“Absolutely. She turns him on like a tap and turns him off when she gets her response. From the beginning she sees his weakness. He wants to keep his cake and eat it.”
“Yes. She, on the other hand, dedicates herself to evil. She’s not an insensitive creature but she shuts herself off completely from any thought of remorse. Before the murder she takes enough wine to see her through and notes, with satisfaction, that it has made her bold,” said Maggie.
“She asks too much of herself. And pays the penalty. After the disastrous dinner party, she almost gives up,” Peregrine said. “Macbeth speaks disjointedly of more crimes. She hardly listens. Always the realist, she says they want sleep! When next we see her she is asleep and saying those things that she would not say if she were awake. She’s driven herself too hard. Now, the horror finds its way out in her sleep.”
“And what about her old man all this time?” asked Dougal loudly. “Is she thinking about him, for God’s sake?”
“We’re not told but — no. I imagine she still goes on for a time, stopping up the awful holes he makes in the facade but with no pretense of affection or even much interest. He’s behaving as she feared he might. She has no sympathy or fondness for him. When next we see him, Dougal, he’s half-mad.”
“Thank you very much!”
“Well, distracted. But what words! They pour out of him. Despair itself. To the last syllable of recorded time. You know,” Peregrine said, “it always amazes me that the play never becomes a bore. The leading man is a hopeless character in terms of heroic images. It’s the soliloquies that work the magic, Dougal.”
“I suppose so.”
“You know so,” said Maggie, cheerfully. “You know exactly what you’re doing. Doesn’t he, Perry?”
“Of course he does,” Peregrine said heartily.
They were standing onstage. There were no lights on in the auditorium, but a voice out there said: “Oh, don’t make any mistake about it, Maggie, he knows what he’s doing.” And laughed.
It was Morten, the Macduff.
“Simon!” Maggie said. “What are you doing down there? Have you been watching?”
“I’ve only just come in. Sorry I interrupted, Perry. I wanted to see the office about something.”
The door at the back of the stalls let in an oblong of daylight and shut it out again.
“What’s the matter with him?” Dougal asked at large.
“Lord knows,” said Peregrine. “Pay no attention.”
“It’s nothing,” Maggie said. “He’s being silly.”
“It’s not exactly silly, seeing that baleful face scowling at one and him whirling his claymore within inches of one’s own face,” Dougal pointed out. “And, if I catch your meaning, Maggie love, all for nothing. I’m as blameless as the Bloody Child. Though not, I may add, from choice.”
“I’ll have a word with him.”
“Choose your words, darling. You may inflame him.”
“Maggie dear,” Peregrine begged her, “calm him down if you can. We’re doing the English scene this week and I would like him to be normal.”
“I’ll do my best. He’s so silly,” Maggie crossly reiterated. “And I’m so busy.”
Her opportunity occurred the next afternoon. She had stayed in the theatre after working at the sleepwalking scene, while Peregrine worked with Simon on the English scene.
When they had finished and Morten was about to leave, she crossed her fingers and stopped him.
“Simon, that’s a wonderful beginning. Come home with me, will you, and talk about it? We’ll have a drink and a modest dinner. Don’t say no. Please.”
He was taken aback. He looked hard at her, muttered sulkily, and then said, “Thank you, I’d like that.”
“Good. Put on your overcoat. It’s cold outside. Have you got your part? Come on, then. Good-night, Perry dear.”
“Good-night, lovely lady.”
They went out by the stage door. When he heard it bang, Peregrine crossed himself and said, “God bless her.” He turned off the working lights, locked the doors, and used his torch to find his way out by the front-of-house.
They took a taxi to Maggie’s flat. She rang the bell and an elderly woman opened the door. “Nanny,” said Maggie, “can you give the two of us dinner? No hurry. Two hours.”
“Soup. Grilled chops.”
“Splendid.”
“Good evening, Mr. Morten.”
“Good evening, Nanny.”
They came in, to a bright fire and comfortable chairs. Maggie took his coat and hat and hung them in the hall. She gave him a pretty robust drink and sat him down. “I’m breaking my own rule,” she said, pouring a small one for herself. “During rehearsal period, no alcohol, no parties, and no nice gentlemen’s nonsense. But you’ve seen that for yourself, of course.”
“Have I?”
“Of course. Even supposing Dougal was a world-beater sex-wise, which I ain’t supposing, it’d be a disaster to fall for him when we’re playing The Tartans. Some people could do it. Most, I daresay, but not this lady. Luckily, I’m not tempted.”
“Maggie?”
“No.”
“Promise?”
“Of course.”
“He doesn’t share your views?”
“I don’t know how he feels about it. Nothing serious,” said Maggie, lightly. She added, “My dear Si, you can see what he’s like. Easy come, easy go.”
“Have you —” He took a pull at his drink. “Have you discussed it?”
“Certainly not. It hasn’t been necessary.”
“You had dinner with him. The night there was a rehearsal.”
“I can have dinner with someone without falling like an overripe apple for him.”
“What about him, though?”
“Simon! You’re being childish. He did not make a pass at me and if he had I’d have been perfectly well able to cope. I told you. During rehearsals I don’t have affairs. You’re pathologically jealous about nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Maggie, I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry. Truly. Forgive me, Maggie darling.”
“All right. But no bedroom scenes. I told you, I’m as pure as untrodden snow while I’m rehearsing. Honestly.”
“I believe you. Of course.”
“Well, then, do stop prowling and prowling around like the hosts of whoever-they-were in the hymn book. ‘Lor’,’ as Mrs. Boffin said, ‘let’s be comfortable.’ ”
“All right,” he said and a beguiling grin transformed his face. “Let’s.”
“And clean as a whistle?”
“So be it.”
“Give yourself another drink and tell me what you think about the young Malcolm.”
“The young Malcolm? It’s a difficult one, isn’t it? I think he’ll get there but it’ll take a lot of work.”
And they discussed the English scene happily and excitedly until dinner was ready.
Maggie produced a bottle of wine, the soup was real, and the chops were excellent.
“How nice this is,” said Maggie when they had finished.
“It’s perfect.”
“So what a Silly Simon you were to cut off your nose to spite your face, weren’t you? We’ll sit by the fire for half an hour and then you must go.”
“If you say so.”
“I do, most emphatically. I’m going to work on the sleepwalking scene. I want to get a sleepwalking voice. Dead. No inflections. Metallic. Will it work?”
“Yes.”
She looked at him and thought how pleasant and romantic he seemed with his rich black curls and fair skin and what a pity it was that he was so stupidly jealous. It showed in his mouth. Nothing could cure it.
When he got up to go she said, “Good-night, my dear. You won’t take it out on Dougal, will you? It would be so silly. There’s nothing to take.”