An empty space surrounded by audience on all sides.
An elderly lace maker enters with a chair. She places the chair in the centre of the space.
She leaves the stage.
She re-enters with a small table and a basket. She places both down besides the chair.
She seats herself down on the chair.
She brings out the tools of her trade: a lace bobbin, tulle, pins.
She works the lace.
The audience sits and watches her in real-time. She works quickly. The lacemaker hums or sings to herself as she does so. The patch of lace grows and builds, expanding over the small table.
Occasionally the woman stops and stretches, flexing her nimble hands to get life back into them.
Once or twice she leaves the stage and comes back with scant supplies, black tea and rough bread.
Eventually she has made a large veil. It’s circular and white and very beautiful.
She walks to the edge of the stage.
Lacemaker: It is done. You can come in now.
A porter pushes a small coffin onto the stage. He lifts up the lid to reveal a very young girl, dressed all in white. She looks peaceful.
The lacemaker cuts the lace from the pins. Removes a loose thread.
Carefully she carries the veil over to the coffin. Gently she lifts up the girl and places the veil over her face and hair. The lacemaker lays the girl back down.
The lacemaker takes the girl’s hand, whispering a prayer under her breath.
The lacemaker steps back and nods at the porter.
The porter steps forward and closes the lid of the coffin. He wheels it off stage.
The old lacemaker stands and watches them go.
She returns to her seat. She takes some more tulle from the basket.
She starts again.
Light fades to blackout.