Nobby is dreaming: It's a quarter to eight.
A queue has formed outside the fence line.
Ba-bong! He is not ready! Where is his stand-in?
He leaps into the sink hole, scattering precious bay leaves.
What is that smell?
Terence is spraying a fine mist from a can. Poooosh!
It smells like oranges. Sweet, not bitter.
He spins around. There is a pot. In the pot is an orange tree. A small one.
Celia and Saint Roley are picking tiny oranges and placing them in baskets.
To the sounds of plunky music. Per-lunk!
Slowly it dawns. The sweet orange tree is his replacement.
He is demoted to playing one role. The role of the curtain.
Plong!
He wakes up in a sweat.
What time is it? asks Nobby.
Six thirty, says Belle. And I've got good news.
I already dreamed it, says Nobby. You bought an orange tree in a pot. I'm demoted to curtain.
No, says Belle. You're still the orange tree. I've bought us a curtain.
Nobby is pleased on the one hand. He is not demoted to curtain. On the other hand, his dream has proved not to be prescient, which is disappointing.
Let's rig it up, says Elodie.
Okay, says Belle. Wait. Where's Terence?
Down there with Celia and Saint Roley, says Elodie. They're practising.
They're remarkably quiet, says Belle.
She shouts into the sink hole.
Hey Terence! Come up!
Can't, says Terence. I'm tied to a chair.
There are sounds of scuffling.
Celia emerges, followed by Saint Roley.
We tied him to a chair, says Saint Roley. He wouldn't stop pressing his stink button. Then when the spray ran out, he found the spade and started digging. We thought: there goes our play.
Tch! says Belle. We'll leave him there a bit longer, to teach him a lesson.
I heard you! shouts Terence. I'm getting all stiff on this chair. I might not be able to run about properly.
You will, says Belle. Just wait till we've rigged up this curtain.
The curtain is a length of Swiss cotton, printed with tiny birds, leaves and flowers.
It is so beautiful, Nobby momentarily wishes that he was the curtain.
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