The Playmakers (12 page)

“Quiet in here, isn’t it?” said Mr Mullins
ultimately.

“What did you say?” said Budsby.

“I said there is not much going on here, is
there?”

“Exactly!” said Budsby.

“Precisely,” said Shakespeare, quite
excitedly, nodding to a long, narrow, vacant space against the back
wall.

Budsby turned around, looked at the space,
and turned back. They both began to smile.

Mr Mullins, who had earlier declared he would
stay on with Mr Budsby no matter what “because you are the finest
employer I have ever had, sir,” looked from one to the other.

“What?” he said. “What’s up?”

“Yes,” said Samuel Davidson. “What?”

“What’s this all about?” chimed in the former
twins.

Budsby leaned over to his young heir
apparent, and whispered, “Will, are you thinking what I am
thinking?”

“I believe I am, Mr Budsby, I believe I
am.”

It took time, and few more ales, but the
loquacious Budsby’s skills won out, and ultimately he pumped the
pretty, naive serving girl for the story behind the lack of
clientele, “in such a fine establishment as this.”

“Oooh, such a tragedy it is, sir,” said she
in a rush. “It is my uncle who is the landlord, well, he is the
landlord now, but in fact he was simply going to be the silent
partner. He put all his life savings into this, having worked all
those years running the books in the miller’s, to go in partnership
with his best friend who knows all about inns, having had the Fox
and Hounds over in the west for years. But after they had done this
all up, his friend, well, he’s not really his friend now, is he?
His friend, who was going to run it, well, the only running he did
was that he ran off with poor uncle’s life savings - and with his
wife of twenty-seven years! It turns out that they had been, you
know, er, ah ...” She stopped and blushed.

“Companions?” added Budsby helpfully.

“Emotionally involved?” contributed
Shakespeare.

“You mean he was giving her one?” inquired
Davidson, nudging Mullins with his elbow. The girl’s face turned
crimson.

“Thank you, Samuel,” said Budsby, “for your
florid assessment of the situation, which, alas, might be a little
too colourful for our young lady here.”

The girl took a deep breath, her breasts
heaved, and Shakespeare leaned forward, intrigued.

“Well, anyway, it turns out they had been
friends for ages,” she continued, “and had set all this up so they
could cheat uncle out of everything. And they have,” she added,
biting her bottom lip.

There was silence, until she regained her
composure.

“So, where is he?” said Budsby kindly.

“Now he just lies upstairs in his bed,
staring at the ceiling,” said the girl. “Because he doesn’t know
how to pour beer and run inns; he’s a figures man. And he doesn’t
want to run it anyway, because the person he loves so much has run
off with his friend who is no longer his friend. He’s lost all
interest in life.”

“That is sad,” said Shakespeare.

“And,” she added, leaning forward, “just
between you and me, I don’t know what aunty saw in the cheating
little atheist bastard, anyway.”

It was all that the visitors could do to
restrain themselves from laughing at this final, serious statement
of a story so otherwise innocently told by the young girl, barely
seventeen, with the most beguiling large blue eyes, pale
complexion, ruby-red lips.

And, Shakespeare couldn’t help but notice, a
magnificent bosom, hidden underneath a modest neck-high shirt, not
like the low-cut blouses serving girls usually wore.

He looked at her again, and the image of Anne
Whateley - his beautiful Anne who he had loved so much and now was
gone - seared into his brain.

Shakespeare shook his head, and fell
quite.

Budsby maintained his composure and
eventually replied, “And what is to happen now, young lady?”

“Well,” said the girl. “I help out and keep
it going as best I can. I serve the ale and do a bit of cooking for
the few people that come in.

“But no one knows we’re here, or how we have
done this place up, and unless we start getting some money in soon,
then the agents of the owner, the Earl of Something Or Other, who
owns half England, will turn up and throw us all into the
street.”

“The Earl of Something Or Other?” said
Shakespeare, suddenly snapping out of his reverential observation
of the enchanting face and beguiling figure.

“Who owns half England?” added Mr
Mullins.

“That wouldn’t be, by any chance,” chimed in
Budsby smoothly, “the Earl of Oxford?”

“That’s him,” said the girl. “The Earl of
Oxford.”

