The Cement Between

It’s pretty cliché to say that theatre can be life changing. But as I turned around to see tears on my husband’s cheeks, his throat pulsating as he grappled with that very phrase, I knew it to be true.

It was the night before the end of the school term last week and as an exhausted teacher and mum, and a complete theatre nerd, I plugged into the speaker and had ‘One Day More’ reverberating through the house. We both leant into the lyrics we could remember, belting out harmonies as the kids looked confused and slightly in awe - teens not sure if their parents were awesome or totally embarrassing. 

It was a silly moment of letting loose - singing out the stresses of the final week. 

But something lingered in our memories as our voices rose to the final chorus.

I was twenty when I successfully auditioned for Les Miserables. A soprano who really wanted that alto role. I wanted to grieve. I wanted to fight. I wanted to die. I wanted to show I could be more than a pretty voice, always the romantic lead. I sat at the piano for weeks pushing down another octave, knowing I’d have to harmonise. And I got it.

I embraced my barefoot, lanky, red-headed, strong willed version of Eponine and I was determined to become her completely on stage - a young serious actor on the cusp of adulthood. I cried and I fought and I had the bruises to prove it.

But I never expected to fall in love.

I think Les Mis is one of those shows that if you’ve been in it, you know. There’s something about the combination of mateship, revolution, and overcoming abject poverty and adversity that brings a cast close. It’s the tears shed through timeless melodies and a heartbreaking story that bond people. 

But in the back slapping, the side stage hugs and the masculine verve of it all, love wasn’t necessarily on the cards. 

I didn’t expect to meet an older guy with viking looks and a sneaky, sexy twinkle in his eye. I certainly didn’t expect to be asked to teach him his songs. A local rock star who had recently played Judas in his first show, he was a little unprepared for the rigorous vocals of Jean Valjean. And I really didn’t expect to flirt over the piano, be invited out, talk really close and kiss with such passion. 

He kind of knocked me off my feet.

And I guess we were young and didn’t think it could be love - just a thespian fling behind the barricade, a few casual drinks down the pub and a snog in the carpark late after rehearsal.

It was well over a year after the show though that we laid any real foundations. Like the beginnings of most relationships, it was a bumpy road - the materials occasionally toppling off the back of the ute - ex-girlfriends, student travel and that old friend commitment. But that initial feeling never wavered. It took shape and form, architecturally designed once the surveyors had approved.

Twenty-three years, a home and two children later, I think it might be love. 

We don’t often reminisce about those times in that show. We’ve actually never been in a show together since, despite both still being involved with theatre. For us, the power of theatre lies in a lifetime of togetherness. It’s the cement between each brick of our day to day lives - we don’t really notice it and we don’t acknowledge it, but without it having been there in the first place, we probably wouldn’t have held together. 

Yet, I’ve seen many marriages dismantled by theatre. To some partners, its pull can become a tangling web of nights away from home - a giant spider with her clutches approaching, enticing their loved one away forever, lost to the venom of performance and frivolity rather than staying comfortable in family and responsibility. And more often than not, it’s the performer who ends up demolished - the masonry and joists of their talent torn down, never to be re-erected. They stay away knowing that their partner will never truly understand. 

I’m not saying it’s easy, but it is easier for us. Those nights away from home can still be difficult, particularly for our children. I often get that imploring look, eyes drooping as they question whether I’ll be home tonight. But from my husband, there is a mutual understanding. A recognition of the need to perform and create. The groundwork laid all those years ago on the barricade where we met was the fabrication necessary for trust. Trust in not being left out. Trust in each other. Trust in our essential dedication to the arts. 

We’ve traveled the world, built a home, developed careers and parented children. We’ve laughed over drinks and held each other through tragedy and we’ve become the very best of friends. We have done all of these things while making room for theatre in our lives. The frame has remained sturdy, strong and solid. Unwavering.

Our relationship was constructed on and through art. It runs deep. It formed the blueprints of who we are together. 

And he still knocks me off my feet.

We held each other the other night as we sang those final refrains.

‘One more dawn. One more day…’

We did fall in love at the theatre.

‘One. Day. More.’

And yes, it was life changing.