The Lammas Curse

by Anna Lord

  Sixth and seventh were the golfers – Bruce Bancoe and Lars Larssensen. The Scot resembled a dour, tough, wind-blown, weathered, North Sea fisherman with a grizzled grey beard and a thatch of wild grey hair to match it. He could best be described as a trawler-man in a dinner suit - an ill-fitting costume which needed constant adjustment, hence the need to tug at his cuffs, button and unbutton his jacket, and smooth down his slightly-too-short trousers. The Norwegian resembled a strong, stocky, tough Viking warrior with longish sandy hair and a lantern jaw that underscored a rugged, angular, chiselled, devastatingly masculine profile that immediately caused less endowed men to feel inferior and effeminate. His muscular physique looked as if it might burst out of its constricting formality any minute.

  Eighth and ninth, were the white queen of all things weird, and her lovely lady-in-waiting, respectively, Lady Moira and Miss Adeline Lambert.

  It was an eclectic gathering, not the sort to be found in the fashionable salons of Paris, the drawing rooms of Vienna, the palazzos of Rome or the summer palaces of St Petersburg – but this was the Scottish Borders. And so the scene was set, the dramatis personae were assembled and the play commenced.

  “It must be Fate!” Miss O’Hara’s sonorous voice, softened by a seductive Irish lilt, sent Dr Watson into rapture as the guests paired off and filed into the grand dining room two by two, eschewing formal hierarchy. “We were short of players for our little performance and suddenly here you are!”

  “Performance?” said the doctor, hanging off her every word like an adoring lap dog.

  “Let me explain,” intervened Lord Cruddock, as his guests circled a large mahogany dinner table that sparkled under a lustrous Waterford chandelier that had recently been electrified. “When the golf tournament was abruptly halted by the police investigation, and the promotion of my new golf course was overshadowed by the unfortunate accidents, my brilliant fiancé dreamed up the clever idea to stage a play and invite some newspaper reporters, thus turning bad news into good publicity.”

  “Un bon idée,” praised the Countess, noting how the son deftly avoided his mother’s dark looks while smiling lovingly at his future wife. “Which play?”

  “Which play indeed,” exclaimed the Rajah of Govinda with a husky laugh, choosing the seat next to the Countess, “but the one and only Scottish play – Shakespeare’s best!”

  “Of course!” nodded the doctor, gazing at the Irish actress like a love-struck puppy. “The nameless play!”

  “Lady Macbeth is my most celebrated role,” Lola confirmed with a modest smile and an immodest flutter of long lashes taking her seat not at the opposite head of the table but to the right of her fiancé. “Out damned spot! Out I say! I have performed it so many times I could do it in my sleep.”

  “I do recall,” added the dowager dryly, who occupied the seat at the high end of the table until the fifth of November, “that a Dublin critic once described your performance in exactly those terms.”

  “That’s what critics are paid to write,” interceded Mr Larssensen, coming to the actress’s rescue. “If they write that the play was superb and the acting flawless no one will be interested in reading their reviews.”

  “Agreed!” agreed Mr Bancoe. “Bad news sells more newspapers than good. Just look at how the public couldn’t get enough information about the sinking of that ferry in the Irish Sea. The higher the body count the more the masses clamoured for details.”

  Oyster soup was served for starters. It was dinner à la russe with individual courses following one after another.

  Lola O’Hara, heartened that the two golfers had leapt to her defence so chivalrously, rose above the acid tongue of her future mother-in-law and returned to her opening line.

  “Providence must have brought you here tonight,” she declared, shining some benevolent limelight on Dr Watson. “You can play the role of Seyton, Macbeth’s servant. You won’t have too many lines to learn and you should be able to memorise your part by the time the curtain rises. How does that sound?”

