by Jules Wake
As he opened his mouth to say more, I put my finger to my lips and pointed to a large notice behind his head.
Silence in the Wings
A sceptical expression crossed his face and he nodded towards the pit where the orchestra were tuning up.
‘It’s a good habit to get into,’ I muttered and busied myself checking that I had everything, ignoring the sudden lift I felt at being so close to him.
In this particular opera, one of the team stayed for the first scene which involved a very quick change with a lot of fake blood and as speed was of the essence, I needed to be on hand to supervise the effect of the Commendatore bleeding to death. Even without a lightning change, one of us always stayed throughout a performance in case a wig became skew whiff, started to fall apart or to do any touching up or repairing if anything went awry. There’s nothing more distracting during a performance than a wardrobe or make-up malfunction.
The minute the curtain went up, my awareness of Marcus switched to a low-level hum as the orchestra merged seamlessly into a flow of music that rose and billowed, the notes taking to air like birds on the wing. The overture was in effect our starter gun. Backstage we became shadows cocooned in a world between reality and fantasy. I loved these moments, tucked out of sight but so close to the action unfolding on stage. They held a special indefinable magic that I always wanted to hug close to me, a time when nothing else from the world intruded.
As the familiar section of music began to play, I spotted a figure on the other side of the wings. Carlsten Kunde-Neimoth? What was he doing here? Maybe he’d been practising here today. We had several rehearsal studios on site.
A phrase of music I’d been listening out for was played. I ducked down into my make-up kit, to grab the capsules of blood. Next to me, Marcus watched avidly. Damn, he was in completely the wrong place. With only a few beats of the bar left, I gave him a sharp jab in the ribs and motioned him to move quickly.
He bristled, clearly affronted but I didn’t have time to worry about it. A few more notes and scant seconds later, the Commendendatore staggered off stage, ostensibly just having been thrust through with a sword. Like iron filings drawn to a magnet, the team drew around the actor. Ed, the assistant stage manager started his stop watch, counting the seconds off in whispered numbers.
‘Ten.’
Leonie from wardrobe whipped off his shirt.
‘Nine.’
Hetty, another member of the wardrobe team, already waiting with the material bunched together in her hands, dropped a blood-soaked replica shirt over his head.
‘Seven.’
She pulled it down and tucked it into his breeches.
‘Five.’
I pulled several Kirby grips from his wig to release a few strategic locks, dropped the grips on the floor and tousled the hair.
‘Three.’
Popping the blood capsules in my fingers, I grabbed his hands and smeared them with the sticky liquid.
‘Two … good to go … one.’
With a flash of teeth in the dark, the actor playing the Commendatore nodded and dropped back into character and staggered back onto stage clutching his side; scarlet blood oozing through his fingers, highlighted by the single spot trained upon him.
Ed gave us all a thumbs-up and through his headphones spoke to the stage manager in the regulatory dulled down volume and moved back to his usual position. The rest of us heaved a collective sigh of relief. Ed pocketed his stop watch and to a man we all relaxed. No matter how many times we did that change, it always felt hairy.
Marcus had a rather stunned expression on his face. Smiling to myself, I dropped to my haunches to pick up the grips which I’d abandoned. With a quick change at that speed there was no time for tidiness.
He stayed put for the rest of the first act and until the interval. I couldn’t help but keep watching him and every now and then I’d catch his eye. I got the impression he took it all with the hunger of a scholar desperate to learn every last detail in one go.
When the curtain went down and the performers came off, immediately reverting to laughing, joking and teasing, his face was a picture, as if the illusion had totally shattered. Which I guess it had.
‘Where are they all going?’ he asked still whispering.
‘Cup of tea in the canteen. Want one?’ I was gasping for one. The dry air backstage could make you very thirsty.
Uncertainty crossed his face.
‘Come on.’ I led the way down to the canteen following in the wake of the two actresses playing Donna Anna and Donna Elvira, the lead female roles, who were debating the merits of brownie recipes. Jane, the elder of the two, was swearing by a Nigella recipe, Constance the younger, vowed Mary Berry’s was better.
