‘The Royal Southwark Theatre School. It’s a proper school. We learn all the usual things and theatre as well.’

‘How long have you been going to it?’

‘Three years. I was the youngest kid there.’

‘And you like it?’

‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘It’s OK. I’m going to be an actor.’

‘Are you?’

‘Of course.’

The door at front-of-house opened. His mother looked in. He turned and saw her. ‘Here’s my mum,’ he said. ‘I’d like you to meet her if that’s all right. Would it be all right?’

‘I’d like to meet her, William.’

‘Super,’ he said. ‘Excuse me.’ He edged past her and ran up the aisle. Emily stood up and turned round. Apparently Mrs Smith had expostulated with him. ‘It’s all right, Mum,’ he said. ‘Mrs Jay says it is. Come on.’

Emily said: ‘Hello, Mrs Smith. Do come in. I am so pleased to meet you,’ and held out her hand. ‘I’m Emily Jay.’

‘I’m afraid my son’s rather precipitate,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘I’ve just called to collect him. I do know outsiders shouldn’t walk into theatres as if they were bus stations.’

‘William’s your excuse. He’s our rising actor. My husband thinks he’s very promising.’

‘Good. Get your overcoat, William, and what’s happened to your face?’

‘I don’t know. What?’ asked William unconvincingly.

‘Same as what’s the matter with all our faces,’ Emily explained. ‘One of Gaston Sears’s dummy heads for the parade of Banquo’s successors got on to the banquet table and gave us the fright of our lives. Run and get your coat, William. It’s over the back of your seat.’

He said: ‘I’ll get it,’ and wandered down the aisle.

Emily said: ‘I’m afraid it frightened him and made him jump and he became a very little boy but he’s quite recovered now. It did look very macabre.’

‘I’m sure it did,’ said Mrs Smith. She had gone down the aisle and met William. She put him into his coat with her back turned to Emily.

‘Your hands are cold,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry. It’s icy out of doors.’ She buttoned him up and said, ‘Say good night to Mrs Jay.’

‘Good night, Mrs Jay.’

‘Good night, old boy.’

‘Good night,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘Thank you for being so kind.’

They shook hands.

Emily watched them go out. A lonely little couple, she thought.

‘Come along, love,’ said Peregrine. He had come up behind her and put his arm round her. ‘That’s settled. We can go home.’

‘Right.’

He wanted a word in the box office so they went out by the front-of-house.

The lifesize photographs were there being put into their frames. Sir Dougal Macdougal. Margaret Mannering. Simon Morten. The Three Witches. Out they came, one after another. Only ten days left.

Emily and Peregrine stood and looked at them.