The Good Companions by J.B. Priestley — Read

The last time we were actually present when the Good Companions began a performance was on a Saturday night, the first real Night they had, at Sandybay, months ago. That was a tremendous occasion -- or so it seemed then -- but it was nothing to this, a Saturday night at the Gatford Hippodrome. Susie's birthday, Susie's benefit, with Mr. Monte Mortimer due to arrive almost any time, and every seat in the house taken -- even the box. Yes, the Gatford Hippodrome had a box -- not four boxes, not two boxes, but one solitary box. Its curtains were rather dingy, and it was difficult to make out whether its four little chairs were gilded or not, but nevertheless it was a proper box, ready to receive any great personage visiting the town who expressed a wish to attend a performance at the Hippodrome. And of course it could be booked, in the ordinary way. But as great personages rarely visited the Hippodrome and other people preferred to sit in comfort, this box was not often occupied, though professional friends of the manager would occasionally accept a seat in it for an odd hour. But now, on this great night, it had been taken. Nobody knew who had taken it, or at least nobody admitted having any knowledge. Thus, Jerry Jerningham might possibly have known something about it. He was not asked, partly because he was not there to be asked until there was barely time for him to change and make up for the opening chorus, and then again because no one imagined he would know anything about it. Mrs. Joe might have asked him, because she was more pleased, excited, and curious about that box than anybody else. In her opinion, the box gave Tone to the whole evening. She looked forward to catching the gleam of a white dress front, to hurling a good chest note at a possible diamond tiara. And then again, as she pointed out, with a box you never never knew; anybody might be in that box, and anything -- a solid contract for Bournemouth, for example -- might come out of it. She was interested, excited, and made no secret of the fact. Perhaps the prophetic instinct was working in the depths of her mind -- all conscientious contraltos, after all, sound prophetic -- for it must be admitted that that box was important.

Indeed, everything is important now. The sands are running out, so that every grain has some significance.