The Playing Fields

Chapter 26

Summer arrived quickly, and the first week passed even faster as the theatre company scrambled to prepare for the end of July opening. The philosophical differences between Nigel and Victoria were resolved and they worked hard to develop the production into something of which they could all be proud. Ironically, by dint of the roles in which they had been cast, the residents created their own, unwitting, self-mockery. Competition for prominence became fierce among the actors and support staff, widening the separation between reality and role-playing. On stage, the characters reacted to their parts as if in real life situations; at home, they perpetuated the transference with wild accusations and aberrant behaviour. On the night of the first full dress rehearsal, attended by selected community members, including a rare appearance by Arthur Paisley, Nigel and Victoria first glimpsed the true proportions of the monster they had unintentionally created.

"Arthur! I'm so pleased we finally pried you loose from that monastery you keep yourself locked up in." Gertrude Bader slipped a fleshy arm around her quarry, her pearl necklace bouncing to the rhythm of her jiggling bosom.

"Always a pleasure to offer community support, Gertrude dear." His meaty hand covered hers affectionately as he squeezed her arm tight to his side. "Actually I'm curious to see how the town's leaders are at play acting, given the short distance between that and their real lives."

"Such a cynic, Arthur," she teased, "from what I've learned, this should be quite a successful endeavor. As I recall," she whispered, leaning close, "working in that dreadful cattle business of yours, we performed some very impressive acting of our own."

"A performance I would be interested in reprising, dear Gertrude." He replied, with a whisper of his own.

"Oh, where are my manners." She said suddenly, her body squeezing itself with the thrill of his remark, "Arthur, this is a good friend and neighbour, Carmela. Carmela, this is the famous Arthur Paisley."

"Famous for what, I wonder." He joked, extending a rough hand. "It's a pleasure, Carmela. Nice to meet another resident of The Pathway. How do you like it out there?"

"How do you do." She took his hand with shy politeness. "We're very happy with our home, thank you."

"Good, good-"

"Arthur Paisley!" Ivan's voiced boomed through the theatre foyer, "You old dog. Down from the mountain to dispense favour, are we?"

The two men shook hands with practiced ease, exchanging prerequisite amenities.

"Gertrude has already chastised my reclusive penchant, Ivan, no need to grind it in." He smiled gruffly, patting her warm hand still clutched in his.

"Fair dinkum, old friend. Why don't we sit together, seating is wide open. Carmela and I'll fetch us some drinks and you two go and find a good vantage point to view this spectacle."

"I think I'd like to sit in one of the boxes," Gertrude said, leading Arthur toward the stairs, arms still linked.

"Bully! We'll be right along."

THE COMINGS AND GOINGS

Beginning early that morning, all the participants had descended on the theatre, jockeying for time with makeup, hair, and costume fittings. Carlos, and the ever-present Arlene, ran through their checklist of lighting settings, stealing every available moment to continue with their passionate groping. The sound system was tested, with Nigel racing from corner to corner of the auditorium, delivering complex hand signals to Ross, then repeating the sequence for the stage microphones. Everet Polasky was enlisted to operate the curtains, a function he had performed diligently back when the theatre was first built. His enthusiastic commitment was abruptly curtailed, when, testing the ropes and pulleys, he inadvertently dropped a few hundred pounds of dense velvet across the back of one of Hartley's service people, sending the staggered man to hospital for examination. As the day wore on, the charm and magic of the theatre wore off.

"But Serge thinks it's so- so- Rita Hayworth, Mrs. O."

"Well Mrs. O. thinks it's more Rita Haystack!" Tiffany wagged her head back and forth in front of the dressing table mirror. "What do you think Darlene?"

Darlene considered her opinion carefully, in light of the hurt pout on her employer's face. "I- think- I think Serge has captured the character of Thelma very well, Mrs. Osborne, but if ya'll would feel more comfortable, perhaps we could just brush this part down and back a bit." Cautiously, she repositioned a few of the waves Serge had sculpted, turning to him for approval. "There, I think that might make ya'll feel better, and it doesn't change Serge's vision.

"Serge?" Tiffany queried in the mirror.

Diplomatically, he accepted the alteration with a nod of assent, bothered somewhat by just how much of an improvement it made. "Serge still has the other ladies to prepare, so..."

"I know." Tiffany said, relinquishing the makeup stool. "Get my ass out so you can work on someone else."

"Serge's misfortune, darling." He dusted her cheek with a fairy kiss.

"Would that be working on someone else, or losing my ass."

He batted his eyes demurely as she left.

*****

Jean wet the piece of tissue with her tongue and wiped at the smudge on Ross's jaw. "I can't believe how dusty some of this stuff was, they just finished a play here a few months ago."

He stood patiently, smiling at the way her tongue poked out the side of her mouth as she wiped at his face. "Some of it came from the basement. It hadn't been used in quite a while. We still need two more chairs, and there's a little writing desk that Nigel wants for the living room scene."

"There, that should do it." She balled up the tissue and stuck it in her jeans pocket. "Well I guess we'd better get cracking then, Mr. Prop Man."

They pushed through the heavy curtains and walked along behind the stage to the iron stairs leading down to the basement. Two bare bulbs hung stoically on crimped wires from the ceiling joists, casting a dusty light short of the full area of the storeroom. Old trunks, tables and variety of other items slept quietly about the room, in no particular arrangement, smothered by a thin blanket of grey dust. Ross pushed a few things aside as he looked about the gloom, raising annoyed little puffs of the filmy cover.

"Would this do?" Jean asked, brushing at the arm of an old Captain's chair.

He came back and tugged the chair out into the aisle between the props. "Perfect. Are there a pair of them?"

"Mmmmh, not sure." She bent down behind him, peering beneath the top of an old refectory table, just as he turned, after asking his question.

His thighs bumped her protruding bottom, sending her headlong into a pile of bent and sagging, rolled carpets that leaned against the rear wall.

"Oooohppph!" she squealed, hearing his own cry of surprise, as she thrashed about in the filthy pile.

"God, I'm sorry Jean. Are you okay?" He picked his way through the tangle and knelt beside her. Smudges of ancient dirt and dust stained her face, and her appearance provoked his involuntary laugh.

"You look like you've been sweeping chimneys." He collapsed down beside her, tears streaking the dust that had settled on his own face.

"Arrrgh, my blouse, look at it. I'm a mess." She looked back at him, discovering that he had obeyed her instruction. His eyes were glued to the front of her blouse where the button had torn off, allowing the material to drop aside, revealing the plump mound of the top of her breast. "Oh!"

His eyes tracked up to hers, and they stared silently at one another, frozen in a moment of indecision. In one swift move, he grabbed the back of her head and pulled her mouth to his, the free hand sliding deftly inside the torn blouse, where he felt it suddenly cradled by her own desperate fingers.

"Mmmph, oh, Jean ..."

"Ross. Ross."

They fell back, wedging themselves between two thick, dirty rolls of carpet, frantically tugging at belts and zippers.

*****