The Submit button on the website of the drama studio was tiny, but Alices palm was clammy as though she were holding not a mouse, but someone elses hand. Shed filled out the application with absolute honesty: 55 years old. Experience school assemblies, read aloud at meetings. In the goal box, she first typed for myself, erased it, then typed, I want to learn how to speak aloud, and only then dared to click.
A minute later, an email with the address and time of the trial class arrived. Alice closed her laptop, half-hoping this might somehow undo what shed done, and went to the kitchen. There was a mountain of washing-up, soup cooling on the hob. Instinctively, she reached for the sponge, then stopped.
Later, she muttered aloud, and immediately felt awkward, as if the walls were listening in.
She hadnt told a soul about the studio. She got enough gossip at her job in accounts: who said what to whom, who gave someone the evil eye. At home husband, son, and mother-in-law on the phone; all routine, all requiring her. Alice dreaded that if she uttered, Im going to an elocution class, the questions and jokes and unsolicited advice would unleash at once. Worst of all would be the pitying, Oh, why do you need that for? which shed spent years telling herself, truth be told.
On the appointed evening, Alice emerged from the Tube and wandered hopelessly, even though the address was perfectly clear. She ambled, checking her bag: passport, notebook, bottle of Buxton. On the blocks staircase, space was tight; someone squeezed past with a buggy and Alice pressed herself against the wall, heart hammering as if she were late for an A-level.
The studio was on the first floor, behind a door with a sign that read, Creative Workshop. Chairs lined the corridor; old performance posters hung on the wall. Alice shed her coat, put it on the hook and attempted the sort of hair tidy-up mirrors everywhere inflict. Her greying temples seemed especially brazen and she tried to smooth them down, as though the gesture would make them invisible.
Inside, about ten people mingled some giggling, some shuffling papers. The instructor, a diminutive woman with a sharp bob, introduced herself as Mrs. Taylor and asked everyone to form a circle.
Today well try out our voices. Not volume support, she said. Breathe. And no apologising.
The no apologising part winded Alice. She caught herself poised to say, Im just here for a look, but instead stood mute in the ring.
The first exercise was simple: breathe in, long sssss out, then zzzz. Alice tried not to gawk but couldnt help noticing the young woman beside her glossy nails and poise straight from the ballet. Nearby, a bloke in a track top squared his shoulders, all the confidence in England. Alice felt like a gatecrasher at someone elses do.
Now, lets each say our name and deliver a phrase, Mrs. Taylor continued. Anything at all. Just not in a whisper.
When her turn came, Alice found her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
Alice, she managed, and immediately: Sorry, I
Stop, the instructor interrupted, kindly but firm. Were not using that word today. Once more. Just your name.
Alice swallowed.
Alice.
And at that moment discovered her voice wasnt as squeaky as shed feared. It was low, a bit husky, but alive. Which was both more terrifying and freeing than shed imagined.
Afterwards, Mrs. Taylor approached her:
Come for the course, she suggested. You have a real timbre. And a habit of hiding. Thats what well work on.
Alice nodded as if they spoke of someone else. Outside, she pulled out her phone to text her husband shed be late, spent five minutes over the phrasing, then settled for: Ill be home later, have a class. She didnt specify what kind.
Weekly rehearsals kicked in. Alice printed out the monologue selected for their first go something from contemporary fiction, the inner voice of a woman finally learning to say no. She practised at the kitchen counter as the spaghetti boiled and got the lines muddled every time. Either a word slipped out of memory or she clipped her sentences. She grew annoyed at herself, as if her brain were an unruly child.
What are you muttering? her son asked, sticking his head round the door.
Alice flinched, covering the page.
Work stuff.
That word work a failsafe curtain. She was embarrassed for hiding from her own son, but more so about the thought of coming clean.
Mrs. Taylor put them one by one at the mic stand in rehearsal. It stood waiting, cable snaking off to a battered old speaker. Alice feared it almost as much as the audience. She pictured her voice booming around the room, every tremble on public display.
