The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie [13]
Having at last successfully negotiated Westminster Bridge we resumed our conversation, discussing the production of Macbeth that we had just been viewing. My friend Hermia Redcliffe was a handsome young woman of twenty-eight. Cast in the heroic mould, she had an almost flawless Greek profile, and a mass of dark chestnut hair, coiled on the nape of her neck. My sister always referred to her as “Mark’s girlfriend” with an intonation of inverted commas about the term that never failed to annoy me.
The Fantasie gave us a pleasant welcome and showed us to a small table against the crimson velvet wall. The Fantasie is deservedly popular, and the tables are close together. As we sat down, our neighbors at the next table greeted us cheerfully. David Ardingly was a lecturer in History at Oxford. He introduced his companion, a very pretty girl, with a fashionable hairdo, all ends, bits and pieces, sticking out at improbable angles on the crown of her head. Strange to say, it suited her. She had enormous blue eyes and a mouth that was usually half open. She was, as all David’s girls were known to be, extremely silly. David, who was a remarkably clever young man, could only find relaxation with girls who were practically half-witted.
“This is my particular pet, Poppy,” he explained. “Meet Mark and Hermia. They’re very serious and highbrow and you must try and live up to them. We’ve just come from Do it for Kicks. Lovely show! I bet you two are straight from Shakespeare or a revival of Ibsen.”
“Macbeth at the Old Vic,” said Hermia.
“Ah, what do you think of Batterson’s production?”
“I liked it,” said Hermia. “The lighting was very interesting. And I’ve never seen the banquet scene so well managed.”
“Ah, but what about the witches?”
“Awful!” said Hermia. “They always are,” she added.
David agreed.
“A pantomime element seems bound to creep in,” he said. “All of them capering about and behaving like a threefold Demon King. You can’t help expecting a Good Fairy to appear in white with spangles to say in a flat voice:
Your evil shall not triumph. In the end,
It is Macbeth who will be round the bend.”
We all laughed, but David, who was quick on the uptake, gave me a sharp glance.
“What gives with you?” he asked.
“Nothing. It was just that I was reflecting only the other day about Evil and Demon Kings in pantomime. Yes—and Good Fairies, too.”
“A propos de what?”
“Oh, in Chelsea at a coffee bar.”
“How smart and up-to-date you are, aren’t you, Mark? All among the Chelsea set. Where heiresses in tights marry corner boys on the make. That’s where Poppy ought to be, isn’t it, duckie?”
Poppy opened her enormous eyes still wider.
“I hate Chelsea,” she protested. “I like the Fantasie much better! Such lovely, lovely food.”
“Good for you, Poppy. Anyway, you’re not really rich enough for Chelsea. Tell us more about Macbeth, Mark, and the awful witches. I know how I’d produce the witches if I were doing a production.”
David had been a prominent member of the O.U.D.S. in the past.
“Well, how?”
“I’d make them very ordinary. Just sly quiet old women. Like the witches in a country village.”
“But there aren’t any witches nowadays?” said Poppy, staring at him.
“You say that because you’re a London girl. There’s still a witch in every village in rural England. Old Mrs. Black, in the third cottage up the hill. Little boys are told not to annoy her, and she’s given presents of eggs and a home-baked cake now and again. Because,” he wagged a finger impressively, “if you get across her, your cows will stop giving milk, your potato crop will fail, or little Johnnie will twist his ankle. You must keep on the right side of old Mrs. Black. Nobody says so outright—but they all know!”
“You’re joking,” said Poppy, pouting.
“No, I’m not. I’m right, aren’t I, Mark?”
“Surely all that kind of superstition has died out completely with education,” said Hermia sceptically.
“Not in the rural pockets of the land. What do you say, Mark?”
“I think perhaps you’re right,” I said slowly. “Though I wouldn