‘Well, you pays your money and you takes your choice,’ he told himself. He took one last look at the haggard cherub in the mirror, reflecting that, crow’s feet or not, women still couldn’t resist him, and went out to face the trials and tribulations of Act III.

On stage there was a heated debate in progress. The carpenter, his name was Jake, had built two hedges for Olivia’s garden. They still had to be covered with leaves, but they looked quite impressive, running the depth of the stage to the cyclorama, where the rest of the garden would be painted. None of this symbolic stuff. A garden was a garden: green grass, blue sky. That’s the way the audience liked it North of Birmingham, and Terry had some sympathy for their plain tastes.

‘Terry, love.’

Eddie Cunningham had him by the hand and elbow, escorting him into the fray.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Terry, love, you cannot be serious about these fucking (it came trippingly off the tongue: fucking) hedges. Tell Uncle Eddie you’re not serious before I throw a fit.’ Eddie pointed towards the offending hedges. ‘I mean look at them.’ As he spoke a thin plume of spittle fizzed in the air. ‘What’s the problem?’ Terry asked again.

‘Problem? Blocking, love, blocking. Think about it. We’ve rehearsed this whole scene with me bobbing up and down like a March hare. Up right, down left — but it doesn’t work if I haven’t got access round the back. And look! These fucking things are flush with the backdrop.’

‘Well they have to be, for the illusion, Eddie.’

‘I can’t get round though, Terry. You must see my point.’

He appealed to the few others on stage: the carpenters, two technicians, three actors.

‘I mean — there’s just not enough time.’

‘Eddie, we’ll re-block.’

‘Oh.’

That took the wind out of his sails.

‘No?’

‘Urn.’

‘I mean it seems easiest, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes… I just liked…

‘I know.’

‘Well. Needs must. What about the croquet?’

‘We’ll cut that too.’

‘All that business with the croquet mallets? The bawdy stuff?’

‘It’ll all have to go. I’m sorry, I haven’t thought this through. I wasn’t thinking straight.’

Eddie flounced.

‘That’s all you ever do, love, think straight…‘

Titters. Terry let it pass. Eddie had a genuine point of criticism; he had failed to consider the problems of the hedge-design.

‘I’m sorry about the business; but there’s no way we can accommodate it.’

‘You won’t be cutting anybody else’s business, I’m sure,’ said Eddie. He threw a glance over Galloway’s shoulder at Diane, then headed for the dressing-room. Exit enraged actor, stage left. Calloway made no attempt to stop him. It would have worsened the situation considerably to spoil his departure. He just breathed out a quiet ‘oh Jesus’, and dragged a wide hand down over his face. That was the fatal flaw of this profession: actors.

‘Will somebody fetch him back?’ he said.

Silence.

‘Where’s Ryan?’

The Stage Manager showed his bespectacled face over the offending hedge.

‘Sorry?’

‘Ryan, love — will you please take a cup of coffee to Eddie and coax him back into the bosom of the family?’

Ryan pulled a face that said: you offended him, you fetch him.

But Galloway had passed this particular buck before: he was a past master at it. He just stared at Ryan, defying him to contradict his request, until the other man dropped his eyes and nodded his acquiescence.

‘Sure,’ he said glumly.

‘Good man.’

Ryan cast him an accusatory look, and disappeared in pursuit of Ed Cunningham.

‘No show without Belch,’ said Galloway, trying to warm up the atmosphere a little. Someone grunted: and the small half-circle of onlookers began to disperse. Show over.

‘OK, OK,’ said Galloway, picking up the pieces, ‘let’s get to work. We’ll run through from the top of the scene. Diane, are you ready?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. Shall we run it?’

He turned away from Olivia’s garden and the waiting actors just to gather his thoughts. Only the stage working lights were on, the auditorium was in darkness. It yawned at him insolently, row upon row of empty seats, defying him to entertain them. Ah, the loneliness of the long-distance director. There were days in this business when the thought of life as an accountant seemed a consum-mation devoutly to be wished, to paraphrase the Prince of Denmark.

In the Gods of the Elysium, somebody moved. Galloway looked up from his doubts and stared through the swarthy air. Had Eddie taken residence on the very back row? No, surely not. For one thing, he hadn’t had time to get all the way up there.

‘Eddie?’ Galloway ventured, capping his hand over his eyes. ‘Is that you?’

He could just make the figure out. No, not a figure, figures. Two people, edging their way along the back row, making for the exit. Whoever it was, it certainly wasn’t Eddie.

‘That isn’t Eddie, is it?’ said Galloway, turning back into the fake garden.

‘No,’ someone replied.

It was Eddie speaking. He was back on stage, leaning on one of the hedges, cigarette clamped between his lips.

‘Eddie. .

‘It’s all right,’ said the actor good-humouredly, ‘don’t grovel. I can’t bear to see a pretty man grovel.’

‘We’ll see if we can slot the mallet-business in some-where,’ said Calloway, eager to be conciliatory.

Eddie shook his head, and flicked ash off his cigarette.

‘No need.’

‘Really —‘

‘It didn’t work too well anyhow.’

The Grand Circle door creaked a little as it closed behind the visitors. Galloway didn’t bother to look round. They’d gone, whoever they were.

‘There was somebody in the house this afternoon.’ Hammersmith looked up from the sheets of figures he was poring over. ‘Oh?’ his eyebrows were eruptions of wire-thick hair that seemed ambitious beyond their calling. They were raised high above Hammersmith’s tiny eyes in patently fake surprise. He plucked at his bottom lip with nicotine stained fingers.

‘Any idea who it was?’

He plucked on, still staring up at the younger man; undisguised contempt on his face.

‘Is it a problem?’

‘I just want to know who was in looking at the rehearsal that’s all. I think I’ve got a perfect right to ask.’

‘Perfect right,’ said Hammersmith, nodding slightly and making his lips into a pale bow.

‘There was talk of somebody coming up from the National,’ said Galloway. ‘My agents were arranging something. I just don’t want somebody coming in without me knowing about it. Especially if they’re important.’

Hammersmith was already studying the figures again. His voice was tired.

‘Terry: if there’s someone in from the South Bank to look your opus over, I promise you, you’ll be the first to be informed. All right?’

The inflexion was so bloody rude. So run-along-little-boy. Galloway itched to hit him.

‘I don’t want people watching rehearsals unless I author-ize it, Hammersmith. Hear me? And I want to know who was in today.’

The Manager sighed heavily.

‘Believe me, Terry,’ he said, ‘I don’t know myself. I suggest you ask Tallulah — she was front of house this afternoon. If somebody came in, presumably she saw them.’

He sighed again. ‘All right .. . Terry?’

Calloway left it at that. He had his suspicions about Hammersmith. The man couldn’t give a shit about theatre, he never failed to make that absolutely plain; he affected an exhausted tone whenever anything but money was mentioned, as though matters of aesthetics were beneath his notice. And he had a word, loudly administered, for actors and directors alike: butterflies. One day wonders. In Hammersmith’s world only money was forever, and the Elysium Theatre stood on prime land, land a wise man could turn a tidy profit on if he played his cards right.

Galloway was certain he’d sell off the place tomorrow if he could manoeuvre it. A satellite town like Redditch, growing as Birmingham grew, didn’t need theatres, it needed offices, hypermarkets, warehouses: it needed, to quote the councillors, growth through investment in new industry. It also needed prime sites to build that industry upon. No mere art could survive such pragmatism.