The scene ends with the flight of the King’s sons. In a short, final scene Macduff, already suspicious, decides not to attend Macbeth’s coronation at Scone but to retire to his own headquarters at Fife. It is here that he will make his fatal decision to turn south to England, where he will learn of the murder of his wife and children. From then on he will be a man with a single object: to return to Scotland, find Macbeth, and kill him.
When Banquo has been murdered, Macduff moves forward and the end is now inevitable.
Morten had become enamored of the fight, which he continued to rehearse with Dougal. At Gaston’s suggestion they both began to exercise vigorously, apart from the actual combat, and became expert in the handling of their weapons: twirling and slashing with alarming dexterity. The steel replicas were now ready and they used them.
Peregrine came down to the theatre early on the morning after the storm and found them hard at it. Blue sparks flew, the claymores whistled. The actors leaped nimbly from spot to spot. Occasionally they grunted. Their shields were tightly strapped to their left forearms, leaving the hands free for the double-handed weapons. Peregrine gazed upon them with considerable alarm.
“Nimble, aren’t they?” asked Gaston, looming up behind him.
“Very,” Peregrine nervously agreed. “I haven’t seen them for a week. I–I suppose they are safe. By and large. Safe,” he repeated on a shriller note as Macduff executed a downward sweep, which Macbeth deflected and dodged by the narrowest of margins.
“Absolutely,” Gaston said. “I stake my reputation upon it. Ah. Excuse me. Very well, gentlemen. Call it a morning. Thank you. Don’t go, Mr. Jay. Your remark about safety has reminded me. There will, of course, be no change in the size and position of the rostra? They are precisely where they will be for the performance?”
“Yes.”
“Good. To the fraction of an inch, I hope? Their footwork has been rehearsed with the greatest care, you know. Like a dance. Let me show you.”
He produced a plan of the stage. It was extremely elaborate and was broken up into innumerable squares.
“The stage is marked — I daresay you have noticed — in exactly the same way. Let us say I am asking the Macduff to deliver a downward sweep from right to left and the Macbeth is to parry it and lean to the lower level. I shall say” — and here he raised his voice to a shriek — “Macduff! Right foot at thirteen-B. Raise claidheamh-mor — move ninety degrees. Sweep to twelve. Er — one. Er — two. Er — three. Meanwhile…”
He continued in this baffling manner for some seconds and then resumed in his normal bass: “So you will understand, Mr. Jay, that the least inaccuracy in the squares might well lead to — shall we say — to the bisection of the opponent’s foot. No. I exaggerate. Crushing would be more appropriate. And we would not want that to happen, would we?”
“Certainly not. But, my dear Gaston, please don’t misunderstand me. I think the plan is most ingenious and the result — er — breathtaking, but would it not be just as effective, for instance —”
He got no further. He saw the crimson flush rise in Gaston’s face.
“Are you about to suggest that we employ a ‘fake’?” Gaston demanded, and before Peregrine could reply said, “In which case I leave this theatre. For good. Taking with me the weapons and writing to The Times, to point out the ludicrous aspects of the charade that will inevitably be foisted upon the audience. Well? Yes or no?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know which I mean, but I implore you not to go waltzing out on us, Gaston. You tell me it’s safe and I accept your authority. I’ll get the insurance people to cover us,” he added hurriedly. “You’ve no objection to that, I hope?”
Gaston waved his hand grandly and ambiguously. He went up onstage and collected the weapons, which the users had put into felt containers. “I keep charge of the claidheamh-mors,” he explained. “And return with them each day. And now, if you will excuse me —”
“Thank you, Gaston,” Peregrine said with relief.
Peregrine had to admit, strictly to himself, that a slight change had come over the atmosphere in the theatre. It was not that rehearsals went badly. They went, on the whole, very well, with no more than the expected clashes of temperament among the actors. Barrabell was the most prominent when these were in question. He had only to appear on stage for an argument to begin about the various movements of the actors. Peregrine was, by and large, a patient and sagacious director, and he never let loose a formidable display of anger without considering that the time had come for it and the result would be salutary. He had never encountered Barrabell before but it didn’t take him long to suspect a troublemaker and this morning he had confirmation of it. Barrabell and Nina Gaythorne arrived together. He had dropped his beautifully controlled voice to its lowest level, he had taken her arm, and in her faded, good-natured face there appeared an expression that reminded Peregrine of a schoolchild receiving naughty but absorbing information upon a forbidden ground.
“Most unexpected…” the Voice confided. “We were sitting…” It sank below the point of audibility. “… concentrated… most extraordinary…”
“Really?”
“… Blondie… rigor…”
“No!”
“I promise.”
At this point they came through the scenic archway and saw Peregrine.
There was a very awkward silence.
“Good morning,” said Peregrine happily.
“Good morning. Perry. Er — good morning. Er.”
“You were talking about last night’s storm.”
“Ah. Yes. Yes, we were. I was saying it was a heavy storm.”
“I didn’t see it,” said Nina. “Not really.”
“Did you notice that old scrap shed on the waterfront has collapsed?” Peregrine asked.
“Ah!” said Barrabell on a full note. “That’s what it is! The difference!”
“It was struck by lightning.”
“Fancy!”
“The center of the storm.”
“Not the theatre.”
“No,” they both fervently agreed. “Not our theatre.”
“Did you hear about Blondie?”
Nina made noises.
“Blondie has this thing about lightning,” said Peregrine. “Electricity in the air. My mother has it. She’s seventy and very perky.”
“Oh yes?” said Nina. “How lovely.”
“Very fit and well but gets electrically disturbed during thunderstorms.”
“I see,” said Barrabell.
“It’s quite a common occurrence. Like cat’s fur crackling. Nina darling,” said Peregrine, putting his arm around her, “I’ve got three little boys coming this morning to audition for the Macduff kid. Would you be an angel and go through the scene with them? Here are their photographs. Look.”
He opened a copy of Spotlight at the child-actor’s section. Three infant phenomena were displayed. Two were embarrassingly overdressed and bore an innocent look that only just failed to conceal an awful complacency. The third had sensible clothes and a cheeky face.
“He’s got something,” said Nina. “I would feel I could bear to cuddle him. When was the photo taken, I wonder?”
“Who can tell? He’s called William Smith, which attracts one. The others, as you’ll see, are called Wayne and Cedric.”
“Little horrors.”
“Probably. But one never knows.”
“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” said Nina, who had recovered her poise and was determined not to get involved with Barrabell-Banquo again.
A girl from the manager’s office came through to say the juveniles had arrived, each with its parent.
“I’ll see them one by one in the rehearsal room. Nina, would you come, dear?”
“Yes, of course.”
They went together.
For a little while Barrabell was alone. He had offered his services as the obligatory Equity representative for this production. It is not a job that most actors like very much. It is not pleasant to tell a fellow player that his subscription is overdue or to appeal against an infringement, imagined or genuine, by the management, though the Dolphin, in its integrity and strong “family” reputation, was not likely to run into trouble of that sort.