audience was a blur, but she spotted a couple of familiar facesher husband, near the aisle, and her son, whod turned up after all. The sight hit her with a mix of affection and panic.

I cant, she whispered to Claire.

Yes, you can, Claire murmured back, Ill be right at the side, look at me.

Janet came over, squeezed Ninas shoulder.

You dont need to be perfect, she said. You just need to be real. Go out there, breathe, say the first line. The rest will follow.

Nina closed her eyes. Mouth dry, tongue clumsy, she breathed in as shed been taught, shoulders steady, feeling air press against her ribs. No magicjust physics, but enough.

Her name was announced. Nina walked out. The stage floor felt solid and slightly slippery. She stood at arm’s length from the mic. The lights blinded her to the crowd, which, paradoxically, helpedit was easier with fewer visible faces.

She opened her mouth but, for a moment, nothing came. Blank stilled her mind. She looked down and found her husbands steady hands, her son’s attentive gaze. They werent waiting for perfection. They were simply there.

Ive always spoken quietly, Nina said, voice trembling, but out loud.

That unlocked something. She didnt remember every line by heart, but the words followed one another. At one point, she mixed up her sentences. Panic flashed, but she paused, inhaled, and carried on as best she could. No one gasped, no one laughed. The hush was not hostile, but listening.

When she reached the line, no, she left a pausejust as she’d practised. She didnt soften it with a smile. She just said it.

At the end, she stepped back from the mic, remembering to keep her hands visible, not tucked away. They trembled, but she let them. She bowed briefly.

There was applausenot thunderous, but warm and real. Someone in the crowd said Thank you, and Nina heard it, indelibly addressed to her.

Backstage, she leaned against the wall. Her knees were jelly, as after a steep climb. Claire hugged her quickly, friend to friend.

You did it, she said.

Nina nodded, on the verge of tears, but instead felt a deep, quiet sense of standing where she belonged for the first time.

Afterwards, everyone lingered, searching for belongings, taking photos. Nina went to her chair by the wall, checked her bags zip, and pulled out her script. The paper was creased, a corner bent. She ran her fingers over it, deciding not to throw it away just yet. It would be her proof that this had happened.

Her husband and son found her in the lobby.

You were alright, her son muttered, trying to sound indifferent, eyes shining. Kind of interesting, actually.

Her husband nodded.

You sounded differentnot like in the kitchen.

Nina laugheda real, bright sound.

I always rush in the kitchen, she said, and before the nerves caught up to her, she added, I want to keep going.

They stepped outside. Nina buttoned her coat and adjusted her scarf. Her hands were still unsteady, but now it was the rush of having done it, not fear. Her very bones remembered: she had stepped forward.

The next day, Nina arrived at the studio before class started. The corridor was empty. She walked up to the admin desk, found the registration forms, and signed up for the next level. Under reason, she didnt hunt for fancy words. She simply wrote: To speak.

When Janet emerged from her office, Nina looked up.

Im staying, Nina said.

All right, Janet replied. Pick your next piece.

Nina took the new folder, hugging it to her chest. As she walked into the practice room, she noticed, with surprise, that she hadnt apologised once for being there. It was the smallest of changes, almost invisible, but inside, it rang louder than any round of applause.

Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is step out and let yourself be heard.