‘Maggie,’ shouted Simon Morten. ‘Hold on. Wait a moment.’

Margaret Mannering stopped at the top of Wharfingers Lane where it joined the main highway. A procession of four enormous lorries thundered past. Morten hurried up the last steep bit. ‘I got trapped by Gaston Sears,’ he panted. ‘Couldn’t get rid of him. How about coming out for a meal? It won’t take long in a taxi.’

‘Simon! My dear, I’m sorry. I’ve said I’ll dine with Dougal.’

‘But – where is Dougal?’

‘Fetching his car. I said I’d come up to the corner and wait for him. It’s a chance to talk about our first encounter. In the play, I mean.’

‘Oh. I see. All right, then.’

‘Sorry, darling.’

‘Not a bit. I quite understand.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I hope you do.’

‘I’ve said I do, haven’t I? Here comes your Thane in his scarlet chariot.’

He made as if to go and then stopped. Dougal Macdougal – it was his own given name – pulled in to the kerb. ‘Here I am, sweetie,’ he declared. ‘Hullo, Simon. Just the man to open the door for the lovely lady and save me a bash on the bottom from oncoming traffic.’

Morten removed his beret, pulled on his forelock and opened the door with exaggerated humility. Margaret got into the car without looking at him and said, ‘Thank you, darling.’

He banged the door.

‘Can we drop you somewhere?’ Dougal asked, as an afterthought.

‘No, thank you. I don’t know where you’re going but it’s not in my direction.’ Dougal pulled a long face, nodded and moved out into the traffic. Simon Morten stood looking after them, six foot two of handsome disgruntlement, his black curls still uncovered. He said: ‘Well, shit off and be damned to you,’ crammed on his beret, turned into the lane and entered the little restaurant known as the Junior Dolphin.

‘What’s upset the Thane of Fife?’ asked Dougal casually.

‘Nothing. He’s being silly.’

‘Not by any chance a teeny-weeny bit jealous?’

‘Maybe. He’ll recover.’

‘Hope so. Before we get round to bashing away at each other with Gaston’s claymores.’

‘Indeed, yes. Gaston really is more than a bit dotty, don’t you think? All that talk about armoury. And he wouldn’t stop.’

‘I’m told he did spend a short holiday in a sort of halfway house. A long time ago, though, and he was quite harmless. Just wore a sword and spoke Middle English. He’s a sweet man, really. He’s been asked by Perry to teach us the fight. He wants us to practise duels in slow motion every day for five weeks, building up muscle and getting a bit faster very slowly. To the Anvil Chorus from Trovatore.’

‘Not really?’

‘Of course not, when it comes to performance. Just as rehearsals to get the rhythm. They are frightfully heavy, claymores are.’