The canteen buzzed as usual with an orderly queue lined up, musicians in black tie, actors in eighteenth century dress and various members of backstage crew in their ubiquitous black.
Marcus didn’t say a word apart from ordering his coffee. Around the room, with its plastic chairs, round tables and leatherette banquettes around the edges, there were probably close on to one hundred people enjoying a tea, coffee, water or cake.
We sat down at one of the tables along with a couple of the chorus.
‘Alright Tilly, how’s it going?’
‘Good thanks. How’s your wife doing?’
‘Got a job teaching at Guildford. Regular income which is nice.’
‘That’ll pay the bills for a while,’ said Jill, the other chorus member. ‘It’s such a relief now my husband has a permanent contract.’
‘I wish,’ I said.
‘What? Are you freelance?’ asked Marcus with a genuine look of surprise on his face.
‘Fixed term contract. Which has been extended twice.’ I pulled a face. ‘But I’m currently on probation after my little virus fiasco.’ I shot him a mocking smile, although hopefully now that I’d been doing my computer lessons like a good girl, getting Pietro on stage on time for every performance and had Jeanie’s backing, I stood a good chance of passing it.
‘Is that the same for everyone?’ Marcus scanned the room.
‘Depends. Some of the orchestra are permanent and the very techy backstage bods. The stage manager and his team. Just depends when you join, what you do.’
‘I had no idea.’
I sighed. ‘There’s a permanent job coming up.’
‘You’ll be fine Tilly.’ Jill offered me a reassuring smile. ‘Pietro loves you. And so do the rest of the cast. I can’t see why they wouldn’t keep you on.’
‘Fingers, toes and everything else crossed.’
The four of us chatted, with Marcus asking lots of questions, as we finished our tea.
Jill looked at her watch. ‘Does anyone know if it’s still snowing? It had just started when I got to the theatre at four. It’ll be a devil to get home, if it is.’
‘It’s bound to have stopped by now,’ said Marcus.
‘Yes,’ I said gloomily. ‘It never snows properly down here. There’s a weather warning for East Anglia, they’re predicting ten inches of snow fall.’
‘And that’s why I’m so glad I live in London,’ said Jill. ‘The tubes should be fine.’
The interval bell rang and like lemmings, everyone abandoned their drinks and filtered calmly back along the corridor backstage.
By the time the curtain came down, it was gone eleven and the performance had met with an enthusiastic response, with standing ovations and stamping feet that rivalled anything you’d see at the Last Night of the Proms.
Backstage, we were all on a massive high. This was the last show of this season and the festival atmosphere, reminiscent of school breaking up for the very last time, was contagious.
‘Drinkies, Tilly?’ asked Philippe, second violinist in the orchestra, as he passed in the corridor as I made my way back upstairs, Marcus still in tow. Funnily enough, he felt like one of us at that moment.
‘Definitely.’ Sod my aching legs. ‘I’ll ask Jeanie.’
‘OK, darling. Be at the stage door in twenty.’
I turned to look at Marcus. ‘Want to come?’ It only seemed right to invite him and to be perfectly honest, I preferred this slightly shell-shocked and impressed version of himself. For once I felt in control, the consummate professional who knew what she was doing, instead of the daft floozy who lurched from computer disaster to computer disaster.
‘Yeah, OK.’ He nodded.
‘You’d better give me half an hour,’ I said to Philippe.
I found Jeanie in the department, a wig block under each arm. Her eyes might have been ever so slightly damp.
‘You OK?’
‘Fine,’ she said curtly.
‘Did I see Carlsten backstage?’
Jeanie shrugged. ‘Why are you asking me?’ She stalked past me and set the blocks down in her office.
I followed her still thinking out loud. ‘Maybe he was rehearsing earlier. For the gala.’
‘I’ve no idea, Tilly.’ And then in a completely different tone she said to Marcus, ‘How was it? Enjoy the view?’
