Light Thickens (2 page)

He chuckled and mouthed and Peregrine wished he wouldn’t but he was a good Scots actor.

He waited for a moment, wondering how much he had gained of their confidence. Then he turned to the designs and explained how they would work and then to the costumes.

“I’d like to say here and now that these drawings and those for the sets — Jeremy has done both — are, to my mind, exactly right. Notice the suggestion of the clan tartans: a sort of primitive pre-tartan. The cloak has a distinctive check affair. All Macbeth’s servitors and the murderers wear it. We’re in the days when the servitors of royal personages wear their badges and the livery of their masters. Lennox, Angus, Ross, Seyton, wear the distinctive cloaks with the family plaid. Banquo and Fleance have particularly brilliant ones, blood-red with black and silver borders. For the rest, trousers, fur jerkins, and thonged sheepskin chaps. Massive jewelry. Great jeweled bosses, heavy necklets, and heavy bracelets, in Macbeth’s case reaching up to the elbow and above it. The general effect is heavy, primitive, but incidentally extremely sexy. Gauntlets, fringed and ornamented. And the crowns! Macbeth’s in particular. Huge and heavy, it must look.”

“ ‘Look,’ ” said Macdougal, “being the operative word, I hope.”

“Yes, of course. We’ll have it made of plastic. And Maggie… do you like what you see, darling?”

What she saw was a skin-tight gown of dull metallic material, slit up one side to allow her to walk. A crimson, heavily furred garment was worn over it, open down the front. She had only one jewel, a great clasp.

“I hope I’ll fit it,” said Maggie.

“You’ll do that,” he said. “And now” — he was conscious of a tightness in his chest — “we’ll clear stage and get down to business. Oh! There’s one point I’ve missed. You will see that for our first week some of the rehearsals are at night. This is to accommodate Sir Dougal, who is shooting the finals of his new film. The theatre is dark, the current production being on tour. It’s a bit out of the ordinary, I know, and I hope nobody finds it too awkward?”

There was a silence during which Sir Dougal with spread arms mimed a helpless apology.

“I can’t forbear saying it’s very inconvenient,” said Banquo.

“Are you filming?”

“Not precisely. But it might arise.”

“We’ll hope it doesn’t,” Peregrine said. “Right? Good. Clear stage, please, everyone. Scene One. The Witches.”

It’s going very smoothly,” said Peregrine, three days later. “Almost
too
smoothly.”

“Keep your fingers crossed,” said his wife, Emily. “It’s early days yet.”

“True.” He looked curiously at her. “I’ve never asked you,” he said. “Do you believe in it? The superstitious legend?”

“No,” she said quickly.

“Not the least tiny bit? Really?”

Emily looked steadily at him. “Truly?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“My mother was a one-hundred-percent Highlander.”

“So?”

“So it’s not easy to give you a direct answer. Some superstitions — most, I think — are silly little matters of habit. A pinch of spilt salt over the left shoulder. One may do it without thinking but if one doesn’t it’s no great matter. That sort of thing. But… there are other ones. Not silly. I don’t
believe
in them. No. But I think I avoid them.”

“Like the
Macbeth
ones?”

“Like them. Yes. But I didn’t mind you doing it. Or not enough to try to stop you. Because I don’t
really
believe,” said Emily very firmly.

“I don’t believe at all. Not at any level. I’ve done two productions of the play and they both were accident-free and very successful. As for the instances they drag up — Macbeth’s sword breaking and a bit of it hitting someone in the audience or a dropped weight narrowly missing an actor’s head — if they’d happened in any other play nobody would have said it was an unlucky one. How about Rex Harrison’s hairpiece being caught in a chandelier and whisked up into the flies? Nobody said
My Fair Lady
was unlucky.”

“Nobody dared to mention it, I should think.”

“There is that, of course,” Peregrine agreed.

“All the same, it’s not a fair example.”

“Why isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s not serious. I mean… well…”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d been there, I daresay,” said Peregrine.

He walked over to the window and looked at the Thames: at the punctual late-afternoon traffic. It congealed on the south bank, piled up, broke out into a viscous stream, and crossed by bridge to the north bank. Above it, caught by the sun, shone the theatre: not very big but conspicuous in its whiteness and, because of the squat mass of little riverside buildings that surrounded it, appearing tall, even majestic.

