News Story
Memories - Word Perfect Creative Writing
Word Perfect Creative Writing have been sharing their memories and stories of Lichfield Garrick as part of our 20th year celebrations. Word Perfect Creative Writing is a Lichfield based creative writing group, run by author Joss Musgrove Knibb. The group meets weekly at Quonians Lane in the historic heart of the city.
Gill Jones
In December 2018 my stepson, his wife and three children, aged 16, 11 and 5, arrived from South Carolina USA to spend Christmas in England. They had rented a cottage in Whittington so were intrigued when I told them that we had booked tickets for us all to see a pantomime called Dick Whittington at the Garrick Theatre. Having explained that there was no connection between the two we attempted to describe exactly what a pantomime was, no easy matter as it is certainly not a part of the children’s cultural experience.
Kevin, then 11, suffers from autism and a sensory disorder so we had been a little concerned as to whether he would be able to cope with the noise, lights and the sheer number of people. However the booking clerk was incredibly helpful suggesting seats at the rear of the auditorium, near to the door, so that if he felt he needed to leave at any time he would be able to do so without causing any disruption.
When we arrived at the theatre we were able to go directly to our seats. Unfortunately Kevin felt unable to enter the auditorium. The staff were really accommodating and he and his mum stayed outside the door for a while. Before too long Kevin, fascinated by what he could hear, ventured inside the door for a few minutes, withdrawing when he felt uncomfortable. This happened a couple of times but then, charmed by the sight of pretty Fairy Bowbells he decided to take his seat, where he stayed for the rest of the performance.
Although pantomime is not part of American culture it was gratifying to see how quickly the children - and their father - became absorbed in the performance, laughing and joining in when necessary and thoroughly enjoying the experience. We would like to thank the staff and the theatre management for making this a possibility.
Emma Ashby
It’s a sad truth that while most of us will visit every National Trust building and famous landmark while on holiday; we don’t always make the most of beautiful places where we live.
I had lived in Lichfield for many years and in that time, I had walked past the Garrick, read about the Garrick, talked to others about the Garrick, but never stepped inside the doors until a production of “Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde” visited, and only then because it was being studied at GCSE by my daughter.
Before you judge me too harshly, please understand, it was A-Level theatre studies which put me off the very thing I had always loved. The constant dissection of every word, of every line in every play we studied left me feeling so far removed from theatre that I wanted no part of it.
So, that evening, I trudged behind my family who were eagerly looking around, finding seats, recognising friends, while I wished I had feigned a cold, a stomach bug, anything, to stop what I knew would be a miserable time. Sinking in the seat as the lights went down, I stared morosely at the seat in front of me, wondering if there would be a reprieve where it would all stop for a bit, and I could get an ice cream.
Perhaps it was music, or a sound effect, I can’t recall, but whatever the noise, it was sufficient enough to pique my interest to look up and see an impressive man stride on to the stage amongst a carefully lit set which provided a sense of uncertainty and later, menace. Holding the arm of the seat, I sat up, and paid attention.
It was a real shame the majority of the audience were organised school trips. Tired teachers tried desperately to contain the groups of teenagers with a lot of shushing, vague threats, and some walk outs. They faced a losing battle; the teenage ringleaders changed constantly, and they had far too many fruit pastille sweets at their disposal. Yet despite the jeering and inappropriate coughing, the actors were quite frankly phenomenal, carrying on as if there was nothing untoward and this is the memory I carry with me, of actors, defiantly carrying on.
It would have been easy to share with you a memory of a more placid performance, of which I have enjoyed many at this wonderful theatre, but amid the rabble and fruit pastille throwing, something magical happened for me that night – I got my love of theatre back, and, I’d like to think in some small way, those teenagers took something from the performance too, I know my daughter did, she passed her exam with flying colours.
We are lucky to have this place of spectacle and wonder on our doorstep. However far we come in terms of being able to watch anything at any time in the comfort of our homes, there is nothing like seeing a performance play out live. It is a rather marvellous form of magic right on our doorstep.
Jane Slatter
Let’s go to the Garrick panto!
Festive fun, whizzing wands,
Families all in a row.
Tasty treats, sugary sweets,
Let’s go to the Garrick panto!
The delightful dame, vile villains,
The handsome hero.
Silly sidekicks, wicked witches,
Let’s go to the Garrick panto!
Choreographed chaos, sing-along songs,
All in full flow.
Fabulous frivolity, crazy costumes,
Let’s go to the Garrick panto!
Copious comedy, slapstick scenes,
All part of the show.
