Читать книгу Light Thickens - Ngaio Marsh, Stella Duffy - Страница 13

It was the Angus’s birthday. He, Ross, and the rest of the lairds and the three witches were not called for the evening’s rehearsal. They arranged with other free members of the cast to meet at the Swan in Southwark, and drink Angus’s health.

They arrived in twos and threes and it was quite late by the time the witches, who had been rehearsing in the afternoon, came in. Two girls and a man. The man (First Witch) was a part-Maori called Rangi Western, not very dark but with the distinctive short upper lip and flashing eyes. He had a beautiful voice and was a prize student from LAMDA. The second witch was a nondescript thin girl called Wendy possessed of a remarkable voice: harsh, with strange unexpected intervals. The third was a lovely child, a white-blonde, delicate, with enormous eyes and a babyish high-pitched voice. She was called Blondie.

Their rehearsal had excited them. They came in talking loudly. ‘Rangi, you were marvellous. You sent cold shivers down my spine. Truly. And that movement! I thought Perry would stop you but he didn’t. The stamp. It was super. We’ve got to do it, Wendy, along with Rangi. His tongue. And his eyes. Everything.’

‘I thought it was fabulous giving us the parts. I mean the difference! Usually they all look alike and are too boring for words – all masks and mumbles. But we’re really evil.’

‘Angus!’ they shouted. ‘Happy birthday, love. Bless you.’

Now they had all arrived. The witches were the centre of attention. Rangi was not very talkative but the two girls excitedly described his performance at rehearsal.

‘He was standing with us, listening to Perry’s description, weren’t you, Rangi? Perry was saying we have to be the incarnation of evil. Not a drop of goodness anywhere about us. How did he put it, Wendy?’

‘“Trembling with animosity”,’ said Wendy.

‘Yes. And I was standing by Rangi and I felt him tremble, I swear I did.’

‘You did, didn’t you, Rangi? Tremble?’

‘Sort of,’ Rangi mumbled. ‘Don’t make such a thing about it.’

‘No, but you were marvellous. You sort of grunted and bent your knees. And your face! Your tongue! And eyes!’

‘Anyway, Perry was completely taken with it and asked him to repeat it and asked us to do it – not too much. Just a kind of ripple of hatred. It’s going to work, you know.’

‘Putting a curse on him. That’s what it is, Rangi, isn’t it?’

‘Have a drink, Rangi, and show us.’

Rangi made a brusque dismissive gesture and turned away to greet the Angus.

The men closed round him. They were none of them quite drunk, but they were noisy. The members of the company now far outnumbered the other patrons, who had taken their drinks to a table in the corner of the room and looked on with ill-concealed interest.

‘It’s my round,’ Angus shouted. ‘I’m paying, all you guys. No arguments. Yes, I insist. “That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold,”’ he shouted.

His voice faded out and so, raggedly, did all the others. Blondie’s giggle persisted and died. A single voice – Angus’s – asked uncertainly: ‘What’s up? Oh. Oh hell! I’ve quoted from the play. Never mind. Sorry, everybody. Drink up.’

They drank in silence. Rangi drained his pint of mild and bitter. Angus nodded to the barman, who replaced it with another. Angus mimed pouring in something else and laid an uncertain finger on his lips. The barman winked and added a tot of gin. He pushed the drink over towards Rangi’s hand. Rangi’s back was turned but he felt the glass, looked round and saw it.

‘Is that mine?’ he asked, puzzled.

They all seized on this. They said confusedly that of course it was his drink. It was something to make a fuss about, something that would make them all forget about Angus’s blunder. They betted Rangi wouldn’t drink it down then and there. So Rangi did. There was a round of applause.

‘Show us, Rangi. Show us what you did. Don’t say anything, just show.’

‘E-e-e-uh!’ he shouted suddenly. He slapped his knees and stamped. He grimaced, his eyes glittered and his tongue whipped in and out. He held his umbrella before him like a spear and it was not funny.

It only lasted a few seconds.

They applauded and asked him what it meant and was he ‘weaving a spell’. He said no, nothing like that. His eyes were glazed. ‘I’ve had a little too much to drink,’ he said. ‘I’ll go, now. Good night, all of you.’

They objected. Some of them hung on to him but they did it half-heartedly. He brushed them off. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I shouldn’t have taken that drink. I’m no good with drinking.’ He pulled some notes out of his pocket and shoved them across the bar. ‘My round,’ he said. ‘Good night, all.’

He walked quickly to the swing doors, lost his balance and regained it.

‘You all right?’ Angus asked.

‘No,’ he answered. ‘Far from it.’

He walked into the doors. They swung out and he went with them. They saw him pull up, look stiffly to right and left, raise his umbrella in a magnificent gesture, get into the taxi that responded and disappear.

‘He’s all right,’ said one of the lairds. ‘He’s got a room round here.’

‘Nice chap.’

‘Very nice.’

‘I’ve heard, I don’t know who told me, mark you,’ said Angus, ‘that drink has a funny effect on Maori people. Goes straight to their heads and they revert to their savage condition.’

‘Rangi hasn’t,’ said Ross. ‘He’s gone grand.’

‘He did when he performed that dance or whatever it was,’ said the actor who played Menteith.

‘You know what I think,’ said the Ross. ‘I think he was upset when you quoted.’

‘It’s all a load of old bullshit, anyway,’ said a profound voice in the background.

This provoked a confused expostulation that came to its climax when the Menteith roared out: ‘Thass all very fine but I bet you wouldn’t call the play by its right name. Would you do that?’

Silence.

‘There you are!’

‘Only because it’d upset the rest of you.’

‘Yah!’ they all said.

The Ross, an older man who was sober, said: ‘I think it’s silly to talk about it. We feel as we do in different ways. Why not just accept that and stop nattering?’

‘Somebody ought to write a book about it,’ said Wendy.

‘There is a book called The Curse of Macbeth by Richard Huggett.’

They finished their drinks. The party had gone flat.

‘Call it a day, chaps?’ suggested Ross.

‘That’s about the strength of it,’ Menteith agreed.

The nameless and lineless thanes noisily concurred and gradually they drifted out.

Ross said to the Angus: ‘Come on, old fellow, I’ll see you home.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve overstepped the mark. Sorry. “We were carousing till the second cock.” Oh dear, there I go again.’ He made a shaky attempt to cross himself. ‘I’m OK,’ he said.

‘Of course you are.’

‘Right you are, then. Good night, Porter,’ he said to the barman.

‘Good night, sir.’

They went out.

‘Actors,’ said one of the guests.

‘That’s right, sir,’ the barman agreed, collecting their glasses.

‘What was that they were saying about some superstition? I couldn’t make head or tail of it.’

‘They make out it’s unlucky to quote from this play. They don’t use the title either.’

‘Silly sods,’ remarked another.

‘They take it for gospel.’

‘Probably some publicity stunt by the author.’

The barman grunted.

‘What is the name of the play, then?’

‘Macbeth.’