O' for the love of Shakespeare (5 page)

“Are you dead or have you met someone dishy
dressed in Shakespearean clobber and are currently having rampant sex in the
B&B? … Hope it is the latter x.”  Oops I forgot to text Vic back but her
message makes me giggle. 

“Sorry just got here all OK, just trying to
decide what to do.” I stare at the message then quickly add “wish you were here
with me x” and press send.

“Always start with a drink.  Get out and have
some fun, sweetie.  I know - I wish I was with you too… x.”

OK start with a drink, maybe I could do that. 
I can’t face going looking for a bar by myself but maybe a quaint little tea
room for a cup of tea and a slice of cake.  I check my watch - it is just a
little after lunchtime, no wonder I am starting to feel hungry.  Tea room it
is.  I decide not to tell Vic this is my big exciting plan as I am sure I would
just get a message back mocking me.   

I really should unpack my suitcase but if I
stay to do that I will lose my nerve and I won’t end up going out at all.  I
pop just my sketchbook, purse, keys and phone back in to my handbag and stand
in front of the large mirror to survey myself before entering the place that
brought us Shakespeare.   My hair has turned a little frizzy from the heat of
the train, so I pull it up in to a high ponytail.  It immediately feels better
not being on my face.  I run my hands over my pale pink shirt trying to smooth
out some of the creases from sitting for so long, but this is not working, so I
tuck my shirt into my high-waist skinny jeans.  After a quick spin in front of
the mirror checking all my lumps and bumps are covered, I take a deep breath
and leave my room.

The Bed and Breakfast house is silent and I do
not meet anyone leaving so I start my pilgrimage to the town centre.  I had
picked The Verona Bed, Breakfast and Balcony because it was so close to
everything and in my weeks, or possibly years, of planning this trip I have memorised
the way I need to walk into town.  Walking across a bridge, the beauty of
Stratford-upon-Avon blooms ahead of me.  The park is a mosaic of colours and it
screams summer.  There are hazy blurs of vibrant oranges and purples hanging
from high flower baskets.  The river Avon cuts through the middle of the park
and a number of boats float lazily along on the glittery water.  In the
distance I can see a large red brick building with a tall tower, which from my
research I know is the Royal Shakespeare Theatre.   From memory I think I
remember reading that the theatre has a café.

I stop half way across the bridge, the river
flowing below me, and admire the view.  Taking a deep breath, I let the summer
warmth fill my lungs.  The park is filled with amorous couples and young
families playing and I feel as though walking amongst them I have a large arrow
above my head in neon shouting ‘single and alone’.   Not wanting to draw any
attention to myself I keep my head down and head straight for the theatre.  Why
do I find being on my own so hard - as soon as I think it, I know the answer. 
I have lived in the glow of Vic’s sunshine for so long now that everything
feels a little darker and desolate in her absence. 

As I start my search for the café, I spot a
poster near the theatre advertising a current performance of Othello at a local
theatre.  For months now I have been so excited about seeing a play, well
hopefully a few plays, whilst I am here.  One bonus about Vic not coming with
me is that at least she will not be able to moan about me dragging her to see
lots of plays.  She gave up coming with me some years ago, so I rarely pluck up
the courage to go to any these days.  I have seen many plays in many theatres
over the years, especially whilst at University, but most of all I love the
Globe Theatre.  I think it is most probably my favourite place in the world and
is one of the only places I have actually ever felt comfortable visiting
alone.  When I am at the Globe I become just part of the crowd standing as a
group experiencing the emotions of the play, we laugh and cry together.   
James Burbage built the original Globe which was the first purpose built
playhouse in London.  Prior to this plays were performed in private houses, inns
and such like.  Unfortunately, it was demolished but the building has now been
beautifully rebuilt, just a few hundred yards from where the original one would
have stood.

