Cuckoo in the Nest. Michelle Magorian

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

Four

      ‘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 anything on this list with a “P” beside it, and put it in here,’ she said, pointing to one of the packing cases.

      Ralph took the list and she and Helena dashed 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 СКАЧАТЬ