So Nearly ....

Ruth was due to look after Hugo today as I worked at the festival, but I gave her the day off. I think she was disappointed, but she took it bravely. I figured he would be alright in the car for a few hours, if I could find a shady spot and leave all the windows open. All went according to plan. We had a quick romp across the grass, leg cocked as usual up Sarah Lucas's horse, and the few people sitting around enjoying the sunshine turned their heads in admiration to watch him race around at top speed. Youthful high spirits. Just wait until your knees go Hugo. You'll wish you hadn't been quite so sporty when you were young. I checked in with the other ushers, and was allocated the main door with Sammy. All went well until the singers and players from the renowned period instrument group Les Siecles, began their performance. It all looked very casual, three girls in black dresses who would begin with a piece from The Magic Flute, lounging on a sofa.

This is the Aldeburgh Festival, lots of cutting edge stuff goes on, merging of genres etc. But who knew that the young tenor who took the part of Tamino was acting when he came on stage late looking very ill? It was a classical concert for goodness sake. The four of them sat down on their chairs, him holding his stomach discreetly, ashen faced and evidently in distress, the girl next to him casting him careful anxious sidelong glances. Now, Sammy and I were in charge of first aid, we had the bag full of resuscitating goodies beside us, and our remit was to attend to anyone suddenly taken ill. We whispered together, "What should we do?" Sammy got the sick bowl (kidney-shaped papier mâché) out of the bag in anticipation, I poured a glass of water. I remembered Sir Thomas Allen collapsing on stage during a performance of Carmina Burana at the Proms, decades ago. Surely it wasn't about to happen again right in front of us.

We were undecided: should we take one or other, or both, to him or not? Would drawing attention to his plight make him worse? Eventually I spotted a man in check shirt fiddling with wires on my side of the stage - on the same level as us - and walked up to him. "Your tenor appears to be sick," I said, sotto voce, "would you take him this water?" He looked at me and smiled and said no, he was fine. "But he's not," I insisted, "look at him", and he smiled again, more broadly, and assured me was was OK. I went back to my seat, reported to Sammy. The young man then stood up, sang his piece magnificently - what a pro! I thought - and then shouted out that his girlfriend had left him, and he could not sing. He stormed off. Sammy and I looked at each other. Was this all part of the performance then? Of course it was.

There were repurcussions. The general manager was in, along with the director Roger Wright. Harry was furious. He spoke to lovely Jeremy who manages the ushers and was outside in the office at the time. "The two blonde ladies (I wonder if he actually said ladies? Still, blonde ...) at the front of the auditorium attempted to interfere with the performance," he told Jeremy. "Please deal with it." Outside the hall, once the audience had dispersed, Sammy and I were regaling the other ushers with the story, and we were all laughing. Jeremy asked us what had happened, and when we told him he completely agreed we had done the right thing. He would back us to the hilt he said. There would be nothing further said.He gave us each a big hug.

Every time I started to fall asleep last night I had a horrifying, nightmarish image of Sammy walking onto centre stage in a crowded auditorium carrying a papier mâché sick bowl. Or me with the water. We would never have lived it down. We'd have ruined the performance. Oh thank you God of Caution for stopping us from making total and complete fools of ourselves.