Saying It Out Loud
The Submit button on the drama studios website was tiny, and Ninas palm was so clammy it felt as if she was trying to grip a strangers hand instead of her mouse. In the application, shed been honest: Aged 55. Experience: school assemblies, PTA readings. Where it asked for her goal, she first typed for myself, then deleted it, then wrote I want to learn to speak up, and only then did she press send.
Barely a minute later, an email arrived with the time and address for a trial session. Nina shut her laptop, as if that could undo what shed just done, and wandered into the kitchen. Dishes piled high, soup cooling on the hob. She automatically reached for the sponge but stopped.
Ill do it later, she said to the empty room, and at the sound of her own voice, she felt as if someone mightve overhearda touch embarrassed.
She hadnt told anyone about the studio. There was already enough chatter at the accounts office: whod said what to whom, whod rolled their eyes at who. At homeher son, her husband, her mother-in-law ringing dailyeverything so familiar, so routine, always needing just a bit more from her. Nina dreaded the thought that if she ever said, Im off to a drama studio, the questions would start, then the prodding, the jokes, maybe even sympathy: But why? What for? Shed told herself that same thing for years.
On the evening of the class, Nina got off the tube and spent ages hunting for the right house, even though the address was clear as day. She walked slowly, checking her bag every few steps: ID, notebook, water bottle. On the stairwell, she pressed herself against the wall to let a pram pass, heart pounding as if late for an exam.
The studio was upstairs, behind a plaque that said Creative Workshop. Chairs lined the corridor, past performance posters on every wall. Nina slipped off her coat, hung it up, patted her hair down in the mirror. The grey around her temples looked unmissable, so she tried to smooth it away, as if she could hide it.
There were about ten people in the room. Someone giggling, someone else flipping through scripts. The leader, a petite woman with a sharp bob, introduced herself as Claire Benson and asked everyone to form a circle.
Were working on voice today. Not volumesupport, she said. Breathe. And no apologising.
The phrase no apologising thudded right into Ninas chest. She caught herself about to say, Im only here to watch, but managed instead to join the circle in silence.
The first exercise was dead simple: inhale, then a long sss on the exhale, then zzz. Nina tried not to look around, but couldnt help noticinga girl of about twenty next to her with immaculate posture and neon nails, further on a chap in a sporty jumper with a confident slouch. Nina felt like shed crashed the wrong party.
Now, say your name and any one sentence, Claire said. Just not in a whisper.
When it was Ninas turn, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
Nina, she managed, quickly adding, Sorry, I
Stop, Claire cut in gently, but firmly. We banned that word today. Start again. Just your name.
Nina swallowed.
Nina.
And suddenly, she heard her voicea little deeper and rougher than shed imagined, but real. Strangely, that was both scarier and easier.
Afterwards, Claire came up to her.
Come to the full course, she said. You have a true tone, but youre used to hiding. Thats what well fix.
Nina nodded, feeling it wasnt even about her. Outside, she took out her phone to tell her husband shed be home late and mulled over every word, finally just typing, Ill be latergot a session. No explanation.
The following week rehearsals began in earnest. Nina printed the monologue theyd picked for the showcase: a short piece about a woman learning to say no. She practised in the kitchen, water boiling for the pasta, always tripping upforgetting lines, mumbling endings. She grew angry with herself like she was a stubborn child.
What are you muttering about, Mum? her son called, peering in.
Nina jumped, folding her script away. Just work stuff, she replied.
Work was the well-worn shield. She felt guilty for hiding things, even from her own son, but the idea of explaining herself was even scarier.
At rehearsal, Claire lined them up at the mic, one by one. It stood on its metal stand, wire snaking to the speakers. Nina was almost as jittery standing near it as she was around people. She imagined her voice booming out in the room, showing every wobble.
Dont lean towards the mic, Claire told them. You stand tall, let it come to you. Breathe into your back.
Nina tried. It went badlyshoulders up, breath catching. Next to her, the young woman spoke so casually, just like with a mate. Ninas brain muttered, Im too old. I look ridiculous. She immediately started making excuses, even just in her own head.
Afterwards, a lady her agea tidy ponytail, grey jumpercame over.
You hold a pause really well, she said. Im Ruth. I was petrified of the mic; thought it would expose me.
Nina smiled, first time that night.
Its true. It does, she whispered.
Ruth nodded. Yes. But not in the way we imagine.
They walked out together, down to the bus stop. Ruth talked about working in a GP surgery, joining the class after a bruising year when everything had gone numb inside. Just listening, Nina felt something melt a little. Not friendshipnot yetbut proof she didnt have to do all this alone.
A couple of sessions later, a nasty comment landed. Nina was halfway through her piece, focusing on her breathing, hit a word shed practised a hundred times, and froze. Silence.
Well, memorys not what it was, muttered the man in the sporty jumper, just loud enough for all to hear.
Ninas face flared with embarrassment. She wanted to snap back but just smiled, by reflex.
Indeed, happens she mumbled.
Claire raised a hand. Happens to everyone, she said. Young ones too. We dont mention age here. We work.
The man just shrugged, but Nina realisedher habit of smiling off the digs was as much a part of her voice as any word, or perhaps, more its absence.
That night at home, she read through the speech again, while her husband flicked through the news. He asked, You cramming for a poem or something?
Nina froze. Her throat went dry.
No. Well I signed up for a course. Theres going to be a show.
He looked away from the telly, really seeing her.
A show? No sarcasm.
She braced for a joke, but he just nodded.
If it helps, go on then. Just dont overthink it.
