9

Davina came in late the next morning. It was the first time Hattie had seen her all week, as the previous day she’d charged her with tracking down parasols and monocles in prop stores across London. Now her eyes were puffy, her hair was a mess, and she was constantly sniffing and wiping her nose with a tissue. She ignored Hattie’s greeting and, wordlessly plonking herself down at a desk, busied herself logging in to ACDA’s creaky computers and pulling up last night’s rehearsal notes email from Kiki. As Hattie watched, she spent a few minutes staring blankly at her screen, then let out a loud wail, picked up the keyboard and hurled it hard at the wall, then buried her head under her arms on the desk.

Hattie, alarmed by this explosive outburst, approached her gingerly, and put a tentative hand on her shoulder.

‘Oh dear,’ she said, as kindly as she could. ‘I’m guessing you didn’t get very much sleep last night?’

Davina muttered something inaudible.

‘What was that?’

‘I didn’t get any,’ repeated Davina, this time lifting her head enough to allow her to be heard. ‘The whole Atlanta thing… I just wanted someone to confide in, and he… he won’t talk to me. It’s like I never existed. It’s all so messed up. All I want is a conversation. That’s all. God I’m a mess, I’m just… I’m so sorry. I can’t do this at the moment. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s OK, it’s OK, my love,’ soothed Hattie. ‘Don’t you worry at all. Just go home, try to get some sleep.’

‘But there’s so much to do!’ wailed Davina.

‘Don’t you worry about that. I’ve got a quiet day, I’m sure I can cover it. I’d much rather you take the time to sort yourself out than be here feeling miserable.’

‘All right. I’m sorry. I just… all right,’ Davina mumbled.

She picked herself up and shuffled out of the office.

‘Take care of yourself,’ Hattie called after her. ‘And take as long as you need!’

Oh bother. Hattie was beginning to regret getting Davina involved. Not only was she now without an ASM, but she’d also have to explain this absence to Steve. And given that she was the one who’d vouched for Davina in the first place, it wouldn’t do her standing in his eyes any good.

But broken hearts took time to mend. What else could she do?

Actually, there was one thing she could do. Hattie logged off her computer, walked out of the office and took herself off down ACDA’s long central corridor to the far end of the building, where the construction workshop was situated.

It was a large space, with a variety of lethal tools arranged on benches around the outside, stacks of lumber in the corners, and the comforting smell of fresh pine sawdust pervading everything. The ventilation fans were roaring away, and a number of the second-year students were busy at work at the benches, building the sets for the first trio of productions of the year. A bandsaw whined, a table saw zoomed, a pneumatic brad gun made a series of soft pops, and above the din of it all Hattie could just hear a radio blasting soft rock. The workshop was not a place for quiet reflection.

In one corner was what looked like a haphazard lean-to shed. This was Shane’s ‘office’. Hattie knocked, then, seeing him wave at her through the grubby Perspex window, let herself in. She closed the door behind her, and the sounds of tools faded fractionally, so that the din went from almost unbearable to simply unpleasantly loud.

‘Good morning!’ said Shane. He was working on some technical drawings on his computer, while slurping tea from a dirty, chipped mug.

No two ways about it, Shane was a good-looking man, in a sort of craggy way. His dark hair was beginning to pick up a few strands of grey, and his face was weather-beaten but kindly. He had the physique of a skinny man who’s spent a lifetime lifting and carrying heavy things: he was lean and wiry, but very obviously strong. He spoke in a quiet voice with a gentle New Zealand lilt, and veered in the direction of hippie-ish. One would have a hard time believing he didn’t meditate each morning, and while he wasn’t the type to wear healing crystal jewellery, his wife absolutely did, meaning he was very well versed in all things alternative and New Age-y.

‘Hello, Shane,’ Hattie greeted him. Shane wasn’t his real name. He was actually Michael MacShane, but as there were several Michaels in the faculty, Shane was just easier.

‘What brings you down to the workshop?’ he asked.

‘Oh, just passing by, thought I’d drop in.’

‘I thought you were off doing a show?’

‘I am. It’s at the Tavistock, but as they’ve no decent office space I’m working from the SM office here.’

Hattie paused. Shane had visibly winced when she mentioned the name of the theatre.

‘Do you know the Tavistock?’ she ventured.

‘Er… yeah. I did some work for them once.’

There was another stark pause, which Hattie eventually filled by saying: ‘I’ve actually got Davina Aggarwal working with me. You remember her?’

Shane smiled.

‘Oh yeah. I liked Davina.’

I bet you did, thought Hattie to herself. Out loud she said, as innocently as possible, ‘Did you keep in touch after she graduated?’

Shane’s smile faltered.