“You can tell which of them’s bothered about the bad-luck stories,” he said. “They won’t say his name. They talk about the ‘Thane’ and the ‘Scots play’ and ‘The Lady.’ It’s catching. Lady Macduff — Nina Gaythorne — silly little ass, is steeped up to the eyebrows in it. And talks about it. Stops if she sees I’m about but she does, all right, and they listen to her.”

“Don’t let it worry you, darling. It’s not affecting their work, is it?” Emily asked.

“No.”

“Well, then.”

“I know, I know.”

Emily joined him and they both looked out, over the Thames, to where the Dolphin shone so brightly. She took his arm. “It’s easy to say, I know,” she said, “but if you
could
just
not
. Don’t brood. It’s not like you. Tell me how the great Scot is making out as Macbeth.”

“Fine. Fine. He’s uncannily lamblike and everyone told me he was a Frankenstein’s Monster to work with.”

“It’s his biggest role so far, isn’t it?” Emily asked.

“Yes. He was a good Benedick, but that’s the only other Shakespeare part he’s played. Out of Scotland. He had a bash at Othello in his repertory days. He was a fantastic Anatomist in Bridie’s play when they engaged him for the revival at the Haymarket. That started him off in the West End. Now, of course, he’s way up there.”

“How’s his love life going?”

“I don’t really know. He’s making a great play for Lady Macbeth at the moment but Maggie Mannering takes it with a tidy load of salt, don’t worry.”

“Dear Maggie!”

“And dear you!” he said. “You’ve lightened the load no end. Shall I tackle Nina and tell her not to? Or go on pretending I haven’t noticed?”

“What would you say? ‘Oh, by the way, Nina darling,
could
you leave off the bad-luck business, scaring the pants off the cast? Just a thought!’ ”

Peregrine burst out laughing and gave her a pat. “I tell you what,” he said, “you’re so bloody sharp you can have a go yourself. I’ll ask her for a drink, here, and you can choose your moment and then lay into her.”

“Are you serious?”

“No. Yes, I believe I am. It might work.”

“I don’t think it would. She’s never been here before. She’d rumble.”

“Would that matter? Oh, I don’t know. Shall we leave it a bit longer? I think so.”

“And so do I,” said Emily. “With any luck they’ll get sick of it and it’ll die a natural death.”

“So it may,” he agreed and hoped he sounded convincing. “That’s a comforting thought. I must return to the blasted heath.”

He wouldn’t have taken much comfort from the lady in question if he could have seen her at that moment. Nina Gaythorne came into her minute flat in Westminster and began a sort of delousing ritual. Without waiting to take off her hat or her gloves, she scuffled in her handbag and produced a crucifix, which she kissed and laid on the table near a clove of garlic and her prayerbook. She opened the letter, put on her spectacles, crossed herself, and read aloud the ninety-first Psalm.

“ ‘Whoso dwelleth under the defence of the Most High,’ ” read Nina in the well-trained, beautifully modulated tones of a professional actress. When she reached the end, she kissed her prayerbook, crossed herself again, laid her marked-up part on the table, the prayerbook on top of it, the crucifix on the prayerbook, and, after a slight hesitation, the clove of garlic at the foot of the crucifix:

“
That
ought to settle their hash,” she said and took off her gloves.

Her belief in curses and things being lucky or unlucky was based not on any serious study but merely on the odds and ends of gossip and behavior accumulated by four generations of theatre people. In that most hazardous profession where so many mischances can occur, when so much hangs in the precarious balance on opening night, when five weeks’ preparation may turn to ashes or blaze for years, there is a fertile soil indeed for superstition to take root and flourish.

Nina was forty years old, a good dependable actress, happy to strike a long run and play the same part eight times a week for year after year, being very careful not to let it become an entirely mechanical exercise. The last part of this kind had come to an end six months ago and nothing followed it, so that this little plum, Lady Macduff, uncut for once, had been a relief. And the child might be a nice boy. Not the precocious little horror that could emerge from an indifferent school. And the house! The Dolphin! The enormous prestige attached to an engagement there. Its phenomenal run of good luck and, above all, its practice of using the same people when they had gained an entry, whenever a suitable role occurred: a happy engagement. Touch wood!

