‘Oh, darling!’ she said. ‘This is your big one, isn’t it? So big. So big.’

‘I know.’

‘Don’t let these nonsense things worry you. They’re silly.’

‘Yes. I know. You’re talking to me as if I’m William.’

‘Come along, then. Home.’

So they went home.

III

The final days were, if anything, less hectic than usual. The production crew had the use of the theatre and the actors worked in the rehearsal room on a chalked-out floor. Gaston insisted on having the stage to rehearse the fight, pointing out the necessity for the different levels and insisting on the daily routine being maintained. ‘As it will be,’ he said, ‘throughout the season.’

Macbeth and Macduff made routine noises of protest but by this time they had become proud of their expertise and had gradually speeded up to an unbelievable pace. The great cumbersome weapons swept about within inches of their persons, sparks literally flew, inarticulate cries escaped them. The crew, overawed, knocked off and watched them for half an hour.

The end of the fight was a bit of a problem. Macbeth was beaten back to the OP exit which was open but masked from the audience by an individual Stonehenge-like piece, firmly screwed to the floor. Macbeth backed down to it and crouched behind his shield. Macduff raised his claymore and swept it down. Macbeth caught it on his shield. A pause. Then with an inarticulate, bestial sound he leapt aside and backwards. He was out of sight. Macduff raised his claymore high above his head and plunged offstage. There was a scream cut short by an unmistakable sound: an immense thud.

For three seconds the stage was empty and silent.

‘Rata-tat-rata-tat-rata-tat-RATA-TAT and bugles. Crescendo! Crescendo! and enter Malcolm et al,’ roared Gaston.

‘How about it?’ asked Macbeth. ‘It’s a close call, Gaston. He missed the scenery but only by a hair’s-breadth, you know. These claymores are so bloody long.’

‘He missed. If you both repeat where you were and what you do to a fraction of an inch he’ll always miss. If not – not. We’ll take it again, if you please. The final six moves. Places. Er-one. Er-two. Er-three.’

‘We’re at hellish close quarters at the side there,’ said Simon when they had finished. ‘And it’s as dark as hell, too. Or will be.’

‘I’ll be there with the head on my claidheamh-mor. Don’t go hunting for me. Simply take up your place and I’ll fall in behind you. Macbeth will have gone straight out.’

‘I’ll scream and scramble off, don’t you worry,’ said Sir Dougal.

‘All right.’

‘Until tomorrow. Same time. I thank you, gentlemen,’ said Gaston to the stagehands. He saluted and withdrew.

‘Proper caution, in’t ‘e?’ said a stagehand.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said the foreman, doing a creditable bit of mimicry, ‘shall we resume?’