‘So I supposed.’
Peregrine’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom. ‘How drunk are you?’ he asked.
‘Not so bad. Only a few steps down the primrose parf. There wasn’t more’n three drinks left in the bottle. Honest. And nobody got up to no tricks. They’ve all vanished. Into thin air.’
‘You’d better follow them. Come on.’
He took Props by the arm, steered him to the stage door, opened it and shoved him through.
‘Ta,’ said Props. ‘Goo’night,’ and made off at a tidy shamble. Peregrine adjusted the self-locking apparatus on the door and banged it. He was in time to see Props being sick at the corner of Wharfingers Lane.
When he had finished he straightened up, saw Peregrine and waved to him.
‘That’s done the trick,’ he shouted, and walked briskly away.
Peregrine went to the car park, unlocked his car and got in. Emily, in her woolly dressing gown, let him in.
‘Hullo, love,’ he said, ‘you shouldn’t have waited up.’
‘Hullo.’
He said: ‘Just soup,’ and sank into an armchair.
She gave him strong soup laced with brandy.
‘Golly, that’s nice,’ he said. And then: ‘Pretty bloody awful but nothing in the way of practical jokes.’
‘Bad dress. Good show.’
‘Hope so.’
And in that hope he finished his soup and went to bed and to sleep.
III
Now they were all in their dressing rooms, doors shut, telegrams, cards, presents, flowers, the pungent smell of greasepaint and wet white and hand lotion, the close, electrically charged atmosphere of a working theatre.
Maggie made up her face. Carefully, looking at it from all angles, she drew her eyebrows together, emphasized the determined creases at the corners of her mouth. She strained back her flattened mane of reddish hair and secured it with pins and a band.
Nanny, her dresser and housekeeper, stood silently holding her robe. When she turned there it was, opened, waiting for her. She covered her head with a chiffon scarf: Nanny skilfully dropped the robe over it, not touching it.
The tannoy came to life. ‘Quarter hour. Quarter hour, please,’ it said.
‘Thank you, Nanny,’ said Maggie. ‘That’s fine.’ She kissed a bedraggled bit of fur with a cat’s head. ‘Bless you, Thomasina,’ she said and propped it against her glass.
A tap on the door. ‘May I come in?’
‘Dougal! Yes.’
He came in and put a velvet case on her table. ‘It was my grandma’s,’ he said. ‘She was a Highlander. Blessings.’ He kissed her hand and made the sign of the cross over her.
‘My dear, thank you. Thank you.’
But he was gone.
She opened the case. It was a brooch: a design of interlaced golden leaves with semi-precious stones making a thistle. ‘It’s benign, I’m sure,’ she said. ‘I shall wear it in my cloak. In the fur, Nanny. Fix it, will you?’
Presently she was dressed and ready.
The three witches stood together in front of the looking glass, Rangi in the middle. He had the face of a skull but his eyelids glittered in his dark face. Round his neck on a flax cord hung a greenstone tiki, an embryo child. Blondie’s face was made ugly and was grossly over-painted: blobs of red on the cheeks and a huge scarlet mouth. Wendy was bearded. They had transformed their hands into claws.
‘If I look any longer I’ll frighten myself,’ said Rangi.
‘Quarter hour. Quarter hour, please.’
Gaston Sears dressed alone. He would have been a most uncomfortable companion, singing, muttering, uttering snatches of ancient rhymes and paying constant visits to the lavatory.
He occupied a tiny room that nobody else wanted but which seemed to please him.
When Peregrine called he found him in merry mood. ‘I congratulate you, dear boy,’ he cried. ‘You have undoubtedly hit upon a valid interpretation of the cryptic Seyton.’
Peregrine shook hands with him. ‘I mustn’t wish you luck,’ he said.
‘But why not, perceptive boy? We wish each other luck. A la bonne heure.’
Peregrine hurried on to Nina Gaythorne’s room.
