Ngaio Marsh - Light Thickens

“He missed. If you both repeat where you were and what you do to a fraction of an inch, he’ll always miss. If not — not . We’ll take it again, if you please. The final six moves. Places. Er — one. Er — two. Er — three…”

“We’re at hellishly close quarters at the side, there,” said Simon when they had finished. “And it’s dark as hell, too. Or will be.”

“I’ll be there with the head on my claidheamh-mor. Don’t go hunting for me, though,” said Gaston. “Simply take up your place and I’ll fall in behind you. Macbeth will have gone straight out.”

“I’ll scream and scramble off, don’t you worry,” said Sir Dougal.

“All right.”

“Until tomorrow. Same time. I thank you, gentlemen,” said Gaston to the stagehands. He saluted and withdrew.

“Proper caution, in’t ’e?” said a stagehand.

“Well, gentlemen,” said the foreman, doing a creditable bit of mimicry, “shall we resume?”

They went about nailing the sanded and painted wallboard facing to the set. The stairs curved up to the landing and the door to Duncan’s room. The red arras was hung and dropped in above the stairway. Below the landing a tunnel pierced the wall, making a passage to the south entry.

Peregrine, on his way to the rehearsal room, saw this and found it all good. The turntables, right and left, presented outside walls. The fireplace appeared. The gallows came into view and was anchored.

It was all smooth, he thought, and moved on into the rehearsal room. He had called the scene — he thought of it as the Aleppo scene — when the witches greet Macbeth. He was a little early but most of them were there. Banquo was there.

If they had been the crew of a ship, he thought, Barrabell would have been the sea-lawyer. He knew what Barrabell had been like as a schoolboy. Always closeted with other, smaller boys who listened furtively to him, always behind the dubious plan but never answerable. Always the troublemaker but never openly so. A boy to be dreaded.

Peregrine said: “Good morning, everybody.”

“Good morning, Perry.”

Yes. There he was with two of the witches. Silly little things, listening to his nonsense, whatever it was. The first witch, Rangi, hadn’t arrived yet. He would not listen to Barrabell, Peregrine thought. He goes his own way. He too is an actor and a good one. For that I respect him.

Bruce Barrabell detached himself from the witches and made for him.

“Happy, Perry?” he asked, coming close to him. “Sorry! I shouldn’t ask, should I? It’s not done. Unlucky.”

“Very happy, Bruce.”

“We haven’t got the Boy Beautiful with us this morning?”

“Do you mean William Smith? He’ll be here.”

“He’s dropped the hyphen, of course. Poor little chap.”

Peregrine, inside himself, did what actors call a double-take. His heart skipped a beat. He looked at Barrabell, who smiled at him. Damn , Peregrine thought. He knows. Oh, damn, damn, damn.

Rangi came in and looked at the clock. Just in time.

“Second witches’ scene,” Peregrine said. “Witches on from the three points of the compass. There will be a rumble of thunder. Just a hint. You arrive at exactly the same time and at dead center. Rangi through the passage. Each with a disheveled marketing bag. Blondie, Prompt. Wendy, O.P. It wasn’t together last time. You’ll have to get a sign. Rangi’s got the farthest to walk. The other two are equal. Perhaps you should all have sticks? I don’t want any hesitation. Wait for the thunder and start when it stops. Try that. Ready? Rumble, rumble. Now.”

The three figures appeared, hobbled on, met. “Much better,” said Peregrine. “Once more. This time greet each other. Rangi center. A smacking kiss on each of his cheeks simultaneously by each of you. In front. Together. Right. Dialogue.”

They used their natural, well-contrasted voices. The rhymes were stressed. The long speech about the hapless sailor gone to Aleppo was a curse.

“ Though his bark cannot be lost

Yet it shall be tempest-tos’t.

Look what I have .”

And Rangi scuffled in his market bag.

“ Show me, show me ,” slavered the greedy Wendy.

Rangi’s hand in his bag was stilled. He himself was still. Frozen. And then he suddenly opened the bag and peered inside. He withdrew his clenched hand.

“ Here I have a pilot’s thumb

Wrack’d as homeward he did come ,”

said Rangi. He opened his hand very slightly.

“What’s wrong?” Peregrine asked. “Haven’t they given you something for the thumb?”

Rangi opened his hand. It was empty.

“I’ll speak to Props. On you go.”

“ A drum! a drum !” said Wendy. “ Macbeth doth come .”

And now their dance, about, about, turn and twist, bow, raise their joined hands. All very quick.

“ Peace! The charm’s wound up. ”

“Yes,” Peregrine said. “That speech has improved enormously. It’s really alarming now. One feels the wretched sailor in his doomed ship, tossing and turning, not dying and not living. Good. We’ll go on. Banquo and Macbeth. One moment, though. Banquo, the whole scene has been very carefully ordered so that Macbeth, the convention of the soliloquy having changed over four centuries, will not seem to be within hearing distance of his brother officers. You and Ross and Angus are talking together. Way upstage. But very quietly and with virtually no movement. Shakespeare himself seems to have felt the usual convention not really good enough. His I thank you, gentlemen is a dismissal. They bow and move as far away as they can get. The soliloquy, I needn’t tell you, is of great importance. So no loud laughter, if you please. Okay?”

“I took the point the first time you made it,” said Banquo.

“Good. That will save me the fatigue of making it a third time. Are you ready? The earth hath bubbles .”

The scene went forward. The messages of favors to come were delivered. The golden future opened out. Everything was lovely, and yet… and yet…

Presently they embarked on the cauldron scene. Peregrine developed the background of whispering. “ Double, double toil and trouble —” Would it be heard? He tried a murmur; not good. “We’ll try it whispered when the whole company is here,” Peregrine said. “Six groups, each beginning after trouble . I think that’ll work.”

The witches were splendid. Clear and baleful. Their movements were explicit. They were real. But Peregrine was conscious that Rangi was troubled by something. He did not fumble a cue or muddle a movement or need a prompt, but he was unhappy. Unwell? Sickening for something? Oh, God, please not, thought Peregrine. Why is he looking at me? Am I missing something?

“ And points at them for his .” Thunder and fog. Blackout, the door shut, and Lennox knocking on it. The scene ends.

“All right,” said Peregrine. “I’ve no notes specifically for you. It will need adjustments, no doubt, when we get the background noise settled. Thank you all very much.”

They all left the rehearsal room, except Rangi.

“Is something amiss? What’s the matter?”

He held out his market bag. “Will you look in it, sir?” Peregrine took the bag and opened it.

Out of it a malignant head stared up at him. Mouth open, eyes open, teeth bared. Pinkish paws stretched upward.

“Oh, God!” said Peregrine. “Here we go again. Where was this bag?”

“With the other two on the props table. Since yesterday.”

“Anyone look in it?”

“I shouldn’t think so. Only to put the rat in. There was no means of telling which bag belonged to whom. It might have been Blondie’s. She’d have fainted or gone into high-powered hysterics,” said Rangi.