‘Uh… a little bit. But you know how it is, it’s always a bit awkward moving from a student-teacher relationship to a… to a more personal one. So I’ll admit I slightly let things slide.’

‘I see,’ said Hattie. ‘And do you think that maybe… maybe Davina thought there was a bit more to your relationship than there actually was?’

Shane looked relieved.

‘Yes, exactly. Exactly. And I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so… you know. Why? Has she said something?’

Hattie hesitated. This was delicate stuff.

‘Not exactly… I just wonder if her feelings ended up getting hurt anyway. And I wonder whether, if she’s been trying to get in touch with you recently… it might be worth you calling her back?’

‘Well, if you’re sure it wouldn’t make things complicated…’ said Shane uneasily.

Hattie nodded again.

‘I think it would mean a lot to her. You know how she is, she’s quite… sensitive.’

‘All right,’ said Shane with a deep breath. ‘Leave it with me. Er, was that what you came here to talk to me about?’

‘Oh you know,’ replied Hattie awkwardly. ‘Just thought it was worth mentioning. So I’ll see you later then.’

‘All right. Well, good luck with your show. And… be careful at the Tavistock, yeah? I don’t like to speak ill of anyone, but… yeah.’

With that last remark hanging in the air he gave a little wave and turned back to his grubby computer. Hattie let herself out of Shane’s little lean-to, and picked her way back through the mess of power tools out into quieter parts of the building. Her first thought was to head back to her office, but, upon checking her watch and realising it was nearly lunchtime, she decided to make a detour, and some social calls.

ACDA was a Franken-building. Originally a town house, it had been converted into a small dance conservatory a hundred years past, and then remodelled again in the sixties when it was repurposed as a drama school. As it expanded, several cheap and cheerful extensions had been bolted on in a hotchpotch manner, until the last-but-one chairman had led a massive fundraising drive to knock down most of the ad-hoc bits and replace them with a state-of-the-art facility with a large main auditorium, a secondary performance studio, rehearsal spaces, dance studios, music rooms, TV production rooms, technical workshops and a costume store. And while almost all the backstage departments had now moved into their new homes, one remained steadfastly in its original place in the oldest part of the building: Rod’s sound department.

It was a poky little basement suite, almost every wall of which was covered in racks upon racks of CDs, cassettes and minidiscs of music and sound effects, all painstakingly indexed on typewritten cards, along with wall-mounted plastic colour-coded pots containing connectors, adapters, fuses, plugs and patch cables. Longer cables were coiled in neat figure-of-eights or wound around drums underneath the workbenches, and the cupboards were stuffed with amps, speakers and mixing desks, each neatly slotted into a space no bigger than what was needed to accommodate it. Rod had been teaching here longer than almost anyone, had set up everything just as he liked it, and had so far shown no interest in migrating to the fancy new sound-proofed room that awaited him on the other side of the building, with its colour-changing LED lighting and built-in air-con.

Hattie walked into the sound basement to see several first-year students fretting with what looked like props from an early Doctor Who episode, and getting increasingly tangled up in long strips of narrow brown tape.

‘Oh for God’s sake, why?’ howled one young woman, Yoo-Kyung, as she struggled to slice through a piece of tape that appeared to be tethering her arm to the machine on the desk in front of her.

Hattie smiled. ‘Going back to basics, are we?’

‘Going back to the Stone Age, more like.’

‘It’s not the Stone Age,’ said one humourless-looking, acne-bedevilled man with thick glasses and unexpectedly bushy nasal hair. ‘It’s a Revox B-77…’

‘Mark Two Reel-To-Reel Tape Recorder,’ chorused the rest of the class.

‘I just don’t see why we have to bother with learning about obsolete technology. We’ll never use this out in the industry,’ said Yoo-Kyung.

‘Well, I don’t know much about sound,’ said Hattie awkwardly, ‘So I can’t really comment. Er, is Rod in?’

One of the older students, perhaps thirty-something, giggled, and nodded towards Rod’s corner cubicle. Hattie poked her head round for a look. Rod was leaning back in his chair, his arms folded across his stomach, his chin resting on his chest, his eyes closed. Hattie nodded.

‘Been there long, has he?’

‘Ever since he set us going on this task. Does he often do that?’

‘Do what?’ asked Hattie sweetly.

‘Er… fall asleep in class.’

‘I am not asleep,’ boomed Rod suddenly. ‘I am sitting here listening. Listening and waiting. Listening and waiting and thinking. Listening to the sound of lots of very intelligent people having all sorts of trouble operating some relatively straightforward bits of kit. Waiting for some of these very intelligent people to ask me for help. Thinking that perhaps if these very intelligent people spent less time complaining about their tasks and a little bit more time thinking constructively about how to achieve them, then they might find this course a little bit more instructive.’

