Macbeth and Son Read Free Page B

Megan was watching. ‘There’s this guy, right, and he’s wandering through the fog and he meets these chicks. How come he suddenly thinks, Hey, yo, witches?’
    ‘They had beards,’ someone put in. ‘Banquo says, “ you should be women, And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so .”’
    ‘Good,’ said Mrs Easson, impressed.
    Megan put up her hand again. ‘Women get hair on their faces after menopause, don’t they?’
    ‘Yeah,’ put in Jingo. ‘Mrs Henderson.’
    Mrs Henderson was the principal. Luke joined in the general laughter.
    ‘Now, now,’ said Mrs Easson, though she was trying not to smile too.
    ‘Hey, does that mean Mrs Henderson’s a witch?’ called Patrick.
    More laughter.
    ‘Settle down,’ ordered Mrs Easson.
    Jingo put his hand up again.
    ‘What is it now, James?’ she asked wearily.
    ‘If I met Mrs Henderson in the fog,’ said Jingo, ‘and she told me I was going to be king one day, I wouldn’t go and shoot what’s his name, Prince Charles, like Macbeth goes and kills King Duncan. I’d just think she’d gone crazy.’
    ‘Yay, King Jingo!’ yelled someone up the back.
    ‘But the witches were telling the truth,’ objected Megan.
    ‘Were they?’ asked Mrs Easson. ‘That’s the point of the play, isn’t it? Are they really telling Macbeth what will happen? Or are they lying to make Macbeth try to become king? Would he have become king if he’d never met them? Is it truth or is it a lie?’
    Who cares? thought Luke. But it had been fun watching Megan take on Mrs Easson. Even Jingo had been okay.
    He glanced at his watch. Nearly knock-off time. He supposed he’d better get round to reading the play tonight. Everyone else seemed to have finished it.
    ‘Now, don’t forget,’ Mrs Easson said more loudly over the sound of the bell, ‘you have to give your talks Friday of next week. Okay, off you go.’
    Chairs scraped as the impatient ones who’d gathered up their things in the last five minutes of class raced for the door. Luke stood up more slowly. Why hurry? The bus never left till ten to four, which was when a couple of the kids on their route finished their music lessons.
    ‘Hey, Luke.’ It was Patrick. ‘You finished reading the play yet?’
    Pat and Megan lived next door, even if ‘next door’ meant five kilometres down the road—or one kilometre if you cut through the paddocks and wentover the hill. Pat had been his best friend since they’d bashed each other with their rattles, and Megan, Pat’s twin…well, she was just Megan. Part of Luke’s life.
    Luke shook his head. ‘Haven’t even started. How about you?’
    ‘Nope. But Megan’s read it.’
    ‘Hey, not fair! You can’t just have your sister read it instead of you.’
    ‘Course I can,’ said Patrick easily. ‘One of the privileges of being a twin. Isn’t that right, Meg?’
    ‘What? No way!’ Megan was shoving her books into her bag. ‘You can read it yourself, peabrain.’
    It was hard to believe that Megan and Pat were twins. Megan’s hair was dark red—red like the rose on the bush Mum had planted in their new courtyard. Pat’s was black, and he was a head taller than Megan too.
    ‘Hey, Luke.’ Megan turned to him. ‘Dad wants to know if you can give us a hand pruning this weekend.’ She wrinkled up her nose. ‘I wish someone would come up with a peach tree that didn’t need pruning…’
    ‘Sure, no worries.’ Luke liked pruning. Funny, he’d hated it when Dad was alive, when they had to prune the trees each winter or have no fruit to sell the next year. But since Sam had moved in and the orchards had been bulldozed, Luke had found he missed the trees and the old rhythm of their year.
    At least he could still prune with Pat and Megan. And doing it with them was different somehow from pruning with your mum and dad.
    The three of them walked along the splintery school verandah and down onto the asphalt. Luke could seethe line of buses outside the school gates,