Peregrine hurried through the pass door and up on the stage.

‘Dougal, my dear fellow, welcome,’ he shouted.

‘But I’m so sorry, dear boy. I’m afraid I’m a fraction late. Where is everybody?’

‘In front. I’m not having a reading.’

‘Not?’

‘No. A few words about the play. The working drawings and then away we go.’

‘Really?’

‘Come through. This way. Here we go.’

Peregrine led the way. ‘The Thane himself, everybody,’ he announced.

It gave Sir Dougal Macdougal an entrance. He stood for a moment on the steps into the front-of-house, an apologetic grin transforming his face. Such a nice chap, he seemed to be saying. No upstage nonsense about him. Everybody loves everybody. Yes. He saw Margaret Mannering. Delight! Acknowledgement! Outstretched arms and a quick advance. ‘Maggie! My dear! How too lovely!’ Kissing of hands and both cheeks. Everybody felt as if the central heating had been turned up another five points. Suddenly they all began talking.

Peregrine stood with his back to the curtain, facing the company with whom he was about to take a journey. Always it felt like this. They had come aboard: they were about to take on other identities. In doing this something would happen to them all: new ingredients would be tried, accepted or denied. Alongside them were the characters they must assume. They would come closer and, if the casting was accurate, slide together. For the time they were on stage they would be one. So he held. And when the voyage was over they would all be a little bit different.

He began talking to them.

‘I’m not starting with a reading,’ he said. ‘Readings are OK as far as they go for the major roles, but bit parts are bit parts and as far as the Gentlewoman and the Doctor are concerned, once they arrive they are bloody important, but their zeal won’t be set on fire by sitting around waiting for a couple of hours for their entrance.

‘Instead I’m going to invite you to take a hard look at this play and then get on with it. It’s short and it’s faulty. That is to say, it’s full of errors that crept into whatever script was handed to the printers. Shakespeare didn’t write the silly Hecate bits, so out she comes. It’s compact and drives quickly to its end. It’s remorseless. I’ve directed it in other theatres twice, each time I may say successfully and without any signs of bad luck, so I don’t believe in the bad luck stories associated with it and I hope none of you do either. Or if you do, you’ll keep your ideas to yourselves.’

He paused for long enough to sense a change of awareness in his audience and a quick, instantly repressed movement of Nina Gaythorne’s hands.