“Where is that vase, we need the vase?” bellowed Topher from the front row.

Cath called back “Its stage left, in its place, where it always is”

“Excellent, from the top please”

Cath wondered yet again why the director was called Topher – what sort of diminutive was that anyway? She had promised herself that she would never again get involved in the summer production of the Maverick Theatre Company. They had done a Brecht once and felt that gave them some Indie credentials, but “Maverick” didn’t describe the usual fare of Wind in the Willows and Noel Coward.

Then in March came the phone call from Topher, wheedling her to play a small role and be stage manager.

Now here she was at the technical rehearsal of yet another murder mystery, getting shouted at and playing the bloody housekeeper. Why was she always the domestic? Or the peasant? Or the disease addled whore?

“We need the chair. Cath. CATH. We need the chair”

Cath walked on stage with the chair, placed it with icy calm and precision on its mark and exited without saying a word.

Back in the wings the unmanageable toddler that was Topher’s son raced past, knocking the props table and crashing some cutlery to the floor.

“What was that?! Quiet in the wings. Cath, keep it down”

Cath turned to the actor playing the Doctor, hoping for some empathy and even some assistance, but none came, so intent was his focus on his doctorly persona. Having read a book about Marlon Brando and method acting recently he fancied himself as a contender.

Cath retrieved the props and carefully arranged them on the table. Everything in its place, all organised and ready to go. Cath was a good stage manager, she could anticipate what was needed and when, rarely was anything out of place. That was why Topher asked her to do it, he knew she was good and couldn’t bear it at the same time, so he poked and needled and undermined her.

“Can we get on please? This is taking so long. I have a plane to catch. Cath. CATH.”

“What?”

“Cath, can we speed things up please”

Cath appeared from behind the giant polystyrene pillar representing the resplendent archway of the country house. No minimal staging for this director.

“It’s not really in my gift – is it” she replied, slowly and quietly.

“Well, we need to crack on, I have a plane to catch this evening. Is the dagger ready?”

Cath returned to the props table and noticed that the dagger was missing. Under the table she saw Topher’s son sitting with the dagger, stabbing his teddy bear in the eye as he held it. She watched for a while, and then said “don’t do that” in a tired Willy Wonka kind of way. The boy carried on, ripping and stabbing at the bear.

He screamed when the dagger pierced the palm of his hand. Topher rushed towards the noise and found his blood and snot covered son wailing and alone, sitting beneath the corpse of his toy pinned to the wall by the dagger.

“Help. Cath. Get an Ambulance. Cath where are you….CATH”