Light Thickens

He began to read the boy’s lines, trying them one way and another until the sound of them seemed right or nearly so.

Peregrine came in, so quietly that William did not hear him. He sat down and listened to the treble voice. Presently he opened his copy of the play and began to feed out the lines. William looked up at him and then returned to his task and they finished the act together.

“Well,” said Peregrine, “that was a good begi

So they went to the ex-nursery and found Emily and Robin playing with Robin’s train and Crispin, oblivious to the noise, deep in his book. It was all about the play of Macbeth and the various productions through the past four centuries. There was a chapter on the superstitions.

“You’re not going on with this play, are you?” asked Crispin.

“No,” said his father. “It’s tempting, but I don’t think we are.”

“Why tempting?”

“I think Gaston would be exciting as Macbeth.”

“Yes?”

“But terribly risky.”

“Ah.”

The telephone rang.

“I’ll answer it, Mummy. May I?” asked Robin.

“If you’re polite.”

“Of course.” He ran out of the room, leaving the door open. They all waited to hear what he would say.

“Hello?” said the treble voice. “This is Mr. Peregrine Jay’s house… Yes… If you don’t mind waiting for a moment, I’ll find out if he can speak to you. Hold on, please. Thank you.”

He reappeared. “It’s Mr. Gaston Sears, Pop,” he said. “And he sounds very sonky-polly-lobby.”

“I’ll speak to him,” said Peregrine and went out to the telephone, shutting the door behind him.

Crispin said: “I daresay, William, you are wondering what ‘sonky-polly-lobby’ means. It’s a family thing and it means ‘happy with yourself.’ And a bit self-conscious, too.”

“Oh.”

The little boys returned to their train. Emily and Crispin waited. When he came back Peregrine looked disturbed.

“Gaston,” he said, “has had the same idea as we have. He thinks that if we did decide to go on with Macbeth, he would be good in the name part, but would have to decline, out of feelings of delicacy. He said it would be an error in taste if he accepted. He said he knew we all thought him a heartless kind of fellow, but he was not. He felt we should be told at once of this decision.”

“He — oh, dear! He took it as a matter of course he would be cast?”

“Yes. And he was perfectly right. He would have been.”

“What did you say?”

“That we have for many reasons almost decided against it but that, had the many reasons not existed, I agreed. I thought he would have been good. So did the management. With reservations that I didn’t mention.”

“And he took it?”

“He said, ‘So be it,’ in a grand voice and hung up. Poor old boy. He would be good, I do believe, but an awful nuisance nevertheless.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Perry.”

“Hoo, hoo,” shouted William. “Clear the line. The midnight express is coming straight through.”

Emily looked at him and then at Peregrine, who gave her a thumbs-up signal. “Very much so,” he said.

“Really? That’s quite something.”

“All aboard. All aboard,” said Robin. “All seats, please.”

He blew a piercing blast on a tin whistle. William rang the minute station bell and pressed a button. The toy train lit up and moved out of the station.

“Now, I take over till we reach Crewe,” said Robin. He and William changed places. The train increased its speed. William answered a toy telephone.

“Midnight express. Urgent call. Yes?” He panted and blew. “Gaston Sears speaks,” he gasped. “Stop the train at Crewe. He’s hurt and he’s due at the theatre at seven.”

“Hooooo. Clackity-bang. Coming into Crewe. Clear the line.”

William produced a white van with a red cross and placed it on a sideline. “Ready for Mr. Sears,” he said.

“Where’s Sears?”

William emptied out a box of toy soldiers: army, navy, Highlanders, crusaders. He cried out triumphantly and displayed a battered crusader with an enormous sword and full mask and black cloak. “Look! Perfect,” he cried. “In every detail.”

“Hooray. Put him in the van.”

The game proceeded with the preposterous ill-logic of a child’s dream and several changes of plot. The train arrived conveniently at Waterloo Station. “Gaston Sears” was pushed onto a battered car and, remarking that he’d got his “second wind,” was sent to the Dolphin Theatre. End of game.

“That was fun,” said Robin, “wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” his father agreed. “Why did you have Gaston Sears in it?”

“Why not?” Robin replied with a shrug. He walked away, no longer interested.

“Because he was breathless?” William suggested vaguely. “He said it was asthma but he pretends it isn’t now he’s an actor again.”

“I see,” Peregrine lied. “Show it to me. The toy Sears.”

William took the battered little figure out of the car. A shrewd whack in some past contest had disposed of the cross on its cloak. The sword bent but intact, was raised above its shrouded head in gloved hands. It was completely black and in its disreputable way, quite baleful.

“Thank you,” said Peregrine. He put it in his pocket.

“Have you finished with the train?” asked Emily.

“We might want it later,” said Robin quickly.

“I don’t think you will. It’s ‘The Duke’ on telly in a quarter of an hour and then tea-time.”

“Oh, Mummy!”

The train was carefully put away and the toy soldiers swept into their box pell-mell, all except the “Mr. Sears,” which was still in Peregrine’s pocket when he looked at his watch and prepared to leave.

“I must be off,” he said. “I don’t know when I’ll get home, my love. Cip says he’ll come down with me and walk back so I’ll leave you to take William home. Okay? Good evening, William. Come again soon, won’t you? We’ve enjoyed having you here.”

“Thank you, sir,” said William, shaking hands. “It’s been a lovely day. The nicest day I’ve ever had.”

“Good. Cip! Ready?”

“Coming.”

They banged the front door and ran down the steps to the car.

“Pop,” said Crispin when they got going, “that book you paid for last night. About Macbeth.”

“Yes?”

“It’s jolly good. It’s got quite a lot about the superstitions. If you don’t mind I would like just to ask if you totally dismiss that aspect of the play.”

“I think,” said Peregrine very carefully, “that the people that do so put the cart before the horse. Call a play ‘unlucky’ and take any mishap that befalls the rehearsals or performances, onstage or in the dressing-rooms or offices, and immediately everyone says: ‘There you are. Unlucky play.’ If the same sort of troubles occur with other plays nobody counts them up or says anything about them. Until, perhaps, there are rather more misfortunes than with other contemporary shows and someone like poor maddening Nina says: ‘It’s an unlucky piece, you know,’ and it’s got the label tied round its neck for keeps.”

“Yes, I see that. But in this instance — I mean that business with the heads. It’s a bit thick, isn’t it?”

“There you go! Cart before the horse. They may have been planted to make us believe in the unlucky play story.”

“I see what you mean, of course. But you can’t say it applies to this final tragedy. Nobody in his right senses is going to cut off a harmless actor’s head — that’s what happened, Pop, isn’t it? — just to support the unlucky play theory?”

“Of course not. No. And the only person who might be described as being a bit dotty, apart from Nina, is old Gaston, who was chatting away to the King and William and Nina and several others at the time the murder was committed.”

There was a longish silence. “I see,” said Crispin at last.

“I don’t want you to — to —”

“Get involved?”

“Certainly not.”