‘I don’t know. I have to tell you what I really think. Sometimes I think she’ll never come back. I just don’t know.’ He put his hand on my shoulder and gave it a little shake. ‘It’ll come right. Try to believe that. It’s a bad patch we’re going through right now, but it’s early days. It’ll all come right.’
But I no longer believed in things coming right. My father had been perfectly clear: Rose didn’t want to see me. Rose was no more a good enchantress than I was Kenny Judge. By this stage she knew—she knew—that I hadn’t betrayed her, or not deliberately anyway. If she had contacted me, if she had apologised, if she had opened her arms to me and hugged me, I would have been her slave again. But she had not. I saw again and again the pitiless line of her lips.
I was done with Rose.
I returned now to Macbeth, and I was in no mood for happy endings. I wrote my own version of the play swiftly, in the grip of passion and anger and sorrow.
ACT ONE
The blasted heath. Banquo and Macbeth are going home.
Zarlok/Macbeth: Look at these strange women, Banquo. They have withered lips and wild attire.
Ironstrike/Banquo: They are really weird, my lord.
Zarlok/Macbeth: Are they truly women? Look, they have beards.
Ironstrike/Banquo: I don’t think they are earthly creatures, Macbeth. I think they are witches.
Crystal/Witch 1: Yes! Yes! We are witches!
Zarlok/Macbeth: What are you here for?
Crystal/Witch 1: You are the Thane of Glamis.
Zarlok/Macbeth: Yes, I am.
Crystal/Witch 2: But you’re also the Thane of Cawdor.
Ironstrike/Banquo: No, he isn’t.
Crystal/Witch 3: And you will be King. Heh, heh.
Zarlok/Macbeth: I am amazed.
Ironstrike/Banquo: What about me?
Crystal/Witch 1: You are less but more than Macbeth, and you are not so happy as Macbeth but still much happier.
Ironstrike/Banquo: What do you mean?
Crystal/Witch 2: You won’t ever be king, but your sons will be kings.
Crystal/Witch 3: Now we must go.
The Witches disappear into thin air.
Zarlok/Macbeth: What on earth does this mean?
Ironstrike/Banquo: My lord, I don’t know.
Enter Stinger/Messenger.
Stinger/Messenger: Hello, Macbeth. The King has sent me to tell you that he has made you the Thane of Cawdor.
Zarlok/Macbeth: Good heavens. Now black and swelling thoughts are enkindled inside me. What do you think about it, Banquo?
Ironstrike/Banquo: I think that oftentimes ministers of darkness don’t have our best interests at heart. It would be a good idea not to think about any of this.
ACT TWO
Macbeth’s castle.
Rose/Lady Macbeth: Oh, welcome back, my dear husband.
Zarlok/Macbeth: Hello, my dear wife. (They kiss amorously) Guess what happened?
Rose/Lady Macbeth: What?
Zarlok/Macbeth: Banquo and I were out on the blasted heath, and we saw three weird witches, and they told me I was going to be Thane of Cawdor and also King. And then the King’s messenger caught up with us and said I was Thane of Cawdor. Already!
Rose/Lady Macbeth: That’s wonderful! Did they say anything to Banquo?
Zarlok/Macbeth: Nothing much.
Rose/Lady Macbeth: Well, I’ve got news for you too. Duncan is coming to stay the night.
Zarlok/Macbeth: Wow! Yet I feel compunction at the thought of blood.
Rose/Lady Macbeth: You shouldn’t worry about it.
ACT THREE
In the Macbeths’ bedroom.
Rose/Lady Macbeth: All through dinner I covered treacherous purposes with smiles, and pretended to be an innocent flower.
Zarlok/Macbeth: You were very good at it.
Rose/Lady Macbeth: But now it is time to act.
Zarlok/Macbeth: I’m not sure about that.
Rose/Lady Macbeth: Yes, you have to! Listen, I’ve already made the guards drunk.
Zarlok/Macbeth: Why did you do that?
Rose/Lady Macbeth: To make them go to sleep, stupid.
Zarlok/Macbeth: I don’t know about any of this.
Rose/Lady Macbeth: What do you mean?
