Toby the Tenor

At 8am on Wednesday 20th December, 2006, I was sitting in departures at City Airport, East London, waiting to catch a flight to Geneva. With one eye on the screen for my call to the gate, I blithely drank a coffee feeling smug about having stolen two quick nights at home between performances of Wagner’s Die Meistersinger von Nüremberg without anyone knowing or leave to do so.

Contractually, singers are required to get permission to leave a city between performances, so the theatre knows where they are if a cast member falls ill and extra rehearsals are required to help a jump-in learn the production. In Geneva there are other clauses to do with not going skiing or climbing for the duration of the contract, probably added after hard-won experience.

On this occasion, I had flown home without asking for permission because I was missing my girlfriend and wanted to get away from Geneva, a city which loses its charm after six weeks. Geneva Airport is a short tram ride from the opera house, so I calculated the 8.30am flight would get me back in good time for lunch, a snooze and a leisurely walk to the theatre in time for curtain-up at 4pm local time – Meistersinger is six hours long, hence the early start.

As I watched the screen, I noticed the word “cancelled” appear alongside a couple of departing flights. Hello, I thought and calmly carried on feeling smug and sipping my coffee, now with two eyes on the screen. Another “cancelled” appeared. People around me let out the soft sighs of inconvenience, rose to their feet and made for the information desk.

My SwissAir flight was still due to land, I was in denial and busily batting away the possibility of it being diverted, despite more flights racking up with the “cancelled” status. Then, at 8.35am the dreaded word dropped onto the screen, next to my SwissAir flight.

I immediately grabbed my phone and rang Eurostar. There was no combination of trains that could get me to Geneva in time for 4pm. Flights from other London airports? All cancelled. A blanket of thick fog had blown into the Thames Valley from the North Sea and short-haul flights from Heathrow, Gatwick and City were all grounded. I took out my phone and dialled.

“Babs,” I said as she answered, “are you busy this morning? Could you help me?”

“Spence, what have you done? I thought you were on a plane to Geneva.”

“Hmmm. All the flights are grounded. I’ll be in deep doo-doo if I don’t get to Geneva.”

“Spence! I’m not driving you to Switzerland.”

“I won’t make you do that. I’m going to get the monorail to Bank, can you get my car keys and meet me there with the car? I’ll have a plan by then.”

“Okay. I’ll be there.” I heard Barbara’s voice switch from confused to engaged as she said it.

I took my overnight bag and headed for the channel to exit the departure lounge. Once through, back into the check-in area, I dialled my agent at Askonas Holt.

“Peter.”

“Hello Tobes.”

“Hi, I’ve screwed up. I’m at City Airport and my Geneva flight has just been cancelled. All the flights have been cancelled.”

“You as well. Do you have an N/A to be in London?”

“I don’t.”

“Say no more. Get going towards the centre of London. We will make some enquiries and call you back.”

“Thanks. Speak soon.” I then made a dash for the monorail.

Thirty minutes later, I stepped out of Bank tube station and a text arrived saying “I’m waiting on Graham St.”

I looked at a map at the tube exit and couldn’t find Graham St.

“Babs, I can’t see Graham St on the map.”

“Oops, it says Gresham St. Sorry.”

“Coming now.”

Running down the side of the Bank of England, I looked for my car and found it opposite the Guildhall.

“Where to?”

“I’ve no idea. Let’s drive to the North Circular so at least we’re on a fast road.”

As we drove up Holloway Road, my phone rang and Peter’s name flashed up on the screen.

“Hi.”

“Hello. Where have you got to?”

“Holloway Road, en route to the North Circular.”

“Good. Keep going that way.”

“Is there a plan?”

“There is. Listen carefully. We’ve had a look at your contract and I’m afraid the news is not good.”

“How so?”

“If you don’t make it in time for the performance you will be liable for, brace yourself, reimbursing the tickets, paying the orchestra, paying the chorus, paying the soloists, paying the stage technicians, wigs and makeup people and reimbursing lost revenue from the bars and restaurant.”

“Oh shit.”

“Oh shit exactly.” He said calmly. “At a rough guess, it could cost you half a million.”

I broke out in a cold sweat.

“What’s the plan?”

“We’re working on something and will call you back shortly to tell you what to do.”

“Okay. God, thank you so much Peter.”

“All part of the service. Stay calm and keep your phone at hand.”

Barbara and I continued up the A1 in silence, me anxiously looking at my phone. It rang.

