might well lead to – shall we say? – to the bisection of the opponent’s foot. No. I exaggerate. The crushing would be more appropriate. And we would not want that to happen, would we?’
‘Certainly not. But my dear Gaston, please don’t misunderstand me. I think the plan is most ingenious and the result – er – breathtaking, but would it not be just as effective, for instance – ‘
He got no further. He saw the crimson flush rise in Gaston’s face.
‘Are you about to suggest that we employ a “fake”?’ Gaston demanded, and before Peregrine could reply said: ‘In which case I leave this theatre. For good. Taking with me the weapons and writing to The Times to point out the ludicrous aspects of the charade that will inevitably be foisted upon the audience. Well? Yes or no?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know which I mean but I implore you not to go waltzing out on us, Gaston. You tell me it’s safe and I accept your authority. I’ll get the insurance people to cover us,’ he added hurriedly. ‘You’ve no objection to that, I hope?’
Gaston waved his hand grandly and ambiguously. He went up on stage and collected the weapons which the users had put into felt containers.
‘I wish you good morning,’ he said. And, as an afterthought: ‘I will take charge of the claidheamh-mors, and will return them tomorrow. Again, good morning.’
‘Good morning, Gaston,’ Peregrine said thankfully.
III
Peregrine had to admit, strictly to himself, that a 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, the Banquo, was the most prominent where these were concerned. He had only to appear on stage for an argument to begin about the various movements of the actors. But Peregrine was, for the most part, 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 subject.
‘Most unexpected,’ the Voice confided. ‘I wasn’t here, of course, but I happened to look out…’ 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 one.’
‘Yes? But you were not here.’
‘No. I saw it from a window. In Westminster: well, Pimlico.’
‘I didn’t see it,’ said Nina. ‘Not really.’
‘Did you notice that old 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 centre of the storm.’
‘Not the theatre.’
‘No,’ they both fervently agreed. ‘Not our theatre.’
‘Did you hear about Blondie?’
They made noises.
‘She was here,’ said Peregrine. ‘So was I. Blondie has this thing about lightning. 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 thunder-storms.’
‘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-actors’ 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’s 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