So, really, she must
not
, really
not
, talk about the Scots play to other people in the cast. It just kept slipping out. Peregrine Jay had noticed and didn’t like it. I’ll make a resolution, Nina thought. She shut her large, faded eyes tight and said aloud:

“I promise on my word of honor and upon this prayerbook
not
to talk about you-know-what. Amen.”

“Maggie,” shouted Simon Morten. “Hold on, wait a moment.”

Margaret Mannering stopped at the top of Wharfingers Lane where it joined the main highway. A procession of four enormous lorries thundered past. Morten hurried up the last steep bit. “I got trapped by Gaston Sears,” he panted. “Couldn’t get rid of him. How about coming to the George for a meal? It won’t take long in a taxi.”

“Simon! My dear, I’m sorry. I’ve said I’ll dine with Dougal.”

“But — where
is
Dougal?”

“Fetching his car. I said I’d come up to the corner and wait for him. It’s a chance to talk about our first encounter. In the play, I mean.”

“Oh. I see. All right, then.”

“Sorry, darling.”

“Not a bit. I quite understand.”

“Well,” she said. “I hope you do.”

“I’ve said I do, haven’t I? Here comes your Thane in his scarlet chariot.”

He made as if to go and then stopped. Dougal Macdougal pulled up to the curb. “Here I am, sweetie,” he declared. “Hullo, Simon. Just the man to open the door for the lovely lady and save me a bash on the bottom from oncoming traffic.”

Morten removed his beret, pulled on his forelock, and opened the door with exaggerated humility. Margaret got into the car without looking at him and said, “Thank you, darling.”

He banged the door.

“Can we drop you somewhere?” Dougal asked, as an afterthought.

“No, thank you. I don’t know where you’re going but it’s not in my direction.” Dougal pulled a long face, nodded, and moved out into the traffic. Simon Morten stood looking after them, six feet two of handsome disgruntlement, his black curls still uncovered. He said: “Well, shit off and be damned to you,” crammed his beret on, turned into the lane, and entered the little restaurant known as the Junior Dolphin.

“What’s upset the Thane of Fife?” asked Dougal casually.

“Nothing. He’s being silly.”

“Not, by any chance, a teeny-weeny bit jealous?”

“Maybe. He’ll recover.”

“Hope so. Before we get round to bashing away at each other with Gaston’s claymores.”

“Indeed, yes. Gaston really is more than a bit dotty, don’t you think? All that talk about armory. And he wouldn’t
stop
.”

“I’m told he did spend a short holiday in a sort of halfway house. A long time ago, though, and he was quite harmless. Just wore a sword and spoke middle English. He’s a sweet man, really. He’s been asked by Perry to teach us the fight. He wants us to practice duels in slow motion every day for five weeks building up muscle and getting a bit faster very slowly. To the Anvil Chorus from
Trovatore
.”

“Not really?”

“Of course not, when it comes to performance. Just at rehearsals to get the rhythm. They are frightfully heavy, claymores are.”

“Rather you than me,” said Maggie and burst out laughing.

Dougal began to sing very slowly. “
Bang
. Wait for it.
Bang
. Wait again. And bangle-bangle
bang
. Wait.
Bang
.”

“With two hands, of course.”

“Of course, I can’t lift the thing off the floor without puffing and blowing. Gaston brought one down for us to try.”

“He’s actually
making
the ones you’re going to use, isn’t he? Couldn’t he cheat and use lighter material or papier-mâché for the hilt or something?”

“My dear, no good at all. It would upset the balance.”

“Well, do be careful,” said Maggie vaguely.

“Of course. The thing is that the blades won’t be sharp at all. Blunt as blunt. But if one of us was simply hit, it would merely break his bones.”

“Really?”

“To smithereens,” said Dougal. “I promise you.”

“I think you’re going to look very silly, the two of you, floundering about. You’ll get laughs. I can think of all sorts of things that might go wrong.”

“Such as?”

“Well! One of you making a swipe and missing and the claymore getting stuck in the scenery.”

“It’s going to be
very
short. In time. Only a minute or so. He backs away into the O.P. corner and I roar after him. Simon’s a very powerful man, by the by. He picked the claymore up in a dégagé manner and then he spun round and couldn’t stop and hung on to it, looking absolutely terrified. That
was
funny,” said Dougal. “I laughed like anything at old Si.”

“Well, don’t, Dougal. He’s very sensitive.”