Ngaio Marsh - Light Thickens

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 Hamnet well. She began to cast it from the present company in her mind, leaving herself out. She became excited and got a pencil and paper to write it all down.

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.

Crispin gave the driver the address and Robin leaped into the taxi.

“Takin ’im to the naughty boys’ ’ome” asked the driver, “or is ’e the Bishop of London?”

Crispin laughed and Robin piped down and was quietly thoughtful. They drove through a maze of small streets, coming finally into Lambeth. Robin broke his silence to start an argument about where the Palace could be and was taken aback when they 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.”

Crispin got out of the taxi and 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 halfway out of the cab.”

“I’m William Smith. Hullo. Hullo, Robin.”

“Hullo,” Robin muttered.

“Get in, William,” Crispin said. And to the driver: “Back to Bank-side, 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 Drama 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 inquired.

“You bet,” said William.

They drew up and stopped.

The two little boys tumbled out and ran up the steps. Crispin paid the taxi and gave the driver a fifteen percent tip.

“Much obliged, your reverence,” said the driver.

“There’s our car,” said Crispin. “Pop’s come home. Good.”

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.”

“Yes. 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 reopen 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 it’s the play, we will suggest you read for the part. You die at the end of Act One 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.”

“Luncheon,” 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 same time as 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 humor. And with a Shakespeare wig he’d look marvelous.”

“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 meany.”

“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? All right, clear away the plates and tell Annie we’re ready for her delicious pudding.”

“ Annie! 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 to convey another meaning from the one that was 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 star-like, marvelous 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.