I didn’t bother listening to their conversation, too stung by her impatience. What was wrong with her?‘Tilly! You can give me a hand here. We just need to move this lot.’ She indicated a stack of boxes, each containing different make-up supplies, piled up on the floor next to her desk. ‘Next week is going to be manic.’
She caught me looking at my watch.
‘Going somewhere?’
She was snappy tonight.
‘We’re going for a drink. Marcus is coming.’ I hoped the mention of his name would get her to come. Strangely she seemed to have a soft spot for him or at least she gave him the benefit of the doubt more readily than she did to most. ‘Aren’t you coming?’
‘I think I’ll give it a miss.’ Her hands were busy smoothing one of the wigs onto a wooden block. ‘I’m knackered.’
‘Oh, come on Jeanie.’ I’d heard that before. ‘Just one drink.’
Once she’d got a glass in her hand, her favourite scotch on the rocks, she always perked up and would regale us with tales of her early days in provincial theatre with people who were now famous.
‘No. Not tonight.’
‘Sure?’
‘Which bit of “no” am I not being clear about?’
I blushed, embarrassed in front of Marcus.
Glancing at her tight-lipped face, I decided to get on and sort out the brushes.
The others were waiting for me outside just beyond the stage door, and for once there was no sign of the usual small crowd of autograph hunters that perpetually gathered there. I could see why, immediately. While we’d been in the theatre several inches of snow had fallen and it was still coming down.
Closing my eyes, I lifted my face up, listening as the others talked around me. When a flake of snow gently kissed my eyelashes, I opened them and caught Marcus’s eye. My heart gave a quick kick when he smiled and nodded, a small private exchange that only the two of us were aware of. ‘It’s like, inches thick,’ said Leonie as I kicked at the layer of snow, grateful that I’d put on my sturdy biker boots on this morning.
‘Isn’t it lovely?’ I said gazing down the unusually empty street. ‘And so quiet.’ I loved the way the snow deadened the perpetual sound of the city.
‘So where, my darlings, shall we bless with our presence this eventide?’ asked Philippe, spreading his arms wide like some nineteenth century impresario. He just needed a moustache to twirl and a pair of spats to complete the picture.
I caught Marcus trying to bite back a smile.
Standing on the edge of the circle, as the others all argued about the best place to go, I saw someone slip furtively out of the stage door. Without even glancing our way, she put her head down and scuttled off down the street in the opposite direction, leaving a solitary track of footprints in the virgin blanket of snow. Intrigued, I watched the disappearing figure. At the bottom of the lane, instead of turning towards Charing Cross station as she would normally do, she turned the opposite way. Where was Jeanie off to?
I caught sight of two familiar guys busy pushing a giant snowball down the street.
‘Or we could build a snowman,’ I said suddenly, when Dean, the senior props guy, gave me a wave. ‘Come on, looks like they could do with some help.’
‘Marvellous idea Tilly,’ said Philippe with a fond roll of his eyes. ‘You build while I get the hot chocolates in. These shoes are not built for manual work.’
‘It is a great idea,’ said Leonie loyally. ‘I’m up for it. Come on Fred.’
Fred turned to Marcus, who shrugged, but knew he was beaten when the other musicians and back stage crew all agreed that it was a great idea, and Philippe was despatched with another violinist to procure hot chocolate rations.
‘Can we help?’ shouted Leonie as she and I went rushing over, our feet sinking into the snow with delicious scrunches. Her voice bounced off the surrounding buildings highlighting the deadened sound around us.
‘Sure,’ said Dean and then looked at the ragtag group following us. His face broadened with a grin and one of those light-bulb expressions. ‘How about we split into groups and make a snow orchestra?’
‘Yay!’ called Leonie.
There was a quick debate about how to fashion instruments using snow sculpture but with the usual ingenuity of their department, the two props guys came up with a far simpler solution and one of them rushed off back into the theatre to get supplies.
It was agreed we’d all work on different body parts and Leonie and I got head duty.
