The young man pushed his long fringe out of his eyes and gazed up at the wall.  The wallpaper, stained yellow from years of tobacco smoke, barely showed between the picture frames.  Faces, in black and white sophistication, smiled back at him.  He heard the clatter of crockery and glanced over his shoulder.
    'Great pictures.'
    The old man set the tea things on the coffee table, the tray listing to the side because of the newspapers underneath; the Express, Evening Standard, Racing Post.  He fell into an armchair, the seat cushion moulded through long use to his body.  'You recognise them?'
    'Some of them,' the young man nodded, taking his hands out of his trouser pockets, pinching the fabric as he took a seat opposite.  The chair was hard and straight-backed, suited to a people that had lived through a world war but uncomfortable to a softer, less-troubled generation.  His fine blonde hair ruffled the redundant antimacassar laid over the back.  'That's Olivier.'  He pointed to a photograph.  'Centre stage, I see.'
    'Where else do you put Olivier?' the old man said with a grin.
    'Gielgud, Richardson, and… Claire Bloom?'
    The old man nodded as he slid a pipe and tobacco pouch onto his lap.  ‘So, you want to interview me?’
    'Yes.  My paper's doing a feature next month on the older citizens of the borough and I was interviewing an old lady further along the street and she mentioned you used to be an actor.'
    'Mrs Trippett,' the old man muttered, sliding the pipe between his lips.
    'Yeah.  And I thought you might give me an interview.'
    ‘About my career?’
    ‘We-ell,’ the word was dragged out uneasily, ‘yes.  But,  and I don’t mean to be rude, but your career couldn’t have been all that successful, can it?  I mean, I've never heard of you.  So I thought instead I could do a piece on why fame eluded you.  Why others of your generation,’ he raised his eyes to Olivier, ‘went on to become famous and why you…’
    ‘Faded into obscurity?’ the old man finished.  ‘That’s not a very flattering question to ask, is it?’
    ‘No, I suppose not,’ the young man agreed unhappily.
    ‘But one could argue that to be asked anything at all these days is flattering.’  The old man gave a very little laugh.
    ‘Then you’ll let me interview you?’
    ‘Why not?' he raised his plump shoulders in a shrug.  'Have you come prepared?’
    In answer, the young man reached inside his jacket pocket and withdrew a digital voice recorder.  ‘You don’t mind if I use this, do you?’  He held the silver machine up for inspection.
    ‘That’s a new-fangled invention that’s replaced the good old pen and paper, I suppose.’
    Taking that as an affirmative, the young man smiled and pressed the Record button.  ‘So, Mr Legg…’
    ‘Now, please,’ the old man held up his hand in supplication.  ‘Before we begin, I would prefer it if you called me by my stage name.  I don’t care for my real name.’
    ‘Oh, right.  Mrs Trippett did tell me it.  Now, what was it?’
    ‘Ronald Fane,’ the old man said, rolling and caressing the R.  ‘My mother thought that up.  She liked Ronald Colman, you see.’
    The young man didn’t see, for he had never heard of Ronald Colman, but he inclined his head in pretended understanding.  ‘Yeah, it’s a good name.  Now, from what I've been told, you started off pretty well…’
     Ronald leant forward and patted the young man’s knee.  ‘Shall I tell this story, my boy and you do the listening, eh?’
     When the response came after a moment's hesitation, it was sulky.  ‘If you like.'
     ‘You won’t know what questions to ask,’ Ronald said mollifying.  ‘As you say, I began well enough.  I went to a school that had a very good drama department and I appeared in all the school plays.  But you want to know why it all went wrong, don’t you?  Well, I can tell you why in one word.  Macbeth.’
     The young man stared at him.  ‘Macbeth?  The play?’
     ‘Of course the play,' Ronald's hand gripped the arm of the chair in irritation.  What other Macbeth do you know?’
     ‘Yeah, sorry,’ the young man shook his head.  ‘But how…?’
     ‘You must have heard of the superstition actors have regarding that play?’
     ‘Well, yeah.  I know actors normally refer to it as the Scottish play and that’s it bad luck to say the name in the theatre.  So, was that it?  You said the name and your career was over?  What’s this got to do with when you were at school?’
