10 a.m. "We make the corsets first: it brings in the waist and brings up the boobs to make a nice shelf effect," chuckles Anne O'Halloran, costume cutter in the Abbey Theatre wardrobe department, which has just started work for the day. The wardrobe department is full of tailors' dummies wearing half finished dresses and underwear for the cast of Richard Brinsley Sheridan's 18th century play, The Rivals, in rehearsal when this reporter made her visit (the play opened on Wednesday). The wardrobe department is essentially one room, with shelves of fabric and sequins at one end. (Outside in a narrow corridor there are racks of cloaks, blouses and rows of shoes and boots; even a cow's head.) Anne Cave, wardrobe supervisor, is busy with a ruler at the cutting table measuring out the quilting for a gown belonging to Mrs Malaprop, played by Anita Reeves. A tailor's dummy is wearing what Anne O'Mahony (wardrobe assistant) calls "a shower curtain". It is a skirt made of heavy transparent plastic. The bodice is made of electric blue material with the texture of bubble-wrap. "Don't mention bubble wrap!" says Anne Cave. "We'd all be in bubble-wrap if he had his way." "He" is Conor Murphy, set and costume designer for the show, who has chosen a silver stage floor and plastic and paper for many of the costumes. "These materials are not the norm," says Anne Cave. However, they do have distinct advantages: "The plastic is great, it can be cleaned with the rub of a sponge, not like those frilly shirts you have to wash every day and iron all the ruffles."
11 a.m. In Control, high above the Abbey stage, Tony Wakefield, head of lighting, has been in since 8.45 a.m., when he did a fire check and let off the alarms. He has prepared his personnel requests for next week: he will need extra people, because it will be "fit up" time for two shows: the revival of At Swim Two Birds at the Peacock, and the opening of The Rivals in the Abbey. He has already had a production meeting this morning to discuss the fit up of At Swim: "There are five cast changes, and refinements to the set." Over in Annesley Place beside Fairview Park, the set of At Swim Two Birds is being reconstructed and the set for The Rivals is being built by a team of carpenters, metalworkers and painters, under the eye of head of carpentry, Peter Rose. Up in Control we have a bird's eye view of the bleak, ice-bound set of Marina Carr's By the Bog of Cats, which is at the end of its run. Tony has a lighting board from which the lighting for the show is operated. He shows me the huge lighting plan for the play: "This is only a small rig," he smiles. There are 200 lamps for this show, but some shows will have 350. Each lamp has its own control; a number and a name. 161 is Slate Blue, and 162 is Bastard Amber: "Oh yeah, 162 is a favourite," says Tony. He turns on the ghost light, which tints the stage in an eerie greeny-blue. The show has 44 lighting cues, each pre-programmed in the computer.
David Nolan, head of sound, is in the middle of choosing music for The Rivals: "It's being done with a bit of a twist, so we're going for lounge music, like The Divine Comedy." All the sound effects for a show are recorded on a mini-disc, "for digital quality". The Bog has 22 cues (cue one is "the wind"), but there can be up to 100.
The two often go off on tour with the company: David has just come back from Melbourne, where the Abbey's production of Thomas Kilroy's play, The Secret Fall of Con- stance Wilde, had a rapturous reception. Tony is about to go on a four-venue Irish tour with Bernard Farrell's play, Kevin's Bed.
11.30 a.m. In the rehearsal room, director Brian Brady is putting some of the cast of The Rivals through their paces. Pat Kinevane is clutching a stuffed pheasant with some distaste. James Kennedy wears a large, stained overcoat with big cuffs and buttons. Phelim Drew and Peter O'Meara discuss "blocking" with the director: the best positions to adopt, whether Peter O'Meara (who plays the servant, Fag) should take Pat Kinevane's coat and pheasant, because then he won't have a free hand to put out the chairs and pour the wine. The same short scene is repeated over and over. Pat Kinevane says "Odds crickets, she has been the bell and spirit of the company wherever she has been," about 10 different times, each time with the same ringing poise and conviction. Hearty laughs and smiles come to them all as frequently as is required, but everyone is relieved when Brian calls for a tea break. "The play, which is about several men in love with the same woman, has a labyrinthine plot," he explains, as the actors lounge outside with tea and cigarettes. "It's a very over-written play," says Peter O'Meara. "Oscar Wilde is easy compared to this," agrees James Kennedy, who is keen to get his hands on the boots for his part. "I thought maybe cowboy boots with Cuban heels," suggests Conor Murphy. Noon.