I purchase one ticket for the eight o’clock performance
of tonight’s
Othello
and then walk back through the theatre feeling
ready for a cup of tea.  Costumes of plays-past line the corridor and a large
imposing image of a famous actor dressed as Richard II bears down at me.  The
corridor opens up to a bright café with doors leading out to an outside seating
area.  I order a pot of tea, a sizeable wedge of carrot cake and find myself a
spot outside next to the river to watch the world pass by for the afternoon.  Finally,
I feel my shoulders drop and I start to relax in to being away.  

A young teenage couple embrace on a bench of
one of the nearby tables, they can only see each other in the constant movement
of the other diners.   I retrieve my sketch book from my bag and begin to
quickly draw the pair and imagine that their love is doomed, both sets of
parents opposed to their union.  In hushed tones they plan running away, their
only chance to be together. 
Romeo and Juliet
, such a beautiful romantic
play. 

I don’t think that I have ever been in a more
picturesque spot, I could quite happily sit here for the next five days.  
Hours pass by while I sketch families floating by in rowing boats, occasionally
small children wave at me their faces lit with such joy that I cannot help but
smile and return their excited waves.  However occasionally my mind drifts back
to everyone at home.  Vic enjoying her new title of Fiancée.  I should probably
break the news to mum that her favourite non-biological child is engaged.  If
she hears about it from anyone else, my life will not be worth living.  Since
moving back to London, mum and Vic have become very close.  Not that I am
surprised as Vic could make anyone love her.  The phone rings.

“Hello Mrs Thomas.”  I still think it odd my mum
answers the phone that way, it sounds like she is greeting the other person as
Mrs Thomas.

“Mum it’s Jane.”

“Hello darling, are you and Victoria having a
nice time away?  I have just got home myself actually from a delightful lunch
with my friend Elaine.  Remember Elaine the one with the Chihuahua that she
talks to like it’s her baby?  It’s called Bobo or something silly like that. 
Very odd woman.”

“Erm yes Mum look I need to tell you
something.”

“You’re gay, aren’t you?”  Worryingly, this is
not the first time a conversation with my mum has started this way.

“No Mum I’m not gay.  You’ve met lots of my
boyfriends, remember Andrew?  You liked Andrew.”  Andrew was a plumber that I
had seen for a month after my oh-so-embarrassing near miss with Stewart.  He
was a fool.

“Yes I know you’ve had lots of boyfriends in
the past but that’s the problem, you flit too fast you don’t give anyone a
chance.  If you just…”  This is not going well.

“Stop Mum, please just stop.”  I have enough of
this when I am at home I do not need it when I am on holiday too.  “As I was
saying, I have some good news.  Vic and Oliver got engaged, so of course she
has stayed with Oliver this weekend.”  There is a pause.

“Oh I see.  Well that’s lovely news of course. 
Do you think I should call to congratulate them?  Maybe offer to help out?  It
would be lovely to help her organise the wedding.  I might never get to do it
with you,” she says sadly.  Fine.  She’s Vic’s problem now.

“You know what, I’m sure Vic would really
appreciate that Mum.”  Sorry Vic.  This is payback for ditching me.

“OK well I better call her straight away, I
have some great ideas on flower displays.  You have fun dear, I’ll speak to you
later.  Bye Jane.” 

“Oh OK yes, bye Mum.”  No ‘are you OK on your
own?’ or ‘will you be alright celebrating your birthday by yourself?’ It just
takes one word.  Wedding.  Then that’s it - goodbye Jane.

My stomach grumbles in protest of being fed
only cake all day but I cannot face sitting in a restaurant alone.  If Vic had
been here, we could have had a lovely long meal somewhere with a yummy pudding
and maybe a few drinks at a pub afterwards.  Not being able to face the meal
for one today I get a sandwich, chocolate bar and an apple juice to take back
to my room at the Bed and Breakfast.