  “That sounds, er, fine, and when exactly will the curtain rise?” the doctor croaked, swallowing dry. The first time he appeared on stage was in a Nativity play at Sunday school. He was a donkey in more ways than one who neighed when he should have hee-hawed. The audience burst into fits of laughter, Mary began to cry and dropped baby Jesus. Jesus knocked over a Christmas candle and the manger went up in flames. The second time was in sixth grade. Miss Drake, the headmistress who never did things by halves, decided to turn the muddy village green into a giant stage to celebrate May Day. She had a giant maypole erected in the middle of the stage. He was skipping in time to the music when he realized his shoelace was undone. Alas! Down came the troupe of dancers tangled in ribbons and bows, and down crashed the giant maypole faster than the mast of a Spanish galleon the day the Armada was reduced to toothpicks. It missed Miss Drake by mere inches. His mother never got over the shame.

  There was no third time.

  “October the 31st,” supplied Lord Cruddock.

  “Halloween night of course!” added the actress, flicking back her red mane with a theatrical flourish, before looking directly across the table at the person seated opposite whom Providence had dropped so opportunely into her lap. “Countess Volodymyrovna can play one of the witches,” she announced sweetly. “That means Catherine won’t have to play two roles and she won’t need a costume change. She can concentrate on playing Lady Macduff.”

  “Oh, that’s such a relief!” said Miss Dee. “It is confusing learning two sets of lines.”

  “Oh tosh!” snorted the dowager. “The witches hardly have any lines at all.”

  “Double, double, toil and trouble!” cackled Carter Dee, to take the heat off his sister before pleading his own case. “I’d like to change my role too. I could play Macduff.”

  “We’ve discussed this before,” snapped Lola haughtily. “It is better for the caddy, Mr MacDuff, to play Macduff since it is his real name. It is less confusing.”

  “Less confusing than what?” argued Carter. “The audience won’t know his real name is MacDuff!”

  “But we will know,” returned Lola, brooking no argument.

  The conversation turned to how quickly the links were drying out while the next course was consumed – Coquilles St Jacques seasoned with Indian curry and herbed butter as a nod to their exotic Indian guest. It was Carter Dee who steered the conversation back to the Scottish play when the pan-fried calves’ liver on a bed of braised cabbage arrived.

  “I don’t want to be one of the witches and that’s that. I’m a man! You cannot unsex me!”

  “Steady on, young chap,” warned Lord Cruddock.

  “Shakespeare always had men playing women’s roles,” explained the Rajah knowledgably. “Women were forbidden from acting on the stage in Elizabethan Times.”

  “Give me strength! Make thick my blood!” muttered Carter. “That was hundreds of years ago. Besides, it’s alright for you. You’re playing Siward - the bold, brave and manly English General! You’re not being forced to play an old crone!”

  “Just think of the fun you could have with it, my boy,” suggested his lordship. “Be a man and play a witch.”

  “There is nothing wrong with playing a witch,” huffed the dowager.

  Carter laughed harshly. “Well, if anyone should know it would be Hecate, the queen of witches!”

  “Carter!” shouted Lord Cruddock, slamming his fist on the table so forcefully the crystal glasses juddered. “Apologise at once!”

  “It’s alright, Duncan,” calmed the dowager, not taking offence. “There will come a time when to call a woman a witch will be a compliment. Witches were wise women, the midwives and healers of their day, skilled in herb lore. They were the forerunners to the doctors and botanists of today.”

  “It is the tone of voice, not the word that I find offensive,” replied the son to his mother. “Yes, there will be a time for such a word but that time has not yet come.” He turned to h
is god-son. “Carter!” he said sternly.

  Carter flushed red as he brought his wine glass to his lips with choppy hands. “I’m sorry, Lady Moira,” he managed with sincerity before turning whiny. “I just want even-handed justice. Everyone else is happy with their role. I feel I have been reduced to a laughing stock. Why can’t the three witches play the three witches?”

  The servants arrived to clear the plates. Wine glasses were replenished. Black pudding with pears stewed in syrup arrived as a palate cleanser and conversation took a pause.

  “Ah! Le boudin noir aux poires!” exclaimed the Rajah in impeccable French, lightening the tone. “My compliments to your chef francais! I may steal him from you when I leave! I have been searching for a good French chef for months”

  The palate cleanser went down a treat and the empty plates were duly cleared. As soon as the servants retreated it was the Countess who returned to the earlier topic.

