“Thank you, Gaston,” Peregrine said with relief.
Peregrine had to admit, strictly to himself, that a slight change had come over the atmosphere in the theatre. It was not that rehearsals went badly. They went, on the whole, very well, with no more than the expected clashes of temperament among the actors. Barrabell was the most prominent when these were in question. He had only to appear on stage for an argument to begin about the various movements of the actors. Peregrine was, by and large, a patient and sagacious director, and he never let loose a formidable display of anger without considering that the time had come for it and the result would be salutary. He had never encountered Barrabell before but it didn’t take him long to suspect a troublemaker and this morning he had confirmation of it. Barrabell and Nina Gaythorne arrived together. He had dropped his beautifully controlled voice to its lowest level, he had taken her arm, and in her faded, good-natured face there appeared an expression that reminded Peregrine of a schoolchild receiving naughty but absorbing information upon a forbidden ground.
“Most unexpected…” the Voice confided. “We were sitting…” It sank below the point of audibility. “… concentrated… most extraordinary…”
“Really?”
“… Blondie… rigor…”
“No!”
“I promise.”
At this point they came through the scenic archway and saw Peregrine.
There was a very awkward silence.
“Good morning,” said Peregrine happily.
“Good morning. Perry. Er — good morning. Er.”
“You were talking about last night’s storm.”
“Ah. Yes. Yes, we were. I was saying it was a heavy storm.”
“I didn’t see it,” said Nina. “Not really.”
“Did you notice that old scrap shed on the waterfront has collapsed?” Peregrine asked.
“Ah!” said Barrabell on a full note. “That’s what it is! The difference!”
“It was struck by lightning.”
“Fancy!”
“The center of the storm.”
“Not the theatre.”
“No,” they both fervently agreed. “Not our theatre.”
“Did you hear about Blondie?”
Nina made noises.
“Blondie has this thing about lightning,” said Peregrine. “Electricity in the air. My mother has it. She’s seventy and very perky.”
“Oh yes?” said Nina. “How lovely.”
“Very fit and well but gets electrically disturbed during thunderstorms.”
“I see,” said Barrabell.
“It’s quite a common occurrence. Like cat’s fur crackling. Nina darling,” said Peregrine, putting his arm around her, “I’ve got three little boys coming this morning to audition for the Macduff kid. Would you be an angel and go through the scene with them? Here are their photographs. Look.”
He opened a copy of Spotlight at the child-actor’s section. Three infant phenomena were displayed. Two were embarrassingly overdressed and bore an innocent look that only just failed to conceal an awful complacency. The third had sensible clothes and a cheeky face.
“He’s got something,” said Nina. “I would feel I could bear to cuddle him. When was the photo taken, I wonder?”
“Who can tell? He’s called William Smith, which attracts one. The others, as you’ll see, are called Wayne and Cedric.”
“Little horrors.”
“Probably. But one never knows.”
“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” said Nina, who had recovered her poise and was determined not to get involved with Barrabell-Banquo again.
A girl from the manager’s office came through to say the juveniles had arrived, each with its parent.
“I’ll see them one by one in the rehearsal room. Nina, would you come, dear?”
“Yes, of course.”
They went together.
For a little while Barrabell was alone. He had offered his services as the obligatory Equity representative for this production. It is not a job that most actors like very much. It is not pleasant to tell a fellow player that his subscription is overdue or to appeal against an infringement, imagined or genuine, by the management, though the Dolphin, in its integrity and strong “family” reputation, was not likely to run into trouble of that sort.
Barrabell belonged to a small, extreme leftist group called the Red Fellowship. Nobody seemed to know what it wanted except that it didn’t want anything that was established or that made money in the theatre. Dougal Macdougal was equally far on the right and wanted, or so it was believed, to bring a Jacobite pretender to the throne and restore capital punishment.
Barrabell kept his ideas to himself. Peregrine was vaguely aware of his extremism but being himself hopelessly uncommitted to anything other than the theatre gave it no more consideration than that.
The rest of the cast were equally vague.
So when the business of appointing a representative came up and Barrabell said he’d done it before and if they liked he’d do it again they were glad to let him be their Equity rep. Equity is an apolitical body and takes in all shades of opinion.
But if they were indifferent to him, he was far from being indifferent to them. He had a cast list with little signs against quite a number of names. As rehearsals went on he hoped to add to it. Dougal Macdougal’s name was boxed in. Barrabell looked at it for some time with his head on one side. He then put a question mark beside it.
The rest of the cast for the morning’s rehearsal arrived. Peregrine and Nina returned with a fresh-faced child in tow.
“Quickest piece of casting in our records,” said Peregrine. “This is William Smith, everybody. Young Macduff to you.”
The little boy’s face broke into a delightful smile. Delighted and delightful. It was transformed.
“Hul-lo, William,” said Sir Dougal.
“Hullo, sir,” said William. Not a vowel wrong and nothing forced.
“His mama is coming back for him in an hour,” said Peregrine. “Sit over there, William, and watch rehearsal.”
He sat by Nina.
“This morning we’re breaking new ground,” said Peregrine. “Banquet scene with ghost of Banquo. I’ll explain the business with the ghost. You, Banquo, will wear a mask. A ghastly mask. Open mouth with blood running. You’ll have time to change your clothes. You will have a double, also masked, of course. The table will have a completely convincing false side with heavily carved legs and the black space painted between them. You and your double will be hidden behind this side. Your stool is at the head of the table.
“Now. The Macbeths’ costumes. The Lady has voluminous sleeves, attached all the way down to her costume. When she says Meeting were bare without it, she holds out her hands. She is standing in front of the stool and masks it. Macbeth goes up to her and on his own Sweet remembrancer takes and kisses her hands. They form, momentarily, a complete mask to the stool. Banquo, from under the table, slides up onto the stool. The speed with which you do this is all-important. Banquo, you sit on the stool with your back to Macbeth and your head bent down. The Macbeths move off to his right.
“On Macbeth’s Where? Banquo turns. Recognition. Climax. He’s a proper job. Bloody hair, throat cut, chest stabbed, blood all over it. On feed and regard him not the thanes obey her but rather self-consciously. They eat and mumble. Keep it quiet. Macbeth shrinks back and to the right. She follows. On Macbeth’s What care I, Banquo lets his head go back and then fall forward. He rises and exits left. This is going to take a lot of work. You thanes, all of you, cannot see him. Repeat: you can not see him. He almost touches you but for you he is not there. You all watch Macbeth. Have you all got that? Stop me if I’m going too fast.”