Zarlok/Macbeth: My resolution is staggering. There are lots of reasons for not doing this.
Rose/Lady Macbeth: But think of all the reasons there are for doing it!
Zarlok/Macbeth: They don’t seem so important anymore.
Rose/Lady Macbeth: Don’t you want to be King? Don’t you want me to be Queen?
Zarlok/Macbeth: Not as much as I thought I did.
Rose/Lady Macbeth: You are fickle and cowardly, and you don’t keep your promises. I would dash a baby’s brains out if I had promised to, but you are all sluggish and not to be trusted. Kill him! Kill him!
Zarlok/Macbeth: All right, I’ll do it. Give me the dagger.
Rose/Lady Macbeth: Well done, my darling. (Gives him dagger)
Zarlok/Macbeth: No, it’s no good. I can’t.
Rose/Lady Macbeth: What a dipstick you are! Here, give it to me!
Exit Lady Macbeth with dagger.
ACT FOUR
In Duncan’s bedroom.
Rose/Lady Macbeth: And so I despatch you, Duncan. (Drives the dagger into him)
Flashbane/Duncan: Aaarrrgggh.
ACT FIVE
Back in the Macbeths’ bedroom.
Zarlok/Macbeth: Did you really kill him?
Rose/Lady Macbeth: Yes.
Zarlok/Macbeth: We shouldn’t have done this.
Rose/Lady Macbeth: It will all be okay, you’ll see.
Zarlok/Macbeth: I don’t think so.
Rose/Lady Macbeth: But now you will be King, and I will be Queen. We’re a team. We’ve got what it takes.
One afternoon after school I was fiddling around with scenery for this play when I heard a car on the gravel. I looked out and saw that it was my mother’s car. She was pulling in to her usual parking spot next to the garage. I galloped downstairs so that I would be the first to welcome her back. I ran into her arms so hard that she took a step back to balance herself; I hugged her as strongly as I could.
‘You’re back!’ I said. ‘You’ve come home, Mummy!’
She put a steadying hand on my shoulder. She was half-laughing, but it wasn’t a proper laugh: there was something stagey about it. I sensed this and drew back.
‘Nicky, darling,’ she said, playfully. ‘What a welcome!’
I scanned her face. ‘You have come back, haven’t you?’
She put her hand to my cheek. ‘I told you I’d come back to visit. Here I am.’
‘You’re not staying?’
‘I told you, Nicky. I told you I’d come back to visit.’
I began to cry.
‘Nicky, darling, goodness me!’ She spread her hands. ‘What a fuss! I was hoping we’d have a lovely time together.’
The back door opened and Pippa approached across the gravel. She folded her arms and looked my mother up and down. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Pippa, darling,’ said my mother, still with the same affected lightness of tone. ‘I’ve come to visit. I’ve missed you both. I wanted to say hello.’
‘We haven’t missed you,’ said my sister.
My mother swallowed.
‘Go away, bitch,’ said Pippa. ‘We don’t want you.’
She bent and picked up a handful of gravel. This she threw hard at my mother: it hit her around her legs and clattered to the ground. My mother stepped back, horror and pain on her face. Pippa did it again.
‘Come on, Nicky,’ she shouted. ‘Give me a hand here.’
I bent and picked up a handful of gravel and held it, uncertain what to do.
Pippa threw another handful. She started to laugh, in a loud, excited way. ‘Do it, Nicky,’ she shrieked. ‘It’s such fun!’
I threw my gravel at my mother and it hit her around the ankles. Pippa started to d
o a weird cavorting dance.
‘Again, again!’ she sang out savagely, gathering and throwing another handful in one fluid movement. My mother was backing towards her car, her face contorted. I threw another handful, and another, hardly knowing what I was doing. My mother was weeping now, and running to the car. As she bent beside the front door, trying to unlock it, I let fly hard with another load and it hit her around the buttocks and thighs. She let out a long moaning sound, scrambled into the car, and started up the engine. Pippa and I kept flinging gravel at the car: I was light-headed by now, beyond thought, and astonished by how good all of this made me feel. She reversed the car in a drunken sweep, went forward, and, throwing up wings of gravel, rocketed out of the drive.