His students looked suitably chastened as Rod emerged from his cubicle.

‘I am also thinking that it’s high time for a lunch break. So why don’t you take your good little selves off for an hour, and I’ll see you back here at… ooh, I’ll be generous, let’s say ten to two, at which time I’ll be more than happy to answer any questions you might have about these marvellous little devices.’

When the students, abashed, had left, Rod escorted Hattie to the staff lounge, where they took it in turns to microwave their lunches: a baked potato for Hattie and a mysterious stew-like concoction for Rod.

‘And how is the Old Bill treating you?’ he enquired as they waited.

‘Hey?’

‘Old Bill. Old William. William Shakespeare. You said you were working on one.’

‘Oh right. Yes. I think it’s going to be a rocky ride. I’m not sure the director really knows what he’s doing.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Rod. ‘How’s Miguel getting on?’

‘They’ve got him in the rehearsal room, messing round with soundscapes. I think he’s enjoying it.’

‘Good for him. I’m glad he’s working. He’ll be all right. Reliable sort, is that Miguel. And speaking of reliable… Davina?’

‘She’s going through some relationship heartache that’s slightly distracting her from the task at hand…’

Rod made a face. The microwave pinged, and he retrieved his food.

‘I’m not sure that she’s quite cut out for this life, is she?’

‘Well… we’ll see. I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt,’ said Hattie, uncomfortably.

They continued to chat as they ate their lunch. Rod had been around in the industry when Hattie was first starting out, and they’d always got on. They worked on several big shows together, and over time he probably got to know more secrets about her than anyone else in her life, even Nick. Then he’d been in a motorbike accident and duffed up his arm. Unable to rig kit or operate a mixing desk, he’d taken a gig as assistant sound tutor at ACDA, and got comfortable, so that even after his hand healed he’d ended up staying. Fast forward twenty-odd years and he’d helped put in a good word for Hattie when they needed a stand-in SM tutor, even though their paths hadn’t crossed for years. Now they were the two old crumblies of the technical department, and they naturally gravitated towards one another when they got a chance.

Meals finished, Hattie cleared her Tupperware away. She hadn’t told Rod about Atlanta. He had almost certainly worked with her, and she’d spent too much time recently breaking the news to people who knew Atlanta to relish doing it again.

‘Now if you’ll excuse me,’ she said, ‘I should drop in on Mark. I’ve not seen him since term started.’

‘Hmm. Yes, cultivating good relations with Mark is important. I rather think… well, give him my love, of course.’

Rod shuffled off, leaving Hattie to make her way deep into the heart of the new facility, where everything still smelled of carpet shops and plastic. In the distance she could hear someone making their way through ‘Luck Be a Lady’ in a rather laboured baritone, while from another direction a frustrated dance tutor was calling out, ‘Shoulders above your hips, shoulders above your hips! Come on, you can do better than this! I’d expect that sort of crap at RADA!’

Mark Britten, director of technical training, was in his office, snarfing down a packet sandwich while he fired off an email. He was a formidable character: vivacious, decisive, intelligent. Perhaps in the end slightly too intelligent, Hattie pondered, to commit to the life of a stage manager. Mark needed a bigger challenge, which is probably why he’d ended up here, as part tutor, part administrator, part brand ambassador, and part sly politician, navigating his way through the treacherous waters of ACDA’s governance structures. Easy to like but hard to get close to, he was very much the sort of person you wanted to remain on the good side of.

‘Good afternoon, Mark,’ called out Hattie, keen not to interrupt him if he was in the middle of something.

Mark’s head snapped up, and he smiled.

‘Hattie! Do come in, do come in. Excuse the sandwich. Sit, please.’

Hattie sat, and Mark pinpointed her with his clear blue eyes.

‘So,’ he enquired warmly, ‘how are you?’

‘I’m doing very well. I just saw the new intake downstairs. I’m looking forward to getting to know them properly when my show’s finished.’

‘Ah yes. Tell me about that. Who’s in it?’

‘It’s got two of ours from last year, actually. Miguel Mota is on sound, and Davina Aggarwal is my ASM.’

‘Oh good, good, I’m glad she’s got a proper gig,’ beamed Mark.

‘We’re working out of the SM office for the moment, so you should pop by and say hi when you get a moment.’

The smile faded ever so slightly, and the brows creased just a tad.

‘Oh… the theatre doesn’t have its own office? Where did you say it was on?’

‘Tavistock.’

The smile went entirely.

‘I do wish the grads would listen to me and start off by doing touring or West End work,’ Mark sighed. ‘It’s so much easier to get to know people, and you get taken much more seriously.’

