‘I hope so too. I think they will.’

‘May you think so when you’ve seen it.’

‘I bet I will,’ said Emily.

‘I’ll push off. So long, Em, wish me luck.’

‘With all my heart,’ she said, and gave him a kiss and a packet and a Thermos. ‘Your snack,’ she said.

‘Thanks, love. I don’t know when I’ll be home.’

‘OK. Always welcome.’

She watched him get into his car. He gave her a toot and was off.

II

He was taking the witches’ scenes. Mattresses had been placed on the stage behind the gallows rostrum. The body on the scaffold moved slightly in its noose, turned by one of the mysterious draughts that steal about backstage regions. When Peregrine walked in Rangi stood beside it and peered into the void beneath.

‘See anything?’ he asked.

A muffled voice from the void said something indistinguishable.

‘If you can’t see the back of the gallery they can’t see you.’

‘Too dark.’

‘He’ll put a light on for you. Anyone up there?’ Rangi called and was answered by an affirmative.

‘Light yourself up.’

‘Hang on.’ A pause. A lighter flickered over a hirsute face. ‘See that?’ asked Rangi.

‘I can’t see nothing.’

‘Fair enough. OK,’ Rangi yelled. ‘You can come down from up there.’

‘’Morning, Rangi,’ said Peregrine. ‘Joined the Scene-shifters’ Union?’

Rangi grinned. ‘We wanted to make sure we were masked from up there.’

‘You want to watch it. The right way is to ask me and I’ll check with the SM.’ He put his arm across Rangi’s shoulders. ‘You’re not in the land of Do-It-Yourself now,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t do anything. Just yelled.’

‘All right. You need to watch it. We might have the whole stage staff going out on strike. Is Bruce Barrabell here?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Good. Your part’s shaping up nicely. Do you like it?’

‘Oh, sure. Sure.’

‘We’ll give you a skirt for rehearsals.’

‘A sort of lady-tohunga, uh? Except that tohungas are always men.’

‘You’ll look like three disreputable old women until Macbeth sees your faces, and they are terrible and know everything. In the opening scene we see them, birdlike, as they are; almost ravens. Busy on the gallows collecting from the corpse what’s left of the “grease that’s sweaten from the murderer’s gibbet”. In the second scene when Macbeth first meets them they’ve put on a sort of caricature of respectability: hats, filthy aprons, dirty mutches that hold up their chins like grave-cloths. Blondie is the sexy one. One breast hangs out. Brown and stringy. They are not like female tohungas, really.’

‘Not in the least,’ said Rangi cheerfully.