Ngaio Marsh - Light Thickens

“I’ve only just come in. Sorry I interrupted, Perry. I wanted to see the office about something.”

The door at the back of the stalls let in an oblong of daylight and shut it out again.

“What’s the matter with him ?” Dougal asked at large.

“Lord knows,” said Peregrine. “Pay no attention.”

“It’s nothing,” Maggie said. “He’s being silly.”

“It’s not exactly silly, seeing that baleful face scowling at one and him whirling his claymore within inches of one’s own face,” Dougal pointed out. “And, if I catch your meaning, Maggie love, all for nothing. I’m as blameless as the Bloody Child. Though not, I may add, from choice.”

“I’ll have a word with him.”

“Choose your words, darling. You may inflame him.”

“Maggie dear,” Peregrine begged her, “calm him down if you can. We’re doing the English scene this week and I would like him to be normal.”

“I’ll do my best. He’s so silly ,” Maggie crossly reiterated. “And I’m so busy.”

Her opportunity occurred the next afternoon. She had stayed in the theatre after working at the sleepwalking scene, while Peregrine worked with Simon on the English scene.

When they had finished and Morten was about to leave, she crossed her fingers and stopped him.

“Simon, that’s a wonderful beginning. Come home with me, will you, and talk about it? We’ll have a drink and a modest dinner. Don’t say no. Please.”

He was taken aback. He looked hard at her, muttered sulkily, and then said, “Thank you, I’d like that.”

“Good. Put on your overcoat. It’s cold outside. Have you got your part? Come on, then. Good-night, Perry dear.”

“Good-night, lovely lady.”

They went out by the stage door. When he heard it bang, Peregrine crossed himself and said, “God bless her.” He turned off the working lights, locked the doors, and used his torch to find his way out by the front-of-house.

They took a taxi to Maggie’s flat. She rang the bell and an elderly woman opened the door. “Nanny,” said Maggie, “can you give the two of us dinner? No hurry. Two hours.”

“Soup. Grilled chops.”

“Splendid.”

“Good evening, Mr. Morten.”

“Good evening, Nanny.”

They came in, to a bright fire and comfortable chairs. Maggie took his coat and hat and hung them in the hall. She gave him a pretty robust drink and sat him down. “I’m breaking my own rule,” she said, pouring a small one for herself. “During rehearsal period, no alcohol, no parties, and no nice gentlemen’s nonsense. But you’ve seen that for yourself, of course.”

“Have I?”

“Of course. Even supposing Dougal was a world-beater sex-wise, which I ain’t supposing, it’d be a disaster to fall for him when we’re playing The Tartans. Some people could do it. Most, I daresay, but not this lady. Luckily, I’m not tempted.”

“Maggie?”

“No.”

“Promise?”

“Of course.”

“ He doesn’t share your views?”

“I don’t know how he feels about it. Nothing serious,” said Maggie, lightly. She added, “My dear Si, you can see what he’s like. Easy come, easy go.”

“Have you —” He took a pull at his drink. “Have you discussed it?”

“Certainly not. It hasn’t been necessary.”

“You had dinner with him. The night there was a rehearsal.”

“I can have dinner with someone without falling like an overripe apple for him.”

“What about him , though?”

“Simon! You’re being childish. He did not make a pass at me and if he had I’d have been perfectly well able to cope. I told you. During rehearsals I don’t have affairs. You’re pathologically jealous about nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Maggie, I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry. Truly. Forgive me, Maggie darling.”

“All right. But no bedroom scenes. I told you, I’m as pure as untrodden snow while I’m rehearsing. Honestly.”

“I believe you. Of course.”

“Well, then, do stop prowling and prowling around like the hosts of whoever-they-were in the hymn book. ‘Lor’,’ as Mrs. Boffin said, ‘let’s be comfortable.’ ”

“All right,” he said and a beguiling grin transformed his face. “Let’s.”

“And clean as a whistle?”

“So be it.”

“Give yourself another drink and tell me what you think about the young Malcolm.”

“The young Malcolm? It’s a difficult one, isn’t it? I think he’ll get there but it’ll take a lot of work.”

And they discussed the English scene happily and excitedly until dinner was ready.

Maggie produced a bottle of wine, the soup was real, and the chops were excellent.

“How nice this is,” said Maggie when they had finished.

“It’s perfect.”

“So what a Silly Simon you were to cut off your nose to spite your face, weren’t you? We’ll sit by the fire for half an hour and then you must go.”

“If you say so.”

“I do, most emphatically. I’m going to work on the sleepwalking scene. I want to get a sleepwalking voice. Dead. No inflections. Metallic. Will it work?”

“Yes.”

She looked at him and thought how pleasant and romantic he seemed with his rich black curls and fair skin and what a pity it was that he was so stupidly jealous. It showed in his mouth. Nothing could cure it.

When he got up to go she said, “Good-night, my dear. You won’t take it out on Dougal, will you? It would be so silly. There’s nothing to take.”

“If you say so.”

He held her by her arms. She gave him a quick kiss and withdrew.

“Good-night, Simon.”

“Good-night.”

When she had shut the door and he was alone outside, he said: “All the same, to hell with Sir Dougal Macdougal.”

On Thursday morning there was a further and a marked change in the atmosphere. It wasn’t gloomy. It was oppressive and nervous. Rather like the thunderstorm, Peregrine thought. Claustrophobic. Expectant. Stifling.

Peregrine finished blocking. By Friday they had covered the whole play and took it through in continuity.

There were noticeable changes in the behavior of the company. As a rule, the actor would finish a scene and come off with a sense of anxiety or release. He or she would think back through the dialogue, note the points of difficulty, and re-rehearse them in the mind or, as it were, put a tick against them as having come off successfully. The actors would disappear into the shadows, or watch for a time with professional interest or read a newspaper or book — each according to temperament and inclination.

This morning it was different. Without exception they sat together and watched and listened with a new intensity. It was as though each actor continued in an assumed character, and no other reality existed. Even in the scenes that had been blocked but not yet developed there was a nervous tension that knew the truth would emerge and the characters march to their appointed end.

The company were to see the fight for the first time. Macduff now had something of a black angel’s air about him, striding through the battle on the hunt for Macbeth. He encounters men in the Macbeth tartan and mistakes them for him, but it must be Macbeth or nobody. Then Macduff sees him, armored, helmeted, masked, and cries out: “ Turn, hell-hound, turn !”

Macbeth turns.

Peregrine’s palms were wet. The thanes, waiting offstage now, stood aghast. Steel clashed on steel or shrieked as one blade slid down another. There was no sound other than the men’s hard breathing.

Macduff swung his claymore up and then swiftly down — Macbeth caught it on his shield and lurched forward.

Nina, in the audience, screamed.