Pippa put her arm around my shoulders. ‘Well done, Nicky,’ she said. ‘That showed her.’
‘Yes,’ I said, uncertainly. And then, ‘Pippy, you’re all trembly.’
She gave me a quick hug, and I felt the quivering of her body.
‘Never mind,’ she said.
During dinner that night my father asked, as he did these days, new kinds of punctilious questions of us. How had school gone? Had we played any sport? How were our teachers treating us? We answered these politely. I wasn’t sure whether Pippa was going to mention our mother’s visit. By now I was feeling more than a little ashamed of my part in it, and I’d decided that if Pippa didn’t mention anything about the visit I wouldn’t either.
‘Anything else happen?’ asked my father.
‘No,’ said Pippa.
Later that night the telephone rang and I heard my father answer it. I didn’t take much notice at first, but then I realised that he was talking about Saturday’s match. I was sure he would go. I had plans for a revised production of the play about Launcelot and Guinevere, and it suited me to have him out of the way.
‘Thanks, Tom,’ he was saying. ‘I would have loved to. But Jen’s away for a few days and I can’t go swanning off to the footy, much as I’d like to.’
There was a pause.
‘Yes, bad timing.’
Another pause.
‘Yes, I know.’ (A touch of irritation here.) ‘I’m grateful for the offer. Finals tickets are like hen’s teeth, I know that. But no can do, I’m afraid.’
It was nice of my father to think he had to stay home to look after Pippa and me, but I wasn’t appreciative. I thought of trying to persuade him, but that would mean I would have to admit to listening in on his conversation, and I was getting sensitive about the whole issue of eavesdropping, which had recently done me no good. Also, I had heard him say Jen’s away for a few days, and he and I both knew this wasn’t true, and I was embarrassed to let him know I knew he had told a lie. So I said nothing.
On Saturday my father pored over the paper during breakfast.
‘Knights is back, Nicky,’ he said, his mouth full of toast. ‘But not Tuck.’
‘Are there other changes?’ I asked.
‘Judge and Eade are back. Well, that can’t be bad. McCarthy too.’
‘So who are they dropping?’
Pippa was making faces at me which I interpreted as Don’t pretend you’re interested in this stuff when we all know you’re not, but I ignored her.
‘Byrne and Buckenara are out,’ he said, studying the team list. ‘Oh, and Abbott and Robertson. Not sure about that. Jeansy might have that one wrong.’
‘What about Footscray?’
‘No. Pretty much the same. Cocky sods.’
‘And is Matthews playing?’
‘Well, yes, of course he is.’
‘I thought you said he wasn’t very good last week.’
Matthews had the previous evening confirmed that this season was his last; my father was divided between sorrow at his departure and pride that he knew when to go.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said my father. ‘Got to have Lethal there.’
I retired to my bedroom soon after lunch, leaving my father in the kitchen with the radio.
‘I’ll come down,’ I told him. ‘I’ve got a few things to do first.’
But he was already absorbed in the pre-match commentary.
I was almost ready to proceed with the performance. I had applied the finishing touches to the play. I was especially proud of the new ending. One of the most important props this time round was Guinevere’s pyre. I was careful in my planning. I’d obtained an old saucepan from the garage because I realised I had to have a proper base for the pyre. Setting the carpet—or indeed any part of the bedroom—on fire wasn’t going to go down well. Like Romeo, I made sure I had a bottle of water. The saucepan was biggish and solid. In this I had stood a little bundle of twigs which I had gathered from the garden. These were tied together with string (faggot was the correct word for this bundle), which was then tied to a broken wooden ruler (this was the stake) and kept upright with another piece of string looped around the saucepan handle. Beneath the faggot I had placed some balled-up pieces of newspaper. To this Guinevere would be bound, when the time came. I’d taken a half-empty box of matches from the kitchen drawer.
When I had everything together—all the scenery and the cast and the script and costumes and props, the shoeboxes and the biscuit tin—and all the characters were dressed for their first appearances, I went downstairs to see how things were going. At the end of the first quarter, Footscray was six points ahead. My father was edgy but still positive, in his only the first quarter phase. ‘Long way to go, Nicky,’ he said, strain all over his face.
‘How are we playing?’