The Abbey's artistic director, Patrick Mason, is away on a lecture tour of the west coast of America: "He told me yesterday on the phone that there is a lot of interest in having Irish theatre in that part of the US, " says the Abbey's new managing director, Richard Wakely. In Mason's absence, he and Madeleine Boughton (head of Public Relations) sit me down for a pep talk. "The Abbey is like a factory. We create our own work by nurturing writers, commissioning plays, producing sets with our own craftspeople," says Richard. There are 110 staff in the building. The Abbey receives a subsidy of £2.7 million and has an annual turnover of £4.5 million. A big priority for the future is rebuilding: "This building, although it was completed in the 1960s, is antiquated and the facilities are inadequate," says Richard. An example of the shortcomings of the existing situation is that there is no internal link between the Abbey and the Peacock. As for the Abbey's artistic work, "We don't want to rest on our laurels", says MadMadeleine. "We don't want the tradition of the Abbey to become a millstone around our necks that will impede us from thinking in a contemporary way." She and Richard pay tribute to Patrick Mason for pushing the Abbey in a more contemporary direction, with 49 new plays commissioned from 1994 to 1998, and a staff whose average age profile is late 20s to early 30s.
12.30 p.m. Deep in the basement, Mairead Delany is working on the Abbey archives. Clad in a blue overall and white gloves, and operating in a very confined space, Mairead is cataloguing early stage management records, photographs, logbooks and costume designs. "A lot was lost or damaged in the fire of 1951," she notes. It is easy to see why she gets frequent requests from students to come and look at these fascinating records, which include the prompt script of the original 1926 production of The Plough and the Stars by Sean O'Casey. She shows me changes made by the author to suit his more prudish Abbey collaborators, Yeats, Lady Gregory and Lennox Robinson: "Curses like Christ, Jesus and God are crossed out," explains Mairead. The account book of the day shows that both The Plough and another O'Casey classic, Juno and the Paycock, were very lucrative for the Abbey, bringing in over £400 each for a week of performances. Revenue for a normal week of shows at the Abbey at the time was more like £180.
1 p.m. The Peacock Theatre restaurant, in the foyer of the Peacock theatre, is full of punters eating fresh salads and homemade soup. A few theatrical types can be spotted in the crowd - Ben Barnes, director of Kevin's Bed, and the actress sisters, Barbara and Jane Brennan - but most of the lunchers are members of the public.
"We don't get too many actors in here, they don't really have a lot of money and their big priority is pints after the show," says Mary Powell, who has the franchise on the restaurant. The restaurant opens early at 7.30 a.m. (the chef, Terry Tiernan, is in at 6.30 a.m.) and attracts plenty of people en route to work. It serves lunch between noon and 2 p.m. and closes at 3 p.m. The counter top then gets taken off and "humped under the stairs", says Mary. At 7 p.m., it metamorphoses into the Peacock bar.
2 p.m. "Upstairs or down, for preference?" asks Adam Lawlor, acting box office manager. "Which is the best play?" Two English tourists are dithering. They know nothing about either By the Bog of Cats or Amazing Grace by Michael Harding, which is on in the Peacock. Box office clerk, Martha Keaney, says tactfully: "It's a personal choice." The couple end up plumping for Marina Carr at the Abbey. "Most tourists come because they want to go to the Abbey," says Martha. "The Peacock has its own less formal audience," adds Adam. So far "The Bog" is two thirds full for tonight, but "Amazing Grace" (also at the end of a long run) is not doing very well. The Abbey seats 628 and the Peacock takes 157.
"People ask me the most incredible things, like `is Siobhan McKenna in anything at the moment?', " says Adam. "The best one was, from an American, `Do you see real people on the stage or are they on a screen?' "
3 p.m. Every year the Literary Department of the Abbey receives 400 unsolicited plays. "Out of the 15 shows that were put on here last year, only one had been an unsolicited play," says dramaturg Aideen Howard. It was the excellent The Electrocution of Children by Chris Lee, an Irish playwright living in London. In spite of the fact that such a tiny percentage of unsolicited material gets accepted, each play submitted gets two readings from a panel of 25 readers, says Caroline Dennehy, literary assistant: "It is a confidential process. The playwright's name is taken off the script when we send it out."
If a script is "raw but shows potential" says Judy Friel, literary manager and daughter of Brian Friel, "we hold in-house readings so the playwright can see professional actors read his play." "His" is the operative word, as very few women submit plays (about 30 out of the yearly total of 400). Plans for next year include a Friel festival in the summer to celebrate the playwright's 70th birthday, a Brecht centenary debate and a debate on Irish language theatre.
4 p.m. From hiring wigs to buying stage blood, to ordering the paint for the set, the practical details of putting on a show are taken care of by Trevor Dawson, head of production, and his assistant, Vanessa Fitz-Simon. They produce the budget for each show: on average, £25,000 for an Abbey show and between £10,000 and £15,000 for the Peacock. "We order everything down to the last nail," says Vanessa.
4.45p.m. Kathy McArdle, head of the Outreach Department and Sharon Murphy, the new Education Officer, have been out of the Abbey building for most of the day. They arrive in, windswept and bubbling with enthusiasm. Kathy has been with the director of Age and Opportunity, Catherine Rose, in Marino, discussing four drama projects for older people that are taking place in Roscommon, Meath, Limerick, and Cavan/Monaghan: "This is planned to tie in with the 1999 Year of Older Persons," says Kathy. "Older people have been neglected as theatre practitioners and audience members. They are now finding that they have increased opportunities for leisure and learning."
