‘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 on a minute, Robin,’ said one of the young women. She lowered her end of the sofa and began clearing a couple of heavy dining-room chairs out of the way. Feeling desperately empty-handed, Ralph lifted her end of the sofa.
‘Oh,’ said the other young woman. ‘Where did you spring from?’
Isla appeared at their side, chairs in hand. ‘Marvellous,’ she said. ‘Helena will show you where to take it.’
Dumbfounded by this easy acceptance of his presence he found himself backing with the girl called Helena towards the shed.
Helena was small and strong with untidy short blonde hair and grey eyes. She was wearing a threadbare navy jersey underneath maroon dungarees. She pointed with her chin to a stack of furniture in the corner.
‘The sofa goes there,’ she explained.
‘What can I do now?’ Ralph asked after they had carried it to the pile.
‘Didn’t Jack Walker tell you?’
‘Well I haven’t exactly asked him yet,’ he began.
‘Helena!’ yelled Isla from on-stage.
‘Stay here,’ said Helena. ‘We’ve got to finish clearing the props. They can’t clear the set until we do. Is it your first strike?’
Ralph nodded, but before he had time to explain, she was already dashing towards the stage, her small mercurial figure whirling round the set, grabbing any props in sight.
As the two young women came towards him, their arms filled with nineteenth-century bric-a-brac, Isla came directly to him. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Now is not the time to ask Jack what he wants you to do. I should just keep out of the way for the moment till he needs you.’ She looked at the heap of props around the table. ‘What a mess!’
‘Want me to sort it out?’ he asked.
The two girls glanced at each other and smiled. ‘Rather,’ said Helena.
‘Why not?’ laughed Isla. ‘It’ll save us having to do it on Monday.’
‘And I can go and help with electrics,’ said Helena beaming.
As soon as Helena had left them, Ralph found Isla giving him a penetrating stare. Like Helena she, too, was wearing a jersey under a pair of dungarees, only her jersey was brown and her dungarees green. Unlike Helena she was attractive in a striking buxom sort of way. She was the same height as Ralph, with huge almond-shaped brown eyes, short glossy chestnut brown hair, and a wide full-lipped mouth. To his embarrassment he found himself blushing. She gave a deep warm laugh.
‘Come with me,’ she said.
Ralph followed her to the pile of Ladies in Retirement furniture.
‘Grab hold of this,’ she said, and she flung a sheet at him. ‘We need to cover this all up until we can return it to people who have lent it to us.’ She glanced at him curiously. ‘You’re not going into acting, are you?’
Ralph found himself nodding.
‘Poor fool,’ she said looking a little sad. ‘So you’re learning a bit before going to drama school?’
Drama school! Ralph hadn’t even thought about drama school. He found himself nodding again and hated himself for lying to this stunningly beautiful young woman.
‘How on earth did you manage to persuade Mr Johnson to let you help on a strike? Or do you know Jack Walker?’
Ralph opened his mouth to answer but no sound emerged.
‘Look out!’ she yelled suddenly.
Ralph swung round. Helena, who was carrying a china mandarin with a nodding head, was about to go flying over a statue of a Madonna and child.
‘Thanks,’ said Helena.
‘I’ll be glad when all these antiques are back at Parker’s,’ said Isla. ‘I’ve been sweating buckets during Tears rehearsals. Every time someone makes a grand gesture I’ve been expecting to hear the tinkle of shattering Ming.’
Helena gingerly put the mandarin on the table. Isla was removing a list from underneath some imitation seaweed.
‘Wrap