Chapter Three Seacombe, Cornwall #3
The audience fell into rapt silence. The witches were mesmeric.
Cawing, crying, moaning. Even Joseph couldn’t take his eyes off them.
Their hair was wild, their eyes black and feral, their movements in their white robes fluid and other-worldly.
He felt his spirits soar. This was brilliant. They were beautiful and terrifying.
When Macbeth strode onto the stage, he did so with the self-assurance and charisma of a seasoned actor, and Joseph was pleased he’d managed to book Edward Rye who had trained with the Royal Shakespeare Company.
He was, without doubt, one of the most professional stage actors he’d worked with.
‘So foul and fair a day I have not seen …’ His voice had a deep resonance and the kind of gravitas that inspired confidence. Joseph was pleased.
The moment the witches vanished, there was an audible gasp from the audience.
Joseph chuckled quietly to himself; he had a clever lighting technician, too.
However, the loudest gasp was reserved for Isadora Nash, who, delighted and thrilled to have caused such a positive reaction, visibly grew an inch.
She lifted her prettily pointed chin, straightened her elegant shoulders, narrowed her feline eyes and basked in the radiance of the spotlight, which loved her as much as she loved it.
In her white hands she held Macbeth’s letter.
She took a breath, then her scarlet lips parted, and she spoke.
Her voice was no longer the sweet, girlish voice of Isadora Nash, but the strong, steely voice of Lady Macbeth.
Joseph nodded, acknowledging his brave and clearly brilliant idea of casting her.
It was at that moment, as she began her first soliloquy, that the chair behind her began to move.
It caught Joseph’s eye immediately. He sat up in alarm.
It definitely moved. Not far. It couldn’t have been more than a foot, but it definitely moved.
He frowned and blinked a few times. It was now perfectly still.
Perhaps he had imagined it. Then he wondered whether it was a prank.
One of the witches, insulted by Isadora, exacting a subtle revenge.
Isadora continued to recite her lines, oblivious.
Joseph slid his eyes around the audience, but no one else seemed to have noticed.
He sighed with relief and sat back in his seat.
He realised he was sweating and wiped his brow with his hand.
Ridiculous. It must have been a trick of the light.
He focused his attention on Isadora again and forgot about the chair.
‘Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be What thou art promised: yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness …
’ Isadora was a captivating Lady Macbeth, Joseph reflected.
She was really getting into her stride. He was beginning to relax too, allowing himself to be drawn into the drama unfolding on stage, when the chair moved again.
This time it made a scraping sound, which could not be ignored, and traversed more than a foot.
Maybe even four. A rumble of confusion rippled through the auditorium.
The whispering sound of muttering rose into the air which had suddenly begun to feel strangely cold.
Isadora faltered, gathered herself, and continued.
From where she was standing she had no view of the moving chair.
Furious, suddenly, that someone was clearly playing a prank, Joseph hurried out the exit and raced backstage, his fury escalating fast.
‘What the devil is going on?’ he hissed to the stage manager and cast members hovering in the wing. By the way they had gathered there in a huddle, he knew they’d seen the chair move as well.
‘I swear it moved by itself,’ Toby, the stage manager, whispered. He was holding a clipboard and wearing a headset over his floppy blond hair.
‘Chairs don’t move by themselves,’ Joseph snapped. ‘Where are the witches?’
‘In their dressing room,’ Toby replied, turning his attention back to the stage. He suddenly took a sharp intake of breath.
Isadora cried out.
The audience gasped. Joseph looked onto the stage in time to see the letter she’d been holding flying into the air and then floating slowly towards the floor like a falling leaf. ‘What the hell … ?’ he began.
‘That moved by itself,’ said Toby in wonder, his face blanching to a shocked white. ‘No doubt about it!’
Isadora glanced desperately into the wing. Joseph made a rapid gesture with his hand to encourage her to carry on. She blinked a few times, took a shallow breath, and continued. But she was no longer in her stride and the rigid voice she’d adopted wilted into her little girl whimper.
It was a disaster.
The act limped on. But all eyes were on the chair, in anticipation of it moving again.
