CHAPTER 12
Two weeks remaining.
Tragedy was happily averted this week in The Liberty Theatre, when fire ravaged one corner of the stage. The flames were doused by the quick-thinking Andrew Millet, the theatre’s technician and one of its key players. Readers may recall Millet from his arresting performance as Tamino, in The Liberty Troupe’s sell out adaptation of The Magic Flute, which went down a daring, non-operatic route.
Minimal damage was done to sets and props, although the cause of the blaze remains unknown. Director and producer Evelyn Thompson, nephew of esteemed artist Julius Thompson, assured this reporter that rehearsals continue unabated, and that all is still on schedule for the opening performance in only two weeks’ time.
In spite of my bravado with Michael, I was worried. I was always worried two weeks before a new production opened, and indeed, I was always worried, a little bit, about something or other. Yet this time, I could not put it from my mind, or laugh it off as nerves. The report about Lindsey Elliot’s burglary appeared in The Advocate the day after Michael’s visit, and covered half of the third page. A smaller piece ran inside The Mercury, and The Intelligencer only deemed it worthy of a meagre paragraph near the back. But regardless of how important the newspapers deemed the robbery, I could not shake the pulse of fear that came to my throat each time I saw another strange workman a little too close to my father’s studio.
Elliot had lost three paintings, a source had told reporters. Nothing else seemed to have been taken, and the subject of the paintings remained a mystery. The Advocate even made the link between that and Tristan Lovett’s burglary, reminding the reader that both artists had pieces commissioned for the upcoming exhibition. I could only imagine how Augustine must have been feeling. I made a mental note to speak to Parker about security around the theatre.
It was with great apprehension that I waited in the theatre for the rest of the Troupe to arrive. I had banned Michael from attending, preferring instead that he see the performance on opening night with every other audience member. I didn’t need him sniffing around at such a crucial point of production. Andrew’s shadow set having been pushed back to cover the charred wood left by the fire, the front of the stage was bare of all but two large columns, painted on cloth, hung one on either side. These were our Midsummer Night’s Dream columns, and Andrew had campaigned that they needed to be altered for their new, prestigious use. Time permitting, I had allowed that they could be painted with an ivy vine, but for the moment they hung as bare stone.
‘Do you know, this might not be all that bad.’
Mother entered stage left, twirling and flapping her cape like a giant crow. She had refused to be fitted for it, and given that the only place it might not fit was her neck, I let her win that battle.
‘You like the cape?’ I asked, suspicious.
‘I wouldn’t go that far, darling. But have you noticed how pale and regal I look in it? I should like to wear all black more often, you know, but one can’t do that without being asked if one is in mourning.’
‘I’m sure that will be a great consolation to you, the next time somebody dies,’ I said. ‘So you will wear it on stage?’
Mother spun one more time and the cape flared around her ankles, revealing the cyan skirts she wore beneath.
‘I still think I could have come up with a better solution,’ she said in her most patronising tones. ‘But given the time constraints and so on, I can see why you thought it better to take the easier option.’
‘How kind of you to humour me. Is everybody else back there?’
Mother ushered the rest of the troupe, including a reluctant Jackie, who was done up in jewel-coloured satin and clearly felt that it was a little too feminine for his liking, on to the stage. I felt a flutter in my stomach, and I wasn’t sure if it was pride that it seemed to all be coming together, or nerves. We had failed to have a successful rehearsal yet, so it was probably the latter.
I stood, and climbed the stairs to the stage.
‘I needn’t tell you how little time we have left before the exhibition,’ I began, and Mother rolled her eyes. ‘I’m sure I’ve told you enough already. But given the shortness of the time, we will be having a dress rehearsal every day until the day before we open. These will be at 3pm every day, and they will not be optional. I assume you understand me?’
Andrew scratched his head and Annie examined her nails. I sighed.
‘No scripts, please.’
Jackie looked shifty, and I noticed a piece of paper peeping out from his sleeve. The fool only had three lines in the whole production.
‘Hold on.’ I counted players and tried to match them up with parts. ‘Where’s Parker?’
Annie raised her hand as the others stifled yawns.
‘He sends his apologies. Workmen.’ She shrugged and rolled her eyes.
I briefly imagined him being hit around the head with a plank of wood.
‘Priorities, priorities,’ Mother muttered. I was still annoyed with her about the cape, and so decided not to be riled by Parker’s disappearing act. Annie narrowed her eyes and scowled at her. She was very protective of Parker.
‘At least the theatre will be standing as we perform. Unless you don’t think that’s a priority?’
Mother looked ready to snap back, but I wasn’t about to let this dissolve into a sniping match. These two were professionals – it could last all afternoon.
‘And he has one line and minimal direction,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m sure we shall suffice. Right then, places, please.’
The players disappeared off stage, Andrew dimmed the lights, and we began.
It wasn’t awful, I realised. That’s not to say that it wasn’t bad overall, and particularly awful in the places where Jackie’s script fell out of his sleeve and when Mother started flinging her arms out and swinging her hips to make her cape look like a ringing bell. But for a first dress rehearsal, it was no worse, and no better than any other we had ever had.
I felt better, a lot better, and as the rehearsal wore on I began to allow myself a little respite from constant worrying. This would suffice. We had things to work on, little tweaks and big ones which would be corrected and adjusted by the opening night. The important thing was that we had a play, and no matter what happened, the curtain would rise before the Duke of Wellington.
This rehearsal was also the first complete run through of Andrew’s shadow set. Once the light behind the screen was lit, Jackie edged back as far as he could, almost disappearing off the stage.
It was beautiful. I could see Father’s input on the shapes, but the movement was all Andrew’s. Of course, there were things which would need improving, there were slight hitches here and there where the mechanism didn’t move quite as smoothly as it ought, and gaps where more scenery would come later. But beautiful nonetheless. It was like watching a dream I wished I could have. If only my nights consisted of heavenly battles played out with light and shade, rather than different scenarios in which the play was ruined and I was unable to do anything about it.