Excerpt from The Mannequin Makers by Craig Cliff, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Once Tompkins had regathered himself he said, 'Sorry Col, the house is full.'

'Do us a favour, Burt. Can't I stand up the back?'

'Back's already full of folks standing. The old girl wasn't built to fit the whole town.'

'There must be room for one more.'

'If you had a ticket, perhaps.'

'You know I don't have a ticket, Burt.'

'I'm sorry, Col.'

'Jesus, Burt.'

Tompkins removed his round spectacles and rubbed the lenses with his checked handkerchief.

'I meant to get a ticket,' Kemp said, 'but with Lou—,' the name caught in his throat but he pushed it out with a second effort, 'with Louisa expecting . . .'

Tompkins returned his specs to the bridge of his nose and leant in to the pane of glass that separated them. 'I didn't tell you, but you might be able to get in by the stage door around back. Plenty of hubbub back there, but if you look as if you belong . . .'

'Thanks, Burt.'

'Give my love to Louisa.'

Kemp placed his palm on the glass and nodded.

The rear of the theatre on Market Street was indeed a hive of activity. The backstage area must not have been large enough to house Rickards' entire company and the overflow went about their business in the open air under the glow of several large lanterns. A small-waisted woman with a powdered face sang scales, holding the hem of her blue dress and her many petticoats up from the reach of the dust and dirt. A man in a black tuxedo handed an accordion to a boy standing inside a covered wagon, before inspecting the teeth of two well-fed ponies with jewel-encrusted bridles.

Kemp looked around for an excuse to enter the theatre. Wooden crates were scattered here and there, stalks of hay sprouting from the openings. He placed the lid back on one of these crates, lifted it and made for the stage door.

'Who's that for, then?'

Kemp turned and saw an old man standing near the ponies, a body brush in one hand and his eyebrows raised.

'Fresh chains for Mr Sandow,' he replied.

'Well then,' the man said, 'schnell, schnell.'

Kemp put the empty crate down inside the corridor and took the stairs two at a time, turning right, away from the sound of a contralto on stage, who was singing what sounded like 'Love's Old Sweet Song', and merged into a crowd of men in the wings. The contralto was joined by the woman in the blue dress he had seen warming up outside. They performed a duet of 'Life's Dream is O'er' which, though sung in perfect harmony, made him grit his teeth. He pressed his back to the wall of the auditorium and tried not to listen to the lyrics. Standing on his toes he could see the twenty-piece orchestra crammed into the theatre's tiny pit and believed he could hear the discomfort in their performance. He scanned the audience, every face familiar, until he spotted Milly Bannerman seated at the end of the very last row of the stalls. Jolly was standing immediately behind, his hands clamped on his wife's shoulders, his eyes closed, head swaying with the music.

The master of ceremonies came forth and shook the hands of both singers. 'Miss Nita Leete and Miss Ray Jones!' he said and clapped theatrically as they skipped off the stage like May queens. The man, dressed in a crimson topcoat, now gestured for the audience to quieten down. Kemp wondered if this was Harry Rickards himself or just another paid performer. It was the kind of question he would lean across and whisper to Louisa. She would know no more than him, but she would find some detail — the frayed hem of the man's coat, the knot of his bootlace — to support a theory either way.

From The Mannequin Makersby Craig Cliff (Minneapolis: Milkweed Editions, 2017). Copyright © 2013 by Craig Cliff. Reprinted with permission from Milkweed Editions. milkweed.org