seem like it, certainly. All that stuff about keeping it under our hats even if we do fancy it.’
‘Still. Two successful productions and not a thing happening at either of them,’ said Maggie.
‘There is that, of course.’ He waited for a moment and then in a much too casual manner said: ‘They were going to do it in the Dolphin, you know. Twenty years or so ago. When it opened.’
‘Why didn’t they?’
‘The leading man died or something. Before they’d come together. Not a single rehearsal, I’m told. So it was dropped.’
‘Really?’ said Maggie. ‘What are the other rooms like? More nudes?’
‘Shall I show you?’
‘I don’t think so, thank you.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Shouldn’t we be going to your Wig and Piglet?’
‘Perry’s taking the witches first. We’ve lots of time.’
‘Still, I’m obsessively punctual and shan’t enjoy my oysters if we’re cutting it short.’
‘If you insist.’
‘Well, I do. Sorry. I’ll just tidy up. Where’s your bathroom?’
He opened a door. ‘At the end of the passage,’ he said.
She walked past him, hunting in her bag as she went, and thought: If he pounces I’ll be in for a scene and a bore.
He didn’t pounce but nor did he move. Unavoidably she brushed against him and thought: He’s got more of what it takes, Highland or Lowland, than is decent.
She did her hair, powdered her face, used her lipstick and put on her gloves in a bathroom full of mechanical weight-reducers, pot plants and a framed rhyme of considerable indecency.
‘Right?’ she asked briskly on re-entering the sitting room.
‘Right.’ He put on his overcoat and they left the flat. It was dark outside now. He took her arm. ‘The steps are slippery,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to start off with a sprained ankle, do you?’
‘No. That I don’t.’
He was right. The steps glimmered with untimely frost and she was glad of his support. His overcoat was Harris tweed and smelt of peat fires.
As she got into the car, Maggie caught sight of a tall man wearing a short camel overcoat and a red scarf. He was standing about sixty feet away.
‘Hullo,’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s Simon. Hi!’ She raised her hand but he had turned away and was walking quickly into a side street.
‘I thought that was Simon Morten,’ she said.
‘Where?’
‘I made a mistake. He’s gone.’
They drove along the Embankment to the Wig and Piglet. The street lights were brilliant: snapping and sparkling in the cold air and broken into sequins on the outflowing Thames. Maggie felt excited and uplifted. When they entered the little restaurant with its huge fire, white tablecloths and shining glasses, her cheeks flamed and her eyes were brilliant. Suddenly she loved everybody.
‘You’re fabulous,’ Dougal said. Some of the people had recognized them and were smiling. The mâitre d’hôtel made a discreet fuss over them. She was in rehearsal for a superb play and opposite to her was her leading man.
She began to talk, easily and well. When champagne was brought she thought: I ought to stop him opening it. I never drink before rehearsals. But how dreary and out-of-tune with the lovely evening that would be.
‘Temperamental inexactitude,’ she said quite loudly. ‘British Constitution.’
‘I beg your pardon, Maggie?’
‘I was just testing myself to make sure I’m not tiddly.’
‘You are not tiddly.’
‘I’m not used to whisky and you gave me a big one.’
‘No, I didn’t. You are not tiddly. You’re just suddenly elevated. Here come our oysters.’
‘Well, if you say so, I suppose I’m all right.’
‘Of course you are. Wade in.’
So she did wade in and she was not tiddly. In the days to come she was to remember this evening, from the time when she left the flat until the end of their rehearsals, as something apart. Something between her and London, with Dougal Macdougal as a sort of necessary ingredient. But no more.
V
Gaston Sears inhabited a large old two-storey house in a tiny culde-sac opening off Alleyn Road in Dulwich. It was called Alleyn’s Surprise and the house 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
