Devil in Disguise (9 page)

‘There!’
she said to herself. ‘Northampton, I’m ready!’

Monday was always the technical-rehearsal
day when the actors, the band (three tired, disillusioned musicians and a lot
of click-tracks, frankly) and the technicians got used to the new space,
rehearsed their cues, sound-checked and walked through the show, making sure of
their entrances, exits and any alterations, such as a raked stage, that they
needed to take note of.

Having
completed her dressing-room routine, Molly wandered to the Green Room to make a
cup of tea and see who was about. A dear old actor called Peter McDonald, cast
in the title role of the Mikado, was sitting at the dirty Formica table
drinking coffee out of a polystyrene cup and reading
The Times.
He was
in his seventies, dapperly dressed as always in a beige linen suit and pale
green tie. He was vaguely known by the public from a popular series of the late
sixties,
The Butler.

‘Morning,
Miss Molly. I trust you’re keeping well?’ he said, his tone implying that a
certain Dunkirk spirit was required under the circumstances of the location.

‘Yes,
thank you, Peter, as well as can be expected.’

‘Are
your digs satisfactory?’

‘Yes, I
think so. Yours?’

‘A poky
little arrangement ten minutes’ stroll from the theatre through perilous
terrain, but somewhere to lay my head. I shall survive.’ He gave Molly a
telling look and shuddered discreetly.

Molly
smiled at him She was fond of Peter, who was a seasoned repertory actor, and
they had spent some happy hours in each other’s dressing rooms discussing the
other actors or the latest theatre and its crew. Peter went some way to filling
the gap that Simon left, although he was no gay best friend. Despite his camp
playfulness, he was divorced with two grown-up daughters.

‘Now,
Miss Molly,’ he said, putting his paper down, ‘are you excited? Because I am!
Just a week! One week more. One little week to go.’

‘I
know. Wonderful, isn’t it? If my wedding day dawns brightly many more times,
I’ll go bonkers.’

Peter
rolled his eyes. ‘And if I hear “Three Little Maids From School” ever again
after Saturday, I won’t be responsible for my actions. It ran through my head
all last night. Sheer torture.’

They
smiled conspiratorially. The last week was often the hardest to get through.
The cast were all desperately tired of each other, the show had lost what
little energy it had once had, and no one thrilled to the sound of the score
any more, not even the paying public. It was work, plain and simple. Molly had
both enjoyed and endured the experience but she would be glad when it was over,
and she knew that Peter was tired of this uninspired production and the rigours
of touring. ‘We’ve all had enough now, haven’t we?’ she said.

Peter
glanced over each shoulder, as if someone might hear him, and nodded
conclusively. ‘I really don’t know how much longer I can put up with this
shit!’ he cried, in tones of queenly dismay, then lowered his voice. ‘I don’t
want to name names,’ he whispered, ‘but there’s a certain Pish-Tush in this
show who is full of Pooh-Bah!’ His face twitched with irritation. ‘I’ll say no
more. ‘He relaxed again, picked up his paper and studied the crossword in
The
Times.
Molly was well aware of the rivalry between Peter and the
middle-aged actor called Duncan, who played Pish-Tush, which often spilled onto
the stage. Duncan took great delight in blocking Peter’s’ spotlight during his
big number, and Peter’s revenge was to flap his sleeves distractingly whenever
Pish-Tush had an emotive line. The two had first crossed swords sixteen years
ago in a production of
Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime
in Norwich, and were
sworn enemies. The result was a mini soap opera within the not-uneventful plot
of
The Mikado.

‘It’ll
soon be over. You’ll be home before you know it, back in your bachelor flat in
Southampton.’

‘Alone!’
said Peter exultantly. ‘But still alive!’

The
door to the Green Room opened and the stage manager, Kenny, stuck his head
round it. ‘Everyone to the stage, please,’ he said. ‘We’re starting the tech in
three minutes. Call to stage!’

‘And
she gets on my nerves too. Runs this show like we’re all on a school trip.’

‘Kenny
is Nurse Ratched, more like,’ said Molly, flicking off the kettle and
abandoning her tea-making preparations.

