The Marigold Theatre

Sat in the middle seat of the middle row, his arm across the back of the two seats on either side of him, looking wistfully at the stage was Aaron Benson. He had been in the exact same position for the past two hours. He was the only one in the very small theatre. The silence sang a sweet melancholy song. A familiar melody; a low-whisper that entered his head and pulled memories down from the top shelf. Today makes 10 years since he had been trying to put his play on stage. He looked around – to the far right, just before the 3 black steps that lead onto the stage, was a green emergency door that opens to an alley just off a mildly busy London street. The door seemed to have a beckoning glisten around it. Tempting. If ever he felt like giving up and running away, it was today.

His wife had gone into labor 6 hours ago, their first child, on the opening night of his play, ‘There is A War’. His first child. He had received the call just after morning rehearsals were finishing up. His mother-in-law had been staying with them for some weeks now. Aaron however, had been sparse for some weeks now. No coincidence. Her shaky voice was desperately trying to sound strong. He knew before she said anything. The elation in his heart was lukewarm. His female lead had just sprained her ankle running up the stage steps. He asked to speak with Natasha. They had known each other since he was 19; she was 17. She knew him before he had convinced himself to go to Law School. Before he failed Law School. Before he gave up the opportunity to work with the music director of ‘Wicked: The Musical’. Before he knew he wanted to tell stories. She knew him before he came alive to himself. Her breathing was short and paced – in equal intervals, just as they had learned in the baby-class. Before he could ask her how she was feeling, she asked him how rehearsals were going. He told her about the female lead. She laughed. He laughed. Then there was silence. Just her breathing. She had sacrificed just as much as he had to get to this point. They had pushed through so much to get here. Paying for rehearsal space instead of paying the rent; long nights of rewrites. They had been trying to put on this show for 10 years. Almost as long as they had been trying for a baby. She broke the silence with a sharp cry. The contractions have gotten stronger. Before he could say anything, the phone cut.

He stood in the middle of the full room. His feet felt like they were sinking into the wooden floor. His heart was pumping blood vigorously through his body. His head wanted to run but he could not move. Panic was swelling in his chest. 5 hours till showtime. He felt horrible. He could not make it from Hackney in east London, to Thornton Heath in the south in time to be back before the show started. He was going to have to decide, the show or the baby. A hand on his shoulder startled him – he jumped and turned around. It was his female lead – she had limped to where he stood after shouting his name from across the room to no reply. She handed him a brown paper box that had just been dropped off by the postman. He opened it quickly – inside it was a newspaper and a letter. The newspaper was dated from 7 years ago. The front page had words circled in pen. “The Marigold Flower Theatre – will it ever live again?” It was a story of the burning down of an old theatre. The very one he was standing in currently. It was the newspaper he and his wife found the morning after they lost their first baby to miscarriage. The theatre would turn out to be the only one cheap enough to put on his show. The insignia of the theatre, an actual marigold flower lay peacefully atop the letter that accompanied the newspaper cutout. The letter simply read; “The day has finally come. Who knew that The Marigold Flower would be where you would first blossom? I just wanted to remind you that no matter how tonight goes, it is a victory. Break a leg! Love, Natasha.” He looked up at his female lead limping away from him and tried very hard to ignore the irony of the having just read, ‘break a leg’.

He dropped everything and headed for the door.

When he got back hours later. A Father. He had missed the show.

Sat in the middle seat of the middle row, looking up at the stage was Aaron Benson. He was the only one in the very small theatre. The silence sang a beautiful song. A familiar low-whisper melody that entered his head and pulled memories down from the top shelf. It had been a long time since he had been on stage. He looked around – to the far right, just before the 3 black steps that lead onto the stage, was a green emergency door that opens to an alley just off a mildly busy London street. The door seemed to have a beckoning glisten around it. Tempting. If ever he felt like running away, it was today.