“Hi”

“Okay, this is the plan and there is no plan B so you’re going to have to do this and hope.”

“Yikes. Hit me with the plan.”

“Drive to Oxford Airport” (who knew Oxford had an airport?) “where there is a plane waiting for you that will take you to Geneva. Have you got your credit card with you?”

“I have.”

“What’s the limit?”

“Five thousand.”

“You’d better call your bank and raise the limit.”

“How much?” Peter told me and I shuddered.

After hanging up, I turned to Barbara and said, “Well, at least I get to say I’ve been on a private jet.”

Two hours later we rolled up to the gate of Oxford Airport. It wasn’t an airport. It was an airstrip, with a wind sock, sheds and a Nissen hut for paperwork and bad coffee. Geographically, it possessed the two vital qualities I needed that day – it was within a short drive from London and perched at the edge of Cotswolds, above the fog line.

In the Nissen hut, three men were waiting with the paperwork ready for me to sign and a credit card paper receipt copier, the type that went crunch-crunch as you swipe the plastic sliding contraption back and forth. I was half horrified by the many thousands of pounds being drained out of my bank account and half popping with excitement about the beautiful jet, complete with gold taps, cinema screen, Champagne and a uniformed hostess with a toothy smile saying, “Good morning Mr Spence. You look important and impressive today. You must be one hell of a swanky dude to be flying this amazing craft to Geneva. Do you know the Queen?”

Paperwork completed, bank called to confirm the payment will be made and then a final, grateful kiss for Barbara, I walk out to the tarmac to behold the magnificent jet for which I had just paid.

Except it wasn’t magnificent. It wasn’t even a jet. It was a mini-cab with wings. I looked to see if there was an illuminated plastic light on the top saying “For Hire”. It was a small, twin prop Cessna.

“Is that it? Can it get to Geneva without refuelling?”

“It can. Climb in.”

Climb was the right word. I clambered up through the tiny door, pulling myself into a ball to be able to get my limbs in.

“Can you sit at the back, to help with the weight distribution?”

I crawled through the fuselage to the back of four rows and buckled myself into a tight-fitting chair.

“Here,” the pilot shouted over his shoulder, “I picked these up on the way over for you.” He was holding a plastic shopping bag which he flung back to me. Inside were two Co-op sandwiches, an apple, an orange, a biscuit and a bottle of water. The luxury!

The noise as the engines cranked up to speed was deafening. The pilot turned his head again.

“WEAR YOUR HEADPHONES. THAT WAY WE CAN TALK.” Grumpily, I declined. “THE VIEWS OVER PARIS WILL BE SUPERB TODAY. YOU’RE IN FOR A TREAT.”

And so I was, albeit a rather cold treat. The inside of the flying mini-cab was freezing at altitude. We flew directly over Paris with not a cloud to obscure the view. I took lots of photos for bragging rights.

Eventually, the plane swung over the Geneva mountains and we descended to the runway. As we landed I sent out a few texts, the first one to Peter.

“Made it. Phew. Thank you for getting all this arranged. You’ve been a brick. And thanks for not bollocking me.”

“Here to be of service.”

And then another text flashed in.

“Just to warn you, J-MB is not happy. Try to avoid him until after the performance.”

Jean-Marie Blanchard was the intendant of Geneva Opera. As I stepped out of the Cessna, I reflected on him as being a nice, straightforwardly amenable kind of boss. How bad can it be, I thought as a I looked at my watch. 1.45pm. Bags of time. And then I remembered I hadn’t adjusted the time for Europe. Not bags of time.

A car was waiting for me at the little private terminal, ready to waft me down to the opera house. I arrived at the stage door on the dot of 3.20pm, forty minutes before the start of the opera, for which I would be on stage from the beginning of the overture. I quickly threw on my costume and slumped into the makeup chair.

In that instant Jean-Marie appeared and I was trapped. My gleeful relief was washed away as he gave me the Alec Ferguson hairdryer treatment. By the time he had finished delivering his dressing down I was a nervous heap again. On reflection, the day had been at least as stressful for him as it had for me. Could the day get any worse, I wondered as I stepped onto the stage.

I’m happy to record that the day went very well from Wagner’s orchestral opening. In fact, with all the nervous tension I was able to remain focused and present for the whole of the long opera as an account of my day buzzed around the cast like wildfire. At the end, we all had a beer in a bar near the theatre and I was not allowed to pay for the drinks.

Drinks in Geneva are not cheap, so I was glad for one small mercy.