     ‘I was about to tell you,' Ronald snapped.   'It was my father’s fault.  My mother sent him backstage to wish me luck, he would never have thought of it himself.  He clapped me on the back, nearly sending me flying and said Good Luck.  Then he asked me the name of the play.  I whispered that it was the Scottish play, which naturally confused him, he was such a philistine.  So I had to say the name, I had to say Macbeth.  Out loud. In the theatre.  Honestly, young as I was, it sent a shiver up my spine to say it.  And true enough, that night, I cursed myself.  I didn’t do the ritual, you see.’
     ‘The ritual?’
     ‘The one to undo the curse.  I didn’t know what to do.’
     ‘What should you do if you say the name?’
     ‘You should turn around three times, spit and say ‘Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you.’  At least, that’s one of the ways to lift the curse.  There are a few.’
     ‘And they work?’
     ‘I don’t know,’ Ronald shook his head sadly.  ‘No actor is usually stupid enough to find out.’
     ‘But you didn’t know what to do, so you didn’t?’
     ‘That's right, and it cursed my entire career.’
     ‘Well, what happened?’
     ‘I was playing Banquo, Macbeth’s comrade until he suspects Macbeth is up to no good.  Anyway, it came to the banquet scene.  There I was, just about to scare the wits out of Macbeth - Freddie Stubbs in a ridiculous wig - when the curtain pole fell on top of me.’
     The young man sniggered.  ‘I bet that hurt.’
     ‘Of course it hurt.  I had a lump on my head the size of an egg.’
     ‘But that was just an accident.  It might not have had anything to do with you saying Macbeth.’
     ‘It might have been an accident,’ Ronald agreed.  ‘But it was only the beginning.’
     ‘The second incident occurred when I had begun drama school.  RADA, you know.  I was playing Donalbain.  It’s not a large part, but it was only my first year and at RADA, you had to earn the big roles.  Anyway, some chap was playing the fool before the first performance.  He’s larking around, full of bravado and shouts out the name Macbeth, just to prove he’s not frightened of it.  He gets ticked off, of course, and he has to do the ritual.’
     ‘What happened?’
     ‘Well, it’s the scene where Duncan is discovered dead.  Macduff is running around screaming bloody murder and Malcolm and Donalbain come down from their room.  So, Malcolm and I run on stage … and I slip and break my ankle.’
     The young man pursed his lips in an expression of pain.
     ‘Of course, the play had to stop.  I was carried off and taken out of the production.  So and so was given my part,’ he finished ruefully.
     ‘It could be just coincidence,’ the young man suggested, slouching in the chair and crooking one leg over the other.  ‘And besides, shouldn’t the curse have happened to the bloke who shouted out the name?’
     ‘You would think so, wouldn’t you?’ Ronald said bitterly.  ‘But no.  He walked away from the production quite unscathed and went on to bigger and better things.’
     ‘Really?’ the young man said with interest.  ‘What was his name?’
     Ronald glared at him.  ‘It’s my history you want to know about, isn’t it?
     ‘Yes.  Sorry.’
     ‘Coincidence, you think?’ Ronald continued.  ‘All right, what about this?  The third time I was playing Macduff.  Now that’s a good part.  This was a few years later.  I’d graduated from RADA and was starting to make a few appearances in theatres in Birmingham and such like.  I was staying in a hotel just around the corner from the theatre.  The landlady asked me what play I was in and I gave the safe answer of the Scottish play.  ‘Oh, that’s Macbeth, isn’t it?’ she cries.  My insides turned to ice.  I was rattled, I can tell you, but I hoped that it would be fine because she didn’t say it in the theatre.  So, off I go for the first performance.  I manage to get through the first half without incident and I start to relax.  Then it comes to the scene where Macduff tries to get Malcolm to return to Scotland with an army, and I’m enjoying myself, getting a little worked up and I decide to improvise a few things.  In my passion, I bang the wall and …’
     ‘Oh no,’ the young man covered his mouth.
     ‘Yes,’ Ronald sighed.  ‘The wall fell down.’  He grimaced as the young man sniggered.  ‘It wasn’t funny.’
     ‘No,’ the young man straightened his face.  ‘But at least you weren’t hurt this time.’
     ‘True, but it was a small consolation. The actor playing Malcolm was furious and made the rest of the run a living hell for me.  I thank God it was only on for a couple of weeks.’
