Tightrope

A short play, and a voiceover

This 5-minute play was performed at Leeds Pub Theatre in September, then had another outing at Scarborough Wordsmiths open mic. It was performed both times by Josephine Pimm, a brilliantly talented actor, and co-directed by me and Paul Spencer.

Inspired by Jo’s amazing performances, I’ve had a go at Substack voiceover for the first time.

So you can read, or listen to me, or both at the same time…

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Tightrope, a short play, written by Jackie Daly

When you’re walking a tightrope, you need to focus.
All your energy, every fragment of attention, here, on the rope, in perfect balance.
Where are your feet? Your arms? Your gaze?
Your centre of gravity.
The pivot of your ankle as you move.
It’s not just your body walking the tightrope. It’s your whole being: body, mind and soul.

I mean, you can’t be thinking about whether you’re running out of milk.
Or what you wish you’d said to that rude customer yesterday.
Or how lonely you are.

You can’t be anywhere else but – with the rope.

A death-defying cartwheel, 6 metres in the air, is one of the most peaceful moments I know.

Because there, while I’m doing that, it’s all there is.

I ran away with the circus five years ago.
When I was growing up, my mum used to say,
“If you don’t behave, I’m going to run away with the circus and then you’ll need to get your own tea.”
She never did.
But she must have put the idea in my head.

I met Dom when I was 19. He was so cool. Motorbike, big muscles, sexy. He swept me off my feet.
I’d ride pillion, screaming round hairpin bends in the Dales, or sunburnt from long days in Scarborough.
My mum told me he was bad news.
But when you’re 19 that much fun can’t be bad.

The first time he hit me – I should have run then – I was in too deep.
We had a flat together.
He was jealous of some guy who looked at me the wrong way.
He said he was sorry, it would never happen again, it was only because he loved me.
Yada yada.
I should have run.

Five miserable years later, the circus came to town.
Dom wouldn’t let me have any money of my own, but I’d been skinning pennies off the grocery shop for years, so I spent some of my savings on a circus ticket.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the tightrope walker.
The grace, the elegance.
So high. So free.
He looked like no-one could get him, all the way up there.

I hung around after the show. Like a groupie.
Then, there he was, walking on the earth like a normal person.
“You were amazing, absolutely amazing!”
He just nodded, kept walking.
Now I know, you get that all the time after a show.
I ran after him.
“Please, tell me. How does it feel to be up there?”

Later, Patrick told me, no-one had ever asked him that. How it feels. He knew I was different.

The circus was in town for a week.
Patrick and I met every afternoon, while Dom was at work.
No – not for that. Patrick’s gay.
He taught me to walk the rope.
Said I was a natural.
And when the circus packed up and left, I went too.

Last week, I climbed the ladder, stood on the platform with my balance pole, stepped onto the wire, and I saw him.
Dom.
In the audience.
Mouth hanging, a big ugly gawp.

Don’t know how I got back to the platform, but I did.
My last ten years crashed into that one moment, flashed in front of my eyes, tears streaming in their wake.
All those years, of pain.
My escape.
And step by step, my slow recovery, the tightrope, my way home.

I breathed deeply, the way Patrick taught me.
Into my toes, my legs, my torso, breathed all the way to my fingertips.
Eyes closed, I imagined my walk.
I touched the rope with my right foot, felt its strength flood my body.

I opened my eyes.
Dom was still there.
But up here, he can’t get me.
I stepped out.
Just me and the rope, body, mind, and soul.

And let me tell you, that death-defying cartwheel, six metres in the air, was one of the most peaceful moments I’ve ever known.

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Photo by Max on Unsplash