After eating my make shift picnic in my room, I
decide to dress up a little for the theatre, so I change into a pair of black
jeans, a vest and blazer.   Wanting to feel better about my choice of hotel, I
decide to go for a walk around the run down building.  Hopefully I don’t bump
in to Ms Misery Guts.  Everywhere has a musty damp smell but it is a comforting
smell that denotes the age of the building.  I run my hand down the dark oak
handrail of the staircase.  The floorboard creaks as I step off the bottom
step.  I can imagine how grand this all once would have been and I feel sad for
the tired state that it now finds itself in.  I am sure that once a beautiful
lady must have walked down this staircase in times gone by, the flicker of the
candles illuminating her iridescent skin.   Her husband, a well to do merchant,
waiting for her in a room below. 

The room to my left is a run-down large living
room.  A large chintz sofa dominates the room, with a matching armchair pushed
underneath the window looking out on to the street.  They are both hideous. 
The focal point of the room is a large inglenook fireplace in the middle of the
room.   Apart from a couple of small oak side tables, the room is sparse. 
Continuing from the hallway is the original beautiful wood flooring, but in
here, a large gold rug covers the centre of the floor.  I say gold, because I
think at one point that would have been the colour, now it looks dirty and
stained from years of use.  Once, beautiful paintings would probably have hung
on the walls of generations past, but now there is just a print of the
unfortunate Anne Boleyn in an ornate gold painted frame.

Walking back across the hallway, the floor
boards creaking with every step, I find the dining room.  For the purposes of
the business, the dining room has been set up with a number of small tables,
ranging from a table with two chairs, up to a couple of tables for four people
to sit at.  Each table is the same, covered in a simple white table cloth and
that is all.  Similarly, to the sitting room, there is very little in this room
and I feel disappointed.  Through years of neglect, the building has lost all
its warmth, and is barely a shadow of what it once would have been.   

“Can I help you?”

I quickly try to unscrew the glum look on my
face with a forced smile and turn to face the lady who had so warmly welcomed
me to the Bed and Breakfast earlier that day.

“No thank you, I am just on my way out to the
theatre and thought I would have a quick look around before I went.”

“Make sure you are quiet when you get back, I do
not want the other guests disturbed.”  Her eyebrows raise fractionally, warning
me as to what my correct response should be.  I can’t imagine anyone has tried
to disturb her from her sleep, ever, the thought makes a smile tug at my lips,
but I suppress it.

“Yes of course, I have all my keys so I will
not need any help getting back in tonight.”  Her expression is a grimace. 
“I’ll be quiet I promise.”  This is a nightmare.  I am just about to turn on my
heal to flee from the Ice Queen, when she clears her throat and her eyes
appraise me once more, her mouth thin and pursed.

“From the booking, I was expecting two guests
for your room, if your erm, companion, is no longer joining you just to let you
know we do not give any kind of refund on the booking.” Heaven forbid.

“Yes my friend was due to come with me but she
went and got engaged the day before we were due to arrive so she couldn’t
come.  We have been friends since University and we have always done everything
together so this is all new territory being away on my own”.  Why did I just
tell her all that, I must sound like such a loser. 

“Ah I see.”  Her face softens for a fraction of
a second, “breakfast is served eight am to nine am, I do not cook outside of
these times so make sure you arrive during this time - otherwise you will have
to go without.”

“Thank you,” I pause, “sorry I have just
realised I don’t know your name?”

“You can call me Mrs McCree,” and with that she
scuttles back off in the direction from which she appeared, which I guess must
be the kitchen.  I have a very strong feeling that it is Mrs McCree who has
sucked the life out of this beautiful old building.

Act I Scene IV

‘Do it not with poison,
strangle her in her bed.’  Othello.

