Light Thickens

  Then she went downstairs and looked out of the window. No sign of her sons so they must have picked up a cab. She went to the kitchen and found her part-time cook making a horseradish sauce. There was a good smell of beef in the air.

  ‘Richard’s spending the day with friends but we’ve got an extra small boy for lunch, Annie.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ said Annie, whose manner was very free and easy.

  ‘I’ll lay the table.’

  ‘Doreen’s obliging. Doreen,’ screamed Annie and her daughter came in, a lanky girl of fifteen with a simper.

  ‘Say good morning to Mrs Jay, Dor, and lay an extra place.’

  Emily shook hands with Doreen, who giggled.

  ‘Will the boss be in?’ asked Annie.

  ‘If he can make it. We’re not to wait.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Annie. ‘No problem.’

  Emily couldn’t settle to anything. She wandered downstairs and into the living room. It was a sunny morning and across the river the Dolphin stood out brightly from its setting in the riverside slums. Peregrine would be there, and all the important people in the Dolphin, trying to reach a conclusion on the immediate future.

  I hope they decide against carrying on, she thought. It would be horrible. And, remembering a half-hearted remark of Peregrine’s to the effect that Gaston would be good: It wouldn’t be the same, I hope they won’t do it.

  She tried to think of a revival. There was Peregrine’s own play about the Dark Lady and the delicate little Hamnet and his glove. The original glove was now in the Victoria and Albert Museum. They had discussed a revival, and it seemed to fill the bill. The child they had used in the original production had been, as far as she recollected, an odious little monster, but William would play him well. In her mind she began to cast it from the present company, leaving herself out.

  It being Sunday, there was very little traffic in their part of the world. The boys decided to walk to the main street. They set out and almost at once a cruising taxi came their way. Crispin held up his first finger as his father always did and Robin pranced, waved his arms and imitated a seagull’s cry. In no time they were in Lambeth and the taxi stopped in a narrow lane off Stangate Street in front of a tidy little house.

  ‘Will you wait for us, please,’ said Crispin to the driver. ‘You wait in the car, Rob.’ He went up the flight of three steps to the front door. Before he could ring the door opened and William came out.

  ‘I’m Crispin Jay,’ said Crispin. ‘That’s Robin in the cab.’

  ‘I’m William Smith. Hullo. Hullo, Robin.’

  ‘Hullo,’ Robin muttered.

  ‘Get in, William,’ Crispin said. And to the driver: ‘Back to Bankside, please.’

  They set off. Robin said he bet he knew all the streets they would go through before they got to Bankside. Crispin said he wouldn’t and won. William laughed infectiously and got a number of the early ones right. ‘I walk down them every day when I go to school,’ he said, ‘so it’s not fair.’

  ‘I go to the Blue Caps,’ said Robin. ‘When I’m the right age I’ll go to Winchester if I pass the entrance exam.’

  ‘I went to the Blue Caps when I was six but only for a term. I wanted to be an actor so I got a scholarship to the Royal Southwark Theatre School. It’s a special school for actors.’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said William. ‘I do like it, very much.’

  ‘Do you like being in the play?’

  ‘Gosh, yes.’

  The taxi made a sharp turn to the right. Crispin took the opportunity to kick his brother who said: ‘Hi! Watch your great feet where you put them. Oh! Sorry.’

  ‘There’s the river,’ said Crispin, ‘we’re nearly home.’

  ‘Gosh, I’m starving. Are you starving, William?’ Robin enquired.

  ‘You bet,’ said William.

  They drew up and stopped.

  The two little boys tumbled out and ran up the steps while Crispin paid off the taxi.

  Emily opened the door and the boys went in, Robin loudly asking if it was time for lunch and saying that he and William were rattling-empty. William shook hands and was not talkative. Peregrine came out to the hall and ran his fingers over William’s hair. ‘Hullo, young fellow,’ he said. ‘Nice to see you.’

