Morag Not Madam

There I stand, grim-faced, besuited and earplugged, at the entrance to the theatre as the door opens and the audience flood slowly in; in the far corners lurk the other two Cardinal's Men. Our role is to induce the sinister atmosphere of violence and surveillance that pervades the court of The Duchess of Malfi.

We have been warned that the theatre may be full. Seats facing the stage and stage right are quickly occupied. My job is to keep the last two rows stage left free for latecomers, who are allowed to sneak in at the end of scene one. Occasionally a group or couple tries to squeeze past me. I gently advise them that the seats are reserved and indicate the other side of the stage. They accept the restriction and move on.

Except for two people in their fifties. "Why are you being so hostile?" is their first question and the conversation goes downhill from there. I explain that the seats are reserved for latecomers. They consider that point irrelevant. "We have paid and have the right to sit anywhere." Except these seats, I say. "We need to sit near the exit. We come to this theatre often and we know from experience that we may walk out in the middle." I do not comment on whether coming back to a place where one has been frequently disappointed is a good use of one's time. "We have mobility issues." And so on. Usually the man talks, but sometimes the woman contributes. I say one thing and am told that I have said something different. I do not bother to suggest that I have may have been accidentally or deliberately misheard. It is clear that whatever I say, I will be in the wrong.

I recognise the type. Middle-aged, angry, aggressive, convinced that they are always right and the world is always against them; unhappy people whose hours, days and lives brim over with resentment. Talking to the female half, I begin a sentence, "I'm sorry, madam", to be interrupted in outrage "Don't call me Madam!" I'm sorry, I say, what would you like me to call you? Confusion briefly covers her face as she realises she has not been insulted, as she would dearly love to be. "Morag," she says quietly.

"I'm sorry, Morag," I am about to say, when Jo, our stage manager, appears, summoned by the competent Alex. Jo looks round the auditorium and agrees that the reserved rows can now be freed. Morag and her aggrieved companion plump themselves down in the seats next to me. A few minutes later the lights go down, the metaphorical curtain goes up and Antonio enters to pay his respects to the dead Duke. I have great pleasure a few minutes later in shouting, just above Morag's man "The Cardinal of Aragon!", and we are into the performance.

Later that evening, we lose four members of the audience. One young woman, upset at the violence of the execution scene, runs out, followed by her companion. And in the madness scene, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a movement. It is Morag-and-man heading for the exit. No doubt they will soon find someone or something else on which to vent their anger and to blame the unhappiness that constantly whirls around them.