The play is dark, moody and seductive, everything
a performance of
Othello
should be. The plotting against Othello is made
in the shadows, exploiting jealousy and prejudices.  The actress who played
Desdemona was just incredible.  I had chills when she started to sing the Willow
song, ‘sing willow, willow, willow; her salt tears fell from her, and soften’d
the stones.’  So incredibly moving.  I would have preferred a comedy as it is
such a melancholy tale to start my holiday, but it was still brilliant.  I was
so caught up in the play I even forgot that I was sat on my own for the most
part, too.

It is Othello’s insecurities that make him so
ready to believe that Desdemona could have been unfaithful to him.  Iago is
able to manipulate Othello’s vulnerability so it no longer matters whether
Desdemona cheated or not, it is the very possibility of it happening that is
enough for Othello to commit murder.  There are so many strong themes within
the play that still unfortunately haunt the world today.

On a lighter note, there was some very
significant eye candy in the male roles.  Cassio, in particular, was extremely dishy
and blonde, which is not my usual type at all.  If I was Desdemona, perhaps
Iago’s suggestions would not have been so wrong.  I take a slow walk along the
river watching the moonlight falling across the water, silvery fairies playing
on the still, black surface.  I feel a thrill just thinking that once William Shakespeare
lived here both when he was young and then also later in life when he retired. 
Looking out from the bridge as I walk back to the Bed and Breakfast I see the Church
in the distance that Shakespeare attended, where he now sleeps beside his wife,
Anne.  The streets are deserted apart from a few small groups of people leaving
theatres to go home.  Everything is so still and quiet in the world. 

That night I drift in to a restless sleep,
dreaming of Othello’s hands gripping Desdemona’s lily white neck.

Blinking, trying to make sense of why I have
woken up, I can see the outside world is still inky black.  I scrunch each eye
one at a time trying to focus on the room.  A slither of light scratches the
darkness around the door.  The silhouette of a person stands ominously on the
threshold of the room.  I instantly bolt upright in bed, my heart hammering. 
Has Othello come to kill me?  Momentarily I consider shouting that I have not
had sex with anyone for ages, which in my case is sadly true, but then realise
I am not in fact Desdemona so it is unlikely that this is Othello come to do me
in.

“Oh sorry, I thought you were still out and had
left a light on.  Please turn lights off to save electricity,” an annoyed
sounding man says quietly from the darkness.  With the light illuminating him
from behind, I cannot see his face, only his broad silhouette.  The door slowly
creeps closed again and he is gone.  I look around the room trying to figure
what he was talking about and remember after brushing my teeth I had left the
bathroom light on as at the age of thirty-four, almost thirty-five, being in a
strange place, I still do not like the dark.  So in case of monsters under my
bed, I had left the light on. 

Laughing to myself, I get up quickly, my bare
feet padding across the wooden floor, switch the light off and then quickly
jump back in to my little single bed.  I wiggle back down under the covers and
fall back in to a deep sleep.

I wake up early the next morning, but I am
determined to have a lie in; my life is built around early mornings, either
getting up for work or travelling to mum and dads’ for the day at the weekend. 
It feels like heaven knowing I do not have to be a slave to my alarm clock for
once.  Stretching my limbs, my foot pokes out of the side of the bed.  Yes
heaven, even in the little and uncomfortable single bed that I have.  I look
across at the other untouched bed on the other side of the room and wonder if I
should push the two together or would that just get me told off?

I pull my phone out from under my pillow to
check the time, oops it’s 8.20am and I only have forty minutes left to order
and eat breakfast before Mrs McCree closes the kitchen.  I grab the first
clothes that my hand falls on, which just happens to be Vic’s pale blue dress. 
I quickly slip this on with a pair of flip flops and pin the sides of my hair
back.  Before brushing my teeth, I apply a little mascara in the bathroom
mirror.   Too scared of being told off for being late, I do not even check my
appearance as I grab my bag and keys and rush down the stairs to the dining
room. 

Enter over-amorous couple
. 

