The Prop Room – Part 2: Strike

The run ended on a Saturday night.

The cast bowed to a standing house. The curtain fell. For ten minutes there was the usual happy chaos: flowers, hugs, tearful speeches. Then the crew began the strike, the long, dusty, joyful business of dismantling a world. Flats came down. Lights came off the rig. Props were carried to the basement in crates.

By midnight, only Morag and Callum remained in the prop room.

The shelves were full again. The stuffed swan sat on its shelf, wearing a small paper hat. The telephones, teapots and fake hams were stacked neatly in rows. The bulb overhead hummed. Dust danced in the yellow light.

"All counted?" said Callum.

"All counted."

"Even the hams?"

"Especially the hams."

He laughed. She sat on a crate with a mug of cold tea, her boiler suit smeared with glue. Her red hair was falling out of its pin. She looked utterly happy.

"It was a good run."

"The best."

"I didn't want it to end."

"There's another show in a fortnight."

"It's a different show."

"It'll have props."

"It'll have a different lighting designer."

He stood in front of her, hands in his pockets, scuffing the floor. "It'll have the same lighting technician."

"Callum."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"May I kiss you? In the prop room?"

"Yes," said Morag, her eyes shining. "And if you say stop, you must buy me a stuffed swan of my own."

"I would anyway."

He kissed her, shy and warm, a hand brushing a curl from her face. She kissed him back, quick and then slow, her hands flat against his black T-shirt. The bulb hummed. A teapot, balanced on a high shelf, rocked once and was still.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Morag. "Very green."

The swan has a corner of its own now, with a small brass plate: Lucky. Borrowed. Returned.

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