‘Not too bad. Not too good. They’re making a few mistakes. They’ll steady.’
‘How’s Lethal going?’
‘He’s in the forward pocket. He’s playing on Brad Hardie.’
‘And?’
‘Not doing too well,’ conceded my father. ‘Don’t know what Jeans is thinking.’
The second quarter was beginning.
‘I’ll be down soon,’ I said, retreating to the staircase. My father, ferociously concentrated on the radio, didn’t hear me.
Upstairs, I had all in readiness. Launcelot trotted up on Slyder the Golden Stripe and Rose was suitably delighted. Act One unfolded and the battle between Launcelot and the dragon (which I had found hard to choreograph) went off very nicely, except that Fleshbane’s silver foil boots came off in the affray. This was easily remedied, however, and we moved on to Act Two.
There was a knock and my door opened.
Pippa stood there. ‘Nicky, are you all right?’
She looked around the room in incredulity. I suppose it did look bizarre, what with painted shoeboxes and backdrops and Heroes of the Cosmos and general mess.
‘I’m fine,’ I said.
‘My God,’ she said, an unsympathetic grin spreading over her face. ‘I heard you groaning. You’re just playing with your dolls. I thought you must be hurt.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said again.
She made a comical face. ‘Honestly. Sometimes I think I’m the only sane person in this family.’
She waited for a response, which she didn’t get; then, to my relief, she left. I glanced at my watch, but it wouldn’t be half-time yet. I wandered downstairs again when I judged the second quarter was finished, and timed it well. My father was restless in that he estimated Footscray to have had more of the ball than Hawthorn during the second quarter, but things weren’t too bad. We were leading—only by four points, but still we were ahead. Matthews had been rested during the second quarter and replaced by Judge, who had kicked two goals. I quietly got myself some more biscuits from the kitchen. My father didn’t notice when I melted away again.
Upstairs in my bedroom, I kept going, and was soon up to the final act of Launcelot and Guinevere.
Narrator: And so the next morning Guinevere was led to the stake, dressed only in her smock, and many followed her there in mourning garments. And Sir Gawain had said that he didn’t want to be involved in burning the queen, and so it was Sir Gawain’s brothers, Sir Gaher
is and Sir Gareth, who led her to the stake. They had no weapons and were wearing robes of mourning. But Sir Mordred was there fully armed and with him lots of knights who also were armed.
Hateshi/Mordred: The queen is guilty of high treason. The queen must die.
Narrator: And Arthur was there weeping.
Zarlok/Arthur: Light the torch!
Narrator: And so the torch was lit.
Zarlok/Arthur: Put the torch to the stake!
Narrator: And so it was done.
I struck a match to the fragments of newspaper scrunched up beneath the pyre.
Narrator: But then came Sir Launcelot, thundering down on his mighty steed with his followers.
Launcelot and Slyder come galloping down.
The flame faltered and then took hold.
Narrator: And then Sir Launcelot cut his way to the stake, killing many knights as he came. And without knowing it, he killed both Gaheris and Gareth. And then he reached Guinevere.
The flame licked around the paper and one of the dry twigs suddenly sputtered and blazed.
Rose/Guinevere: Save me, dear Launcelot!
The flame caught at Guinevere’s smock.
Knights: Ho! Stop him! Stop him!
Narrator: But just as Sir Launcelot reached the stake, Mordred stood in his way and cut him down.
Hateshi/Mordred: Die, traitor knight! Die!
Narrator: And Sir Launcelot was smote and died. And Mordred turned to the burning queen.
Hateshi/Mordred: Die, treasonous Queen! Die, most foul lady! Die, thou bitch.
Narrator: And the queen burned. And thus did perish Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere.
I was transfixed with watching Rose burn. The fire crept around the hem of her smock and then leapt upwards and attacked her golden hair, which frizzled and snapped. The faggot was well alight by this time and, as the heat took hold of her, Rose started to blacken and melt. She buckled and her head fell off and down into the blaze. As her torso smouldered there was a nauseating smell of burning plastic and one of her legs made a small kicking movement before puckering and falling off. There was a kind of whoomph noise, accompanied by a quick snaky plume of black smoke.
The Starlings Page 25