Maskerade

'Walter's your son?' said Granny. 'Wears a beret?'

The old woman nodded.

'Only I always comes back for him if he's working late...' she began.

'You come back for him... but he sees you home?' said Granny.

'It's... he's... he's...' Mrs Plinge rallied. 'He's a good boy,' she said defiantly.

'I'm sure he is, Mrs Plinge,' said Granny.

She carefully lifted the little white bonnet off Mrs Plinge's head and handed it to Nanny, who put it on, and also took the little white apron. That was the good thing about black. You could be nearly anything, wearing black. Mother Superior or Madam, it was really just a matter of the style. It just depended on the details.

There was a click. Box Eight had bolted itself. And then there was the very faint scrape of a chair being wedged under the doorhandle.

Granny smiled, and took Mrs Plinge's arm. 'I'll be back as soon as I can,' she said.

Nanny nodded, and watched them go.

There was a little cupboard at the end of the corridor. It contained a stool, Mrs Plinge's knitting, and a small but very well stocked bar. There were also, on a polished mahogany plank, a number of bells on big coiled springs.

Several of them were bouncing up and down angrily.

Nanny poured herself a gin and gin with a dash of gin and inspected the rows of bottles with considerable interest.

Another bell started to ring.

There was a huge jar of stuffed olives. Nanny helped herself to a handful and blew the dust off a bottle of port.

A bell fell off its spring.

Somewhere out in the corridor a door opened and a young man's voice bellowed, 'Where are those drinks, woman!'

Nanny tried the port.

Nanny Ogg was used to the idea of domestic service. As a girl, she'd been a maid at Lancre Castle, where the king was inclined to press his intentions and anything else he could get hold of. Young Gytha Ogg had already lost her innocence but she had some clear ideas about unwelcome intentions, and when he jumped out at her in the scullery she had technically committed treason with a large leg of lamb swung in both hands. That had ended her life below stairs and put a lengthy crimp in the king's activities above them.

The brief experience had given her certain views which weren't anything so definite as political but were very firmly Oggish. And Mrs Plinge had looked as if she didn't get very much to eat and not a lot of time to sleep, either. Her hands had been thin and red. Nanny had a lot of time for the Plinges of the world.

Did port go with sherry? Oh, well, no harm in trying...

All the bells were ringing now. It must be coming up to the interval.

She methodically unscrewed the top off ajar of cocktail onions, and thoughtfully crunched a couple.

Then, as other people started to poke their heads around the doors and make angry demands, she went to the champagne shelf and took down a couple of magnums. She gave them a damn good shake, tucked one under each arm with a thumb on the corks, and stepped out into the corridor.

Nanny's philosophy of life was to do what seemed like a good idea at the time, and do it as hard as possible. It had never let her down.

The curtains closed. The audience was still on its feet, applauding.

'What happens now?' whispered Agnes to the next gypsy.

He pulled off his bandanna. 'Well, dear, we generally nip out to– Oh, no, they're going for a curtain call!'

The curtains opened again. The light caught Christine, who curtsied and waved and sparkled.

Her fellow‑gypsy nudged Agnes. 'Look at Dame Timpani,' he said. 'There's a nose in a sling if ever I saw one.'

Agnes stared at the prima donna.

'She's smiling,' she said.

'So does a tiger, dear.'

The curtains shut once more, with a finality that said the stage manager was going to strike the set and would scream at someone if they dared to touch those ropes again . .. .

Agnes ran off with the others. There wasn't too much to do in the next act. She'd tried to memorize the plot earlier–although other members of the chorus had done their best to dissuade her, on the basis that you could either sing them or understand them, but not both.

Nevertheless, Agnes was conscientious.

'... so Peccadillo (ten.), the son of Duke Tagliatella (bass), has secretly disguised himself as a swineherd to woo Quizella, not knowing that Doctor Bufola (bar.) has sold the elixir to Ludi the servant, without realizing he is really the maid Iodine (sop.) dressed up as a boy because Count Artaud (bar.) claims that...'

A deputy stage manager pulled her out of the way and waved at someone in the wings.

'Lose the countryside, Ron.'

There was a series of whistles from offstage, answered by another from above.

The backcloth rose. From the gloom above, the sandbag counterweights began to descend.

'... then Artaud reveals, er, that Zibeline must marry Fideli, I mean Fiabe, not knowing, er, that the family fortunes...'