hooves.’
Then in the silence came the sound of a tin tray being hit slowly, loudly, regularly. The audience gave a yell of laughter. William felt annoyed. He hadn’t meant it to sound like that. It
wasn’t anything to laugh at, anyway. He showed his annoyance by another deafening and protracted thunderstorm.
When this had died away the play proceeded. William’s part in that scene was officially over. But William did not wish to withdraw from the public eye. It occurred to him that in all
probability the wind and the thunder still continued. Yes, somebody mentioned again that it was a wild night to be out in. Come to that, the war must be going on all the time. There were probably
battles going on all over the place. He’d better throw a few squibs about and make a bit more wind and thunder. He set to work with commendable thoroughness.
At last the end of the scene came. Mr Fleuster drew the curtains and chaos reigned. Most of the cast attacked William, but some of them were attacking each other, and quite a lot of them were
attacking the prompter. They had on several occasions forgotten their words and not once had the prompter come to their rescue. On one occasion they had wandered on to Act II and stayed there a
considerable time. The prompter’s plea that she’d lost her place right at the very beginning and hadn’t been able to find it again was not accepted as an excuse. Then Miss
Hemmersley was annoyed with Miss Featherstone for giving her the wrong cues all the way through, and Miss Gwladwyn was annoyed with Miss Greene-Joanes for cutting into her monologue, and Miss
Greene-Joanes was annoyed with Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce for standing just where she prevented the audience having a good view of her (Miss Greene-Joanes), and when they couldn’t find anyone
else to be annoyed with they turned on William. Fortunately for William, however, there was little time for recrimination, as already the audience was clamouring for the second scene. This was the
snow-storm scene. Miss Gwladwyn had installed her beautifully mannered nephew in the loft early in the evening with a box of chocolate creams to keep him quiet. Miss Gwladwyn went on to the stage.
The other actors retired to the improvised green-room, there to continue their acrimonious disputes and mutual reproaches. The curtain was slightly drawn. Miss Gwladwyn went into the aperture and
leapt into her pathetic monologue, and William behind the scenes relapsed into boredom. He was roused by Miss Gwladwyn’s nephew who came down the steps of the loft carrying an empty chocolate
box and looking green.
‘William,’ he said, ‘will you do my thing for me? I’m going to be sick.’
‘All right,’ said William distantly. ‘What do you do?’
William, not having been chosen as the snow-storm, had never taken the slightest interest in the snow-storm scene.
‘You just get the bucket in the corridor and take it up to the loft and empty it over her slowly when she turns up her face.’
‘A’ right,’ said William with an air of graciousness, secretly not sorry to add the snow-storm to his repertoire. ‘A’ right. I’ll carry on. Don’ you
worry. You go home an’ be sick.’
It was not William’s fault that someone had put the stage fireplace in the passage in such a position that it completely hid the bucket of torn-up paper and that the only bucket visible in
the passage was the bucket of water thoughtfully placed there by Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce in case of fire. William looked about him, saw what was apparently the only bucket in the passage, took it
up and went to the stairs leading into the loft. It was jolly heavy. Water! Crumbs! He hadn’t realised it was water. He’d had an idea that it was torn-up paper for snow, but probably
they’d changed their minds at the last minute and thought they’d have rain instead. Or perhaps they’d only had paper for the rehearsals, and had meant to have water for the real
performance all
Then in the silence came the sound of a tin tray being hit slowly, loudly, regularly. The audience gave a yell of laughter. William felt annoyed. He hadn’t meant it to sound like that. It
wasn’t anything to laugh at, anyway. He showed his annoyance by another deafening and protracted thunderstorm.
When this had died away the play proceeded. William’s part in that scene was officially over. But William did not wish to withdraw from the public eye. It occurred to him that in all
probability the wind and the thunder still continued. Yes, somebody mentioned again that it was a wild night to be out in. Come to that, the war must be going on all the time. There were probably
battles going on all over the place. He’d better throw a few squibs about and make a bit more wind and thunder. He set to work with commendable thoroughness.
At last the end of the scene came. Mr Fleuster drew the curtains and chaos reigned. Most of the cast attacked William, but some of them were attacking each other, and quite a lot of them were
attacking the prompter. They had on several occasions forgotten their words and not once had the prompter come to their rescue. On one occasion they had wandered on to Act II and stayed there a
considerable time. The prompter’s plea that she’d lost her place right at the very beginning and hadn’t been able to find it again was not accepted as an excuse. Then Miss
Hemmersley was annoyed with Miss Featherstone for giving her the wrong cues all the way through, and Miss Gwladwyn was annoyed with Miss Greene-Joanes for cutting into her monologue, and Miss
Greene-Joanes was annoyed with Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce for standing just where she prevented the audience having a good view of her (Miss Greene-Joanes), and when they couldn’t find anyone
else to be annoyed with they turned on William. Fortunately for William, however, there was little time for recrimination, as already the audience was clamouring for the second scene. This was the
snow-storm scene. Miss Gwladwyn had installed her beautifully mannered nephew in the loft early in the evening with a box of chocolate creams to keep him quiet. Miss Gwladwyn went on to the stage.
The other actors retired to the improvised green-room, there to continue their acrimonious disputes and mutual reproaches. The curtain was slightly drawn. Miss Gwladwyn went into the aperture and
leapt into her pathetic monologue, and William behind the scenes relapsed into boredom. He was roused by Miss Gwladwyn’s nephew who came down the steps of the loft carrying an empty chocolate
box and looking green.
‘William,’ he said, ‘will you do my thing for me? I’m going to be sick.’
‘All right,’ said William distantly. ‘What do you do?’
William, not having been chosen as the snow-storm, had never taken the slightest interest in the snow-storm scene.
‘You just get the bucket in the corridor and take it up to the loft and empty it over her slowly when she turns up her face.’
‘A’ right,’ said William with an air of graciousness, secretly not sorry to add the snow-storm to his repertoire. ‘A’ right. I’ll carry on. Don’ you
worry. You go home an’ be sick.’
It was not William’s fault that someone had put the stage fireplace in the passage in such a position that it completely hid the bucket of torn-up paper and that the only bucket visible in
the passage was the bucket of water thoughtfully placed there by Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce in case of fire. William looked about him, saw what was apparently the only bucket in the passage, took it
up and went to the stairs leading into the loft. It was jolly heavy. Water! Crumbs! He hadn’t realised it was water. He’d had an idea that it was torn-up paper for snow, but probably
they’d changed their minds at the last minute and thought they’d have rain instead. Or perhaps they’d only had paper for the rehearsals, and had meant to have water for the real
performance all
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