Going True to the Fringe

Eddie Louise Clark

Seven years before we would decide to immigrate to Scotland, my husband Chip and I, had successfully put together a company, written a play, raised the funds and done what thousands had done before us - brought our dreams to the Fringe.

Our play was about Mary, Queen of Scots and the majority of our budget was spent on thoroughly authentic costumes. Each gown and doublet was a confection of velvet, lawn, precious metal trims and pounds and pounds of semi-precious beads. We were corseted, hoop skirted, petticoated, caped, and capped to high renaissance perfection. This left no money for advertising, so Chip had decreed that we would spend all day, every day in our costumes - these beautiful clothes that we had created would be our advertising. This had two distinct benefits - highly visible marketing and the freeing up of space in personal suitcases for transporting necessary theatrical accoutrements.

We arrived in Edinburgh at mid-day with just time to drop our cases at our flat and change into our costumes before we had to rush to Murray House theatre for the tech in. The technical end of things went so well that we were left with an extra hour and decided to rehearse our play in-situ.

Mistake! The combination of jet-lag and giddiness at being in Edinburgh were enough to ensure that the rehearsal was abysmal. Dropped lines, fumbled entrances and comic slips piled one upon the other like puppies in a box. The cast was reduced to fits of giggles and Chip was not pleased.

When Chip is angry he turns quite red, seemingly grows taller and wider, and his voice takes on a dangerous edge. As Chip watched his cherished dreams of a Fringe First tumble down at the foot of the casts cavalier attitude his anger boiled over and he let loose - we were irresponsible; we were hopeless; we were shameful; the show would be a terrible failure and he, for one, hadnt come 6000 miles to make an ass of himself!

In the dark space of the black-box theatre Chips reverberating voice rang out like the trumpet of doom. The cast was crushed. I ordered Chip out of the room to cool off while I worked on mopping tears, easing frustration and soothing tempers until we were somewhat pulled back together and could continue the rehearsal.

Walking from the theatre to our flat in Bruntsfield I noticed Chip was clutching his stomach as if in pain. Being ever the charitable, loving wife, my thought was Serves him right for getting so angry! Now hes gone and given himself a belly-ache As we drew closer to Tollcross however it became apparent that Chip was in real pain so we flagged a taxi to get us home and I put Chip in bed and went to the kitchen to make him some soup. By the time I returned it was obvious that this was more than just a belly-ache and I needed to get Chip to the hospital. The phone in our flat was not working so I dashed to the street to find a pay phone.

Here was a moment that I had my first cultural lesson in Scotland. I had turned towards the main street and the shops because in America pay phones are always to be found in commercial areas. In Bruntsfield however, the phones were back in the residential blocks - where residents who did not have phones could access them easily. The second cultural lesson is that 911 is not the universal emergency number! After a bit of frantic confusion I succeeded in calling an ambulance and sprinted back to the flat (on the 4th floor!) only to find my husband sitting on the edge of the bed dressed in nothing but his shirt, head in his hands.

Chip looked up and in the most wretched tone of voice said I havent got anything to wear. He had taken his own edict entirely too seriously and not packed joggers, or pyjamas, slippers, or casual shoes. In fact, since his costume consisted of a doublet and great kilt, and he prided himself on going true he had even neglected to pack underwear. His full sleeved, lace cuffed shirt was not long enough to cover his dignity, and I didnt think that sending him to the hospital in my knickers would do much for that either. I quickly petitioned our cast mates and discovered that the only item of clothing we had that was large enough for Chip was a female cast mates nightshirt. After getting Chip dressed in the green plaid flannel shirt we discovered that the only footwear he had were his knee high renaissance boots so we tugged those on and stood back to survey the result. If Chip had been a willowy blond hippy girl he would have looked fetching and bohemian - as he is a hulking red headed, ginger bearded man the effect was decidedly more comic. Luckily I was saved from the cruelty of laughter by the arrival of the ambulance crew.

So my husband, the director of our show, the leader of our company, and the father of my children had an emergency appendectomy in Edinburghs old Royal Infirmary. As he was wheeled off to surgery I could hear him arguing with the surgeon about his chances of being ready for our opening night in 2 days time.

The next morning the story had reached the press and we were famous. Our show was not a sell out, but we handily beat the Fringe average for audience size and we even won the Herald Little Devil award for overcoming adversity. They say you are nobody in Edinburgh unless the cabbies are talking about you. As I took a taxi back to our flat after Chips surgery the cabbie asked if I was part of the troupe whose leader was in the hospital. It was that moment that I knew we were officially somebody in Edinburgh!