stagehands coming down with lumbago.’
Suddenly Max felt curious about Diablo’s entrance. He was pretty sure that the old devil had something hidden up his voluminous sleeves. As far as Max could tell, he had made no effort to learn his lines, although Nigel Castle kept offering to go over them with him. ‘Want to keep it fresh for the night,’ Diablo told the scriptwriter airily. ‘There’s such a thing as over-rehearsing, y’know.’
Max put down the script and opened his door. He could hear the first number coming to an end. Twirl, spin, thump, turn, crescendo, eyes and teeth. He made his way up the wooden steps to the wings. ‘Boys and girls of Peking. Come in!’ Thunderous applause.
The assistant stage manager, sweating with ropes and pulleys, saw Max and looked anxious. It was rare for Max to come out of his dressing room early. Max gestured reassuringly. He could see Diablo, resplendent in purple robes, waiting stage right.
‘Bow down for the Emperor of Peking and his daughter, Princess Jasmine.’
The actress playing Jasmine, a rather sweet girl called Hilda Thompson, gave Diablo an encouraging smile as they stepped onto the stage. There was no need for her to feel anxious. As soon as the old rascal had his feet on the boards he was transformed.
‘Hallo, boys and girls. It’s your old Emperor here!’
Max grinned in the darkness of the wings. He was pretty sure that this line wasn’t in Nigel Castle’s script, where the Emperor featured as a taciturn and tyrannical father.
‘Welcome to Peking. And anyone caught peeking will be shot on sight. Especially if they’re peeking at my lovely daughter. Isn’t she beautiful?’
He leered into the stalls and the audience rewarded him warmly, confident that they were in the hands of an expert. Aladdin’s first words, ‘Who is that girl?’, were lost in the laughter, which served Annette right for not waiting long enough.
Still grinning, Max made his way back to his dressing room. Just time for a game of patience before his first entrance.
*
Edgar saw the lights from the pier as he made his way along the seafront. He was planning to take some flowers to Mrs M on his way home. The Christmas roses, bought by Emma at lunchtime, were already looking sad and wilted. It had been a frustrating day all round. In the morning he and Bob had trudged around Queen’s Park asking tobogganing families if they had seen Annie and Mark on Monday evening. A few people knew the children, at least by sight (‘Isn’t it terrible? I don’t feel safe letting the kids out of my sight’) but no one remembered seeing them in the park that night. They spoke to several dog-walkers: a large man with a tiny poodle, a family with an ancient spaniel and a Great Dane that took up most of a house on the south side of the park. Although all of them had been out on Monday night, none of them had seen the children.
‘Dog people only notice other dogs,’ said Bob. ‘My mum’s the same. She only talks to people with Jack Russells.’
Edgar’s mother had never owned a dog though he’d longed for one as a boy. Sometimes, walking home from school, he’d imagined that he was accompanied by a large Alsatian called Rex. He wished that Annie and Max had owned a dog like that, one that would have ripped the throat out of anyone who had dared approach them.
Emma had spent the day researching. She hadn’t complained but Edgar knew that she’d rather be there on the streets with them. Was he being patronising, trying to spare her the slog and the frustration, treating her as fragile because she was a woman? Or was it just because she was so good at the background stuff, so meticulous and thorough? In his experience, it was almost impossible to get this sort of thing right.
In any case, Emma had done her work well and, in addition to the roses, Edgar was now weighed down by a carrier bag containing several large books plus an archive copy of the
Argus
from December 1912. Diablo’s
Suddenly Max felt curious about Diablo’s entrance. He was pretty sure that the old devil had something hidden up his voluminous sleeves. As far as Max could tell, he had made no effort to learn his lines, although Nigel Castle kept offering to go over them with him. ‘Want to keep it fresh for the night,’ Diablo told the scriptwriter airily. ‘There’s such a thing as over-rehearsing, y’know.’
Max put down the script and opened his door. He could hear the first number coming to an end. Twirl, spin, thump, turn, crescendo, eyes and teeth. He made his way up the wooden steps to the wings. ‘Boys and girls of Peking. Come in!’ Thunderous applause.
The assistant stage manager, sweating with ropes and pulleys, saw Max and looked anxious. It was rare for Max to come out of his dressing room early. Max gestured reassuringly. He could see Diablo, resplendent in purple robes, waiting stage right.
‘Bow down for the Emperor of Peking and his daughter, Princess Jasmine.’
The actress playing Jasmine, a rather sweet girl called Hilda Thompson, gave Diablo an encouraging smile as they stepped onto the stage. There was no need for her to feel anxious. As soon as the old rascal had his feet on the boards he was transformed.
‘Hallo, boys and girls. It’s your old Emperor here!’
Max grinned in the darkness of the wings. He was pretty sure that this line wasn’t in Nigel Castle’s script, where the Emperor featured as a taciturn and tyrannical father.
‘Welcome to Peking. And anyone caught peeking will be shot on sight. Especially if they’re peeking at my lovely daughter. Isn’t she beautiful?’
He leered into the stalls and the audience rewarded him warmly, confident that they were in the hands of an expert. Aladdin’s first words, ‘Who is that girl?’, were lost in the laughter, which served Annette right for not waiting long enough.
Still grinning, Max made his way back to his dressing room. Just time for a game of patience before his first entrance.
*
Edgar saw the lights from the pier as he made his way along the seafront. He was planning to take some flowers to Mrs M on his way home. The Christmas roses, bought by Emma at lunchtime, were already looking sad and wilted. It had been a frustrating day all round. In the morning he and Bob had trudged around Queen’s Park asking tobogganing families if they had seen Annie and Mark on Monday evening. A few people knew the children, at least by sight (‘Isn’t it terrible? I don’t feel safe letting the kids out of my sight’) but no one remembered seeing them in the park that night. They spoke to several dog-walkers: a large man with a tiny poodle, a family with an ancient spaniel and a Great Dane that took up most of a house on the south side of the park. Although all of them had been out on Monday night, none of them had seen the children.
‘Dog people only notice other dogs,’ said Bob. ‘My mum’s the same. She only talks to people with Jack Russells.’
Edgar’s mother had never owned a dog though he’d longed for one as a boy. Sometimes, walking home from school, he’d imagined that he was accompanied by a large Alsatian called Rex. He wished that Annie and Max had owned a dog like that, one that would have ripped the throat out of anyone who had dared approach them.
Emma had spent the day researching. She hadn’t complained but Edgar knew that she’d rather be there on the streets with them. Was he being patronising, trying to spare her the slog and the frustration, treating her as fragile because she was a woman? Or was it just because she was so good at the background stuff, so meticulous and thorough? In his experience, it was almost impossible to get this sort of thing right.
In any case, Emma had done her work well and, in addition to the roses, Edgar was now weighed down by a carrier bag containing several large books plus an archive copy of the
Argus
from December 1912. Diablo’s
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