Her dressing table was crowded with objects of baffling inconsistency and each of them must be fondled and kissed. A plaster Genesius, patron saint of actors, was in pride of place. There were also a number of anti-witchcraft objects and runes. The actress who played the Gentlewoman shared the dressing room and had very much the worst of the bargain. Not only did Nina take three-quarters of the working bench for her various protective objects, she spent a great deal of time muttering prophylactic rhymes and prayers.
These exercises were furtively carried out with one scary eye on the door. Whenever anyone knocked she leapt up and cast her make-up towel over her sacred collection. She then stood with her back to the bench, her hands resting negligently upon it, and broke out into peals of unconvincing laughter.
Macduff and Banquo were in the next-door room to Sir Dougal and were quiet and businesslike. Simon Morten was withdrawn into himself, tense and silent. When he first came he did a quarter of an hour’s limbering-up and then took a shower and settled to his make-up. Bruce Barrabell tried a joke or two but, getting no response, fell silent. Their dresser attended to them.
Barrabell whistled two notes, remembered it was considered unlucky, stopped short and said, ‘Shit.’
‘Out,’ said Simon.
‘I didn’t know you were one of the faithful.’
‘Go on. Out.’
He went out and shut the door. A pause. He turned round three times and then knocked.
‘Yes?’
‘– humbly apologize. May I come back? Please.’
‘Come in.’
‘Quarter hour. Quarter hour, please.’
William Smith dressed with Duncan and his sons. He was perfectly quiet and very pale. Malcolm, a pleasant young fellow, helped him make up. Duncan, attended by a dresser, magnificently looked on.
‘First nights,’ he groaned comprehensively. ‘How I hate them.’ His glance rested upon William. ‘This is your first First Night, laddie, is it not?’
‘There’ve been school showings, sir,’ said William nervously.
‘School showings eh? Well, well, well,’ he said profoundly. ‘Ah well.’
He turned to his ramshackle part propped up against his looking glass and began to mutter. ‘“So well thy words become thee as thy wounds.”’
‘I’m at your elbow, Father. Back to audience. I’ll give it to you if needs be. Don’t worry,’ said Malcolm.
‘You will, my boy, won’t you? No, I shan’t worry. But I can’t imagine why I dried like that yesterday. However.’
He caught his cloak up in a practised hand and turned round: ‘All right behind?’ he asked.
‘Splendid,’ his son reassured him.
‘Good. Good.’
‘Quarter hour, please.’
A tap on the door and Peregrine looked in. ‘Lovely house,’ he said. ‘They’re simmering. William –’ he patted William’s head – ‘you’ll remember tonight through all your other nights to come, won’t you? Your performance is correct. Don’t alter anything, will you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘That’s the ticket.’ He turned to Duncan. ‘My dear fellow, you’re superb. And the boys. Malcolm, you’ve a long time to wait, haven’t you? For your big scene. I’ve nothing but praise for you.’
The witches stood in a tight group. The picture they presented was horrendous. They said ‘Thank you’ all together and stood close to one another, staring at him.
‘You’ll do,’ said Perry.
He was going his rounds. It wasn’t too easy to find things to say to them all. Some of them hated to be wished well in so many words. They liked you to say facetiously, ‘Fall down and break your leg.’ Others enjoyed the squeezed elbow and confident nod. The ladies were kissed – on the hands or in the air because of make-up. Round h
e went with butterflies busily churning in his own stomach, his throat and mouth dry as sandpaper and his voice seeming to come from someone else.
Maggie said: ‘It’s your night tonight, Perry dear. All yours. Thank you.’ And kissed him.
Sir Dougal shook both his hands. ‘“Angels and ministers of grace defend us,’” he said. ‘Amen,’ Perry answered and welcomed the Hamlet quotation.
Simon, magnificently dark and exuding a heady vitality, also shook his hands. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘I’m no good at this sort of thing but blessings and thank you.’
‘Where’s Banquo?’
‘He went out. Having a pee, I suppose.’
‘Give him my greetings,’ said Peregrine, relieved.
On and on. Nina, ‘discovered’ leaning back against her dressing table and laughing madly. A strong smell of garlic.