Sharon was working with a group of Junior Cert teachers, devising a drama about two missing children to illustrate to the teachers how they could do drama with their students. Kathy feels that the more people participate in drama, the more sophisticated their response will be to the theatre they see. Other projects include sessions on drama with transition year teachers and a collaboration with the City Arts Centre for a season of events on Theatre and Disability, planned for next April. Kathy and Sharon also look after the Abbey's tours, of which there will be at least seven before Christmas.
5.30 p.m. "I enjoy going on tour. The Abbey is the theatre of the nation, so it is important that it touch base with other parts of the country." Ben Barnes, director of Kevin's Bed, is at the tour launch in the Abbey bar. Pauline Morrison, front of house manager, is clutching her keys and making sure everything is running smoothly. The cosy space fills up with actors, Abbey employees, Bernard Farrell (author of Kevin's Bed) Dublin Theatre Festival's director, Tony O'Dalaigh, Dublin Corporation's Jack Gilligan, and various members of the press. There is much air-kissing, talking and smoking. Chatting with At Swim Two Birds director Jimmy Fay, who has just come in from rehearsals of the show, I note that the hip way of referring to our national theatre is "the Abs".
Richard Wakely says a few rousing words to set the show on the road, mentioning the 13 productions and 42 venues involved in the Abbey's last five years of touring, and thanking the sponsors of this tour, Bank of Ireland Mastercard.
6.30 p.m. Joseph McNamara, whose face I remember from nearly 30 years of going to the Abbey, is making discreet cleaning up manoeuvres. Pauline notes that it is important to send all these launch attendees on their way before the theatre audience starts coming in shortly after seven, but it's not possible to do anything hasty. Joseph takes time off from cleaning out ashtrays to reminisce with me. "I'm the cleaning supervisor, and I do the bar four nights a week. I joined the Abbey in 1967, and I still love it. It's brilliant."
He goes to most of the shows and his all-time favourite was Borstal Boy, directed by Tomas MacAnna, with Niall Toibin in the lead. He also remembers the bombing of Liberty Hall in 1972: "It was only around the corner so it was very frightening. You could feel the building shudder. The performance was about to start and there were people coming in to the theatre at the time." The show, in time-honoured tradition, went on regardless.
7.10 p.m. At last I am allowed backstage. Audrey Hession, stage director, John Andrews, stage manager, and Stephen Dempsey, assistant stage manager, look at me anxiously, as though a stray elephant had suddenly appeared at the wrong moment. Stephen assures me that yes, the wedding cake waiting in the wings is real, but it has also been covered with varnish ("tricks of the trade"). I spot the smoke machine and fan (which will create the wind effect later) with childish delight. Open bottles of Paddy and wine are filled with convincing, odourless, coloured water.
7.20 p.m. As a great favour, I am allowed to intrude into one of the actresses' dressing-rooms, where Olwen Fouere (the lead) is getting ready, along with Joan O'Hara and Pauline Flanagan. Olwen is in costume, but without make-up ("I'm supposed to look weatherbeaten"). She is downing a cocktail of vitamin C and royal jelly in anticipation of the demanding night ahead of her. Joan, flaked out after a day of filming Fair City, is lying on the single bed, still in her jeans. Pauline is pinning her hair in front of the mirror, complaining that her high heels tend to sink into the "spongy" set.
8 p.m. Up in Control, Mick Doyle on lighting and David Nolan on sound are wearing headphones, waiting for their cues from Audrey Hession backstage. Beneath us, the auditorium is full of people. "Sound cue one: go," says Audrey. "LX cue one." The lights go down, a red glow appears, and Olwen makes her entrance on the stage.
8.45 p.m. At the interval the bar fills with thirsty punters. A woman mistakes me for Marina Carr (how flattering). Pauline suddenly has a crisis on her hands: a man has had an angina attack, can she call an ambulance. As punters discuss the play ("I'm enjoying it, are you?" "I wonder where it's going," "Isn't Olwen Fouere's accent brilliant?"), the ambulance arrives and the man is quickly brought out in a wheelchair. Pauline and Richard Wakely look on anxiously.
10.30 p.m. Olwen Fouere is given several rounds of wild applause, complete with hooting and cheering, for her incredible performance. The audience troops out soberly. After all, this is a tragic play of Greek proportions. Father Pat is minding the stage door. His real name is Padraig O'Faolain, but he was mistaken for a priest by a group from the West of Ireland when they saw him taking tickets one night dressed in black with his white beard. He has been here for 12 years but now only works on a part-time basis, because of his own burgeoning acting career, most of it on film and TV. "I like dealing with the actors, I know them all and it's great craic," he says. "If they come in with a few jars on them I tell them to walk around the block and sober up first." He answers the phones ("I talk to the world") and locks up when the show is over. He deals with any crisis backstage, like the night an actor was accidentally stabbed onstage in the middle of a show: "He was wearing a body shield but the knife slipped. I phoned for the ambulance. It was a close call that night." Olwen passes his desk and waves us goodnight, her face radiant. "Ah," says Father Pat. "It's just a big family here." (Series concluded)