Dialogues of the Dead

69 he's at the front of the queue for the job. But a trumpet sounds upstage left. Enter Ambrose Bird, the Last of the ActorManagers.' 'Who?' 'Where do you live? Ambrose Bird, who ran the old municipal theatre till it was closed last month, mainly as a result of Council lor Steel's opposition to the large grant needed to refurbish it up to health and safety standards. This has left the Last of the ActorManagers (that's his own preferred title) with nothing to act in or manage but the Centre's much smaller studio theatre. That was definitely a yawn!' 'No, it was the beginning of an interjection. I was going to guess that this Bird guy has decided he'd like to put in for the Centre Director's job too.' 'Have you ever thought of becoming a detective?' asked Rye. 'Spot on. So Bird and Follows are locked in deadly combat. It's quite fan to watch them, actually. They don't try very hard to conceal the way they feel about each other. Anything in the Centre they can lay claim to, the pair of them are there, like dogs after a bone. The Roman Experience is drama, says Ambrose, so he takes responsibility for sound effects and training the people play ing the market stallholders. Poor old Perce is left with language and smells.' 'Smells?' 'Oh yes. The authentic smells of Roman Britain. Cross between a rugby changing room and an abattoir, as far as I can make out. Look, I'm beginning to yawn myself. The upshot of this is that Percy has countered by grabbing the lion's share of the preview arrangements and, with typical sexist insensitivity, has volunteered all his female staff to run around with the chardonnay and nibbles. End of story. You did pretty well, unless like a horse you can sleep with your eyes open.' 'So why is a bright, lively, independent, modern woman like yourself putting up with this crap?' said Hat with what he hoped was convincing indignation. She said defensively, 'It's no big deal. I'd have gone anyway. Dick will have a couple of paintings in. He's a bit of an artist.' She saw him toy with a crack, but was glad to see he was bright enough to drop the idea. 'In that case,' he said, 'and as I too am on the public payroll, why not? Dress casual, is it?' 'Dress artistically,' she murmured. 'Which brings me to a very important question. What does the well-dressed twitcher wear in Stangdale, Hat?' He studied her seriously to hide his delight at having guessed rightly that he was being offered a trade-off, then said, 'Well, starting from the inside out, have you got any thermal underwear?'

71 Chapter Eight