tion id="ud8fe1fde-4057-59b2-b5a6-b73443526031">
NGAIO MARSH
Opening Night
To The Management and Company of The New Zealand Student Players of 1949 in love and gratitude
CONTENTS
| OF THE VULCAN THEATRE | |
| Martyn Tarne | |
| Bob Grantley | Business Manager |
| Fred Badger | Night Watchman |
| Clem Smith | Stage Director |
| Bob Cringle | Dresser to Adam Poole |
| Adam Poole | Actor-manager |
| Helena Hamilton | Leading Lady |
| Clark Bennington | Her husband |
| Gay Gainsford | His niece |
| J. G. Darcey | Character actor |
| Parry Percival | Juvenile |
| Jacques Doré | Designer and assistant to Adam Poole |
| Dr John James Rutherford | Playwright |
| OF THE CID NEW SCOTLAND YARD | |
| Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn | |
| Detective-Inspector Fox | |
| Detective-Sergeant Gibson | |
| Detective-Sergeant Bailey | Fingerprint expert |
| Detective-Sergeant Thompson | Photographer |
| PC Lord Michael Lamprey | |
| Dr Curtis |
As she turned into Carpet Street the girl wondered at her own obstinacy. To what a pass it had brought her, she thought. She lifted first one foot and then the other, determined not to drag them. They felt now as if their texture had changed: their bones, it seemed, were covered by sponge and burning wires.
A clock in a jeweller’s window gave the time as twenty-three minutes to five. She knew, by the consequential scurry of its secondhand, that it was alive. It was surrounded by other clocks that made mad dead statements of divergent times as if, she thought, to set before her the stages of that day’s fruitless pilgrimage. Nine o’clock, the first agent. Nine thirty-six, the beginning of the wait for auditions at the Unicorn; five minutes past twelve, the first dismissal. ‘Thank you, Miss–ah–Thank you, dear. Leave your name and address. Next, please.’ No record of her flight from the smell of restaurants but it must have been about ten-to-two, a time registered by a gilt carriage-clock in the corner, that she had climbed the stairs to Garnet Marks’ Agency on the third floor. Three o’clock exactly at the Achilles where the auditions had already closed, and the next hour in and out of film agencies. ‘Leave your picture if you like, dear. Let you know if there’s anything.’ Always the same. As punctual as time itself. The clocks receded, wobbled, enlarged themselves and at the same time spread before their dials a tenuous veil. Beneath the arm of a bronze nude that brandished an active swinging dial, she caught sight of a face: her own. She groped in her bag and presently in front of the mirrored face, a hand appeared and made a gesture at its own mouth with the stub of a lipstick. There was a coolness on her forehead, something pressed heavily against it. She discovered that this was the shop-window.
Behind the looking-glass was a man who peered at her from the shop’s interior. She steadied herself with her hand against the window, lifted her suitcase and turned