“That’s done the trick,” he shouted, and walked briskly away.
Peregrine went to the car park, unlocked his car, and got in.
“Oh, Lord!” he said, and drove himself home.
Emily in her woolly dressing gown let him in.
“Hullo, love,” he said, “You shouldn’t have waited up.”
“Hullo.”
He said: “Just soup,” and sank into an armchair.
She gave him strong soup laced with brandy.
“Golly, that’s nice,” he said. And then: “Pretty bloody awful but nothing in the way of practical jokes.”
“Bad dress. Good show.”
“Hope so.”
And in that hope he finished his soup and went to bed and to sleep.
Now they were all in their dressing-rooms, doors shut, telegrams, cards, presents, flowers, the pungent smell of greasepaint and wet white and hand-lotion, the close, electrically charged atmosphere of a working theatre.
Maggie made up her face. Carefully, looking at it from all angles, she drew her eyebrows together, emphasized the determined creases at the corners of her mouth. She pulled back her reddish hair, twisted it into a regal chignon, and secured it with pins and a band.
Nanny, her dresser and housekeeper, stood silently, holding her robe. When she turned there it was, opened, waiting for her. She covered her head with a chiffon scarf; Nanny skillfully dropped the robe over it, not touching it.
The tannoy came to life. “Quarter hour. Quarter hour, please,” it said.
“Thank you, Nanny,” said Maggie. “That’s fine.” She kissed a bedraggled bit of fur with a cat’s head. “Bless you, Thomasina,” she said and propped it against her glass.
A tap on the door. “May I come in?”
“Dougal! Yes.”
He came in and put a velvet case on her table. “It was my grandma’s,” he said. “She was a Highlander. Blessings.” He kissed her hand and made the sign of the cross over her.
“My dear, thank you. Thank you.”
But he was gone.
She opened the case. It was a brooch: a design of interlaced golden leaves with semiprecious stones making a thistle. “It’s benign, I’m sure,” she said. “I shall wear it in my cloak. In the fur, Nanny. Fix it, will you?”
Presently she was dressed and ready.
The three witches stood together in front of the looking-glass, Rangi in the middle. He had the face of a skull but his eyelids glittered in his dark face. Around his neck on a flax cord hung a greenstone tiki, an embryo child. Blondie’s face was made ugly, grossly overpainted: blobs of red on the cheeks and a huge scarlet mouth. Wendy was bearded. They had transformed their hands into claws.
“If I look any longer I’ll frighten myself,” said Rangi.
“Quarter hour. Quarter hour please.”
Gaston Sears dressed alone. He would have been a most uncomfortable companion, singing, muttering, uttering snatches of ancient rhymes, and paying constant visits to the lavatory. He occupied a tiny room that nobody else wanted but that seemed to please him.
When Peregrine called he found him in merry mood. “I congratulate you, dear boy,” he cried. “You have undoubtedly hit upon a valid interpretation of the cryptic Seyton.”
Peregrine shook hands with him. “I mustn’t wish you luck,” he said.
“But why not, perceptive boy? We wish each other luck. À la bonne heure.”
Peregrine hurried on to Nina Gaythorne’s room.
Her dressing-table was crowded with objects of baffling inconsistency and each of them must be fondled and kissed. A plaster Genesius, patron saint of actors, was in pride of place. There were also a number of anti-witchcraft objects and runes. The actress who played the Gentlewoman shared the dressing-room and had very much the worst of the bargain. Not only did Nina take three quarters of the working bench for her various protective objects, she spent a great deal of time muttering prophylactic rhymes and prayers.
These exercises were furtively carried out with one scared eye on the door. When Peregrine knocked she leaped up and cast her makeup towel over her sacred collection. She then stood with her back to the bench, her hands resting negligently upon it, and broke out into peals of unconvincing laughter. There was a strong smell of garlic.
Macduff and Banquo were in the next-door room to Sir Dougal’s and were quiet and businesslike. Simon Morten was withdrawn into himself, tense and silent. When he first came he did a quarter of an hour’s limbering-up and then took a shower and settled to his makeup. Bruce Barrabell tried a joke or two but getting no response, fell silent. Their dresser attended to them.
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.”