‘And
we’re all lunatics in the asylum,’ said Peter, tossing his newspaper across the
room and standing up with a groan. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

The
actors gathered on the stage, discreetly eyeing up the locals who were sitting
about on the side. The company toured with its own sound and lighting operators
but the stagehands and scene-shifters were employed by the theatre.

‘They
kook as if they’d be more at home in a garden centre ‘muttered Peter to Molly,
looking at a couple of portly men with faded black polo shirts tucked into
their trousers. A group of three younger men were loitering on some piled-up
packing cases. They wore black too, but they were cool and sexy in dark jeans
and crumpled T-shirts. ‘They’re dolly, though,’ he added breathily.

The
tech started with a general introduction of the main players and the stage
crew, but the boys on the packing cases weren’t considered important enough to
get a name-check.

‘Okay,
people!’ called Kenny, in his best school-mistressy voice. ‘Could I
please
ask
everyone to give me their full
attention
for the next couple of hours? I
know it’s tedious, but the sooner we get started, the sooner we can all break
for lunch. Let’s work together.’

‘I’d
rather be locked in a lift with Dennis Nielsen than work together with Duncan
ever again,’ hissed Peter, standing at the back with Molly.

‘Right,
could we have the Titipu men and Nanki-Poo standing by, please?’ continued
Kenny. ‘Everyone else off-stage, ready for entrances.’

‘I’m
ready for a large gin,’ said Peter, under his breath.

Molly’s
eye was drawn to the boys as the technical rehearsal began. When she,
Pitti-Sing and Peep-Bo came tottering out of the wings for their first
entrance, she watched them from the corner of her eye. Not only were they
good-looking in a rumpled, stubbly way but, she noticed, when she was standing
in the wings opposite, that occasionally one would let out a groan. It seemed
they were playing some sort of cat-and-mouse game of endurance, wherein they
would all sit in professional silence until one suddenly punched another on the
thigh or upper arm, and the unlucky recipient would involuntarily whimper with
discomfort and surprise. Eventually the stage manager told them to stop mucking
about and they sat motionless and moody, with bowed heads.

When
she emerged from the opposite wing after completing a scene, she found herself
a few feet away from the subdued youths. On impulse, she went over. ‘Hiya,
boys. I’m Molly,’ she said brightly.

They
looked up, their eyes resting appreciatively on her chest, and mumbled their
hellos. The tallest one made the introductions. ‘I’m Sam. Er… he’s Marcus,
and that’s Michael.’

‘Well,
I’m pleased to meet you,’ said Molly. She was always friendly with the crew and
loathed the way some actors treated them, as if they were unworthy of
acknowledgement. She gave them a cheeky look. ‘I saw you getting told off
earlier. If you can’t be good be careful, that’s what I say.’ With that she punched
them all in quick succession, Sam and Michael on the arm, and Marcus, a
brooding, fresh-faced cherub, saucily on the thigh.

‘Ouch!’
said Sam, as the other two moaned loudly. They stared at her in surprise for a
moment, then laughed at her impudence.

Kenny
spun round angrily on his swivel chair. ‘Sssh!’ he said. ‘Can I please ask you
to be quiet over there.’

‘Sorry,
Kenny,’ Molly said quickly. ‘My fault.’

Kenny
tutted and swung back to position at Prompt Corner.

Molly
made a guilty face, then giggled naughtily. ‘Apologies for that, lads,’ she
whispered. ‘I’ll make it up to you. I’d better go. I’ve my big scene coming
up.’ The next time she emerged from the wings, she was disappointed to find
they’d gone.

The first night in a new
town was always quite gruelling. The theatre would be packed and the local
dignitaries would attend —the chain-gang, as Molly called them, because no one
who had a mayoral chain of office could resist wearing it out — and it was
‘press night’, with the Northamptonshire local papers out in force. After the
show, the cast were obliged to attend a ‘mix and mingle’ with the theatre club
audience, who had paid over the odds for such an opportunity, in the stalks
bar.

‘Ugh!’ said
Peter, as he sailed past Molly in the wings just before the finale. ‘It’s shake
and fake night. Cold sausage rolls and warm Chardonnay, no doubt.’