  ‘Hullo, sir.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve got disturbing news for you. You know Sir Dougal died very unexpectedly last night, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, we’ve been trying to decide what to do: whether to continue with someone else in the part or close down for a week and then rehearse and re-open with a revival. We have almost decided on the latter policy, in which case the play will have to be chosen. There are signs of a return to popularity of the sophisticated romantic drama. Christopher Fry, for instance. Your immediate future depends, of course, on our choice which will have to be made tonight. There has been one suggestion of a play we used years ago for the gala opening of this theatre. It’s a small cast and one of the characters is a boy. I wrote it. If we choose that play, we will suggest you read for the part. You die at the end of Act I but it is an extremely important part while you’re with us.’

  William said: ‘Could I do it?’

  ‘I think so. But we’d have to try you, of course. You may not suit.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The character is Hamnet Shakespeare, Shakespeare’s son. I thought I might as well tell you what we’re thinking about. You’re a sensible chap.’

  ‘Well,’ said William dubiously, ‘I hope I am.’

  ‘Lunch,’ cried Emily.

  Peregrine found in his place at table a sheet of paper and on it in her handwriting a new casting for The Glove by Peregrine Jay. He looked from it to her. ‘Extraordinary,’ he said. ‘Two minds with but a single thought. Or something like that. Thank you, darling.’

  ‘Do you like the idea? Or have you grown out of your play?’

  ‘We’re in such a state I don’t know what I think. I’ve been reading it, and I fancy I still quite like it.’

  ‘It wouldn’t matter that it was running years ago at the Dolphin at the time of that other messy business?’

  ‘Only you and I and Jeremy and Winty would know. It was a long run, which is all the Management considers.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Peregrine looked at her notes. ‘Maggie: The Dark Lady. Yes. Shakespeare – Simon Morten? Do you think?’

  ‘Yes, I do. He’s got a highly-strung manner, a very quick temper and a sense of humour. And with a Shakespeare wig he’d look marvellous.’

  ‘Better than Barrabell?’

  ‘I think so, but then I don’t like Barrabell. What little I’ve seen of him.’

  ‘He’d succumb to the Voice Beautiful, I fear. He doesn’t as Banquo but the Bard himself would be too much for him. He’d begin to sing.’

  ‘He’s a meanie.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve got a riddle,’ Robin shouted.

  ‘I’m no good at riddles,’ William said doubtfully.

  ‘Look –’ Crispin began.

  ‘Shut up, Cip. Your mother and I are talking. Pipe down. Who wants more beef? Anybody? Clear away the plates and tell Doreen we’re ready for her delicious pudding.’

  ‘Doreen! Pud!’ Robin yelled.

  ‘That’s really rude,’ said Emily. ‘Crispin, go into the kitchen and ask her properly. And if she doesn’t throw a pot at you it’s because she’s got much nicer manners than any of us. Honestly, Perry, I sometimes wonder where these boys were lugged up.’

  ‘William, will you have a look at this part and I’ll get you to read it for me before I go down to the theatre.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You can read it in my study. The boys are not allowed in there.’

  And so, for about an hour after lunch William read the first act. There were passages he did not understand and other passages which, though clear enough as far as the words went
, seemed meant to convey another meaning from that usually attached to them. But the boy, Hamnet, was plain sailing. He was ill; he was lonely; his mother was too much occupied with a personal resentment to do more than attend impersonally to him, and his father was a starlike marvellous creature who came and went and was adored and vilified.

  He began to read the boy’s lines, trying them one way and another until the sound of them seemed right or nearly so.

  Peregrine came in, so quietly that William did not hear him. He sat down and listened to the treble voice. Presently he opened his copy of the play and began to feed out the lines. William looked up at him and then returned to his task and they finished the act together.

  ‘Well,’ said Peregrine, ‘that was a good beginning. It’s three o’clock. Let’s go up to the nursery and see what the others are doing.’

  So they went to the ex-nursery and found Emily and Robin playing with Robin’s train and Crispin, oblivious of the noise, deep in his book. It was all about the play of Macbeth and the various productions through the past four centuries. There was a chapter on the superstitions.

  ‘You’re not going on with this play, are you?’ asked Crispin.

  ‘No,’ said his father. ‘It’s tempting, but I don’t think we are.’