Dont reach for the mic, said Mrs. Taylor. Let it reach for you. Stand straight. Breathe into your back.
Alice gave it a go. It went badly at first: shoulders creeping up, breath short and frantic. The young woman delivered her piece as if chatting over coffee. Alice found the old refrain playing in her head: Im too old. I look ridiculous. Then the usual internal justifications followed as quickly.
After rehearsal, a woman about her age in a sensible grey jumper, tidy ponytail, introduced herself.
You hold your pauses well, she said. Im Lucy. I used to be terrified of the mic, thought it would show me up.
Alice smiled for the first time that evening.
It does show you up, she admitted, quietly.
Yes, Lucy agreed. But not in the way you expect.
They left for the bus stop together. Lucy, a nurse at the local GP practice, explained shed joined after a tough year, feeling like her insides had turned to cotton wool. Alice listened, sensing a gentle thaw within. Not instant friendship, but the opening of possibility; of not being alone.
A couple of sessions later, something awkward happened. Alice stumbled mid-monologue, forgetting a word shed known by heart at home. Silence filled the room.
Well, memorys not what it was, muttered Track Top, not loudly, but everyone heard.
Alices cheeks burned. She wanted to snap back but just managed the bashful smile shed practised all her life.
Yes, it happens, she muttered.
Mrs. Taylor raised her hand.
Happens to all of us the young ones, too. No comments on age here. Here, we work.
The man shrugged as if nothing had happened. Alice stood thinking that her habit of grinning through barbs was another part of her voice. Or rather, its absence.
That evening at home, she pored endlessly over her script while her husband watched BBC News. He looked up:
Are you learning poetry or something?
Alice froze, throat dry.
No. Its just… I signed up for a course. Theres a recital.
He put down the remote and regarded her evenly.
A performance? he echoed, with no hint of mockery.
She waited, braced for a punchline, but he simply nodded.
Well if you need to do it, go on then. Just dont fret.
His words were ordinary, not gushing, but Alice found strength in their matter-of-factness. Not well done, not so proud of you, but permission to stop apologising.
Her preparation was a struggle. She set her alarm half an hour early to fit in breathing exercises before the house stirred. She stood by the window, palms on her ribs, counting inhales. Sometimes she coughed. Sometimes she laughed at herself. Her notebook filled with reminders: jaw loose, pause after no, look at the audience, not your shoes.
At one rehearsal, Mrs. Taylor had them each imagine someone in the front row they desperately wanted to hear the text.
Alice instantly pictured her mother-in-law. Then her boss. Then herself in the mirror, with that smile that used to hide everything. Her hands trembled at the thought.
Dont speak to everyone, said Mrs. Taylor, noticing her unease. Pick just one. Speak to them.
So Alice picked herself. It felt odd and a bit terrifying as though for the first time shed recognised she counted as someone worth speaking to.
Performance day arrived far too fast. Alice woke before the alarm, stomach hollow and cold. She got up, tiptoed to the kitchen, glass of water in hand. The script sat folded on the table. She opened it, scanned the lines, and realised she couldnt remember the middle. Not gone entirely, just a bewildering blank.
She sat, pressing cold hands to her temples.
I cant go up there, she told herself. The thought was delicious an escape hatch. She could phone in sick, invent a sudden emergency. Nobody would perish.
Just then her husband drifted into the kitchen, tousled and bleary.
Youre up early, he said.
Alice looked at him and blurted the truth.
Im scared. Ill forget it all.
He scratched his head, retrieved the script.
Read it to me. However it comes.
Alice wanted to refuse, but found herself standing. She read, stumbling and stopping. Her husband didnt interrupt, only raising an eyebrow when she lapsed into apologies again.
Isnt that what youre learning not to say that word? he said.
Alice chuckled.
See? Not even at home can I do it.