‘That’s true,’ replied Hattie, feeling a little defensive, ‘but not many places are hiring right now, and the Tavistock is better than a lot of them.’

‘I know, I know… But I just worry that if Davina keeps going back to the Tavistock she’ll find it very hard to get hired anywhere else. And Miguel… well I mean he’ll be fine in the end, but he’s not good enough at marketing himself. He just needs to find someone to take him in hand. Who’s the chief sound engineer on the show?’

‘There isn’t one, actually. He’s by himself.’

‘See, that’s what I mean: on a big show there’d be a senior engineer. Miguel would work for them, Miguel would impress them, on the next show he did they’d remember Miguel and have a decent chance of hiring him. Tiny fringe gigs don’t help them make connections. They’re dead ends.’

Hattie winced. This particular dead end was the only gig she’d managed to land all year. Oh, she’d tried to dig up work, she’d really tried. She was terrified that that adage about theatre was coming true for her: you never really retired, you just realised one day that the phone hadn’t rung in three years…

Mark sighed and shook his head.

‘Sorry, I shouldn’t complain. They’re working, and that’s the main thing. And at least we haven’t lost them to the sodding cruise ship circuit!’

And just like that the smile was back.

‘Now was there anything in particular…?’

‘No, no, just popping in to say hello,’ said Hattie. And trying to make sure I stay on the right side of you, so I can stretch out this ACDA gig as long as possible, she thought.

‘OK great,’ replied Mark, the finality of his tone clearly signalling that the meeting was at a close.

Hattie stood up.

‘Rod sends his regards,’ she said, remembering as she reached the door.

‘Oh… yes… actually I did want to talk to you about that.’

Hattie stopped and looked back. Mark looked uncharacter-istically ill at ease.

‘Um… So look,’ he began. ‘I’m not sure that Rod has entirely embraced the new spirit of ACDA following the rebuild.’

‘Not really one for change, our Rod,’ agreed Hattie.

‘Quite. And he’s always had his quirks, but for the most part they’ve been something I can contain and manage. But his recent unwillingness to use the new facility has, shall we say, placed him under a slightly brighter spotlight within the administration.’

‘Are you saying that the administration has only just noticed that he’s a cantankerous old sod?’

‘Well yes, to the extent that the administration has really only now noticed that he exists. Unfortunately, things have reached a bit of an impasse. Now, this is going to be very delicate, and I don’t want to put you in an impossible position, but you’re an old pal of his, and you’re very charming and persuasive, so…’

Hattie sighed, and smiled. ‘I’ll have a quiet word. It might take a term or so to talk him into it, but we can probably get him out of his basement into the new sound studio.’

Mark grimaced. ‘Ah. No. Sorry, that’s not quite what I’m saying. I’m saying it would be helpful if you could broach with Rod the matter of his retirement.’

For a moment Hattie was stunned, and couldn’t think of a rejoinder. Rod couldn’t possibly retire. After all, he was only… sixty…? Well, sixty-something…

‘Isn’t that a bit drastic?’

‘It isn’t just the room thing. Come on, Hattie, he’s supposed to teach technology, but he stopped keeping up with sound tech with the advent of the CD. Every year we all trot out these absurd justifications as to why it makes sense for our students to spend weeks messing with reel-to-reel tape recorders when the real reason is that Rod doesn’t know how to use anything else. And that whole debacle last summer over extended DBS checks. I don’t know what he’s hiding in his past, but he more or less incited a staff mutiny to make the administration back off – and of course, it was me who had to negotiate that on his behalf.’

Hattie felt a twinge of guilt. She knew exactly why Rod had fought so hard against staff being subjected to detailed criminal background checks. But now was not the time to get into that.

‘Look,’ Mark continued, offering a conciliatory smile, ‘I like him. You know I do. But the room debacle means that if he’s going to stay I’m going to have to fight for him, and that means expending a lot of political capital at a time when I don’t have much going spare. So, given that he’s coming up to that age anyway, if he were to choose to retire, that would solve a lot of problems all at once. It’s an HR minefield for me even to try to talk to him about it, and I doubt he’d listen to me anyway. So I’m just saying that if you could help me by planting the seed of the idea in his head, you would have my gratitude.’

Hattie considered for a second.

‘I can certainly raise the topic with him,’ she said, cautiously.

Mark gave her a measured look in response.

‘Well, that’s a start. Let’s chat more about this next time you’re in. We’re still working out how to staff the SM department in the long term. There are lots of criteria of course, but a big one is finding someone who’s a team player. I’m sure you understand…?’

Hattie nodded uncomfortably. Getting the permanent stage management tutor could give her a much-needed stable foothold in an otherwise precarious financial state. But she wasn’t sure she was comfortable with the support for that foothold being a knife embedded in Rod’s back.