The non-speaking thanes dispersed to various unknown quarters.

And Gaston? He retired to his baleful house in Dulwich and wrote a number of indignant letters to those papers whose critics had referred to the weapons used in the duel as swords or claymores instead of claidheamh-mors.

Emily answered their telephone and by a system they had perfected, either called Peregrine or said he was out but would be delighted to know they had rung up.

So the day passed and on Monday morning they pulled themselves together and got down to the theatre and to the business of facing the second night and a long run of Macbeth.

Part Two: Curtain Call

CHAPTER 6
Catastrophe

The play had been running to full houses for a month. Peregrine no longer came down to every performance but on this Saturday night he was bringing his two older boys. There had been no more silly tricks and the actors had settled down to a successful run. The boys came home for half-term and Peregrine had a meeting with the management about how long the season should run and whether, for the actors’ sakes, after six months they should make a change and, if so, what that change should be.

‘We don’t need to worry about it if we decide to have a Shakespeare rep season: say Twelfth Night and Measure for Measure with Macbeth,’ said Peregrine. ‘We’ll just keep it in mind. You never know what may turn up, do you?’

They said no, you didn’t, and the discussion ended.

The day turned out to be unseasonably muggy and exhausting. Not a breath of wind, the sky overcast and a suggestion of thunder. ‘On the left,’ said Gaston as he prepared to supervise the morning’s fight. ‘Thunder on the left meant trouble in Roman times. The gods rumbling, you know.’

‘They ought to have heard you,’ said Dougal rudely. ‘That would have pulled them up in their tracks.’

‘Come on,’ said Simon. ‘Let’s press on with it. We’ve got a matinée, remember.’

They shaped up and fought.

‘You are dragging. Dragging!’ Gaston shouted. ‘Stop. It is worse than not doing it at all. Again, from the beginning.’

‘Have a heart, Gaston. It’s a deadly day for these capers,’ said Simon.

‘I am merciless. Come. Begin. A tempo. Er-one. Er-two – ‘

They finished their fight and retired, sweating heavily and sulking, to the showers.

Peregrine was taking his two elder sons, Crispin and Robin, aged fifteen and nine, to the evening performance. Richard was going to a farce with his mother, being thought a little young for Macbeth.

‘Is it bloody?’ Richard asked ruefully.

‘Very,’ Peregrine replied firmly.

‘Extra special bloody?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’d like that. Is it going to run a long time?’

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps I’ll grow up into it.’

‘Perhaps you will.’