The Lammas Curse by Anna Lord Page A

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 31 st ,”
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