You will, he handed back her page. Youll do it anyway.
Backstage, just before the performance, the place was chaos: rustling carrier bags, collar-fiddling, last-moment whispering of lines. Alice clutched her script in a folder for dear life. Her hands were so cold she barely noticed the heat.
Lucy appeared, handing her a bottle of water.
Take a gulp. And put the script away now, she advised. No more learning just breathing.
Alice nodded, slotted the folder in her bag, zipped it with ceremony. It mattered to know her things were safe, that there was one corner she could always return to.
There were about fifty people in the audience. A small stage, black curtain, two glaring spotlights. The microphone waited dead centre. Alice peeked from the wings, immediately regretting it. The faces blurred together, but she spotted her husband near the aisle, her son an unexpected arrival sitting beside him. The wave of tenderness and panic nearly swept her away.
I cant, she breathed to Lucy.
You can, Lucy replied, just as softly. Just look at me. Ill stand to the side.
Mrs. Taylor approached, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
You dont owe anyone perfection, she said. But you do owe them yourself. Step up, breathe, say the first line. The rest will follow.
Alice closed her eyes. Her mouth was dry, her tongue alien. She inhaled as shed practised, shoulders low, feeling the air push against her ribs. Not magic, just physics but it held her up.
She was called on. Alice walked out. The floor was firm but slippery. She reached the microphone, kept it one hands breadth away. The spotlights blinded, making the crowd less visible gratefully.
Her mouth opened; nothing emerged for a moment. Blankness flared in her mind. Then she spotted her husband in the front row, his hands folded calmly. Her son phone away, looking at her. Suddenly, she realised: they werent expecting brilliance. They were just here.
Im used to speaking quietly, Alice began, her voice shaking but clear.
After that, it flowed not rote recollection but thoughts tumbling after each other. At one point, she muddled the order, heart stuttering but she paused, breathed in, continued with whatever line she could recall. No one hissed or snorted. The audience was silent, but it was a listening silence, not a judging one.
She hit the no with a pause, as shed planned. For once, she didnt smooth it with a grin. She just said it.
She stepped back at the end, remembering not to drag the microphone with her, hands still, open, not hidden. Her palms trembled, but she held them at her sides. One quick bow.
The applause wasnt rapturous, but it was warm and genuine. Someone called thank you! quite audibly, and Alice heard it as if meant for her alone.
Behind the curtains, she slumped against the wall. Her knees were wobblier than after a flight of stairs. Lucy gave her a brief, comradely hug.
You did it, Lucy said.
Alice nodded. She wanted to cry, but no tears would come. There was only a new sense as if shed finally stepped into a place shed dodged for decades.
Afterwards, people fussed about with belongings, took group photos, chattered. Alice fetched her bag from the chair where shed left it, unzipped it, took out her folder. The text was a bit battered now, corner dog-eared. She smoothed it with a finger and realised she didnt want to throw it out just yet. Let it live for a while, proof that this all really happened.
Her husband and son found her in the corridor.
That was good, her son announced with studied cool, though his face was bright. Actually interesting.
Her husband nodded.
You had a voice. Not like in the kitchen.
Alice laughed, short and light.
Im always dashing about in the kitchen, she replied. Then, before she could overthink it, she added, I want to keep doing this.
They stepped outside. Alice buttoned her coat, adjusted her scarf. Her insides still quivered, but not from fear, more from the sudden memory that she could actually take a step forward.
Next day, Alice arrived early at the studio. The corridor was empty. She went to the front desk, picked up a form, and enrolled for the next level. Under goal, she didnt hunt for fancy words. She just wrote, To speak.
When Mrs. Taylor came out of her office, Alice looked up.
Im staying, she announced.
Good, the instructor replied. Now choose your new piece.
Alice took the folder, pressed it to her chest. As she walked to the practice room, she realised she hadnt apologised a single time. It was a tiny, nearly hidden change, but it echoed inside her louder than any applause.
