Light Thickens

“How do you see me, Maggie?”

“My dear! As a falling star. A magnificent, violently ambitious being, destroyed by his own imagination. It’s a cosmic collapse. Monstrous events attend it. The heavens themselves are in revolt. Horses eat each other.”

Dougal breathed in deeply. Up went his chin. His eyes, startlingly blue, flashed under his tawny brows. He was six feet one inch in height and looked more.

“That’s the stuff,” said Maggie. “I think you’ll want to make it very, very Scots, Highland Scots. They’ll call you The Red Macbeth,” she added, a little hurriedly. “It is your very own name, sweetie, isn’t it — Dougal Macdougal?”

“Oh, aye, it’s ma given name.”

“That’s the ticket, then.”

They fell into a discussion on whether he should, in fact, use the dialect, and decided against it as it would entail all the other lairds doing so too.

“Just porters and murderers, then,” said Maggie. “If Perry says so, of course. You won’t catch me doing it.” She tried it out. “Come tae ma wumman’s breasts and tak’ ma milk for gall. Really, it doesn’t sound too bad.”

“Let’s have one tiny little drink to it. Do say yes, Maggie.”

“All right. Yes. The merest suggestion, though.”

“Okay. Whiskey? Wait a moment.”

He went to the end of the room and pressed a button. Two doors rolled apart, revealing a little bar.

“Good heavens!” Maggie exclaimed.

“I know. Rather much, isn’t it? But that’s Teddy’s taste.”

She went over to the bar and perched on a high stool. He found the whiskey and soda and talked about his part. “I hadn’t thought ‘big’ enough,” he said. “A great, faulty giant. Yes. Yes, you’re right about it, of course. Of course.”

“Steady. If that’s mine.”

“Oh! All right. Here you are, lovey. What shall we drink to?”

“Obviously. Macbeth.”

He raised his glass. Maggie thought: He’s a splendid figure. He’ll make a good job of the part, I’m sure. But he said in a deflated voice: “No. No, don’t say it. It might be bad luck. No toast,” and drank quickly as if she might cut in.

“Are you superstitious?” she asked.

“Not really. It was just a feeling. Well, I suppose I am, a bit. You?”

“Like you. Not really. A bit.”

“I don’t suppose there’s one of us who isn’t. Just a bit.”

“Peregrine,” Maggie said at once.

“He doesn’t seem like it, certainly. All that stuff about keeping it under our hats even if we do fancy it.”

“Still. Two successful productions and not a thing happening at either of them,” said Maggie.

“There is that, of course.” He waited for a moment and then in a much too casual ma

“Why didn’t they?”

“The leading man died or something. Before they’d come together. Not a single rehearsal, I’m told. So it was dropped.”

“Really?” said Maggie. “What are the other rooms like? More nudes?”

“Shall I show you?”

“I don’t think so, thank you.”

She looked at her watch. “Shouldn’t we be going to your Wig and Piglet?”

“Perry’s taking the witches first. We’ve lots of time.”

“Still, I’m obsessively punctual and shan’t enjoy my oysters if we’re cutting it short.”

“If you insist.”

“Well, I do. Sorry. I’ll just tidy up. Where’s your bathroom?”

He opened a door. “At the end of the passage,” he said.

She walked past him, hunting in her bag as she went, and thought, If he pounces I’ll be in for a scene and a bore.

He didn’t pounce but nor did he move. Unavoidably she brushed against him and thought: He’s got more of what it takes, Highland or Lowland, than is decent.

She did her hair, powdered her face, used her lipstick, and put on her gloves in a bathroom full of mechanical weight-reducers, potted plants, and a framed rhyme of considerable indecency.

“Right?” she asked briskly on reentering the sitting room.

“Right.” He put on his overcoat and they left the flat. It was dark outside now. He took her arm. “The steps are slippery,” he said. “You don’t want to start off with a sprained ankle, do you?”

“No. That I don’t.”

He was right. The steps glimmered with untimely frost and she was glad of his support. His overcoat was Harris tweed and smelled of peat fires.

As she got into the car, Maggie caught sight of a tall man wearing a short overcoat and a red scarf. He was standing about sixty feet away.

“Hullo,” she exclaimed. “That’s Simon. Hi!” She raised her hand but he had turned away and was walking quickly into a side street.

“I thought that was Simon Morten,” she said.

“Where?”

“I made a mistake. He’s gone.”

They drove back over the river and along the Embankment to the Wig and Piglet. The street lights were brilliant: snapping and sparkling in the cold air and broken into sequins on the outflowing Thames. Maggie felt excited and uplifted. When they entered the little restaurant with its huge fire, white tablecloths, and shining glasses, her cheeks flamed and her eyes were brilliant. Suddenly she loved everybody.

“You’re fabulous,” Dougal said. Some of the people had recognized them and were smiling. The maître d’hôtel made a discreet fuss over them. She was in rehearsal for a superb play and opposite her was her leading man.

She began to talk, easily and well. When champagne was brought she thought; I ought to stop him opening it. I never drink before rehearsals. But how dreary and out of tune with the lovely evening that would be.

“Temperamental inexactitude,” she said quite loudly. “British Constitution.”

“I beg your pardon, Maggie?”

“I was just testing myself to make sure I’m not tiddly.”

“You are not tiddly.”

“I’m not used to whiskey and you gave me a big one.”

“No, I didn’t. You are not tiddly. You’re just suddenly elevated. Here come our oysters.”

“Well, if you say so, I suppose I’m all right.”

“Of course you are. Wade in.”

So she did wade in and she was not tiddly. In the days to come she was to remember this evening, from the time when she left the flat until the end of their rehearsal, as something apart. Something between her and London, with Dougal Macdougal as a sort of necessary ingredient. But no more.

Gaston Sears inhabited a large old two-story house in a tiny cul-de-sac opening off Alleyn Road in Dulwich. It was called Alleyn’s Surprise and the house and grounds occupied the whole of one side. The opposite side was filled with neglected trees and an unused pumping house.

The rental of such a large building must have been high, and among the Dulwich College boys there was a legend that Mr. Sears was an eccentric foreign millionaire who lived there, surrounded by fabulous pieces of armor, and made swords and practiced black magic. Like most legends this was founded on highly distorted fact. He did live amongst his armor and he did very occasionally make swords. And his collection of armor was the most prestigious, outside the walls of a museum, in Europe. And certainly he was eccentric.

Moreover, he was comfortably off. He had started as an actor, a good one in far-out, eccentric parts, but so inclined to extremes of argumentative temperament that nobody cared to employ him. A legacy enabled him to develop his flair for historic arms and accoutrements. His expertise was recognized by all the European collectors and he was the possessor of honorary degrees from various universities. He made lecture tours in America for which he charged astronomical fees, and extorted frightening amounts from greedy, ignorant, and unscrupulous buyers which more than compensated for the opinions he gave freely to those he decided to respect. Of these Peregrine Jay was one.

The unexpected invitation to appear as sword-bearer to Macbeth had been accepted with complacency. “I shall be able to watch the contest,” he had observed. “And afterward correct any errors that may creep in. I do not altogether trust the Macbeth. Dougal Macdougal! Indeed!” he sneered. “No, He is not to be trusted.”