  “Mr Dee,” she addressed down-table, “I didn’t quite understand what you meant by your last phrase – the three witches play the three witches?”

  “My brother was referring to three local women,” Miss Dee explained, adopting a neutral tone to downplay the perceived offensiveness behind her brother’s words. “I believe you have met two of them – Mrs Ardkinglas and Mrs Ross.”

  “Oh, yes,” the Countess confirmed, “our housekeeper and the owner of the Marmion Hydro Hotel. I presume they are identical twins.”

  “There’s a third,” added Carter portentously.

  “You mean to say they are triplets?” posed the Countess.

  Carter nodded just as some individual cheese soufflés arrived and everyone was momentarily distracted by the fluffy fromage.

  “Identical triplets are very rare,” commented the doctor. “The third child doesn’t usually survive the lengthy birthing process, or if they do they are often retarded due to the lack of oxygen to the brain – or so goes medical opinion.”

  “The third sister,” asserted Miss Dee, “lends support to your medical opinion. She lives wild in a ramshackle hovel in Jackdaw Wood and is deemed to be a little mad.”

  “Mad Mother MacBee!” trilled Carter in a sing-song snigger. “Mad Mother MacBee!”

  “That is most unfair,” interceded Miss Lambert, employing a defensive tone sharpened by pity and chagrin. “Mother MacBee is not at all mad. I have encountered her several times and she has appeared quite sane. If she were rich she would be called eccentric, but because she is poor and chooses to live alone she is called mad.”

  “Pity- like the naked new-born babe,” mocked Carter. “Bravo, Miss Lambert!”

  Miss Lambert turned pink and shrank back in her seat.

  “Milk for gall, young lady,” declared the dowager sternly. “And thou shalt get kings! Remember that!”

  Lord Cruddock suddenly snatched up his glass of wine. “I propose a toast!” he trumpeted with gusto, lifting his crystal beaker high in the air. “Let us lift our chalices to our lips, good friends, and drink to the success of the Lammermoor tournament, the Scottish play, and Scotland!”

  “The Lammermoor tournament, the Scottish play and Scotland!” they echoed in unison, dispelling the rancour driving the conversation up to this point. Insults were forgotten, all was forgiven, grievances were shelved and everyone felt relieved, the tension in the air dissipated and radiant smiles returned. It lasted until the next course – pan-roasted guinea fowl with truffles and leeks, or as the Rajah pointed out – blancs de pintade aux truffes et poiraux.

  “You didn’t answer my earlier question,” broached Carter, addressing Miss O’Hara. “Why can’t the three witches play the three witches?”

  “Oh for goodness sake!” expelled his lordship brusquely, slapping his hand on the table, though not as violently as before.

  Lola placed her hand gently on his. “It’s alright Duncan. I don’t mind answering,” she delivered in a placating yet softly commanding tone, leaving no doubt as to who would rule the roost once she had a gold band on her finger. “They will not play the three witches because Miss Lambert, Countess Volodymyrovna and Carter Dee - that’s you! - will play the three witches. It is my play. I am directing and I what I say goes.”

  “It is not your play,” countered Carter belligerently, staring blankly at his blancs. “It is William Shakespeare’s play.”

  Lola sighed expressively, her ample bosom rising and falling to great effect and silent applause from the men. “Must I remind you that it was I who arranged to borrow the costumes from the Edinburgh Playhouse and that it was I who arranged to borrow some scenery from the Glasgow Repertory Company and that it was I who suggested this play in the first place to rescue the golf tournament from imminent disaster.”

  Carter had the good sense to wait until the haunch of venison lavishly garnished with roasted vegetables and toasted chestnuts arrived and everyone was expressing exaggerated groans at their expanding girth.

  “I could play Macbeth,” he suggested hopefully as soon as the cuisse de chevreuil had been dished out. “I have been studying day and night and know the lines by heart. Hamish Ross will never learn them in time. He will ruin your play by fudging all the important scenes.”

  “I’m sorry to have to say this,” said Lola, sounding not a bit, as she put down her knife and fork to stage a dramatic pause, “but you do not have the physical presence. Macbeth is a murderous war general who exudes strength and power and masculinity.”