The room is deserted, apart from one couple who
are sitting close to the door that Mrs McCree had appeared from the day
before.  I sit at a table as far away from them as possible, not wanting to
intrude on their breakfast.  Although I am curious as to who else would have
chosen The Verona Bed, Breakfast and Balcony as their holiday destination so I
continue to watch them from the corner of my eye.  They are constantly linked
in touch, either holding hands or a finger crazing the other’s arm.  Constant
little signs of affection.  He leans back in his chair but as he does, his hand
disappears in to the back of her hair and then runs along her bare shoulders. 

Even from where I sit I can hear her sudden
inhale of breath.  She is so affected by him.  I feel a deep pang of jealousy. 
I have never experienced that kind of real desire, the constant itch to touch another
person.  It would be so nice to be here with someone.  Someone who would hold
my hand under the table, while waiting for breakfast.    I think they become
aware of me watching and although I quickly move so my face is not turned
towards them, I hear them giggle.

“Hello,” his voice is deep and warm.  Blushing
I turn and return the hello, I smile a small smile and then look back at the
wall.  For the first time since I arrived I am happy that at that moment Mrs
McCree walks in to the room with two plates balanced on her arm. 

“There you go - two full English breakfasts,” as
not very carefully, she drops the plates in front of the couple.  Well at least
it is not just me that she is grumpy with.  However the loved-up duo do not
seem to notice, they smile and give their thanks to Mrs McCree.

Mrs McCree turns, her scowl directed at me.

“What can I get you Ms Thomas?”

“Erm yes, morning Mrs McCree, can I please have
an orange juice and scrambled egg on toast? Thank you.”  Why do I sound like I
am apologising for asking for my breakfast at a Bed and Breakfast?  Off she
heads back to the kitchen without another word.

“Have you just arrived?” Oh no they want to
talk.  I turn to face the woman who has asked me the question, her accent I
think is Italian.  Her skin has a beautiful olive tone.  She looks like she is
in her late twenties and her heart shaped face smiles warmly at me.  Even
sitting down I can tell she is very petite. 

“Yes just yesterday afternoon, you?” I’m trying
to sound as friendly as possible.

“We’ve been here a couple of days now, we leave
on Monday.  We’re on our honeymoon.”  She turns to look dreamily up at her new
husband.  Ah that explains the constant petting.  Out of politeness I offer
congratulations on their recent nuptials and not being able to think of
anything else to say to them I grab my phone from my bag and pretend to be busy
and important.

Mrs McCree places my plate of scrambled egg on
toast and orange juice down and walks back to the kitchen in sullen silence. 
Calling thank you after her, I demolish the food and drink.  I hadn’t realised
how hungry I was.  The newlyweds stand, lacing their fingers together, oh no
they are walking towards me.  I try to physically melt in to my chair.

“We’re just about to go into town - would you like
to join us for the walk?”  He smiles down at me and when I then look to her
face I realise their expressions are the same.  The expression is that of
pity.  Pity for the poor woman holidaying on her own, while we are no doubt
having constant animal-like sex in the room next door.  That is what they are
really saying.

“That is very kind of you, but I’m going to
grab a few things and walk in later, thank you though.”  Look at their smug
little faces as they look at each other and smile.

“OK, well hopefully we will see you later? I’m
Chris by the way and this, this is my beautiful wife Helen.”  She gives a shy
little giggle and strokes his arm.  Jeez get a room, oh that’s right they do
have a room, probably next to mine, with some kind of sex swing in it.

Chris looks a little older than Helen, he has a
tall slim frame which means that he always has to dip slightly on one side so
that he can hold on to his much shorter wife.  He is dark with handsome, gentle
features.

“Yes erm maybe, I’m Jane, nice to meet you.” 
Why am I being so unsociable?  They seem like nice people but I just want them
to go away and leave me alone.  I think they sense this so they both give me
the pity smile one more time and then walk to the front door, stuck together
like they have both been rubbed with super glue.