  ‘Why, tempting?’

  ‘I think Gaston would be exciting as Macbeth.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘But terribly risky.’

  ‘Ah.’

  The telephone rang.

  ‘I’ll answer it, Mummy. May I?’ asked Robin.

  ‘If you’re polite.’

  ‘Of course.’ He ran out of the room, leaving the door open. They all waited to hear what he would say.

  ‘Hello?’ said the treble voice. ‘This is Mr Peregrine Jay’s house…Yes…If you don’t mind waiting for a moment, I’ll find out if he can speak to you. Hold on, please. Thank you.’

  He reappeared. ‘It’s Mr Gaston Sears, Pop,’ he said. ‘And he sounds very sonky-polly-lobby.’

  ‘I’ll speak to him,’ said Peregrine and went out to the telephone, shutting the door behind him.

  Crispin said: ‘I dare say, William, you are wondering what “sonky-polly-lobby” means. It’s a family word and it means – “Happy with yourself and a bit self-conscious, with it.”’

  ‘Oh.’

  The little boys returned to their train. Emily and Crispin waited. When he came back Peregrine looked disturbed.

  ‘Gaston,’ he said, ‘has the same idea as we have. He thinks that if we did decide to go on with Macbeth he would be good in the name part, but would have to decline out of feelings of delicacy. He said it would be an error of taste if he accepted. He said he knew we all thought him a heartless kind of fellow but he was not. He felt we should be told at once of this decision.’

  ‘He – oh dear! He took it as a matter of course he would be cast?’

  ‘Yes. And he was perfectly right. He would have been.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘That we have for many reasons almost decided against it but that, had the many reasons not existed, I agreed. I thought he would have been good. So did the Management. With reservations that I didn’t mention.’

  ‘And he took it?’

  ‘He said “So be it” in a grand voice and hung up. Poor old boy. He would be good, I do believe, but an awful nuisance nevertheless.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Perry.’

  ‘Hoo, hoo,’ shouted William. ‘Clear the line. The midnight express is coming straight through.’

  Emily looked at him and then at Peregrine who gave her a thumbs-up signal. ‘Very much so,’ he said.

  ‘Really? That’s quite something.’

  ‘All aboard. All aboard,’ said Robin. ‘All seats, please.’

  He blew a piercing blast on a tin whistle. William rang the minute station bell and pressed a button. The toy train lit up and moved out of the station.

  ‘Now I take over till we reach Crewe,’ said Robin. He and William changed places and the train increased its speed. William answered a toy telephone.

  ‘Midnight express. Urgent call. Yes?’ he panted and blew. ‘Gaston Sears speaks,’ he gasped. ‘Stop the train at Crewe. He’s hurt and he’s due at the theatre at seven.’

  ‘Coming into Crewe. Clear the line.’

  William produced a white van with a red cross and placed it on a side line. ‘Ready for Mr Sears,’ he said.

  ‘Where is Sears?’

  William emptied out a box of toy soldiers: Army, Navy, Highlanders and Crusaders. He cried out triumphantly and displayed a battered Crusader with an enormous sword and full mask and black cloak. ‘Look! Perfect,’ he cried. ‘In every detail.’

  ‘Hooray! Put him in the van.’

  The game proceeded with the preposterous illogic of a child’s dream and several changes of plot, but the train arrived conveniently at Euston Station, ‘Gaston Sears’ was pushed on to a battered car and, remarking that he’d got his ‘second wind’, was sent to the Dolphin Theatre. End of game.

  ‘That was fun,’ said Robin, ‘wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ his father agreed. ‘Why did you have Gaston Sears in it?’

  ‘Why not?’ Robin replied with a shrug. He walked away. He was no longer interested.

  ‘Because he was breathless and tried not to be?’ William suggested vaguely. ‘It’s asthma but he pretends it isn’t now he’s an actor again.’

  ‘I see,’ Peregrine lied. ‘Show it to me. The toy Sears.’

