Chapter 4
FOURTH WEEK
Rehearsals went well during the first four days of the next week. The play had now been completely covered and Peregrine began to polish, dig deeper, and make discoveries. His bruises grew less painful. He had taken a high hand and talked about his “bad leg” in a vague, brief, and lofty manner and, as far as he could make out, the cast did not pay an enormous amount of attention to it. Perhaps they were too busy.
Macbeth, in particular, made a splendid advance. He gained in stature. His nightmarish descent into horror and blind, idiotic killing was exactly what Peregrine asked of him. Maggie, after they had worked at their scenes, said to him, “Dougal, you are playing like the devil possessed. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
He thought for a moment and then said: “To tell you the truth, nor did I.” And burst out laughing. “Unlucky in love, lucky in war,” he said. “Something like that, eh, Maggie?”
“Something like that,” she agreed lightly.
“I suppose,” he said, turning to Peregrine, “it is absolutely necessary to have Marley’s Ghost haunting me? What’s he meant to signify?”
“Marley’s Ghost?”
“Well — whoever he is. Seyton. Gaston Sears. What’s he meant to be, silly old fool?”
“Fate.”
“Come off it. You’re being indulgent.”
“I honestly don’t think so. I think he’s valid. He’s not intrusive, Dougal. He’s just — there.”
Sir Dougal said: “That’s what I mean,” and drew himself up, holding his claymore in front of him. “His tummy rumbles are positively deafening,” he said. “Gurgle, gurgle. Rumble. Crash. A one-man band. One can hardly hear oneself speak.”
“Nonsense,” said Peregrine and laughed. Maggie laughed with him.
“You’re very naughty,” she said to Dougal.
“You’ve heard him, Maggie. In the banquet scene. Standing up by your throne rumbling away. You do know he’s a bit off-pitch in the upper register, Perry, don’t you?” He touched his own head.
“You’re simply repeating a piece of stage gossip. Stop it.”
“Barrabell told me.”
“And who told him? And what about your fight?” Peregrine made a wide gesture and swept his notes to the floor. “Damn,” he said. “Nothing dotty about that fight, is there?”
“We’d have been just as good if we’d faked it,” Dougal muttered.
“No, you wouldn’t, and you know it.”
“Oh, well. But he does rumble. Admit.”
“I haven’t heard him.”
“Come on, Maggie. I’m wasting my time with this chap,” Dougal said cheerfully. Peregrine heard the stage door shut behind him.
He had begun painfully to pick up pages of the notes he had dropped when he heard someone come onstage and cross it. He tried to get up but the movement caught him. By the time he had hauled himself up the door had opened and closed and he did not see who had crossed the stage and gone out of the theatre.
Charlie had hung the claymore with its fellow on the back wall. Peregrine, having put his papers in order, labored up onto the stage and made his way through pieces of scenery and book wings that had been set up as temporary backing. Only the working light had been left on and it was dark enough in this no-man’s-land for him to go carefully. He was quite startled to see the figure of a small boy, its back toward him. Looking up at the claymore.
“William!” he said. William turned. His face was white but he said, “Hullo, sir,” loudly.
“What are you doing here? You weren’t called.”
“I wanted to see you, sir.”
“You did? Well, here I am.”
“You hurt yourself on the wooden claymore,” the treble voice stated.
“What makes you think that?”
“I was there. Backstage. When you jumped, I saw you.”
“You had no business to be there, William. You come only when you are called and stay in front when you are not working. What were you doing backstage?”
“Looking at my claymore. Mr. Sears said I could have one of them after we opened. I wanted to choose the one that was least knocked about.”
“I see. Come here. Where I can see you properly.”
William came at once. He stood to attention and clenched his hands.
“Go on,” said Peregrine.
“I took it down; it was very dark. I brought it into the better light. It was still pretty dark but I examined it. Before I could get back there and hang it up, the witches came and started rehearsing. Down on the main stage. I hid it under the canvas. I was very careful to hide it where I thought nobody would fall. I hid, too. I saw you fall. I heard you say you were all right.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
After a considerable pause, William went on. “I knew you weren’t really all right because I heard you swear. But you got up. So I sneaked off and waited till there was only Charlie left and he was whistling. So I bolted.”
“And why did you want to see me today?”
“To tell you.”
“Has something else happened?”
“In a way.”
“Let’s have it, then.”
“It’s Miss Gaythorne. She keeps on about the curse.”
“The curse?”
“On the play. Now she’s on about things happening. She makes out the sword under the cover is mixed up with all the things that go wrong with Macbeth, with” — William corrected himself — “the Scots play. She reckons she wants to sprinkle holy water or something and say things. I dunno. It sounds like a lot of hogwash to me but she goes on and on, and of course the claymore’s all my doing, isn’t it? Nothing to do with this other stuff.”
“Nothing in the wide world.”
“Anyway, I’m sorry you’ve copped one, sir. I am, really.”
“So you ought to be. It’s much better. Look here, William. Have you spoken to anyone else about this?”
“No, sir.”
“Word of a gentleman?” said Peregrine and wondered if it was comically snobbish.
“No, I haven’t, not a word.”
“Then don’t. Except to me, if you want to. If they know I’m hurt because of the claymore they’ll go weaving all sorts of superstitious rotgut about the play and it’ll get about and be bad for business. Mum’s the word. Okay? But I may say something. I’m not sure.”
“Okay.”
“And you’ll get your claymore but no funny business with it.”
William looked blankly at him.
“No swiping it around. Ceremonial use only. Understood?”
“I’ve understood, all right.”
“Agreed?”
“I suppose so,” William muttered.
Peregrine reminded himself that William was certainly unable to raise the weapon more than waist-high, if that, and decided not to insist. They shook hands and paid a visit to the Junior Dolphin at a quarter to six, where William consumed an unbelievable quantity of crumpets and fizzy drink. He seemed to have recovered his sangfroid.
Peregrine drove him home to a minute house in a tidy little street in Lambeth. The curtains were not yet drawn but the room was lit and he could see a pleasant picture, a fully stocked bookcase, and a good armchair. Mrs. Smith came to the window and looked out before shutting the room away.
William invited him in.
“I’ll deliver you but I won’t come in, thank you. I’m due at home. Overdue, in fact.”
A brisk knock brought his mother to the door. A woman who was worn down to the least common denominator. She was dressed in a good but not new jacket and skirt and spoke incisively. “Yes?”
“Hullo, Mrs. Smith,” said Peregrine. “I’ve got a call to make in this part of the world so I’ve brought William home. He’s doing very well, may I add.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jay.” She smiled briefly at him and ushered William in as all three said good-bye in chorus.