The thanes nervy and polite. The walking gents delighted to be visited.
Finished at last. Front-of-house waiting for him: Winty’s assistant.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’re pushing the whole house in. Bit of a job. There are the royalty-hunters determined to stay in the foyer but we’ve herded them all in. Winty’s dressed up like a sore thumb and waiting in the entrance. The house is packed with security men and Bob’s your uncle. They’ve rung through to say the cars have left.’
‘Away we go?’
‘Away we go.’
‘Beginners, please. Beginners,’ said the tannoy.
The witches appeared in the shadows, came on stage, climbed the rostrum and grouped round the gallows. Duncan and his sons and thanes stood offstage waiting for the short opening scene to end.
An interval of perhaps five interminable minutes. Then trumpets filled the air with their brazen splendour and were followed by the sound of a thousand people getting to their feet. Now the National Anthem. And now they settled in their seats. A peremptory buzzer. The stage manager’s voice.
‘Stand by. House lights. Thunder. Curtain up.’
Peregrine began to pace to and fro, to and fro. Listening.
IV
After the fourth scene he knew. It was all right. Their hearts are in it, he thought, and he crept into the Prompt-side box. Winty squeezed his arm in the darkness and said, ‘We’ll run for months and months. It’s a wow.’
‘Thank God.’
He’d been right. They had left themselves with one more step to the top and now they took it.
You darling creatures, he thought, suddenly in love with all of them. Ah, you treasures. Bless you. Bless you.
The rest of the evening was unreal. The visit to the royal box and the royal visit to the cast. The standing ovation at the end. Everything to excess. A multiple Cinderella story. Sort of.
He didn’t go to the opening night party. He never did. Emily came round and hugged him and cried and said: ‘Oh yes, darling. Yes. Yes.’
The company collected round him and cheered. And finally the critic whose opinion he most valued astonishingly came round; he said he was breaking the rule of a lifetime but it had undoubtedly been the best Macbeth since Olivier’s and the best Lady Macbeth in living memory and he must do a bolt.
‘We’ll get out of this,’ Peregrine said. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘The Wig and Piglet. It’s only minutes away and they stay open till the papers come in. The manager’s getting them for me.’
‘Come on, then.’
They edged through the milling crowd of shouting visitors and out of the stage door. The alley was full of people waiting for actors to appear. Nobody recognized the director. They turned into the theatre car park, managed to edge their way out and up the lane.
At the corner of the main street stood two lonely figures, a thin and faintly elegant woman and a small boy.
‘It’s William and his mum,’ said Emily.
‘I want to speak to the boy.’
He pulled up beside them. Emily lowered her window. ‘Hullo, Mrs Smith. Hullo, William. Are you waiting for a bus?’
‘We hope we are,’ said Mrs Smith.
‘You’re not doing anything of the sort,’ said Peregrine. ‘The management looks after getting you home on the first night,’ he lied. ‘Didn’t you know? Oh, good luck: there’s a taxi coming.’ Emily waved to it. ‘William,’ Peregrine said. William ran round to the driver’s side. Peregrine got out. ‘You can look after your mother, can’t you? Here you are.’ He pushed a note into William’s hand. ‘You gave a thoroughly professional performance. Good luck to you.’
The taxi pulled up. ‘In you get, both of you.’ He gave the driver the address.
‘Yes – but – I mean –’ said Mrs Smith.
‘No, you don’t.’ They were bundled in. ‘Good night.’ He slammed the door. The taxi made off.
‘Phew! That was quick,’ Emily said.
‘If she’d had a moment to get her second wind she’d have refused. Come on, darling. How hungry I am. You can’t think.’
The Wig and Piglet was full. The head waiter showed them to a reserved table.
‘A wonderful performance, sir,’ he said. ‘They are all saying so. My congratulations.’
‘Thank you. A bottle of your best champagne, Marcello.’
‘It awaits you.’ Marcello beamed and waved grandly at the wine bucket on their table.
‘Really? Thank you.’
