‘You are prolific in cryptic titles.’

‘Call her what you like, it’s a peculiar business. What is she? You may as well tell me, you know. Some ancient indiscretion of Adam’s adolescence come home to roost?’

‘Be quiet, Ben.’

‘For twopence I’d ask Adam himself. And that’s not the only question I’d like to ask him. Do you think I relish my position?’

‘They are getting near the tag. It is almost over.’

‘Why do you suppose I drink a bit? What would you do in my place?’

‘Think before I speak,’ said Jacko, ‘for one thing.’

A buzzer sounded. ‘There’s the curtain,’ said Jacko. ‘Look out.’

Martyn heard a kind of scuffle followed by an oath from Bennington. There were steps in the passage. The curtain fell with a giant whisper. A gust of air swept through the region back-stage.

‘All on,’ said the stage-manager distantly. Martyn heard the players go on and the curtain rise and fall again.

Poole, on the stage, said: ‘And that’s all of that. All right, everyone. Settle down and I’ll take the notes. John will be round in a moment. I’ll wait for you, Ella.’

Miss Hamilton came into the improvised room. Martyn removed her dress and put her into her gown.

‘I’ll take my make-up off out there,’ she said. ‘Bring the things, Martyn, will you? Grease, towels and my cigarettes?’

Martyn had them ready. She followed Miss Hamilton out and for the first time that night went on to the set.

Poole, wearing a dark dressing-gown, stood with his back to the curtain. The other five members of the cast sat, relaxed but attentive, about the stage. Jacko and Clem Smith waited by the prompt corner with papers and pencils. Martyn held a looking-glass before Miss Hamilton who said: ‘Adam, darling, you don’t mind, do you? I mustn’t miss a word but I do rather want to get on,’ and began to remove her make-up.

Upon this scene Dr John James Rutherford erupted. His arrival was prefaced in his usual manner by slammed doors, blundering footsteps and loud ejaculations. He then appeared in the central entrance, flame-headed, unshaven, overcoated, and grasping a sheaf of papers.

‘Roast me,’ he said, ‘in sulphur. Wash me in steepdown gulfs of liquid fire ere I again endure the loathy torment of a dress-rehearsal. What have I done, ye gods, that I should—’

‘All right, John,’ Poole said. ‘Not yet. Sit down. On some heavy piece of furniture and carefully.’

Clem Smith shouted: ‘Alf! The doctor’s chair.’

A large chair with broken springs was brought on and placed with its back to the curtain. Dr Rutherford hurled himself into it and produced his snuff-box. ‘I am a child to chiding,’ he said. ‘What goes on, chums?’

Poole said: ‘I’m going to take my stuff. If anything I have to say repeats exactly any of your own notes you might leave it out for the sake of saving time. If you’ve any objections, be a good chap and save them till I’ve finished. Agreed?’