Ngaio Marsh - Light Thickens

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Jay,” he muttered and sniffed.

Emily held out her hand to Peregrine. “Hanky,” she mouthed. He gave her his handkerchief.

“Here you are. Have a blow.” William blew and caught his breath. She waggled her head at Peregrine, who said: “It’s all right, William. You didn’t do it.” And walked away.

“There you are! Now you’re in the clear, aren’t you?”

“If he means it.”

“He never, ever , says things he doesn’t mean.”

“Doesn’t he? Super,” said William and fetched a dry sob.

“So that’s that, isn’t it?” He didn’t answer. “William,” Emily said. “Are you really frightened of the heads? Quite apart from anyone thinking you did it. Just between ourselves.”

He nodded. “I can’t look at them,” he whispered. “Much less touch them. They’re awful.”

“Would they be if you’d made one? You know. It’s a long business. You make a mold in plaster of Mr. Barrabell’s face and he makes a fuss and says you’re stifling him and he won’t keep his mouth open. And at last, when you’ve got it and it’s dried, you pour a thin layer of some plastic stuff into it and wait till that dries, and then the hardest part comes,” said Emily, hoping she’d got it vaguely right. “You’ve got to separate the two and bob’s your uncle. Well — something like that. Broadly speaking.”

“Yes.”

“And you see it in all its stages and finally you’ve got to paint it and add hair and red paint for blood and so on, and it’s rather fun, and you made it frightening, but you know it’s just you being rather clever with plaster and plastic and paint.”

“That’s like the chorus of a song — ‘With plaster and plastic and paint,’ ” said William.

“ ‘I’m producing a perfect phenomenon,’ ” said Emily. “So it is. You go on.”

“ ‘I’m making things look what they ain’t,’ ” said William. “Your turn. I bet you can’t get a rhyme for ‘phenomenon,’ ” and gave another dry sob.

“You win. When’s your mama coming for you?”

“Pretty soon, I should think. She’s buying our supper. It’s her afternoon off.”

“Well. You can wait here with me. Mr. Jay’s got stuck into something up there. Have you heard how he came to restore this theatre?”

“No,” said William. “I don’t know anything about the theatre except it’s meant to be rather grand to get a job in it.”

“Well,” said Emily, “come sit down and I’ll tell you.”

And she told him how Peregrine, a struggling young author-director, came into the wrecked Dolphin and fell into a bomb hole on the stage and was rescued from it and got the job of restoring the theatre and being made a member of the board.

“Even now, it’s a bit like a fairy tale,” she said.

“A nice one.”

“Very nice.”

They sat in companionable silence, watching the men working onstage.

“You go to a drama school, don’t you?” Emily said after a pause.

“The Royal Southwark Drama School. It’s a proper school. We learn all the usual things and theatre as well.”

“How long have you been going to it?”

“Three years. I was the youngest kid there.”

“And you like it?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “It’s okay. I’m learning karate and how to fence. I’m going to be an actor, you know.”

“Are you?”

“Of course,” he said calmly.

The door at front-of-house opened and his mother looked in. He turned and saw her. “Here’s my mum,” he said. “I’d like you to meet her if that’s all right. Would it be all right?”

“I’d like to meet her, William.”

“Super,” he said. “Excuse me.” He edged past her and ran up the aisle. Emily stood up and turned around. “It’s all right, Mum,” he said. “Mrs. Jay said it is. Come on.”

Emily said: “Hullo, Mrs. Smith. Do come in. I am so pleased to meet you,” and held out her hand. “I’m Emily Jay,” she said.

“I’m afraid my son’s rather precipitous,” said Mrs. Smith. “I’ve just called to collect him. I do know outsiders shouldn’t walk into theatres as if they were bus stops.”

“William’s your excuse. He’s our rising actor. My husband thinks he’s very promising.”

“Good. Get your overcoat, William — and what’s happened to your face?”

“I don’t know. What?” asked William unconvincingly.

“What’s the matter with all our faces!” Emily exclaimed. “One of Gaston Sears’s dummy heads for the parade of Banquo’s successors got onto the banquet table and gave us the fright of our lives. Run and get your coat, William. It’s over the back of your seat.”

He said: “I’ll get it,” and wandered down the aisle.

Emily said: “I’m afraid it frightened him and made him jump and he became a very little boy, but he’s quite recovered now. It did look very macabre.”

“I’m sure it did,” said Mrs. Smith. She had gone down the aisle and met William. She put him into his coat with her back turned to Emily.

“Your hands are cold,” he said.

“I’m sorry. It’s very chilly outdoors.” She buttoned him up and said: “Say good-night to Mrs. Jay.”

“Good-night, Mrs. Jay.”

“Good-night, old boy.”

“Good-night,” said Mrs. Smith. “Thank you for being so kind.”

They shook hands.

Emily watched them go out. A lonely little couple, she thought.

“Come along, love,” said Peregrine. He had come up behind her and put his arm around her. “All’s settled. We can go home.”

“Right.”

They went out by the front-of-house. The life-size photographs were there being put into their frames. Sir Dougal Macdougal. Margaret Mannering. Simon Morten. The Three Witches. Out they came, one after another. Only a week left.

Emily and Peregrine stood and looked at them.

“Oh, darling!” she said. “This is your big one, isn’t it? So big. So big .”

“I know.”

“Don’t let these nonsense things worry you. They’re silly.”

“Yes. I know. You’re talking to me as if I’m William.”

“Come along, then. Home.”

So they went home.

The final days were, if anything, less hectic than usual. The production crew had the use of the theatre and the actors worked in the rehearsal room on a chalked-out floor. Gaston insisted on having the stage to rehearse the fight, pointing out the necessity for the different levels and insisting on the daily routine being maintained. “As it will be,” he said, “throughout the season.”

Macbeth and Macduff made noises of protest but by this time they had become proud of their expertise and had gradually speeded up to an unbelievable pace. The great cumbersome weapons swept about within inches of their persons, sparks literally flew, muffled cries escaped them. The crew, overawed, knocked off and watched them for half an hour.

The end of the fight was a bit of a problem. Macbeth was beaten back to the O.P. exit, which was open but masked from the audience by an individual Stonehenge-like piece, firmly screwed to the floor. Macbeth backed down to it and crouched behind his shield. Macduff raised his claymore and swept it down. Macbeth caught it on his shield. A pause. Then, with an inarticulate, bestial sound, he leaped aside and backward. He was out of sight. Macduff raised his claymore high above his head and plunged offstage. There was a scream cut short by an unmistakable sound: an immense thud.

For three seconds the stage was empty and silent.

“Ratatat-ratatat-ratatat-RATATAT and bugles. Crescendo! Crescendo! And enter Malcolm et al.,” roared Gaston.

“How about it?” asked Sir Dougal. “It’s a close call, Gaston. He missed the scenery but only by a hair’s breadth, you know. These claymores are so bloody long.”