Free Devil in Disguise by Julian Clary

could
reach and, most particularly, in all the dark corners where unhappy spirits might
linger or bad vibes lurk.
    Next
she took out a very small wooden electric lamp, hand-painted with tiny roses
and topped with a camp fringed vanilla shade, which she plugged in and turned
on. She placed her small portable radio in the middle of the bench and turned
that on too. The sensible tones of Radio 4 filled the silence. It was the last
five minutes of Book of the Week. Molly listened with half an ear while
she set out her makeup just so in front of the mirror. Then she turned off the
harsh overhead strip lighting and switched on the bulbs round the mirror. The
room was transformed: the lighting was now soft and harmonious, it smelt
delicious and looked homely and cheerful.
    ‘There!’
she said to herself. ‘Northampton, I’m ready!’
     
    Monday was always the technical-rehearsal
day when the actors, the band (three tired, disillusioned musicians and a lot
of click-tracks, frankly) and the technicians got used to the new space,
rehearsed their cues, sound-checked and walked through the show, making sure of
their entrances, exits and any alterations, such as a raked stage, that they
needed to take note of.
    Having
completed her dressing-room routine, Molly wandered to the Green Room to make a
cup of tea and see who was about. A dear old actor called Peter McDonald, cast
in the title role of the Mikado, was sitting at the dirty Formica table
drinking coffee out of a polystyrene cup and reading The Times. He was
in his seventies, dapperly dressed as always in a beige linen suit and pale
green tie. He was vaguely known by the public from a popular series of the late
sixties, The Butler.
    ‘Morning,
Miss Molly. I trust you’re keeping well?’ he said, his tone implying that a
certain Dunkirk spirit was required under the circumstances of the location.
    ‘Yes,
thank you, Peter, as well as can be expected.’
    ‘Are
your digs satisfactory?’
    ‘Yes, I
think so. Yours?’
    ‘A poky
little arrangement ten minutes’ stroll from the theatre through perilous
terrain, but somewhere to lay my head. I shall survive.’ He gave Molly a
telling look and shuddered discreetly.
    Molly
smiled at him She was fond of Peter, who was a seasoned repertory actor, and
they had spent some happy hours in each other’s dressing rooms discussing the
other actors or the latest theatre and its crew. Peter went some way to filling
the gap that Simon left, although he was no gay best friend. Despite his camp
playfulness, he was divorced with two grown-up daughters.
    ‘Now,
Miss Molly,’ he said, putting his paper down, ‘are you excited? Because I am!
Just a week! One week more. One little week to go.’
    ‘I
know. Wonderful, isn’t it? If my wedding day dawns brightly many more times,
I’ll go bonkers.’
    Peter
rolled his eyes. ‘And if I hear “Three Little Maids From School” ever again
after Saturday, I won’t be responsible for my actions. It ran through my head
all last night. Sheer torture.’
    They
smiled conspiratorially. The last week was often the hardest to get through.
The cast were all desperately tired of each other, the show had lost what
little energy it had once had, and no one thrilled to the sound of the score
any more, not even the paying public. It was work, plain and simple. Molly had
both enjoyed and endured the experience but she would be glad when it was over,
and she knew that Peter was tired of this uninspired production and the rigours
of touring. ‘We’ve all had enough now, haven’t we?’ she said.
    Peter
glanced over each shoulder, as if someone might hear him, and nodded
conclusively. ‘I really don’t know how much longer I can put up with this
shit!’ he cried, in tones of queenly dismay, then lowered his voice. ‘I don’t
want to name names,’ he whispered, ‘but there’s a certain Pish-Tush in this
show who is full of Pooh-Bah!’ His face twitched with irritation. ‘I’ll say no
more. ‘He