know the man’s surname. The old man looked up and frowned. ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘What you doin’ in ’ere?’
‘I came last night, sir, about a job?’
‘Oh,’ he said, slapping his forehead. ‘Sorry, sonny, I completely forgot. I ent seen Mr Johnson or Mr Walker all day.’
Ralph’s heart fell.
The man looked sorry for him. ‘Stand over there,’ he said pointing to a notice board.
Ralph walked over to where a large skip was wedged up against a wall and leant against it. He heard a door being opened at the top of the steps and voices.
‘So when do you think you’ll be back?’ said a female voice he recognised as belonging to one of the batty sisters in Ladies in Retirement.
‘I don’t know,’ said the dark voice of Elspeth Harding. ‘Before Christmas, I hope. I need the money!’
‘Money? What’s that?’ quipped the younger actress.
‘Oh, don’t,’ said Elspeth Harding in mock despair.
As soon as Ralph saw them appear at the foot of the steps in their hats and coats he stood to attention.
‘Well, we’re off, Wilfred,’ said Miss Harding.
‘Not fer long, I ’ope.’
‘Tell that to the producer,’ she laughed.
‘You’ll be snapped up by the West End.’
‘That’s what I keep telling her,’ said the younger actress.
‘Right now all I can think about is catching the train, getting home and cooking myself a meal.’ She glanced aside at her companion. ‘I envy you, Annie, living so near.’
More footsteps were making their way down now. Ralph looked up expectantly. Geraldine Maclaren appeared. She was flicking through a playscript. ‘Oh, bliss,’ he heard her breathe. ‘Only one costume.’
She looked dazzling in a red jacket with padded shoulders and red skirt with navy piping. A red hat was perched to one side on her black wavy hair. Ralph was shocked to see how heavy her make-up was at close quarters. In the corners of her eyes were dark red flecks. It looked almost as if she was wearing a mask. ‘Is Basil down yet?’ she asked Wilfred.
‘Not yet, Mrs Maclaren.’
At that moment Ralph’s hero came leaping down the steps with his script.
She swung round. ‘Have you had time to have a look?’
‘Yes, I’m playing a real sod,’ he said cheerfully. ‘And I can wear my evening dress all through.’
‘Lucky thing,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll try to get hold of a cape from somewhere to keep me warm.’
‘You could wear long johns underneath.’
‘I don’t think so somehow.’ She smiled. ‘I’m looking forward to this, I’ve only been in one Priestley play before and I loved it. Oh, hell! I wore my white dress for Moonlight Over Athens. The audience will recognise it. Unless I wear a coloured sash perhaps?’
Ralph returned to sitting on the skip and tried to make himself sink into the surroundings as they shook hands with Wilfred and disappeared into the night. Finally a tiny elderly woman bustled up to Wilfred with a small bundle. ‘Not much washing this week,’ she said, ‘it being a costume drama. Next week’s going to be busy though. Lots of whites.’ She caught sight of Ralph out of the corner of her eye.
‘He’s looking for work,’ Wilfred explained.
‘Call boy?’
‘Strike.’
Ralph pushed himself away from the skip. ‘They’ve got everyone they need,’ she said.
‘I know,’ he whispered. ‘But I didn’t want to disappoint the lad. Anyway he can hold a ladder, can’t he?’
‘Listen, lovey,’ said the old woman to Ralph. ‘There ain’t much hope but I’ll take you backstage and you can ask Jack Walker. ’E’s the master carpenter. He and Mr Johnson, the stage director, are in charge of hiring and firing.’
‘Thanks awfully,’ he said.
‘But don’t get in the way or they’ll have my guts for garters.’
As they stepped up the stone stairway he felt the old adrenalin returning. On the first landing to his right there was a door. To his left there were more steps leading upwards. ‘The other dressing rooms is up there,’ she said noticing him glancing up at them. She pushed open the door.
He found himself in a long corridor. As they walked along it they passed a dressing room with a door open. It was just as he had imagined it, with light bulbs round the mirrors. Hanging on a rack were Victorian dresses above pairs of button boots. Next to the room was a dilapidated kitchen-cum-sitting room and another dressing room. He hovered in the door. There was the ulster Basil Duke had worn as Albert Feathers when he had walked over the marshes in the rain in flight from the police. Scattered in front of the mirror were sticks of greasepaint and small round tins. He was astounded to see so much make-up.
‘You coming, love?’ said the old woman.
‘Yes, of course, sorry,’ said Ralph, startled.
‘Those are the number one and number two dressing rooms,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘The more important you are, the nearer you get to the stage.’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘It ent your first time backstage, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Funny that, you look like you’ve bin ’ere before. Look at home.’
‘I feel it,’ he said shyly.
‘This way,’ she said and she pushed open a black door.
Ralph was surprised to find himself standing in the wings. On his left the doors to an enormous shed adjoining the stage were open. Stacked in corners and along walls were piles of furniture, painted scenery and boxes. On long worktables were pots of paint and glue and props. There was a strong pungent smell which seemed to cause his nose to retreat into the back of his head.
The painted flats on his immediate right had been removed, leaving the rest of the set and auditorium exposed. Most of the furniture had been removed from the house, and the flagstone floor which looked so solid from the gallery, he discovered, was only painted canvas. Two young women were staggering towards him with a Georgian sofa. Behind them on-stage right, a young man with wavy hair and a large muscular man in his forties, were carrying the piano where the retired dancer had been strangled by Ellen Creed whilst playing Tit Willow.
Ralph turned to ask the old lady who he should ask about work, only to find that she had disappeared.
‘Isla!’ called out the young man. ‘Could you shove those chairs out of the way?’
‘Hang