  “If I wear shoulder pads I can look the part,” Carter persisted pathetically. “It’s all down to costume really.”

  Lola stared at the effete hands clinging tightly to the silver cutlery to stop from trembling. “I don’t think so,” she delivered bluntly. “It’s about character and voice. And I am sorry to have to say this too but murderous greed and overweening ambition cannot be portrayed by a whiny voice. Macbeth needs to project a forceful and manly tone that then transforms to that of a tortured hell-bent soul otherwise the play is not believable.”

  “I cannot see a common ghillie playing a tortured hell-bent soul and being believed,” observed Carter caustically.

  Miss Lambert momentarily forgot herself and hoisted her elbows onto the table as she projected herself front and centre. “A common ghillie!” she spluttered hotly. “There is nothing common about being a ghillie! It is a noble profession that calls for vast knowledge and endless energy! Caring for the streams and burns that God gave us and the fish that live in them and the animals that make their homes along the riverbanks is the highest calling!”

  All eyes turned to look at the young lady and her cheeks turned cherry pink. She immediately shrank back into the wings and took a gulp of red wine to cool down but it only served to stew the two cherries in their own mortified juices.

  Eyes switched back to Carter Dee, everyone was starting to feel sorry for him, even his lordship felt some sympathy.

  “You can have my role?” he offered generously, feeling sorry for his earlier fit of distemper, as he washed down a mouthful of venison with a mouthful of excellent grand cru. “I don’t much care for theatrics – by that I mean appearing personally on the stage,” he qualified quickly, smiling lovingly at his fiancée.

  Carter shook his head dismally. “No offence, god-father, but your role is really just background. You get killed off fairly quickly. And logic dictates that Duncan should be played by Duncan otherwise there will follow all manner of confusion on the part of the audience.” He delivered this last bit tongue-in-cheek. “I guess I’m stuck with being a witch.”

  At this point the conversation ran off at tangents as each dinner guest turned to speak to the person to their left or right. This continued until dessert.

  “Who is playing the role of Malcolm?” posed the Countess to no one in particular, spearing a morsel of crepe a l’orange.

  “That is I,” replied Mr Larssensen in a throaty timbre. “I am playing Malcolm, the son of Duncan, and I don’t really want to swap roles at this late stage. I’ve been l
earning my lines all week and I’m afraid I may get hopelessly muddled if I change now.”

  “No one is asking you to swap,” assured Miss O’Hara, meeting the Viking’s wolken gaze and holding it for one long moment - a moment that soared above the muted volume and the intangible length.

  “Who is playing Banquo?” pursued the Countess.

  “I am,” mumbled the other golfer. “It goes with the name, you see! Mr Bancoe and Banquo!” he laughed heartily, spitting jus l’orange across the divide.

  “What about Banquo’s son?” asked the doctor, who had spent the duration of dinner desperately trying to recall the dramatis personae from the Scottish play and praying that Seyton had the shortest number of very short lines. “What was his name?”

  “Fleance,” supplied Miss Dee who seemed to have a good grasp of the details of just about everything. “Fleance is being played by Mr Brown, the man who caddies for Mr Bancoe.”

  “So as not to confuse anyone,” added her brother wryly. “The two go together!”

  Everyone laughed, not because his quip was funny but because dinner a la russe had come to an end and they all felt incredibly relieved. A truce could be called between the warring factions. The men could hunker down in the trenches of the billiard room and fortify themselves with port and cigars, and the ladies could retreat to the music room and pacify themselves with coffee and cocoa.

  Miss Dee slipped her arm through the Countess’s as they crossed the alabaster entrance hall, a swish of silk and velvet skirts swaying in tandem. “I will give you my copy of the play before you go home tonight. I know my lines by heart and I don’t need it anymore. That way you can start learning your lines right away and familiarize yourself with the scenes. We’re not doing the whole play, just an abridged version of it according to the whim of Lola.”

  “Thank you, that’s very thoughtful of you.”

  “You don’t mind playing one of the witches, do you?”