Free Wild Lavender by Belinda Alexandra

stagehands returned to the wings, he let out a slow, whistling breath, threw his arms in the air and shouted, ‘On with the show!’
    The stage went black and I wondered what was going to happen next. I could make out a row of lights around the orchestra pit and a circle of light shining from a lamp in the front wing.
    After a while, there were voices. The sound grew louder. My nose twitched: tobacco smoke drifted in the air. I peered beyond the gap in the curtains and made out the silhouettes of people pouring down the aisles and filling the seats. A few minutes later, a man’s voice echoed around the hall and the chatter abruptly ceased. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Le Chat Espiègle…’
    A shiver ran all the way down my spine to the backs of my legs. Bonbon pressed herself against me and pricked up her ears. A circle of light flashed on the stage in front of the curtains. The audience clapped. The vibration of the applause shook the floorboards under my feet and made the chandelier tinkle. The band struck up a romantic melody and a man in a striped shirt and beret stepped into the spotlight. He turned and I caught his profile. His face was covered in white make-up and his eyes and lips were circled in black. He held out his hand, pretending to smell a flower. After admiring it, he offered the bloom to imaginary people passing by. I had seen mime artists at the Sault fair, but this one was more convincing. Each time his offer of the flower was rejected, his shoulders drooped and he bowed his head in a way that made me feel his disillusionment. I couldn’t see his facial expressions but the audience burst into laughter and stamped their feet at hisperformance, which ended when someone accepted his flower and he skipped down the stage steps towards them.
    The percussion instruments burst out with an explosion of drums and rattles. The curtains flew open and light flooded the stage. A stampede rumbled on the stairs above me and the stage filled with chorus girls dressed as American Indians. Their tan stockings shimmered under the lights and their plaited hairpieces swung around their faces as they bucked and stomped around the totem pole, singing out their war cry. The audience stood up and cheered. Some whistled and others made catcalls. With the brighter lights I could see them more clearly than before. They were nearly all men in dark suits and caps, or sailors, but dotted among the crowd were showy women in sequins and feathers and about half a dozen out-of-place men dressed like Monsieur Gosling. On stage, the dancing turned wilder. Indian braves arrived with a canoe, but were overrun by the squaws who wrestled them to the ground and stole their moccasins.
    Then, as quickly as they had appeared, the girls departed like ants before a storm, fleeing into the wings or up the stairs. The sound of their fading voices ricocheted around me. The lights blacked out again. Bonbon quivered in my arms. My own heart thumped in my chest. Seeing the performance was like being hit by lightning. My skin burned and my temples throbbed. I had never experienced anything like it before.
    I peered through the curtain again and blinked. Ghostly beings were scuffling around on the stage. They hoisted something over the backdrop; it unfurled with the thump of a sail opening into the wind. They pushed the totem pole into the wings and in its place set out objects that looked like trees. A few minutes later their shadowy shapes retreated, like assassins slinking away. I became aware of a muffled voice and saw that another act was taking place in front of the curtain. The rounded shoulders and grim posture were familiar and I realised that it was the sullen comedian. I couldn’t hear what hewas saying because he was projecting his voice towards the audience, but whatever it was they didn’t like it. They were booing and banging the sides of their chairs with their fists.
    ‘Bring on the girls!’ a surly voice shouted above the