‘Nothing,’ said Peregrine when he had gone, ‘succeeds like success.’ He looked at Emily’s excited face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said gently. ‘On a night like this one should not think forward or back. I found myself imagining what it would have been like if we’d flopped.’
‘Don’t. I know what you mean but don’t put the stars out.’
‘No husbandry in our Heaven tonight?’ He reached out a hand. ‘It’s a bargain,’ he said.
‘A bargain. It’s because you’re hungry.’
‘You may be right.’
An hour later he said she was a clever old trout. They had a cognac each to prove it and began to talk about the play.
‘Gaston,’ Peregrine said, ‘may be dotty but he’s pretty good where he is tonight, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Exactly right. He’s like death itself, presiding over its feast. You don’t think we’ve gone too far with him?’
‘Not an inch.’
‘Good. Winty says it’ll run for as long as Dougal and Maggie can take it.’
‘That’s a matter of temperament, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so. For Maggie, certainly. She’s rock calm and perfectly steady. It’s Dougal who surprises me. I’d expected a good, even a harrowing, performance but not so deeply frightening a one. He’s got that superb golden-reddish appearance and I thought: We must be very clever about make-up so that the audience will see it disintegrate. But, upon my soul, he does disintegrate, he is bewitched, he has become the Devil’s puppet. I even began to wonder if it was all right or if it might be embarrassing, as if he’d discarded his persona and we’d come face to face with his naked, personal collapse. Which would be dreadful and wrong. But no. It hasn’t happened. He’s come near the brink in the last scene but he’s still Macbeth. Thanks to Gaston, he fights like a man possessed but always with absolute control. And so – evilly. For Macduff, it’s like stamping out some horror that’s lain under a stone waiting for him.’
‘And his whole performance?’
‘If I could scratch about for something wrong I would. But no, he’s going great guns. The straightforward avenger. And I think he plays his English scene beautifully. I’m sorry,’ said Emily. ‘I wish I could find something wrong and out-of-key or wanting re-adjustment somewhere, but I can’t. Your problem will be to keep them up to this level.’
They talked on. Presently the door into the servery opened and their waiter came in with an armful of Sunday papers.
Peregrine’s heart suddenly thumped against his ribs. He took up the top one and flipped over the pages.
‘AT LAST! A
FLAWLESS MACBETH’
And two rave columns.
Emily saw his open paper trembling in his hands. She went through the remaining ones, folding them back at the dramatic criticisms.
‘This is becoming ridiculous,’ she said.
He made a strange little sound of agreement. She shoved the little pile of papers over to him. ‘They’re all the same, allowing for stylistic differences.’
‘We’ll go home. We’re the only ones left. Poor Marcello!’
He lowered his paper and folded it. Emily saw that his eyes were red. ‘I can’t get over it,’ he said. ‘It’s too much.’
He signed his bill and added an enormous tip. They were bowed out.
The Embankment was being washed down. Great fans of water swept to and fro. In the east, buildings were silhouetted against a kindling sky. London was waking up.
They drove home, let themselves in and went to bed and a fathomless sleep.
The first member of the company to wake on Sunday was William Smith. He consulted his watch, dragged on his clothes, gave a lick to his face and let himself out by the front door. Every Sunday at the end of their little lane on a flight of steps in a major traffic road, a newsman set up his wares. He trustfully left his customers to put the right amount in a tin, helping themselves to change when required. He kept an eye on them from the ‘Kaff on the Korner’.
William had provided himself with the exact sum. Mr Barnes, he recollected, had said something about the ‘Quality’ papers being the ones that mattered. He purchased the most expensive and turned to the headlines.
‘AT LAST! A FLAWLESS MACBETH’
William read it all the way home. It was glorious. At the end it said: ‘The smallest parts have been given the same loving attention. A pat on the head is here awarded to Master William Smith for totally avoiding the Infant Phenomenon.’
William charged upstairs shouting: ‘Mum! Are you awake? Hi, Mum! What’s an Infant Phenomenon? Because I’ve avoided one.’