Dead Now Of Course. Phyllida Law

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      4th Estate

      An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.4thEstate.co.uk

      First published in Great Britain by 4th Estate in 2017

      Text and illustrations copyright © Phyllida Law 2017

      Phyllida Law asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

      A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

      All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

      Source ISBN: 9780008244743

      Ebook Edition © April 2017 ISBN: 9780008244750

      Version: 2017-04-25

      CONTENTS

       COVER

       TITLE PAGE

      COPYRIGHT

       DEDICATION

       EPIGRAPH

      OVERTURE

      DIGS AND TOURS

      MILDEW

      STAGECRAFT

      GREASEPAINT

      FOOTLIGHTS

       RUDE BITS

       PROPS!

       OPEN-PLAN THEATRES

       WIGS AND WARDROBE

       CURTAIN CALLS AND ENTRANCES

       OFF

       NAME-DROPPING

       NORMAN POPHAM

       DRESSING ROOM NUMBER 10

       DRESSING ROOM 11

       TYRONE GUTHRIE

       DIRECTORS

       EXTRA JOBS

       THE RUSSIANS

       TOM

       THE WEDDING

       FINALE

       PHOTOGRAPHS AND PROGRAMMES

       ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

      For my grandchildren,

      Ernie, Walter, Gaia & Tindy

      ‘Here’s tae us

      Wha’s like us

      Damn few,

      And they’re a’ deid’

      Old Scottish toast, Anon

      ‘Our revels now are ended. These are our actors,

      As I foretold you, were all spirits, and

      Are melted into air, into thin air;

      And like the baseless fabric of this vision,

      The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,

      The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

      Yea, all which it inherit shall dissolve;

      And like this insubstantial pageant faded,

      Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff

      As dreams are made on, and our little life

      Is rounded with a sleep.’

      Prospero, The Tempest, Act 4, Scene 1

       OVERTURE

      One September, the grown-ups started talking of this thing called War. I was evacuated from Glasgow aged seven. No one liked evacuees. They were dirty, came from Glasgow and had fleas. I was lucky: the eldest daughter in my billet was a superb storyteller. She and I improvised a mystery called ‘The Red and Silver Purse’, which lasted for weeks. I spent a lot of time crouched in cupboards, or underneath the gate-legged table. I think her grasp of storyline was educational.

      I loved her stories, and played a lot of major characters. The War was a sideline.

      At my school, I was the only boarder, and I loved it. The classroom window-seat was heated and the walls were lined with books. I read all of George Eliot – he was my favourite writer, until I found a large medical dictionary. At thirteen, I had some very odd symptoms and I researched them in depth. Apparently I was to die young, so I decided to devote my life to the human race – a Scottish Mother Teresa, with a stethoscope. I always wanted a stethoscope.

      I gave up all the things I loved, like music, painting and drawing in order to pass the required exams for the medical school in Glasgow. I got them all, but the elderly professor, with pince-nez, said I was too young. ‘Go away,’ he said. ‘Go away for a year.’ I didn’t have the time. In despair, I told my mother I was to die young. She disagreed. So did the doctor, who gave me iron pills.

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