Ngaio Marsh - Light Thickens

Bruce 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 around 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, benignly 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. However.”

He caught his cloak up in a practiced hand and turned round: “All right, behind?” he asked.

“Splendid,” his son reassured him.

“Good. Good.”

“… Ten minutes, please.”

A tap on the door. 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 Peregrine.

He continued 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 makeup. Round he 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.

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. The thanes, nervy and polite. The walking gents, much obliged 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 onstage, climbed the rostrum, and grouped around the gallows. Duncan and his sons and the thanes stood offstage, waiting for the short opening scene to end.

An interval of perhaps three interminable minutes. Then trumpets filled the air with their brazen splendor 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 director’s voice.

“Stand by. House lights. Thunder. Curtain up.”

Peregrine began to pace to and fro, to and fro. Listening.

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.

Emily came and hugged him and cried and said: “Oh, yes, darling. Yes. Yes .”

The company collected around him and cheered. And finally the critic whose opinion he most valued astonishingly came up to him; 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 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 fiddle 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 around 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.”