His words were so plain, so every day, but oddly, they were reassuringnot praise, not pride, just permission not to apologise.
Learning the part was tough. Nina got up half an hour early to squeeze in breathing drills before the house awoke. Shed stand by the window, palms on her sides, counting the breaths. Sometimes coughing, sometimes laughing at herself. Her notebook filled with reminders: dont clench jaw, pause after no, look at audience, not your feet.
One rehearsal, Claire asked them to picture someone in the front rowthe person they most needed to say these words to.
Ninas mind went to her mother-in-law. Then her boss. Then, herself in the mirror, covering up with that familiar smile. Her hands shook.
You dont have to speak to everyone, Claire said softly, noticing. Just choose one. Speak to them.
Nina chose herself. It felt strange and frightening, as if admitting she belonged in the audience at all.
The performance loomed faster than shed hoped. Nina woke much too early, stomach hollow and tight. She crept into the kitchen, poured herself some water, taking tiny sips. The script sat on the table, folded in half. She read it over and suddenly couldnt see the middle at alla blank space.
She slumped down, pressing her palms to her head.
I cant go, she thought. It was a tempting reliefto claim illness, invent an emergency. No one would suffer.
Then her husband, groggy, wandered in.
Why up at this hour? he asked.
Nina actually told him the truth.
Im scared. Im worried Ill forget.
He scratched his head, took the script.
Try it on me, he said, holding out the paper. No pressure.
Nina wanted to refuse, but already found herself standing up. She spoke quietly, stumbling, pausing. He didnt interrupt, only raised an eyebrow when she slipped straight back into apologising.
Didnt they say to stop using that word? he asked gently.
Nina half-grinned. Yeah. Still cant crack iteven at home.
You will. Youre going, anyway, arent you?
At the studio, backstage, everything was packed tight. Costumes rustled in bags, people fixing collars, whispering lines. Nina clutched her printed speech inside a folder so she wouldnt ruin it. Her hands were frozen, although the room was warm.
Ruth came over, offered her a water bottle.
Have a sip. Dont practice now, she said. Time for revisings passed. Now you just need to breathe.
Nina nodded, tucking everything away in her bag, propping it on a chair by the wall, zipping it up. Just knowing where her things were gave her a small point of return.
There were about fifty people in the audience. A small stage, black curtain, two glaring spotlights. The microphone was in the middle. From the side, Nina peered at the room and almost wished she hadnt. Faces blurred, but she spotted her husbandfront row aisleand beside him, their son, which sent a sharp, loving panic through her.
I cant do this, she whispered to Ruth.
Yes, you can. Look at meIll be just offstage.
Claire touched Ninas shoulder.
You dont have to be perfect, she told her. You just have to be real. Go out, take a breath, say the first line. Then the words will do the rest.
Nina closed her eyes. Mouth parched, tongue heavy, but she took a full breath, shoulders steady, and felt her ribs catchphysics, not magic, but enough.
Her name was called. Nina stepped out. The floor was solid, a little slippery. She stopped the right distance from the mic. The lights blinded; the audience blurred, which was a relieffewer watching eyes.
She opened her mouth and nothing, for a beat. Blank. She glimpsed her husbands calm face, his hands folded. Saw her son, not on his phone but gazing up at her. She realisedthey werent waiting for her to be flawless. Just to be present.
Ive spent my life talking quietly, Nina began, her voice wavering but real.
Then it flowed. Not every word by memory, but the phrases linked up as she spoke. Once, she mixed up the order, and her heart sankbut instead of freezing, she took a breath and carried on. No one gasped, no one laughed. The silence in the hall didnt feel oppressive, but attentive.
When she reached the word no, she paused, like her notes said, and for the first time didnt smile to soften it. Just said it.
At the end, she stepped back, remembering not to fuss with the mic, her hands visibleshaking, but unhidden. A brief, honest bow.
The applause wasnt thunderous, but warm and alive. Someone called thank you, and Nina heard it, as if it was just for her.
Off-stage, she pressed herself to the wall. Her knees wobbled, like shed just climbed a hundred stairs. Ruth hugged her quickly, fiercely.
You did it, Ruth said.
Nina nodded. She wanted to cry, but there were no tears. It was something elsea sense that, at last, shed stood in the space shed always tiptoed around.
They lingered for ages after; hunting for bags, taking photos. Nina went to the chair where shed left her bag, checked the zip, retrieved her folder. The script was creased, a corner folded. She ran a finger over itoddly, she didnt want to throw it away. It was proof this had really happened.
Her husband and son joined her in the corridor.
Not bad, Mum, her son said, trying for nonchalance, eyes bright. Actually it was pretty good.
Her husband nodded too. You sounded different. Not like you do in the kitchen.
Nina laughed. In the kitchen Im always in a hurry, she said, adding before her nerves caught up, I want to keep doing this.
They walked outside. Nina did up her coat, adjusted her scarf. She was still shaking, but now from the memory in her body of having taken the step, not fear.
The next day, Nina arrived at the studio before anyone else. The corridor was quiet. She went to the administrators desk, where forms sat stacked, and filled in her application for the next level. Where it asked her goal, she didnt overthink or try to please. She just wrote, To speak.
When Claire Benson walked out of her office, Nina looked up.
Im staying, she said.
Good, her teacher replied. Then pick your next speech.
Nina took the folder offered, pressed it to her chest. And as she headed into the classroom, she realised she hadnt apologised once. It was the smallest change, barely noticeable, but inside it rang louder than any round of applause.
