"Rupert made it all himself," Nialla said, proudly. "The drawers, the folding stage, the lighting equipment ... made the spotlights out of old paint tins, didn't you, Rupert?"

Rupert nodded absently as he hauled away at a bundle of iron tubing.

"And that's not all. He cut the cables, made the props, painted the scenery, carved the puppets ... everything--except that, of course."

She was pointing to a bulky black case with a leather handle and perforations in the side.

"What's in there? Is it an animal?"

Nialla laughed.

"Better than that. It's Rupert's pride and joy: a magnetic recorder. Had it sent him from America. Cost him a pretty penny, I can tell you. Still, it's cheaper than hiring the BBC orchestra to play the incidental music!"

Rupert had already begun to tug boxes out of the Austin, grunting as he worked. His arms were like dockyard cranes, lifting and turning ... lifting and turning, until at last, nearly everything was piled in the grass.

"Allow me to lend a hand," the vicar said, seizing a rope handle at the end of a black coffin-shaped trunk with the word "Galligantus" stenciled upon it in white letters, as Rupert took the other end.

Nialla and I went back and forth, back and forth, with the lighter bits and pieces, and within half an hour, everything was piled up inside the parish hall in front of the stage.

"Well done!" the vicar said, dusting off the sleeves of his jacket. "Well done, indeed. Now then, would Saturday be suitable? For the show, I mean? Let me see ... today is Thursday ... that would give you an extra day to make ready, as well as time to have your van repaired."

"Sounds all right to me," Rupert said. Nialla nodded, even though she hadn't been asked.