  William took the battered little figure out of the car. A shrewd whack in some past contest had disposed of the cross on its cloak. The sword, bent but intact, was raised above its shrouded head in gloved hands. It was completely black and in its disreputable way quite baleful. ‘Thank you,’ said Peregrine. He put it in his pocket.

  ‘Have you finished with the train?’ asked Emily.

  ‘We might want it later,’ Robin said quickly.

  ‘I don’t think you will. It’s The Duke on telly in a quarter of an hour and then teatime.’

  ‘Oh, Mummy!’

  The train was carefully put away and the toy soldiers swept into their box pell-mell. All except the ‘Mr Sears’ which was still in Peregrine’s pocket when he looked at his watch and prepared to leave.

  ‘I must be off,’ he said. ‘I don’t know when I’ll get home, my love. Cip says he’ll come down with me and walk back, so I’ll leave you to take William home. OK? Good evening, William. Come again soon, won’t you? We’ve enjoyed having you here.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said William, shaking hands. ‘It’s been a lovely day. The nicest day I’ve ever had.’

  ‘Good. Cip! Ready?’

  ‘Coming.’

  They banged the front door and ran down the steps to the car.

  ‘Pop,’ said Crispin when they got going, ‘that book you paid for last night. About Macbeth.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s jolly good. It’s got quite a lot about the superstitions. If you don’t mind, I would just like to ask if you totally dismiss that aspect of the play.’

  ‘I think,’ said Peregrine very carefully, ‘that the people who do so put the cart before the horse. Call a play “unlucky” and take any mishap that befalls the rehearsals or performances, on stage or in the dressing-rooms or offices, and immediately everyone says: “There you are. Unlucky play.” If the same sort of troubles occur with other plays nobody counts them up or says anything about them. Until, perhaps, there are rather more misfortunes than with other contemporary shows and someone like poor old maddening Nina says, “It’s an unlucky piece, you know,” and it’s got the label tied round its neck for keeps.’

  ‘Yes, I see that. But in this instance – I mean that business with the heads. It’s a bit thick, isn’t it?’

  ‘There you go! Cart before the horse. They may have been planted to make us believe in the unlucky play story.’

  ‘I see what you mean, of course. But you can’t sa
y it applies to this final tragedy. Nobody in his right senses is going to cut off a harmless actor’s head – that’s what happened, Pop, isn’t it? – just to support the unlucky play theory?’

  ‘Of course not. No. And the only person who might be described as being a bit dotty, apart from Nina, is old Gaston who was chatting away to the King and William and Nina and several others at the time the murder was committed.’

  There was a longish silence. ‘I see,’ said Crispin at last.

  ‘I don’t want you to – to – ‘

  ‘Get involved?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Well, I won’t. But I can’t help wondering,’ said Crispin. ‘Seeing you’re my papa and seeing the book I’m reading. Can I?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Are you going on with Macbeth?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I think it’ll probably be a revival of my own play.’

  ‘The Glove?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That will be fun. With William, of course?’

  ‘He gave a very promising reading.’

  They crossed Blackfriars Bridge and turned left and left again into Wharfingers Lane. There were three cars ahead of them.

  ‘Winty’s car and two of the board,’ Peregrine noted. ‘As usual, I don’t know when I’ll be home. Goodbye, old boy.’

  ‘’Bye, Pop.’

  Peregrine watched him walk away up Wharfingers Lane. He went in by the stage door.

  Most of the cast were there in groups of three and four. The stage had been scrubbed down and looked the same as usual. He wondered what would be its future. The skeleton hung from the gallows and swung in the draught. Bob Masters and Charlie greeted him and so did a number of the actors. They gathered round him.

  He said at once: ‘No absolute news but it will, I imagine, be out before long. The pundits are gathering in front-of-house. I think, my dears, it’s going to be the end of Macbeth. I hope the new play will be announced tonight. I’d like to say now that it will almost certainly be a much, much smaller cast, which means that for a number of you the prospect of a long season comes to an abrupt end. I’d like to thank you from a very full heart for your work and say that, no matter what may befall in the years to come, you will be known – every bit part of you – for having played in, to quote several of the reviews, the “flawless Macbeth”.’