For too long Kydd's buoyant good nature had been clouded, but the atmosphere of a place dedicated to losing oneself in fantasy was getting to him. Damn it, he vowed, he would enjoy this interlude.
"Hey, you! You there—Tom, whatever's y' name!" Carne's face came round the curtain and he looked irritable.
"Aye, Mr Carne," Kydd called humbly, and made his way hastily past the seats and on to the stage.
"Come!" The face disappeared, so Kydd pulled back the curtain tentatively and stepped into a dark chaos of props, ladders, improbable scenes painted on vast boards—and an impatient Carne. "This is y' mate as will teach ye." Carne snatched a look at a well-thumbed snap-bound book and turned to a wiry man nearby. "And I want t' block through scene three again f'r Miss Mayhew in ten minutes," he told him, and left them to it.
"Tim Jones," his preceptor said, thrusting out a hand to Kydd. "Look o' the sea about ye, cuffin!" He snorted, then grinned.
"Aye," said Kydd, bemused. "Er, quartermaster's mate round th' Horn in the flying Artemis."
"Artemis?" Jones said respectfully. "As did fer the Citoyenne in th' last war? Glory be! Well, I was only a Jack Dusty in Tiger, had t' go a-longshore wi' the gormy ruddles as ruined m' constitooshun." He clapped Kydd on the shoulder. "We's better be learnin' ye the ropes here right enough."
They left the confusion of the rehearsal for the dark upper eyrie of the fly-loft where Kydd looked down through a maze of ropes and contraptions directly to the stage below. Jones squatted comfortably on the slats, and began: "That there's Mr Carne, an' he's the stage-master who calls th' show from that book he has. He's in charge o' the runnin' crew, which includes us flymen, an' that scrovy crowd workin' below. Now, here's the griff. When the scene shifts, th' whole thing fr'm clew t' earring goes arsy-versy in a very smart way, an' it's us as does it. How? I'll show ye . . ."
Kydd took in the complexity of ropes and machinery that could change their world of enchantment from a sylvan glade to a magnificent palace and back again. He learned of flats and gauzes, clothes and rigging; and of the special whistles that had as much meaning for the stage crew in the complex operations of a scene change as a boatswain's call for seamen in the operation of a man-o'-war.
Carne's hectoring voice rose above the din, and occasionally Kydd caught sight of an actor in fine robes foreshortened by the height as he strode the boards declaiming into the empty darkness. Excitement gripped him: soon the grand play would open—it seemed impossible that the disorderly rumpus below could calm to the breathless scenes he remembered from his last visit to a theatre. "Will we see Miss Mayhew an' Mr Samson a-tall?" he found himself asking in awed tones.
"Y' might at that."
A bellow of "Places! Places!" cut through the confusion. Carne had the company pacing through the new scene arrangement under the director's critical eye and the flymen were soon hard at work on ropes and flats.
There was a last flurry of activity before front of house went to their stations, then a tense wait for the play to commence. The echoing emptiness of the theatre now had a different quality: a background susurrus of rustling and murmuring as the first of the audience took their seats while the reflectored footlights threw magic shadows into the upper reaches.
The noise grew, shouts from rowdier elements mingling with raucous laughter and the animated hum of conversation. The small orchestra struck up with a strenuous overture until anticipation had built sufficiently—and the play began.
It was hard work and the timing exact, but Kydd had the chance to hear and sometimes see the action. At the interval he descended to help with the flats for the second half but was called across by Carne: "Take Miss Mayhew her refreshment, Tom what'syername."
He was passed a single ornate crystal glass on a small lacquer tray with Chinese writing on it. A smell of gin wafted up from it as Kydd carried it to the dressing rooms, past half-dressed nymphs and bearded Magyars, in a stifling atmosphere of heat and excitement, with the unmistakable smell of greasepaint.
"Enterrrr!" The response to his knock was the same imperious trill he had heard on stage. Griselda Mayhew was at her brightly lit mirror, a vision of a towering wig, flowing gown and caked makeup, but a jolly face with kindly eyes.
"Ah, thank you, dearie!" she said gratefully. "Put it down there. I'm near gut-foundered."
She looked at Kydd shrewdly. "Well, I haven't seen you before?"
"Er, new t'night, Miss Mayhew," he said diffidently.
"You're no common stagehand, I'd wager. Gent of decayed fortune, more like. Still, y' came to the right place. Theatre's a fine place t' make your mark. Good luck t' you, cully!"