Cuckoo in the Nest. Michelle Magorian

back on to the stage.

      ‘Oh, well, here goes,’ he whispered.

      Methodically he unpacked the props which had been thrown willy nilly into one of the other packing cases, picked up the ones from the floor and spread them out on the long table. Then piecemeal, he put all the props with ‘P’ beside them at one end.

      Out of the corner of his eye he observed a dishevelled-looking man in his thirties in dirty overalls standing next to a youth who appeared to be painting dark-green fleurs-de-lis on sea-green wallpaper. The youth was feverishly painting the ones at the bottom while the man stood on a ladder painting the top ones.

      On-stage a workman was hauling on heavy ropes. As he pulled, the painted ceiling of the Tudor farmhouse was lifted into the flies and two burly men carried the flats which had been underneath it into the scene dock, and stacked them next to the Ladies in Retirement furniture.

      Ralph placed the borrowed props in the box and ticked them off the list. He noticed there was a ‘T’ placed against other props on the list and began sorting those out.

      ‘How’re you doing?’

      It was Isla. He handed her the list.

      ‘The snuffbox is probably in the jacket of one of the actors’ costumes. You’ll find it in dressing-room two. The shepherdess is over there,’ she added gloomily. She pointed to a headless porcelain woman with a crinoline, on one of the worktables by the wall. ‘I’m not looking forward to returning her.’

      Before he could speak she had run back on-stage again. He had to tell her, had to tell someone that he was there under false pretences. One of the men carrying the flats past him must be the boss. If only he knew which one!

      He heard a large burly one say to the painter, ‘We can’t do anything till the lamps and panatrope are cleared and the stage swept, so keep painting.’

      Ralph realised he must be the master carpenter. The man turned and gave him a puzzled look.

      Ralph walked swiftly towards the stage, out through the door into the corridor, and towards dressing room two. Once inside Basil Duke’s dressing room he closed the door and leaned against it, sweating profusely. He knew he was being ridiculous. He had to ask the master carpenter for permission to stay and the longer he left it, the worse was his crime.

      He glanced at the dressing room table. Make-up had hastily been put into a box at the side, with a grubby towel flung half over it. A round tin with Crowe’s removing cream lay beside it. Ralph gingerly prised it open. It smelt vaguely like lard. Peering under the towel into the box he could see a tray with sticks of used greasepaint of every shade. He was about to look under the tray when he noticed an enormous Victorian book of magazine stories. Perhaps Basil Duke had used it to look at pictures of Victorian men or do a bit of research. He picked it up and began flicking through the pictures. Suddenly something furry leapt out. With an alarmed yell he dropped it. As it fell to the floor he could see other furry things.

      ‘Oh, my goodness!’ he whispered. ‘They’re his moustaches.’

      He put the book back on the table and glimpsed inside. Sure enough, moustaches of every size from a small clipped one to a walrus one were pressed into the book. At the back of them was a hard residue of white stuff which looked like dried glue. Gently he picked up the escaping moustaches from the floor and carefully replaced them between the pages, hoping that Mr Duke didn’t have an index arrangement to them.

      He found the silver snuffbox in the pocket of the checked suit. He slipped back out into the corridor and headed back to the door. Everyone was on stage busily untying the ropes which were connected to the ceiling canvas, now lowered to just above floor level. Head bowed, he returned to the prop table, wrapped the snuffbox and placed it with the other Parker props and ticked it off.

      Hurriedly he left the scene dock and walked into the area on-stage where the flagstoned floor was being rolled up. Ralph shyly joined the end of the line of people and helped push it along.

      As men carried it off into the scene dock Ralph stood awkwardly in front of the footlights not knowing what to do next. He spotted Helena attempting to move two boxes in the stage right wings. Cables trailed from two turntables on them towards two speakers on either side of the footlights. She was removing a gramophone record from one of the turntables and placing it carefully in its sleeve.

      Isla was picking up cigarette ends. ‘Can I help?’ he asked.

      ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The brooms are over there.’ And she indicated the widest brooms he had ever seen, leaning up against the back wall of the stage. ‘This whole area has to be cleared.’

      Relieved to be doing something, he grabbed one and swept with gusto. Out of the corner of his eye he observed a private exchange between the master carpenter and a stage hand and a small envelope passing hands.

      Then the master carpenter turned on his heel, headed straight for Ralph and towered over him with his hands on his hips.

      ‘Now then,’ he said abruptly, ‘mind telling me who you are and what you’re doing here?’

      The silence seemed to last for hours. ‘Well?’ said the man impatiently.

      ‘I meant to ask,’ he began. ‘I mean . . .’ he stammered.

      ‘Sorry, Jack,’ said a voice from behind, ‘he’s a friend. He’s learning. I meant to ask you but I clean forgot. And when I remembered I couldn’t find you.’

      ‘Isla, you know the rules! If he ain’t on the payroll and a spot bar falls on his head, we’d be in serious trouble. He ain’t insured.’

      ‘Yes, I know. I’ll make sure he stands to one side. But can he help me mark out first while Helena makes the tea? I’m sure no lights will fall on him.’

      He frowned.

      ‘We can all get home earlier,’ she added.

      ‘I suppose so. But don’t go telling Mr Johnson.’

      Ralph, Isla and Helena watched him head for the scene dock where two workmen were waiting to be paid.

      ‘Thanks,’ said Ralph quietly to Isla. ‘I tried to tell you . . .’ He paused. ‘How did you guess?’

      ‘It was the putrid colour you turned.’

      ‘Oh.’ And he laughed.

      ‘Give us a hand with the stage cloth will you? Then we can mark up.’

      Ralph, Helena and Isla spread it out on to the stage and tautened it with weights. Then they carried a long roll of green felt and unrolled it on top, smoothed it down and fixed the weights at the edges.

      Helena went to wash the mugs and make tea. ‘They can’t put up any of the flats till I get this marked up,’ said Isla. She unrolled a thick piece of paper from a small table on the left side of the stage next to the curtain, which she called the prompt corner. Beside it on a wall were all sorts of switches for lighting and sound cues. On the piece of paper was a ground plan. She laid it out on the floor.

      ‘These are the walls of the set,’ she said pointing to the outer lines, ‘and these rectangles are where the different bits of furniture are set. I take a measurement from this line here,’ she explained drawing her finger down the centre.

      ‘So you have to measure and mark up the back flats first, is that it?’

      ‘No. And by the way we call the back part of the stage, upstage and the front part of the stage going down towards the floats, downstage.’

      ‘What are floats?’

      ‘The footlights.’

      ‘But why does the furniture have to be a precise length from the centre?’ he said. ‘Can’t you just set them roughly?’

      ‘Not when you’re dealing with timing a move or a line.’

      ‘How often have you to do this?’