Light Thickens. Ngaio Marsh
and grounds occupied the whole of one side. The opposite side was filled with neglected trees and an unused pumping-house.
The rental of such a large building must have been high and among the Dulwich College boys there was a legend that Mr Sears was an eccentric foreign millionaire who lived there, surrounded by fabulous pieces of armour, and made swords and practised black magic. Like most legends, this was founded on highly distorted fact. He did live among his armour and he did very occasionally make swords. His collection of armour was the most prestigious in Europe, outside the walls of a museum. And certainly he was eccentric.
Moreover, he was comfortably off. He had started as an actor, a good one in far-out eccentric parts, but so inclined to extremes of argumentative temperament that nobody cared to employ him. A legacy enabled him to develop his flair for historic arms and accoutrements. His expertise was recognized by all the European collectors and he was the possessor of honorary degrees from various universities. He made lecture tours in America for which he charged astronomical fees, and extorted frightening amounts from greedy, ignorant and unscrupulous buyers which more than compensated for the opinions he gave free of charge to those he decided to respect. Of these Peregrine Jay was one.
The unexpected invitation to appear as sword-bearer to Macbeth had been accepted with complacency. ‘I shall be able to watch the contest,’ he had observed. ‘And afterwards correct any errors that may creep in. I do not altogether trust the Macbeth. Dougal Macdougal indeed!’
He was engaged upon making moulds for his weapons. From one of these moulds would be cast, in molten steel, Macbeth’s claidheamh-mor. Gaston himself, as Seyton, would carry the genuine claidheamh-mor throughout the performance. Macbeth’s claymore he would wear. A second claymore, less elaborate, would serve to make the mould for Macduff’s weapon.
His workshop was a formidable background. Suits of armour stood ominously about the room, swords of various ages and countries hung on the walls with drawings of details in ornamentation. A lifesize effigy of a Japanese warrior in an ecstasy of the utmost ferocity, clad in full armour, crouched in warlike attitude, his face contorted with rage and his sword poised to strike.
Gaston hummed and occasionally muttered as he made the long wooden trough that was to contain clay from which the matrix would be formed. He made a good figure for a Vulcan, being hugely tall with a shock of black hair and heavily muscled arms.
‘“Double, double toil and trouble,”’ he hummed in time with his hammering. And then:
‘“Her husband’s to Aleppo gone, master o’th’ Tiger,
But in a sieve I’ll thither sail
And like a rat without a tail
I’ll do, I’ll do and I’ll do.”’
And on the final ‘I’ll do’ he tapped home his nail.
VI
Bruce Barrabell who played Banquo was not on call for the current rehearsal. He stayed at home and learned his part and dwelt upon his grievances. His newest agent was getting him quite a bit of work but nothing that was likely to do him any lasting good. A rather dim supporting role in another police series for Granada TV. And now, Banquo. He’d asked to be tried for Macbeth and been told the part was already cast. Macduff: same thing. He was leaving the theatre when some whippersnapper came after him and said would he come to read Banquo. There’d been some kind of a slip-up. So he did and he’d got it. Small part, actually. Lot of standing around with one foot up and the other down on those bloody steps. But there was one little bit. He flipped his part over and began to read it:
‘There’s husbandry in Heaven. Their candles are all out.’
He read it aloud. Quietly. The slightest touch of whimsicality. Feel the time-of-night and the great empty courtyard. He had to admit it was good. ‘There’s housekeeping in Heaven.’ The homely touch that somehow made you want to cry. Would a modern audience understand that housekeeping was what was meant by husbandry? Nobody else could write about the small empty hours as this man did. The young actor they’d produced for Fleance, his son, was nice: unbroken, clear voice. And then Macbeth’s entrance and Banquo’s reaction. Good stuff. His scene, but of course the Macbeth would overact and Perry let him get away with it. Look at the earlier scene. Although Perry, fair’s fair, put a stop to that little caper. But the intention was there for all to see.
He set himself to memorize but it wasn’t easy. Incidents out of the past kept coming in. Conversations.
‘Actually we are not quite strangers. There was a Macbeth up in Dundee, sir. I won’t say how many years ago.’
‘Oh?’
‘We were witches.’ Whispering it. Looking coy.
‘Really? Sorry. Excuse me. I want to – Perry, Perry, dear boy, just a word – ’
Swine! Of course he remembered.
VII
It was the Angus’s birthday. He, Ross, and the rest of the lairds and the three witches were not called for the evening’s rehearsal. They arranged with other free members of the cast to meet at the Swan in Southwark, and drink Angus’s health.
They arrived in twos and threes and it was quite late by the time the witches, who had been rehearsing in the afternoon, came in. Two girls and a man. The man (First Witch) was a part-Maori called Rangi Western, not very dark but with the distinctive short upper lip and flashing eyes. He had a beautiful voice and was a prize student from LAMDA. The second witch was a nondescript thin girl called Wendy possessed of a remarkable voice: harsh, with strange unexpected intervals. The third was a lovely child, a white-blonde, delicate, with enormous eyes and a babyish high-pitched voice. She was called Blondie.
Their rehearsal had excited them. They came in talking loudly. ‘Rangi, you were marvellous. You sent cold shivers down my spine. Truly. And that movement! I thought Perry would stop you but he didn’t. The stamp. It was super. We’ve got to do it, Wendy, along with Rangi. His tongue. And his eyes. Everything.’
‘I thought it was fabulous giving us the parts. I mean the difference! Usually they all look alike and are too boring for words – all masks and mumbles. But we’re really evil.’
‘Angus!’ they shouted. ‘Happy birthday, love. Bless you.’
Now they had all arrived. The witches were the centre of attention. Rangi was not very talkative but the two girls excitedly described his performance at rehearsal.
‘He was standing with us, listening to Perry’s description, weren’t you, Rangi? Perry was saying we have to be the incarnation of evil. Not a drop of goodness anywhere about us. How did he put it, Wendy?’
‘“Trembling with animosity”,’ said Wendy.
‘Yes. And I was standing by Rangi and I felt him tremble, I swear I did.’
‘You did, didn’t you, Rangi? Tremble?’
‘Sort of,’ Rangi mumbled. ‘Don’t make such a thing about it.’
‘No, but you were marvellous. You sort of grunted and bent your knees. And your face! Your tongue! And eyes!’
‘Anyway, Perry was completely taken with it and asked him to repeat it and asked us to do it – not too much. Just a kind of ripple of hatred. It’s going to work, you know.’
‘Putting a curse on him. That’s what it is, Rangi, isn’t it?’
‘Have a drink, Rangi, and show us.’
Rangi made a brusque dismissive gesture and turned away to greet the Angus.
The