props, ladders, improbable scenes painted on vast boards—and an impatient Carne. 'This is y' mate as will teach ye.' Carne snatched a look at a well-thumbed snap-bound book and turned to a wiry man nearby. 'And I want t' block through scene three again f'r Miss Mayhew in ten minutes,' he told him, and left them to it.
'Tim Jones,' his preceptor said, thrusting out a hand to Kydd. 'Look o' the sea about ye, cuffin!' He snorted, then grinned.
'Aye,' said Kydd, bemused. 'Er, quartermaster's mate round th' Horn in the flying
They left the confusion of the rehearsal for the dark upper eyrie of the fly-loft where Kydd looked down through a maze of ropes and contraptions directly to the stage below. Jones squatted comfortably on the slats, and began: 'That there's Mr Carne, an' he's the stage-master who calls th' show from that book he has. He's in charge o' the runnin' crew, which includes us flymen, an' that scrovy crowd workin' below. Now, here's the griff. When the scene shifts, th' whole thing fr'm clew t' earring goes arsy-versy in a very smart way, an' it's us as does it. How? I'll show ye . . .'
Kydd took in the complexity of ropes and machinery that could change their world of enchantment from a sylvan glade to a magnificent palace and back again. He learned of flats and gauzes, clothes and rigging; and of the special whistles that had as much meaning for the stage crew in the complex operations of a scene change as a boatswain's call for seamen in the operation of a man-o'-war.
Carne's hectoring voice rose above the din, and occasionally Kydd caught sight of an actor in fine robes foreshortened by the height as he strode the boards declaiming into the empty darkness. Excitement gripped him: soon the grand play would open—it seemed impossible that the disorderly rumpus below could calm to the breathless scenes he remembered from his last visit to a theatre. 'Will we see Miss Mayhew an' Mr Samson a-tall?' he found himself asking in awed tones.
'Y' might at that.'
A bellow of 'Places! Places!' cut through the confusion. Carne had the company pacing through the new scene arrangement under the director's critical eye and the flymen were soon hard at work on ropes and flats.
There was a last flurry of activity before front of house went to their stations, then a tense wait for the play to commence. The echoing emptiness of the theatre now had a different quality: a background susurrus of rustling and murmuring as the first of the audience took their seats while the reflectored footlights threw magic shadows into the upper reaches.
The noise grew, shouts from rowdier elements mingling with raucous laughter and the animated hum of conversation. The small orchestra struck up with a strenuous overture until anticipation had built sufficiently—and the play began.
It was hard work and the timing exact, but Kydd had the chance to hear and sometimes see the action. At the interval he descended to help with the flats for the second half but was called across by Carne: 'Take Miss Mayhew her refreshment, Tom what'syername.'
He was passed a single ornate crystal glass on a small lacquer tray with Chinese writing on it. A smell of gin wafted up from it as Kydd carried it to the dressing rooms, past half-dressed nymphs and bearded Magyars, in a stifling atmosphere of heat and excitement, with the unmistakable smell of greasepaint.
'Ah, thank you, dearie!' she said gratefully. 'Put it down there. I'm near gut-foundered.'
She looked at Kydd shrewdly. 'Well, I haven't seen you before?'
'Er, new t'night, Miss Mayhew,' he said diffidently.
'You're no common stagehand, I'd wager. Gent of decayed fortune, more like. Still, y' came to the right place. Theatre's a fine place t' make your mark. Good luck t' you, cully!'
Blushing, Kydd left. The second half went rapidly, and when the play finished he felt an unaccountable envy for the tempest of applause that followed and the several curtain calls that had him sweating at the heavy ropes. And when the audience had streamed out he felt a pang of loneliness. All he had to look forward to, after these bewitching hours, was the squalor of the sail-loft. He finished securing the rigging as Griselda Mayhew's laughter pealed at Richard Samson's dramatic flourishes with her coat.
She looked in Kydd's direction. 'Did y' enjoy tonight at all?' she called to him.
'I did that,' Kydd said awkwardly, conscious of his shabby appearance as he approached her shyly.
She frowned slightly, then touched his arm. 'It's not my business, but have y' somewhere t' go to?'
Put off-balance Kydd mumbled something, but she interrupted: 'I understand, m' dear, we see a lot of 'em down on their luck, like. Well, not t' worry. Look, we're travelling players an' we have t' take a big enough place for the season. Jem just quit, so why don't y' stay with us for a while?' She turned to Samson. 'That's all right, isn't it, Dickie?' she said winsomely.
A fiercely protective eye regarded Kydd. 'As long as ye don't smoke a pipe, m' good man.'
Staggered by their generosity, Kydd took his leave of Carne, pocketed his coins and followed his new friends out into the night.
It was heaven to lie in a proper bed and Kydd slept soundly. In the morning he went diffidently down to join the others but found not a soul abroad at that hour. He made himself useful, squaring away after the wind-down party of the previous evening, to the surprise of the maid-of-all-work, who arrived late and seemed to find his presence unhelpful.
His gear was in the sail-loft and he went out to retrieve those things that would fit into his modest room, reflecting on the strangeness of life that it could change so quickly. When he returned, a young man was holding an angry conversation with a wall and Richard Samson was stalking about in an exotic bed-robe reading aloud from a script in ringing tones.