“He’s the Lord Chamberlain, too,” said
Davidson.

“The Lord Chamber-Pot uncle calls him,” said
the girl, brightening up. “Or at least he used to, when he was
feeling better.”

“I see,” said Budsby. “Um, is there any
chance of us seeing your uncle, not to impose on his time too much,
but just for a moment?”

“Well, he don’t take kindly to visitors, but
you could try. Why? What for?”

“We have, ah …” said Budsby.

“A little business proposition we would like
to put to him,” added Shakespeare.

“A proposition that could resolve the
financial woes that you have so beautifully outlined,” added
Budsby.

“All right,” said the girl slowly. “No harm
in trying, I guess.”

“But before we go up,” said Shakespeare,
casting his eyes in the general direction of the steep stairs.

“Yes,” said the girl, looking at those eyes
for the first time, and noticing how the semi-closed lids gave them
a sort of sensuous look.

“Does anyone know,” queried Shakespeare,
“where the atheist and his runaway lover have gone?”

“They were last heard of heading to
Norwich.”

“Norwich!” said the erstwhile twins.

“Bleedin’ Norwich!” said Mr Mullins.

“Don’t you worry,” said Samuel, raising his
tankard. “He’ll get his!”

And for the first time in many, many days,
the group of friends burst into laughter.

It was the laughter of the tired, the
drained, the emotionally wrung out; laughter mixed with tears;
laughter perfect for washing away the memories of the last wretched
few weeks; laughter that unveiled, for the first time, the funny
side of their otherwise dark situation; laughter so hearty that it
echoed through the emptiness of the tavern, especially the vacant
space at the back wall which Budsby and Shakespeare kept
eyeing.

It was laughter so loud and therapeutic, it
even got uncle out of bed.

The group looked up to see a pathetic figure
struggling down the steep stairs. The body was emaciated, dressed
only in coarse underwear. The cheeks were hollow, the left one
carrying a sizeable cut indicating that at some stage an endeavour
had been made to shave the greying stubble, but had been abandoned
through lack of interest. The thin grey hair was unkempt, and the
two bony hands held rigidly to the banister as the ghostly figure
negotiated the steep steps.

From out of deep hollows, two sad grey eyes
stared into the middle distance.

“Uncle Percy!” cried the serving wench, as
she rushed over and helped the stark apparition down the last few
steps onto the freshly laid stone floor.

“Percy?” said Budsby, rising from the table.
“Not Percy Fletcher?”

“You know this man?” said Shakespeare
urgently.

“Yes, yes,” said Budsby. “Well I think I do.
This is … this is Percy, isn’t it?” he continued, appealing to the
girl for affirmation.

“Yes. My Uncle Percy. Percy Fletcher.”

“Well, I’ll be,” continued Budsby, getting up
and rushing over. “Percy, Percy, Percy.” He stopped a yard short,
examining the hollow face and wretched body, but kept talking
loudly so the group behind him could hear every word.

“We were at school together,” Budsby said.
“And had a few little money-making ideas on the side. Taking the
odd wager, digging up a few stray vegetables when plot-owners
weren’t looking and selling them, that sort of thing. Percy
provided the head for figures, and I provided …”

“The bulldust!” added Samuel Davidson. The
others laughed.

“Precisely!” roared Budsby. “Precisely. Ahh,
Percy, we were a good team, and now it has come to this.”

He moved forward and embraced his old
friend.

There was a long silence. As the tears ran
down his cheeks into the greying stubble, Percy continued to stare
into the middle distance.

Finally he spoke. “She left me, Rufus. She
left me. After all those years.”

Budsby stepped back a pace and looked fondly
into the face wracked with agony.

“I know, good friend. I know,” he said
kindly. “And now I am here to help alleviate the pain.”

Budsby moved forward to hold his friend
again, but before he could, there was a commotion at the door, and
he turned to see a group of men burst in rapidly, roughly shoving
tables and chairs aside, as they approached the group.