He
wasn’t wrong. The theatre manager, a bow-legged lesbian called Bertha, grasped
Molly firmly by the elbow the moment she entered the bar and steered her round
the room, introducing her to a succession of tight-skinned, overdressed ladies
and their tired-looking husbands. It was nice enough to be complimented on her
performance and her singing but it was wearing to have to answer the same
questions time after time. Luckily, Bertha got her a glass of the warm
Chardonnay to help things along, and once she’d shaken hands with everyone she
was required to meet, she managed to slip away. Bertha was busy on the balcony
smoking her pipe and chatting to a woman in tweed.

Back to
the bar, pronto! she thought, as she’d been clutching an empty glass for too
long. She passed Peter on the way. He caught her eye and raised his to heaven.
He looked rather glamorous, with the remnants of his heavy Japanese makeup
still emphasising his eyes. She lifted her glass questioningly to ask if he
wanted another, and he nodded vigorously, then turned his attention back to the
little old lady who was chatting away to him, oblivious.

She got
to the bar, pushed her way between two men and found herself standing next to
young Marcus, who was looking distinctly bleary.

‘Nothing
stronger than a shandy for you, my lad.’

‘Course
not, Molly,’ said Marcus, a sparkle in his intoxicated eye, which hovered,
Molly observed, well below her neck. ‘Great show. Nice set of lungs you’ve
got.’

‘Thanks.
Glad you enjoyed it.’

Marcus
shrugged. ‘It’s not really my type of thing, if I’m honest. I prefer films.’ He
grinned at her. ‘But you were cool.’

‘I do
my best.’ She ordered two extra large glasses of Chardonnay. ‘Are you boys
having a good time?’

‘We’re
sitting over there, getting as much of this free booze as we can. Wanna come
and join us?’

Molly
passed Peter his wine and looked at the rest of the crowd, all the stuffy types
talking importantly to one another. Then she saw Sam and Michael huddled round
a table at the far end of the bar, laughing with each other while they waited
for Marcus to get back with the drinks. ‘You know what?’ she said recklessly.
‘I would. Come on, I’ll carry that pint for you, if you like.’

Molly
spent the remainder of the evening joking with Marcus and the other boys,
teasing them and horsing around. She felt guilty because she knew she was
supposed to be mingling and being charming but, really, she’d done her bit,
hadn’t she? Once she was actually enjoying herself, though, it all came to an
abrupt halt. The free wine was swiftly withdrawn at eleven thirty and the bar
shutters pulled determinedly down soon after. Bertha could be seen circling the
room like a sheep-dog, slowly rounding up the crowd and pushing them towards
the exit.

A few
too many Chardonnays over the limit, Molly said good night to her new friends
and tottered to the stage door where she asked Roger if he’d be so kind as to
order her a cab home.

He made
a quick phone call, then said, ‘It’ll be ten minutes. If you want my advice,
you’ll keep talking to the driver on the way. They’re rubbish round here,
sometimes fall asleep on the job.’

‘Oh,
right,’ said Molly, trying not to sound tipsy. ‘I shall engage him in
conversation, then.’

‘I
would,’ said Roger. ‘You’re going to Long Buckby, Lilia Delvard’s place. Pick a
topic that’ll last, that’s my tip. Which rules out my sex life.’

‘Yes,
love. Thanks again for giving me the number.’

‘Well,
I wouldn’t want you sleeping on the streets. I hope it’s bearable there. It’ll
be all right for a week, anyway. I know Lilia. She’s an odd fish but she’s one
of us. She put on her own show here a few months ago.’

‘Lilia
did?’ said Molly, more than a little surprised.

‘Yes,’
said Roger, rolling his eyes. ‘It didn’t go too well. She hired the whole place
on a Sunday night. I think it was supposed to be some kind of comeback.
Self-delusion, of course. She thought people would remember her from a hundred
years ago.’

‘Oh
dear. I feel sorry for the old thing,’ said Molly. ‘I bet it was her big night,
too.’

‘She
only sold fifty-eight tickets, and twenty of those were special needs.’