Underwood admits, though, that he was not quite convinced when Spark first suggested he and his company do something for the opening of Island Home.
‘It was a lot of work, and honestly for anyone else, we would probably have said no. But Annie is very persuasive. We asked for two months of research time and one month on the island. I told her right at the start, if Coup de Théatre do this, we do it properly – there would be no sugar-coating what we discover in the archives, what we choose to work from. Because I do think,’ he says, in his soft northern English accent, ‘the local historical society pamphlets gloss over things, make life on Boucher’s Island seem more romantic than it was, give you no sense of what it must have been like to live and work and spend your whole life on an isolated island like this one, in one of those little cottages, especially in the winter. And of course that was just the history we could access – the MOD records for half the island are still classified. All we know is that they had a lot of powerful radio equipment here, obviously something to do with what they were up to during the Cold War, monitoring transmissions. We did reference that in the performance – there was one scene in an old abandoned Nissen hut, someone listening for a signal, instead picking up ghostly voices from the past.’
Those who experienced it have described the evening as an unforgettable experience – two hours of urgent, costumed actors leading the audience across the island, whispering secrets in their ears, muttering dark suggestions. Strange moments when you suddenly realize you are the only person to witness some extraordinary spectacle, whether that’s dancers appearing from behind a cabin to execute a pas de deux or a ghostly singer performing a plaintive aria from an ivy-draped boat in the middle of the swimming pool. An evening that unfolded with the logic of a dream.
The idea of dressing all the audience alike, of having them conceal their identities, was one that had arisen early in the process of devising the piece. ‘I knew, because we’ve had this problem with shows before, given the calibre of our fans, that we had to find a way of preventing our actors being overshadowed by the audience.’ His solution? To provide every member with an identical costume. ‘Even though it was Halloween, we didn’t want to do anything tacky. The hooded cloaks were eerily beautiful – heavy black silk velvet, lined in thick claret satin, with a gold-tipped rope tie at the neck. The white comedy and tragedy masks were all handmade too, from featherlight porcelain. The visual effect was nothing short of extraordinary,’ he explains. ‘It was Ned’s idea, really – he loved the idea of taking people who spend their lives being recognized, and rendering them invisible for the night.’
He pauses, rubs the back of his neck thoughtfully, a little sadly.
‘I guess what we hadn’t reckoned with was that when you give people a mask, that’s when they show you what they really are.’
Chapter Seven
Saturday Afternoon
Annie
They had both gone for it in the end, of course.
If Annie had not known their answers in advance with absolute certainty, she would never have asked.
Naturally, just as she herself had done, they needed time to acclimatize themselves to the idea. To poke and prod at their consciences. To question whether or not they could trust her. To consider the alternatives. To realize there were none.
Freddie had looked at Keith. Keith had looked at Freddie. Keith had sworn and spat and run his hands through his bottle-black, unwashed hair. Freddie had shifted in his saddle, and sighed, and looked around, and then sighed again.
‘This is not right,’ said Freddie.
‘I’m in,’ said Keith.
‘This is not right,’ said Freddie again.
‘Of course it’s not fucking right!’ Keith had exploded, loud enough to make all three of their horses twitch. ‘We’re going to fucking kill the bloke, Freddie.’
‘But you’re also going to get away with it,’ Annie reminded them.