The Lubetkin Legacy

Berthold: Happiness

When, after four weeks at The Bridge, the final curtain came down to wild applause, Waiting for Godot transferred to the West End. I was pleased, but not surprised. The show had an electricity that seemed to light up the audience in that small space. Transferring to a bigger theatre lost the intimacy, but was replaced by the pulse generated by a much bigger crowd.

Stacey came along once or twice out of loyalty, but I think she got bored with the play in a way you don’t get bored if you’re one of the players. She was pleased when I was mentioned in reviews and my face began to appear in the better class of newspaper, though admittedly not on the backs of buses. I took it all in my stride without letting it go to my head: the sudden celebrity seemed as unreal and arbitrary as my prolonged absence from the stage had been.

During that time I would often return home after midnight, pleasantly tired in my bones from the long effort of focusing on the stage-moment, flushed with the triumph of a standing ovation or slightly fuddled from a post-performance drink on an empty stomach. The flat greeted me with a welcoming hush after the clamour of the theatre. Flossie was usually asleep, and though I missed Inna’s cheerful presence I no longer felt loneliness stalking me like an assassin.

Stacey was at the last West End performance of Godot. There were ovations, flowers, tears, farewells, and a long boozy supper afterwards, and in the small hours she guided me towards the little red car that was parked around the corner, and thence to her bed. We made love, and as I drifted into sleep I felt a pleasant warm sensation which seemed to start in my chest and emanate throughout my whole body. This, I realised, in the sweet moment before sleep whacked me out, is what they call happiness. It was so long since I had felt it, I had almost forgotten what it was like.