There were five altogether, four at the rear
dressed for combat, with chain-mail jerkins, protective gloves, and
shiny helmets. Four large swords dangled provocatively from four
studded belts. The man at the front swaggered, confident that
should there be any trouble, his gang of armed support would
intervene and restore the balance. He was dressed in expensive
clothes - the doublet, cap, trousers and hat were dour in colour,
perhaps, but quality in style and cut. The only flash of colour was
supplied by a quarter inch of a startling pink handkerchief, which
poked out from under one sleeve.

The man’s goatee was trimmed to give a
menacing look, and while the body was, Shakespeare guessed, now in
its sixth decade and starting to expand from a little too much of
the good life, he walked briskly and with confidence.

“Mr Fletcher,” he said, marching straight up
to the cadaverous figure. “How good to see you up and about.”

“She left me,” was all that Percy could say.
“She left me.”

“I appreciate that, Mr Fletcher. She was a
good woman, your wife, a much-loved partner on the great and
challenging journey of life. But I’m afraid matters of broken
romance have little bearing on dealings of daily commerce.”

“She left me,” said Percy again, in the
monotone of a beaten man.

“And you will be leaving here, too, within
seven days unless some money - some rent - is forthcoming. The Earl
of Oxford is a generous man, but as his manager, charged with the
duties of handling his financial affairs, I am required to ensure
that his properties perform at their financial optimum.”

“You might be good at collecting money,” said
Samuel Davidson wryly, “but you’re pretty slow at paying it
out.”

The four guards stepped forward, their hands
on their swords. Their leader swung and stared at Davidson.
Restraining his men from further movement with a raised hand, he
said, “And who might you be?”

“Davidson. Samuel Davidson. I was a guard
once up on one of the Earl’s properties near Norwich.”

“Then you will know, Mr Davidson, that the
Earl has a vast empire, requiring constant attention to run
smoothly. Payment for salaries such as yours …”

“Which took me a devil of a time to get.”

“ … is dependent on people such as Mr
Fletcher here honouring their contracts. Luckily, you are here
today, for whatever reason, to see exactly what I am talking
about.”

He turned again to the distressed landlord.
“Seven days, Mr Fletcher. Just one week.”

“Can’t you see he’s ill?” said Davidson.

“Not my problem,” came the reply.

Budsby could take this no longer. “On behalf
of Mr Fletcher, I can assure you, sir, you’ll get your first
payment in seven days.”

The leader swung around. “Oh, and who is
saying this?”

“Rufus J. Budsby, sir, entrepreneur,
raconteur and bon vivant.”

“Hmm,” replied the visitor, surveying the
massive shape of Budsby. “I can see that much ‘bon’ has gone into
the ‘vivant.’”

Shakespeare let out a small snigger, but
quickly stifled it when Budsby shot him a severe glance.

“But perhaps,” continued the visitor, “a
little more attention could be given to the dressage.”

Budsby gave a little bow. “And to whom do I
owe thanks for such overwhelming advice on fashion matters?”

“I am Burghley,” continued the well-dressed
man, “Baron William Cecil Burghley, confidante of her Majesty, and
father-in-law of the Earl of Oxford.”

Budsby nodded his head again.

The girl curtseyed and backed away.

Soho gave a little bow and moved closer.

“Good heavens,” said Burghley, spying the
gargoyle for the first time. “What is that?”

“Allow me to introduce Soho,” replied Budsby,
“the funniest man in all of England.”

“Well, tell him to be funny away from me,
will you?”

Soho turned to Budsby and winked.

Burghley continued, “It is a pleasure to meet
you, Mr Budsby, but I have pressing matters.” And marching up to
within an inch of the cadaverous face of Percy, Burghley said
evenly, “Seven days, Mr Fletcher. Seven days.”

He turned and walked briskly toward the door,
so intent on making a grand departure with his four henchmen, he
did not notice Soho brush past him as he went.

At the doorway, Burghley stopped and looked
back.

“It’s a pity, Mr Fletcher,” he said. “I
thought you were going to do something great here, and bring us
some income. Lord knows we need it. Come, gentlemen, we have work
to do.”

He went through the door, and pulled it shut
with a mighty crash.

There was silence.

A silence which was broken only when Soho
turned around, held his palms flat up in the air, and then, from
out of his mouth, started to unravel the pink handkerchief.

The laughter was so hearty, that even Uncle
Percy managed a thin smile.