Epilogue

Wednesday, 18 October 2023

‘At the end of the day, we’re not superheroes. We can’t do everything, and we can’t make everyone happy all of the time. We just have to use our judgement, and do what we can. That’s what people always misunderstand about “the show must go on”. It’s got two sides. It doesn’t just mean you do what you can to try to get the job done. It also means almost the opposite: theatre has an inevitability about it. It always keeps going. Even if you make a mistake. Even if the costumes go missing, or someone forgets a line, or the lights blow. It’s very hard to completely derail a production. So do what you can, and forgive yourself for the rest.’

Hattie realised she was rambling, and forced herself to stop and take a breath.

‘All of which is a long way of saying, if you can’t find every prop on the list, that’s not a problem. You’re not going to fail the exercise so long as you can show me that you’ve done your best.’

She handed out the last of the exercise sheets to the students, and realised she had one left over. Was someone missing? With a sinking feeling, she realised that yes, indeed, she was one short: Felix. She’d completely forgotten about him in all the chaos of the last few days. It appeared that he’d given up. What a shame. She hoped Mark wouldn’t be too cross with her. She was getting a bit tired of people being cross with her.

Burakgazi had been unexpectedly grouchy, especially given that Hattie had just solved her case for her. She took issue with the fact that Hattie hadn’t involved her earlier on, and grumped and sighed every time Hattie couldn’t back up an assertion with some form of documentary proof. She did eventually admit to being grateful for the assistance, but when Hattie had gently suggested that, with the culprit now identified, it might no longer be necessary to talk to Mark, or to bring up any unnecessary particulars about Hattie’s past, all she received by way of reply was a grudging ‘We’ll see.’ So, maybe her secret was safe. For now.

Never trust the police, thought Hattie. Weasels, the lot of them.

Steve had been all right, in the end. He wasn’t happy that she’d just risked his team’s pay cheques for the show, as they were very much his responsibility to ensure. But it helped his mood that, given the truth about the mask was now bound to come out eventually, he had been able to be the one to tell Frank about it, a task that he had undertaken with gusto, not even trying to hide his glee in causing Keith pain.

‘Steve, are we… all right?’ Hattie said to him as he was leaving at the end of the night.

He looked at her coolly, for a second.

‘I suppose so. You probably did the right thing, in the end.’

He blew out a long, slow breath, then continued: ‘I’m wondering if it’s time for me to get out of this game. I always thought theatre was a bit more light-hearted than… what I did before. Thought it would be good for me to take it a bit easier. But recently it’s just getting me down. People like Keith, self-absorbed, manipulative little sods, they crop up everywhere. I can smell them a mile off, and I can’t stomach ’em. At first I tried to just avoid him, then when I got a sniff that he was up to something… well, that took over. All I could think about was bringing him down. I basically dropped the show and spent the whole time digging up everything I could on him. It’s not good for the blood pressure. It’s not good for the soul.’

Hattie, who would never in a million years have expected Steve to share with her a meditation on the state of his soul, tried to keep the surprise out of her face as she replied, ‘Maybe. But you got the show open on time even so. The industry would be worse without you in it.’

He shrugged, and walked away, leaving Hattie shaking her head. He was a strange one, was Steve Felton. She hoped to have the chance to get the measure of him one day.

Keith, for his part, had uttered the most dramatic series of threats and predictions, most of which involved Hattie ending up destitute and alone either as a direct result of her actions or through his own retributive steps. He’d even tried to call the company together after the show to issue some cryptic warnings about the financial future of the production, and drop heavy hints that Hattie was responsible for any coming difficulties. But thankfully no one had paid him too much attention: they were all buzzing far too much with adrenaline.

Buzzing because, against all odds, the evening had turned out to be one of the most well-received opening nights of any show at the Tavistock in years.

Of course, whoops and cheers were pretty common at any such performance – producers were always careful to pad the audience with enthusiastic well-wishers whenever the press were in – but it was rare, when a show received a partial standing ovation, to see so many of the critics join in.

They were as effusive in their praise in print as they were in their applause in person. The first reviews had been published online late that night, and they didn’t hold back. One pronounced that ‘Hassan’s vital production seethes with a dark and intense energy, transforming one of the more lightweight comedies in the canon into a brooding reflection on the destructive war between the emotional and the intellectual.’ Another insisted that not since Peter Brook’s legendary production at the RSC had Love’s Labour’s Lost been made to feel so powerful and relevant. And even the fierce Marcus, although he couldn’t bring himself to use any positive adjectives, nevertheless concluded: ‘Don’t worry if you can’t get tickets for this rather short run at this rather small venue; I have a feeling that this production will find itself on a larger stage soon enough.’