Bountiful belly laughter, flying fairies,
Let’s go to the Garrick panto!
And when it’s all over, when “It’s behind you!”,
We’ll gather the troops,
And do you know what we’ll do?
Well, “We’ll… have to do it again then won’t we? Whoops!”
Ruth Sneddon
I remember a concert by the Dublin Legends, back in 2017, I think it was. Irish ballads and lilting fiddle music filled the auditorium and delighted a packed house.
Amidst the old favourites, like Dirty Old Town, Whiskey in the Jar and The Rocky Road to Dublin, one in particular stood out for me. One of the band members, Gerry O’Connor as I recall, told a story of his Father-in-Law’s funeral in rural Ireland. He had been invited to compose and play a piece that he was now about to perform, for us at the Garrick, which he called Song for PJ.
“The funeral was in rural Ireland”, he said, "In a little town in County Meath that no one has ever heard of, called Oldcastle.”
Well, not only had I heard of it, but it was my where my father came from and where many of my relatives still lived, and I had visited every summer for years. My father was now buried there in the churchyard and only a couple of years previously we had laid my mother’s ashes to rest with him. I listened to the beautiful lament with tears in my eyes.
The Garrick, being easy-going in the way only local places can, had the band in the foyer afterwards selling their CDs and it meant I could have a chat with the composer about my father’s home town. I told him I was amazed when he mentioned Oldcastle and he was amazed in turn to find someone in a theatre in Lichfield who knew the place well. It made a special night even more memorable.
For me, the Garrick is one of the ingredients that makes Lichfield the wonderful city it is. It offers us an affordable theatre experience right on our doorstep (it’s a 5-minute walk for me). I believe a thriving town needs investment in those aspects of community that are cultural, aesthetic and enjoyable, as much as it needs investment in the essentials. Even - and perhaps more so - when times are hard.
Happy birthday, Lichfield Garrick.
Joss Musgrove Knibb
This is a House of Stories
It's show-time tonight, so the lights are high,
And all around for miles and miles,
Folk check their tickets and check their keys,
Put on their coats and close their doors,
Travelling out to share the night,
Stepping from darkness into light,
Hoping to hear a tale that might
Transform in the house of stories.
Behind the curtained, busy stage,
Actors are pacing and whispering lines.
Down in the orchestra pit the band
Is tuning and plucking and marking time.
Everything waits in this pregnant pause,
Waits for the ushers to close the doors,
Waits for the gasps and (please God) the applause
That's bliss to the tellers of stories.
Stand outside while the play is on
And you'll hear something almost unique –
A swelling of laughter and language and joy
That's the business of art every day of the week.
And we're all here together, all sat knee to knee,
The rich and the just-getting-by in a place
That's a democracy of our most-loved art –
An art that gets through to the most jaded heart,
An art that distils life down right to the nub,
So let's go see a play, and then nip to the pub.
But follow me now with your inner mind's-eye
As we take the lens back and pull up to the sky.
Let's look down together on this ancient city,
With market-place, guildhall, cathedral
And pretty soon we’ll see the pattern that time's left behind –
Romans and Saxons and Normans and Georgians
And every mind who's built here a home,
And left us their mark, and true tales of their own.
In this place, where we stand, romances were made.
In this place, where we meet, friendships were made.
In this place, where I speak, our history's maintained,
For this is a house of stories.
Scott Hollingsworth - A Fine Lichfield Day
And Sam Johnson is taking a stroll. Flame-haired Anna returns his “I wish you a very good morning, Mistress Anna” with a cut across his bows and a scamper past the green darkness of the yew trees alongside Minster Pool. No matter; unbeknownst to you, Mistress Molly Aston will comfort you for years good Doctor.
He is unflappable as he continues his morning’s tack and veer along Dam Street and across the open market square, hastening his pace as he approaches the Three Crowns for a breakfast port (with sugar lump) or three. And was none the worse for it.
Suitably refreshed, a stroll alongside the bones and desiccated flesh of Lichfield House leads him to the exit, past the rosemary and lavender, whose bushes’ sweet scent spills across his breeches and stockinged legs as he brushes past them on to the square at the rear of the House.
“Mr Garrick Sir! Young Davy! Very well met indeed Sir! A marvellous sight to greet mine eyes this glorious day!”
Ghosts drift like clouds in and out of your doors, sometimes carrying laughter out on a stretcher, more often holding their sides with joy and, occasionally, tears.
It is a fine thing that you manufacture here at the Garrick. A rare thing. A diadem of precious jewels fit for a princess – or a prince – of an inspired City… Nursery of the Arts.
