The witches appeared in the shadows, came on stage, climbed the rostrum and grouped round the gallows. Duncan and his sons and thanes stood offstage waiting for the short opening scene to end.

An interval of perhaps five interminable minutes. Then trumpets filled the air with their brazen splendour and were followed by the sound of a thousand people getting to their feet. Now the National Anthem. And now they settled in their seats. A peremptory buzzer. The stage manager’s voice.

‘Stand by. House lights. Thunder. Curtain up.’

Peregrine began to pace to and fro, to and fro. Listening.

IV

After the fourth scene he knew. It was all right. Their hearts are in it, he thought, and he crept into the Prompt-side box. Winty squeezed his arm in the darkness and said, ‘We’ll run for months and months. It’s a wow.’

‘Thank God.’

He’d been right. They had left themselves with one more step to the top and now they took it.

You darling creatures, he thought, suddenly in love with all of them. Ah, you treasures. Bless you. Bless you.

The rest of the evening was unreal. The visit to the royal box and the royal visit to the cast. The standing ovation at the end. Everything to excess. A multiple Cinderella story. Sort of.

He didn’t go to the opening night party. He never did. Emily came round and hugged him and cried and said: ‘Oh yes, darling. Yes. Yes.’

The company collected round him and cheered. And finally the critic whose opinion he most valued astonishingly came round; he said he was breaking the rule of a lifetime but it had undoubtedly been the best Macbeth since Olivier’s and the best Lady Macbeth in living memory and he must do a bolt.

‘We’ll get out of this,’ Peregrine said. ‘I’m hungry.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘The Wig and Piglet. It’s only minutes away and they stay open till the papers come in. The manager’s getting them for me.’

‘Come on, then.’

They edged through the milling crowd of shouting visitors and out of the stage door. The alley was full of people waiting for actors to appear. Nobody recognized the director. They turned into the theatre car park, managed to edge their way out and up the lane.

At the corner of the main street stood two lonely figures, a thin and faintly elegant woman and a small boy.

‘It’s William and his mum,’ said Emily.

‘I want to speak to the boy.’

He pulled up beside them. Emily lowered her window. ‘Hullo, Mrs Smith. Hullo, William. Are you waiting for a bus?’

‘We hope we are,’ said Mrs Smith.