    ‘And the next time?  I assume there was a next time?’
    ‘Oh yes.  This time I was in London, playing the lead,' Ronald said proudly but then added, 'that is, I was understudying Macbeth.  But one night, he couldn’t go on.  Ill, it was said, though he was most probably drunk, a right sot he was.  So, I had my big chance.’  Ronald paused and rubbed his forehead.
    ‘What happened?’ the young man prompted warily.
    ‘I…I stabbed Macduff.’
    ‘YOU WHAT?’ the young man cried, making Ronald jump.
    ‘Not deliberately,’ Ronald protested.  ‘It had been going so well.  I was on top form, I really was.  But it came to the penultimate scene, the one where Macbeth and Macduff fight.’
     The young man frowned, trying to remember the play he had been forced to read at school.  ‘Doesn’t that happen offstage?’
     ‘It does.  But our director wanted a lot of it to happen onstage.  This was the sixties, and the plebs do love a bit of violence.  So there are sword blades slicing through the air, and they’re proper steel, not fake.  The fight is choreographed, of course, but it’s still dangerous.  There’s always room for error.  And do you know, to this day, I can’t honestly say that it was all my fault.  I’m sure Macduff lunged when he should have side-stepped.  My sword went into his side.  Oh, it was horrible,’ he moaned, sounding very like the ghost of old Hamlet, the young man thought.  ‘The audience hadn’t realised what had happened.  Macduff is writhing around on the floor, holding his side with blood seeping out between his fingers and Macbeth is standing over him with a dripping sword, victorious.  That’s not how the play is supposed to end.’
     ‘No.  Macduff cuts off Macbeth’s head.  Bloody hell, Ronald.’
     ‘I know, I know.  It was awful.  Macduff had to be carted off to hospital and have about forty stitches.  Obviously the play couldn’t continue.  The audience demanded their money back and I got the elbow.’
     ‘Okay,’ the young man held his hands up, ‘I believe you.  Macbeth was bad luck for you.  So why didn’t you just stay away from it?’
     ‘I planned to after that.  But I never got the opportunity.  It was too late.  Word got around, you see.’  Ronald waggled a finger.  ‘Don’t employ Ronald Fane, he’s a jinx.’
     ‘But only in Macbeth.’
     ‘It didn’t matter.   No one wanted to employ me and my talent wasn’t that great that the curse could be overlooked.  My agent let me go as the bookings dropped off and I couldn’t get another.  So that was me.  Finished.’  
     The young man shook his head as he pressed the Stop button on the recorder.  ‘That’s a sad story, Ronald.  And all because of Macbeth.’
     ‘Yes, indeed.  Well, what do you think?  Will it make a story?’
     ‘Yes, I should think so.’  The young man drew an imaginary headline in the air.  ‘Macbeth ruined my career.’
     ‘Sounds like a tabloid,’ Ronald muttered.
     ‘No, it’s good stuff,’ the young man insisted, playing back the last few seconds of dialogue to check that he had it.  ‘Can I just ask?  You seem to have got over the curse bit of it now, though.  You say the name quite fearlessly.’
     ‘Until today, I hadn’t said it for a very long time,’ Ronald realised.  ‘But it can’t hurt me now.  I’m not in the profession nor am I standing in a theatre.  What can He do to me?’
     He stood and pocketed the recorder.  'Well, thanks very much.'
     Ronald secured the pipe between his teeth and shook the young man's extended hand.
     'You're welcome.'
     The young man stepped down onto the doorstop.  'But be honest with me, Ronald.  It really doesn’t frighten you anymore then?’
      ‘I’m too old to be frightened.  Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth,' he said in a singsong voice.  'There, I’ve said it.  Well, goodbye, young man.’
      ‘Bye, Ronald and thanks.’
      Ronald waved and shut the door.  The young man's visit had made for a pleasant afternoon and he had enjoyed talking about himself, even if it had been about the failure of his career and not the success of it.  Oh, how much pleasanter that interview would have been.  Musing on this, he failed to notice the cat curving its body around his armoured ankles, whose alarm clock brain knew that it was dinnertime.  He didn't notice it; he only heard its yowl as he stepped on its tail.  In the few seconds it took for him to topple forward and hit the ground, he realised that it would probably have been safer not to mention Macbeth after all.

THE END