He could hear his own breath, shallow and erratic, and the darkness of the dressing room seemed to press on his chest. News of the charges against him has already spread like wildfire; the accusatory glances, the whispers in the corridors and the cutting degradations of the tabloids hung heavy in the air like a suffocating smoke. 

Here was a man, like so many others, hushed, burning, choking, and the dressing room did little to appease him – its four walls that used to offer sanctuary were now unnervingly quiet and invested in the silent show unfolding before them.

In the distance, he could hear the muffled chatter of the audience. How could he face them? Why had they come? Surely with scandalised curiosity, eager to scrutinise his every move, listen for the cracks in his voice, to revel in the unravelling of a star fallen from grace.

His hands trembled as they gripped the edge of the mirror, his reflection staring back at him – the sharp, gaunt features of his face had replaced those that were softer, more captivating. He was once a man of reverence, charm, wit, grace. Where is that man now? He wondered.

The silence in the room became unbearable. He could hear his own heartbeat thumping in his ears, too loud, too fast, and every creak of the floorboards outside the door seemed like a reminder of the impending humiliation. Was it all over? The thought kept circling, relentless. The critics, the audience, the press – they would all be there, waiting. He had spent decades cultivating a legacy. And now, he was undone.

The door to the dressing room swung open, a faint voice from the stage manager breaking through his spiralling thoughts. 'They’re ready for you, sir. The audience is waiting.' He could feel his stomach twisting, the dread pooling in its pit, cold and clammy. He stood up slowly, his legs unsteady. 

For someone who was supposed to be a legend, he  felt like nothing more than a man walking to his own execution.

As he stepped into the wings of the stage, he could hear the rustling of the audience settling into their seats, the soft hum of anticipation. Then, just as the lights dimmed, a sound that stopped him cold – applause. It surged up from the audience, warm, immediate, powerful. And then, they called his name.

'Ladies and gentlemen, Mr John Gielgud!'

The applause grew louder. He took one step forward, then another, each movement carried by that deafening roar. The wave of clapping washed out the pain in his chest, and his heart seemed to stop beating momentarily. The applause filled him, filled the space around him, and for one moment, the weight of it all fell away.

With a deep breath, he stepped onto the stage, his back straight, his eyes wide, and for a fleeting moment, just before the lights consumed him, he wondered if he might survive this after all.

John Skerritt

John Skerritt is an actor and has been coming to the workshops this year.

Historical Note:

In 1953 John Gielgud was arrested for cottaging four months after being knighted in the Queen’s Birthday Honours. The Sunday Express led calls for him to be stripped of his knighthood. 

He was appearing with Dame Sybil Thorndike in 'A Day By The Sea' by N C Hunter the evening after his trial. She led him onstage when he was paralysed with terror: 'Come along, Johnny, they won’t boo me'.