I finished my breakfast some time ago but there
has been no sign of Mrs McCree, I weigh up whether I should just leave the
dirty plates on the table or if I should take them out to the kitchen.  Feeling
it would be impolite to just leave, I collect up the plate and glass and head
for the door that Mrs McCree has been disappearing through.  The door opens to
a dated country kitchen, pale grey stone tiles cover the floor, making it feel
cold even on a warm summer’s morning.  The cupboards have been painted a pale
sage green colour which would be a trendy colour in most modern kitchens but in
here it just makes everything else look tired.  The whole kitchen needs to be
ripped out and begun again - everything except the beautiful old butler sink
which Mrs McCree is bent over. 

Lady Macbeth scrubs harder and harder, ‘Out,
damned spot! Out, I say’, but unlike in
Macbeth
there is no blood, but instead,
a large build-up of grease in a frying pan.  Mrs McCree’s shirt sleeves are
rolled up to her elbows, as water sloshes over the top of the sink. 

“Erm sorry Mrs McCree, where can I pop these
bits for you?”

Her head slowly swivels around to me in a
menacing horror movie kind-of way.  Maybe I should have left the things on the
table and gone with Mr and Mrs Rampant Sex Rabbits.  I brace myself for a tirade
of hostility, for entering her secret sanctuary, but I am surprised when she sighs
deeply and drops the frying pan in the water.  The splash sends drips of brown
soapy water across the work tops.  She turns her body to face me and holds out
her hands to take the plate and glass.

“Thank you,” she smiles and looks at me
slightly quizzically. “Would you like a cup of tea?”  Taken aback by the sudden
change in personality all I can do is nod.  She holds out her hand directing me
to a small, circular oak table with three matching chairs pulled up to it.  I
take a seat while she puts the kettle on and takes out two cups from the cupboard
above her head.

“So what made you come here?” her voice is
surprisingly friendly all of a sudden.

“I studied English at University and ever since
I have loved the works of Shakespeare.”  Probably best not to mention that I am
in fact obsessed by Shakespeare and regularly imagine that I am a player caught
up in one of his many plays.  The world is a stage after all.    I realise she
is staring at me, waiting for me to embellish a little further.  “I have always
wanted to visit to see where Shakespeare lived and I finally got around to
coming.”  I shrug.  I know it is more than that though - I want to feel closer
to him, to try to see how he was inspired to write so many beautiful and
powerful words.  She comes to sit next to me and offers me one of the cups.  It
is a beautiful vintage blue and white teacup with a matching saucer.  “Thank
you.”  I feel nervous, is this a trick?  Is she going to now tell me what she
really thinks of me?  But instead, she tilts her head to one side looking as
though she is trying to work me out.  Not wanting her to look too deeply into
my soul, I attempt to change the subject.  “Have you lived here long?”

“About two years now, my husband and I had
always dreamed of owning a little Bed and Breakfast somewhere but unfortunately
he passed away before we got here.”

“I’m sorry,” and I mean it, although she seems
fairly unpleasant I cannot even imagine sharing a life with someone and then
suddenly not having them there anymore.  I can only think it must be like
losing a part of your own personality.

“You didn’t have anything to do with it,” she
snaps.  I look down at my hands grasped together in my lap not knowing what to
do or say.  She mumbles something I don’t quite hear.  I should leave.  “You
just get a bit fed up of everyone saying ‘sorry’ when you tell them your
husband has died, but, I shouldn’t have said that.  My turn to say sorry. 
Sorry.” 

I look up at her, her eyes implore me to look
back up to her eye level.  I lift my head back up and give her, what I hope to
be, an understanding smile.  When she smiles back she looks so different, her
rich brown eyes brighten and she looks younger.  Like this I think she is
probably not that much different in age to mum.  Her hair once again is pulled
up in to a tight knot at the top of her head and the grey almost outnumbers the
brown.  Her hands are red and cracked from cleaning.  All I can think is just
how tired she looks.