‘You keeping up, boy?’ said the man. Walter hadn’t realised he’d become so engrossed in reading all the messages, he’d stopped in the middle of the corridor.
‘Yes! Sorry! I’m here!’ Walter bounded to the burly man and ashe turned the slight bend in the corridor, Walter saw he had been joined by someone else.
‘Lenny! This is your new protégé.’ Lenny was almost half Walter’s height and his flat cap threw a shadow over his eyes so Walter could only see his bent nose, his wrinkled cheeks and the cigarette hanging out of his lips.
‘Bit young, ain’t ’e?’ Lenny wiped sandwich crumbs from the stubble onhis chin.
‘I’m twenty-two,’ mumbled Walter.
‘All right, all right,’ Lenny sighed. ‘Anyfing’s better than a thief.’ He grabbed Walter by the arm and pulled him through a door, under a sign that readSILENCE!YOUCANBEHEARDONSTAGE!Walter held his breath as they entered into the upstage, stage left wing and found themselves in a small quick-change area that could only comfortablyhold maybe four people. Large set pieces hung above them and swung gently from strong ropes and wires. Even though Walter knew they were probably as secure as the crown jewels in the Tower of London, he tried not to stand directly underneath anything. Just in case. From the back the sets were clearly made of wood but as he caught a glimpse onto the stage, he could see the brickwork so convincinglypainted onto the other side. Lipsticks were lined up along the edge of a wooden desk fixed to the back of the set, in front of a crooked mirror hung from a rusty nail. All the lipsticks were open, ready for the evening’s performance. The smell of dry ice was thick in the stuffy, almost moist air and caught in the back of Walter’s throat.
‘This way!’ Lenny tottered down the cramped stageleft wing. Walter’s shoulders were gently grazing the wall and the black cloth that hung to hide anyone from the audience’s view. Lenny opened up a door and climbed three steps into another carpeted quick-change area, this one with a mirror with lightbulbs around the rim and a full set of make-up laid out in a neat row beside a gold box of tissues. Walter caught Lenny’s eye and realised he’d beenwatching him take in every detail.
‘That’s for our new leading lady. Quiet girl but nice enough. Very young. In over her head. Don’t get any funny ideas,’ said Lenny, pointing at him with one of his lumpy fingers that had clearly been broken at some point in his lifetime.
‘Of course not,’ said Walter, nodding emphatically, but Lenny simply laughed.
‘Out here, then!’ Lennyproduced a key and opened up another door leading out into a well-lit, ornate corridor and Walter figured this must be front of house. ‘What the audience can see is a right side nicer than what we get to slum it in. Funny that, innit? We’re doing all the work and we get all the shit. Dirty stone floors. Chipped paintwork. This lot get carpets, velvet cushionsanda show? Makes no sense if youask me!’
Walter wondered how much work Lenny actually did at stage door, compared to the actors and the crew in the show, and whether his bitterness was valid. They walked down a set of stairs past pictures of famous actors from years gone by who had performed on the stage of the Southern Cross, and Lenny pushed through a set of polished wooden doors with a little more aggression than wasnecessary, bringing Walter out into the auditorium.
‘Excuse me?’ A man was sitting in one of the stalls seats, sunk down low on its cushion with his legs outstretched and his ankles crossed on the backs of one of the seats diagonally in front of him.
‘Sorry mate, just showing the new boy around.’
‘Mate?’ The man swung his legs down, stood and straightened out his clean andwell-pressed suit jacket. ‘Who do you think youare?’
‘I’m Lenny. Stage door.’ Walter glanced sideways at Lenny and wondered how good he was at gauging situations. ‘You know the theatre’s closed, right?’Clearly not very good at all, Walter thought.
‘Lenny, I think he may be someone important,’ he whispered.
‘What?’ said Lenny, quite loudly.
‘Yes, boy, care to sharewith the group?’ The man walked slowly towards them down the row, making every step more decisive than the last.
‘I was just saying you’re clearly someone of great importance and so I’m sure you wouldn’t be here without reason,’ Walter replied.
The man quickly looked Walter up and down and nodded. ‘Well done, boy. Finally, someone with a bit of sense. I think you’ll find, Mr…Lenny, I am the producer ofWhen The Curtain Falls, Hamish Boatwright.’
‘When the what?’ Lenny shrugged.
‘When The Curtain Falls,’ Hamish hissed through his straight teeth. ‘The new production due to open in two days!’
‘Right.’ Lenny shrugged again.
‘The whole of London’s talking about it,’ Walter said, adjusting himself behind Lenny’s tensed shoulder.
‘They are indeed,’smiled Hamish, his moustache curling up at the ends.
‘You’re not the director, then?’ Lenny probed and Hamish’s nose twitched. The show’s director, William Hurdle, wasn’t a fan of Hamish wanting to produce the showandplay the part of Melvin Banks. They clashed at every rehearsal and most days ended in a blazing row until, finally, Hurdle quit. However, Hamish couldn’t afford to lose WilliamHurdle’s name attached to the production. His body of work was astounding and his high profile was just what the show needed to get off the ground. Hamish knew how loud money could talk, so he paid him off. If Hurdle kept his name attached to the show and let Hamish take over direction, Hamish paid him more than directing any show in town possibly could. It didn’t matter then to Hurdle if theshow flopped. He’d already be in America spending his money on women and whiskey.
‘No, I’m the producer,’ Hamish said through gritted teeth.
‘I’ve not heard anything about it,’ Lenny said. Walter glanced sideways at Lenny’s face and could see that he was lying; stubbornness may as well have been written across his forehead in bold lettering.
‘Then maybe it’s time you startedlistening.’ Hamish tugged sharply on the hem of his suit jacket, straightening out its creases, and turned on the heels of his shiny black shoes. ‘Fawn. We’ve got scenes to rehearse.’ There was movement and a rustle of papers from the far side of the auditorium, and a tangle of autumnal burnt orange hair bobbed up above the sea of red velvet seats.
‘Of course, Mr Boatwright.’ Fawn stoodand brushed down her cream dress that was cinched in at her waist with a thick sky blue belt. She brushed off the fluff and quickly collected the many sheets of paper she’d scattered around her on the floor, stuffing them back into her brown leather satchel.
‘Please, darling,’ Hamish smiled with all his teeth as he moved to her. ‘I’ve told you a thousand times. It’s Hamish.’ Hamish Boatwrightdelicately snaked one arm around Fawn’s shoulders, but the fingers of his other encircled the wrist that held the strap of her satchel. Walter could see by his whitening knuckles that his grip was just that little bit too tight. ‘And what have I told you about sitting on the floor?’
‘I know, Mr Boatwri – Hamish.’ She half smiled. ‘I just find it so much easier to learn the lines when Ihave the entire scene laid out in front of me.’
‘It’s not about what’s easier. It’s about what’s ladylike. West End starlets don’t sit on the floor. Don’t make me repeat myself, Fawn, dear.’
Walter watched Fawn flinch and stop on their journey to the door and Hamish snatched his hand away from the wrist that Fawn was now gently rubbing. Walter coughed loudly. Hamish quickly glancedbehind him and locked eyes with Walter, who wondered whether the producer’s next move would have been different had he not been watching.
‘Lunch, my dear? My treat.’ Hamish offered Fawn his arm and hesitantly she slipped her own slender arm through his. They disappeared through front of house, but not before Fawn’s green eyes found Walter’s and silently saidthank you.