Rolling the snowball to start with was easy. A one-man job tracking along the wide street and cobbled courtyard, gathering up the fresh snow. As the ball got bigger it became a little harder and I stopped to catch my breath, looking over at Marcus who to my surprise had joined in, if not with alacrity, certainly willingly.
Casually dressed for a change, in dark jeans and a wool pea coat, he contrasted against the white backdrop. There was no doubting his masculine presence and I spotted a couple of the gay guys scoping him out and who could blame them? He wore black well, reminding me of a sleek, handsome jaguar. He’d weighed up the situation and had cornered a piece of territory where snow had drifted giving him a definite advantage and his snowball was growing significantly.
However, he was taking the job altogether too seriously. I quickly scooped up a handful of snow, patted it into shape and when his back was turned launched it his way and then ducked down, innocently pushing away at my snowball. It hit him square in the back and he looked around.
His eyes skated over me and I looked up and met his narrowed gaze with a guileless smile.
‘Isn’t it gorgeous? The quiet? The light?’
His mouth quirked. ‘It is. Remarkably peaceful … long may it stay that way.’ The look he shot me held a touch of mocking challenge and as soon as he turned away, I pitched another snowball his way which this time hit the back of his head. This time, when he whirled around, I didn’t even try to pretend as he raised an amused eyebrow.
‘I think you’re slacking, Miss Hunter.’ He looked at my puny mound of snow and then back at his work.
I grinned back at him and as I glanced down a snowball caught me in the chest.
When I looked back at him, smug triumph danced gleefully in his eyes. Light-hearted Marcus was a rather heart-stopping proposition and to hide the furious blush that suddenly seared my cheeks, I scooped up a handful of snow, quickly shaped it and returned fire. Before I saw whether it had hit him or not, I ducked down and scooped up a second, launched it, and had thrown a third, catching him right in the shoulder before he could respond, laughing at his startled expression.
‘Right, this is war,’ he called and ran over. Giggling at his pretend outrage, I turned to flee but he caught up and picking me up dumped me bottom first into a bank of snow that had drifted up against a small wall.
My hat came askew falling down over my eyes as I wriggled trying to get back up, gasping
and laughing up at him.
For the briefest of seconds, my breath caught in my throat. Something flickered in his eyes.
To my left I heard Leonie squeal and saw that I’d encouraged the start of a pitched snowball battle among the backstage crew.
‘Rat!’ I cried.
‘You started it,’ he teased, straightening my hat and helping me up as snowballs whizzed past us.
‘Who, me?’ I batted my eyelashes at him. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You’re a menace Miss Hunter. Where’d you learn to fight dirty like that?’
‘I grew up in Yorkshire remember. The playground in winter was a battleground. You learned the art of quick draw snowball pretty quickly.’
Eventually a truce was called and we started assembling what was rapidly becoming an army of snowmen. Marcus helped me lift my head onto his base both of us giggling wildly as half of mine fell away. We patted it back into shape.
‘It doesn’t look too bad,’ I said stepping back.
‘It’s a bit on the skinny side,’ said Fred, walking around it.
‘Then it can be the new viola player, she’s tiny,’ suggested Guillaume from behind the snowman he was building with two other violinists.
The props guys had ingeniously brought down some black corrugated plastic piping which they threaded wire through to give them shape, and used them to give the snowmen arms which could hold instruments. Someone else had raided lost property and Leonie and another girl from Wardrobe were draping scarves and sticking on hats.
When Phillippe returned with a tray of hot chocolates, we’d assembled several snowmen and women and the props guys had furnished them with instruments made from bits of cardboard stolen from the recycling pile outside one of the shops. They’d been cut into shape and then the various details; the valve pistons of trumpets, the strings of violins and the keys on the clarinets drawn on in marker pen.
‘Here you go, Tilly darling,’ he handed me a steaming cup. ‘You look gorgeously flushed. Is everything alright with you at the moment?’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Thanks for this. There’s nothing quite like a hot chocolate in the snow. Makes me feel really Christmassy.’