All in all the consensus among the critics was that the production was nothing short of a triumph. And they were right too, Hattie conceded. Somehow, in the presence of an audience, the cast had tapped into an energy that lifted the whole piece, and suddenly brought all the loose elements together into a cogent and compelling whole. When it was funny, it was hilarious. When it was poignant, it was heart-breaking. The rest of the time it was simply spellbinding. Despite, in all specifics, being exactly the same piece as the dismal dress rehearsal the day before, it was nevertheless unrecognisable. And everyone could feel it.

Theatre, Hattie thought, not for the first time, was a funny old thing. Still, if it meant there was a chance that the show could survive the probably imminent closure of the Tavistock then she wasn’t complaining. At the very least, if the show was cancelled, it would end on a high. Although Hattie couldn’t really believe that the run wouldn’t finish. Keith was a bastard, but he had his own brand of genius. She couldn’t help but assume that he would somehow find a way to survive for a little longer.

She finished briefing her students on their assignment, and then spent half an hour getting them all started on it, which largely involved explaining and re-explaining the point of it to the gloriously dim Alexander. Once they were all more or less working independently, she realised she was, for the moment at least, not needed. So she excused herself and made her way towards the staffroom. She told herself it was in case someone had left some posh biccies by the kettle, but really she was just hoping for a little peace and quiet. However, just as she turned into the final corridor she bumped into Rod coming the other way, clutching a mug of tea.

‘M’lady,’ he greeted her, tugging an imaginary forelock.

‘All right, Rod?’ she replied with a smile.

‘Did you get the show open?’

‘We did. Went better than I expected. A lot better.’

‘Well then, congratulations. And your padlock mystery?’

‘All solved. Thanks to your tip about gallium. And, in fact, to your penchant for eavesdropping on student gossip.’

‘Oh?’ frowned Rod. ‘Well, what can I say? I listen. I’ve put a lot of work into these ears over the years, and it does occasionally pay a dividend.’

‘Well, thank you,’ said Hattie, sincerely.

‘You’re most welcome,’ he smiled, before making a face. ‘Which makes this as good a time as any to apologise: sorry.’

‘What for?’

‘One of your students. I may have slightly poached him. You may have noticed he wasn’t in your class this morning.’

‘Felix?’ asked Hattie. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve been… well, come with me and you’ll see,’ said Rod, with a mischievous smile, and without another word he led the way down to his basement. He stopped at the door, through whose small window he pointed silently, gesturing for Hattie to look for herself. She stood up on tiptoes and did so, and was surprised to see Felix, sitting hunched over a mixing desk, headphones clamped over his ears, hard at work.

‘What’s he doing?’ breathed Hattie.

‘Learning,’ replied Rod in a whisper. ‘I got chatting to him about this and that, you know, trying to find out what makes him tick. He explained that he really wants to be an actor, but he’s very self-conscious about his voice. So I asked him what it was about acting that appealed to him, and he said, and I thought this was rather insightful of him, it was about telling stories and having people listen. And I sort of suggested to him that a voice is just one of many tools you can use to tell a story, and talked to him about some other ways of doing it, and pretty quickly we got on to the topic of my sound poems.’

‘Oh lordy. Like the parakeet thing?’

‘Exactly. He was a bit wary at first, but I convinced him to have a bit of a play… and now he’s got the bug. He’s been here all morning. I know he’s got other classes he’s supposed to be doing but… well, I thought it might be best to let him keep at it, considering, you know.’

Hattie looked at Rod. Then she leaned forward and gave him a peck on the cheek.

‘You really are a bit marvellous, you know that?’

Rod looked away, bashfully.

‘Oh now, I’m blushing. Anyway, I should get back to him. He keeps asking me to dig out obscure sound effects from long-forgotten corners of my library. Some of this stuff was originally made to be played back on gramophones.’

‘Righto, Rod. Well, I’ll see you later.’

‘I very much hope so.’

Hattie made her way back towards the SM office to check on her students, but before entering had a thought, and took a detour, finding herself outside Mark’s door. She knocked and entered.

‘Hattie!’ beamed Mark from his desk. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I won’t keep you Mark, I just wanted to say: all things considered, I wouldn’t be too hasty to push our Rod out the door if I were you. He’s a silly old sod, but he does have his uses.’

Mark’s smile turned into a wince.

‘I do wish you’d try to see it from—’

‘I know, I know, there’s politics with the administration, and I know Rod’s not the easiest to work with. But all in all he does a lot to help steady the ship. Underneath it all he’s one of those team players you’re so keen on. And if you don’t believe me, I’d strongly encourage you to pop down to the sound basement right now and see for yourself. You might just change your mind. Anyway, must get back. Catch you later.’

With a grin on her face, and without waiting for Mark to reply, she turned on her heel and went back to the SM office. She had a class – possibly her last – of bright young things who were waiting for her to instil the ethos and discipline of a professional stage manager into them. In her experience it was a blooming long process, so she might as well get stuck into it.