There was no one to meet her.
Mattie squared her shoulders and went out to the taxi rank beyond the station. She gave the taxi-driver the address of the theatre and they started off into the murk. The driver called something to her over his shoulder, in an accent so impenetrable that Mattie could hardly understand him. She felt as if she was in a foreign land.
But the theatre, when they reached it, reassured her a little. It was a huge grey edifice, seemingly big enough to seat a thousand playgoers. Lights streamed out and the taxi slid forward into the yellow glow. Mattie paid off the driver and went up the semicircle of shallow steps into the foyer. It was hung with playbills from past shows, and with grainy photographs of the two Headline productions.
It was completely deserted, except for a bored girl staring vacantly out of a glass-fronted booth. Mattie strode up to her.
‘I’m here to see Mr Douglas. I’m the new stage manager for Headline.’ It was the proudest sentence that Mattie had ever uttered, but the girl’s face didn’t even flicker.
‘They’re halfway through t’second act. You want stage door. Or mebbe e’ll be oopstairs. You can tek that door.’
She nodded across the expanse of darned carpet to a door marked Staff.
‘Can I leave my things here?’
‘Suits yersen.’
Behind the door was a narrow staircase of bare boards. It was almost pitch dark. Mattie groped her way upwards, with no idea where she was heading.
Then she heard the voice. It was unmistakably John Douglas, and he was shouting. While Mattie hesitated a woman’s voice screamed back. She couldn’t make out the words, but it was clearly a full-blown row. Making her way towards the noise Mattie came to a dingy corridor lit by a bare bulb, and a door marked Office. The door banged open and a woman stumbled out. Her greying hair was falling out of a bun and she was crying.
‘You’re a monster,’ she sobbed. ‘No less than a monster. Not a human being at all.’ Then she pushed past Mattie without glancing at her and ran down the stairs.
‘Yes, yes,’ said John Douglas from inside the office. ‘Tell me something new, Vera.’
Mattie tiptoed forward and tapped on the open door.
‘I thought you’d bloody gone,’ John Douglas said.
‘She has,’ Mattie answered. ‘I’m Mattie Banner.’
John Douglas looked up from the one chair in the room. There was a long pause, and then he said, ‘Is that supposed to mean anything to me?’
Mattie quailed.
He was a big man with a lion’s head of shaggy grey hair. Mattie saw a rubber-tipped walking stick leaning against his chair.
‘I’m your new stage manager.’
His sudden shout of laughter was even more disconcerting. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus Christ.’
It was the same rich voice that she had admired, but how could such a voice belong to this creased, belligerent man?
‘What’s funny about it?’ Mattie asked, stung by his rudeness.
‘Just that Willoughby said he was sending me his own personal assistant, as a great favour.’
‘I am – I was – Francis’s assistant.’
John was still laughing as he looked her up and down. It made Mattie feel hot and angry.
‘Yes, of course. It’s just that I was expecting a lady of a certain age and certain capabilities. Give that we’re talking about Francis I should have known better. I’m sure you’ve got your own talents, love, but I doubt that they’ll be the ones I need for eight shows a week. How old are you?’
Twenty-two.’
John Douglas’s mouth twisted. ‘Of course you are. Kids and cripples, that’s what we are in this company. They should give us special billing.’ He took hold of his stick, and stood up. He was tall, but his body screwed over to one side. ‘I provide the cripple element, in case you were wondering. Usually I tell pretty girls it’s a war wound, but I can’t be bothered tonight. It’s osteoarthritis, and I blame my vile temper on it.’
‘I thought there must be a reason for it,’ Mattie murmured.
He looked at her then, with the corners of his mouth drawn down. ‘What do you know about stage management?’ he snapped at her.
‘Enough.’
‘Oh, that’s very good. You can do the get-out tonight, and I’ll go home to bed.’
Mattie felt her face go stiff. ‘Do the …?
‘This is wonderful.’ He laughed again, without any warmth. ‘Francis may not have explained to you that this is a touring company. This lovely Saturday evening is our last night in Leeds, and on Monday we open a week in Doncaster. We have two shows on this tour, George Bernard Shaw’s Arms and the Man, and Welcome Home, which is a three-act drawing-room comedy complete with maid, of the sort beloved by mystified northern audiences. After the curtain tonight both sets have to be struck and loaded, with props and costumes, on to lorries. This leaves room for the next company to bring in Rookery Nook, or Ghost Train, or whatever bloody masterpiece the manager imagines will appeal to the citizens of Leeds. On Monday the procedure is reversed, in the next theatre. The get-in, as we theatre folk call it. That’s your job, dear, amongst other things. I’m afraid you’ll have Leonard to help you, too.’
‘Leonard?’
‘Your ASM. One of the kids, and half-witted as well. You’d better come backstage now, in the interval, and I’ll introduce you. You’ve already seen Vera. She’s the deputy manager.’ He was walking away down the dingy corridor, moving awkwardly but surprisingly quickly.
‘What was the matter with her?’
His voice boomed back, amplified by the funnel of the passage. ‘Apart from incompetence? Time of the month, I should think. All women are the same, from our lovely leading lady to yourself, no doubt. No, that’s not quite true. Our lamented Jennifer Edge didn’t seem to suffer, but then she took plenty of exercise.’
She heard him laughing.
Mattie contented herself with making a face at the director’s distorted shadow as she scuttled after him down to the stage.
An hour later the curtain had come down. It was a thin house for a Saturday night, and the audience dispersed quickly. The actors vanished in their wake, heading for the pub or the landlady’s cooking at their digs. Nobody paid the slightest attention to Mattie. John Douglas had gone, and she found herself standing in front of the Welcome Home set, frozen by the certainty that she could do nothing with it. She would still be standing there when Rookery Nook arrived on Monday.
‘You’re in charge, then. Where shall we start?’
It was Leonard, a spindly youth in tight trousers, and the theatre’s two
