The play flowed on. Peregrine looked at the backs of his sons’ heads and wondered what was going on in them. He had been careful not to rub their noses in Shakespeare’s plays and had left it to them whether or not they would read them. As far as he could make out, Mr Perkins was not sickening Crispin with over-insistence on notes and disputed passages but had interested him first in the play itself and in the magic and strength of its language.

Robin at six years old had seen a performance of the Dream and enjoyed it for all the wrong reasons. The chief comic character, in his opinion, was Hippolyta and he laughed very heartily at all her entrances. When Emily asked why, he said: ‘At her legs.’ He thought Bottom a very good actor and the ‘audience’ extremely rude to laugh at him.

At nine years old he would be less surprising in his judgements.

Now they were both very still and attentive. Peregrine sat behind Robin. When Banquo and Fleance came in for their little night scene, Robin turned in his seat and looked at him. He bent down. ‘Nice,’ Robin whispered and they nodded to each other. But later, when Macbeth began to climb the stairs, Robin’s hand moved round behind him and felt for his father’s. Peregrine held it tightly until the end of the scene when the Porter came on. Both the boys laughed loudly at the bawdy-looking pieces of driftwood and the Porter’s description of the aggravating effects of drinking too much.

In the interval Robin visited the lavatories. Crispin said he might as well go with him and their father had a drink with the management. They arranged to meet in the foyer. Under the photo of Macbeth.

Winty came out to welcome Peregrine. They went into his office. ‘Still goes on,’ Winty said. ‘Booked solid for the next six months.’

‘Odd,’ said Peregrine, ‘when you think of the superstitions. There’s a record of good business and catastrophe going back hand in hand for literally centuries.’

‘Not for us, old boy.’

‘Touch wood.’

‘You too?’ asked Winty, giving him his drink.

‘No. No way. But it’s rife in the company.’

‘Really?’

‘Old Nina’s got the bug very badly. Her dressing table’s like a second-hand charm shop.’

‘No signs of catastrophe, though,’ Winty said. And when Peregrine didn’t answer he said sharply: ‘Are there?’

‘There are signs of some half-wit planting them. Whoever it is hasn’t got the results he may have hoped for. But it’s very annoying, for all that. Or was. They seem to have died out.’

Winty said slowly: ‘I fancy we had a sample.’

‘You had? A sample? What sort of sample?’

‘I haven’t mentioned it to anybody except Mrs Abrams. And she doesn’t know what was typed and anyway she’s a clam of clams. But since you’ve brought it up – ‘