Not So Ugly in Portgordon Village Hall

You wouldn’t say Portgordon Village Hall was the most glamourous venue, or the most prestigious, or the best appointed.

It didn’t have a stage, it didn’t have proper heating, and it didn’t have a blackout.

And none of the lights worked.

What it did have, though, was an amazing audience.

I got to know them better than I usually get to know an audience because they were popping in and out all day with steam irons and screwdrivers, pliers and adjustable spanners, gaffer tape and bin liners to try to cover a couple of the windows with.

And round about 6 they turned up with fish suppers for us and the volunteers who ran the place and we all ate together before it was time to get ready for the show.

One of them ironed our costumes for us. He also helped with setting up the lights because he’d been in the fire service and felt absolutely at home on ladders. He’d also worked as a window dresser in the House of Fraser and Harrods and he’d been a member of the Household Cavalry and right now he’s a minister in the Salvation Army and plays the tuba so he knows all about looking after clothes and uniforms.

Which is why we wore immaculate costumes and why, looking out over the amazing variety of people in the audience, I found myself wondering what other astonishing life stories they had to tell.

And as we ate our fish supers together, it became obvious that many of them had looked after this hall for years, they’d all sat on its committees together, and fought for better heating, a better photocopier, new windows, insulation in the walls, better heating, and sometimes just to keep the pace open.

They were veterans of so many struggles: with funding bodies, and local authorities, and with each other sometimes to keep the building going and keep the community spirit in the village alive.

Some of them were involved in programming the venue, too. For years they’d aimed to have a quiz show one month and a performance the next and over the years they’d bust up a sizeable audience.

And then Covid struck, and we were the first play to come in since they’d reopened the hall…

So there was avery special sense of ownership about the performance. We were their guests, they were empowered, they were in their home.

And because they all knew each other, and felt safe with each other, and there was this great sense of community among them that made them a lovely audience to play to.

We’ve built up the custom during this season of previews to invite the audience to stay behind for a conversation after the show.

So we get a sense of what it meant for them; what works; what was clear and what was less clear… and each time we’ve done it we’ve learnt something, and usually made a change, which we’ve incorporated into the following night’s show.

We’ve always had trouble with the ending. There’s a fair amount of snobbery in Hans Christian Andersen’s transforming of the ugly duckling into the beautiful swan, and it’s always made us uneasy.

It’s always made the Storytelling Centre’s audiences uneasy, too, and feeling bit let down, somehow, by the show’s ending.

So last night we changed it.

You learn so much from seeing a new play performed in front of an audience, and I’ve always wanted to change my scripts after they’ve opened and never really been able to.

So it’s wonderful to be able to do it; even though because it was so complicated trying to make the lights work we never had time to rehearse it and as we played the scene we were doing it for the very first time…

That made me very eager to hear what the audience made of it.

Every single one of them stayed behind. They’ve seen a lot over the years, and are knowledgeable, and because they’re in their space among their people they’re not afraid to have opinions.

So what they said was incredibly valuable, and we’ll use it when we bring the show back to the Edinburgh Fringe.

Meantime, I think I’ve found the ideal audience…