Joseph hurried to the witches’ dressing room.
He entered without knocking to find them sprawled over the sofa and chairs, gossiping.
They obviously had no clue as to what had just happened on stage.
But Joseph was sure, nonetheless, that they had something to do with it.
‘Which one of you is responsible for the moving chair?’ he demanded, looking sharply at each witch in turn.
He suspected, however, Witch One, because she was Isadora’s understudy and therefore had the most obvious motive.
‘And the letter,’ he went on. ‘It just flew out of Isadora’s hand …
’ The trio stared at him in bewilderment.
‘What?’ Witch One crinkled her nose. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Joseph looked from Witch Two to Witch Three. ‘Well? Chairs don’t move on their own and pieces of paper don’t just fly out of people’s hands!’
‘What?’ Witch One repeated. She stood up in agitation. ‘Are you saying someone whipped the letter out of Isadora’s hand?’
‘And a chair moved on its own?’ Witch Three interjected.
Joseph didn’t know what to make of them. By their reactions it was pretty clear that this was the first they’d heard about it – but then acting was what they were good at. ‘Yes, it’s obviously a prank. I thought it might be you.’
Witch One giggled, then bit her lip. ‘Poor Isadora,’ she said sarcastically.
‘I wish I’d thought of that,’ said Witch Three. ‘Brilliant.’
‘It’s not funny!’ Joseph barked. His whole body was cramping with panic. He inhaled through his nostrils like a bull. He pointed a finger at them in turn. ‘If I find out that any of you …’ He gave Witch One the sharpest stare.
‘Look,’ said Witch One seriously. ‘We’re playing the parts of witches, we’re not really witches. How are we supposed to move a chair and do whatever was done to a piece of paper, from here?’
‘It flew out of her hand,’ Joseph corrected.
‘As if by magic,’ said Witch Two, then her face softened. ‘Sorry, Joey, wasn’t us.’
‘And don’t call me Joey!’ he snapped.
He stormed out and returned to the wing, his heart in his mouth.
It was Act I scene 7 and Edward was back on stage, with Isadora, and the audience was silent once more, and engrossed.
Edward, with his magnetism, had managed to raise the tone.
He had raised Isadora too, restoring her to the formidable Lady Macbeth.
But Joseph couldn’t relax. He stood in the wing, arms folded, eyes darting about the stage, expecting the worst.
But the worst didn’t happen.
During the interval the cast and crew gathered behind the curtain.
Normally, the conversation would have been about their performances and any tweaks that needed to be made.
But this time no one could talk about anything but the moving chair – of which Isadora had been ignorant – and the flying piece of paper, which she simply couldn’t explain.
The atmosphere was tense. Each member of the company glanced shiftily from one to the other.
No one was above suspicion. The air was unusually cold on the stage, as if someone had opened the door of a giant fridge, and Isadora folded her arms and shivered.
‘Someone tried to sabotage my scene!’ she exclaimed tearfully, bottom lip trembling.
‘There’s no other explanation. Nothing happened in anyone else’s scene. Why in mine?’
‘How could someone make a chair move?’ asked Clare, one of the stagehands. She lifted it up and looked at it closely. ‘It doesn’t make sense. But I saw it with my own eyes.’
‘We all saw it,’ said Toby gravely. ‘Well, everyone except Isadora,’ he added, glancing at her anxiously, anticipating a meltdown.
‘What are the press going to say?’ Isadora wailed. She turned to Joseph, eyes flashing suddenly like those of a feral cat. ‘You fix this, Joey, and you fix it good!’
‘I’ll fix it, don’t worry,’ he said, knowing the best way to deal with an angry Isadora was with a gentle touch.
‘You go out there and be the best Lady Macbeth that’s ever been, and the press will rave about you.
The moving chair and flying letter were nothing to do with you.
I’ll find out who did it and have their bloody guts for garters! ’
Isadora turned on the witches. ‘I know who it was, and it wasn’t funny. You English have a strange sense of humour. This is my career on the line. If you do it again, I’ll do more than have your guts for garters, I’ll fucking ruin every one of you so you never work again!’