The Playmakers (19 page)

“I’m not at all surprised!” replied Samuel
Davidson one day when Percy wandered down the narrow stairs in his
nightshirt, chanting his familiar litany.

Sarah tried to ease Percy back into the
world, through a mix of love, devotion, and support.

“It’s not your fault, Uncle Percy,” she would
say in her touching way. “It’s not your fault.”

But her efforts had little effect. After
staggering on stage and bellowing his litany to a tune concocted by
a travelling lute-player that had joined the group, he would wobble
upstairs to the roars of applause. And there, nursing a flagon, he
would sit in a corner and see ghosts and cry in the night and pray
for forgiveness.

With all this going on, Sarah often wondered,
after collapsing exhausted in her own tiny bed in one of the
diminutive guest rooms, how she was finding time for one more
important thing.

Falling in love with William Shakespeare.

But she knew it was happening, even though
she had never really been in love before; because her heart jumped
every time he suddenly materialised in the inn after another day
out in the streets promoting shows; because of the jolt of
indefinable power that surged through her body any time they
accidentally collided as they rushed about their duties in the
frenzied inn, she serving, and he ensuring the customers were
enjoying themselves; because each night before she went to sleep
she imagined them together, wrapped lovingly in each other’s arms,
isolating each other from the travails of the world. He protecting
her from the impact of her father’s death, she protecting him from
… from, well, what?

What is it,
Sarah
would ask herself,
that forces William
Shakespeare to display, amongst his otherwise endearing
characteristics, an aloofness?

No, wait,
she would
think,
aloof is not the word. It’s more a
self-imposed restraint.

Why can he be so genial
and friendly, and yet go no further?

Why is it from that day,
that Moment, when we looked into each other’s eyes in front of Mr
Budsby, that it was obvious we were meant for each other, yet he
has not dared pursue the matter?

What is holding him
back?

Then she would shut her eyes and say a little
prayer - a rather less frenetic and more positive prayer than the
one Uncle Percy was mumbling two doors up - and the next thing she
knew she was awake and making pies again.

“Show him a bit of ankle,” was the solution
offered by Margaret, a wench whose pretty face and curvaceous
figure were starting to show signs of wear and tear after years
working in taverns, and one of the first added to the staff roster
because of her skills and experience.

“Ankle?” said Sarah, surprised.

“Sarah, in all my years serving up drinks and
food,” Margaret said, as her muscly forearms and sinewy hands
rolled the pastry on the big table in the kitchen, “I have learnt
one thing about men.”

“And what is that?” asked Sarah sweetly.

“They are all lazy, lying, selfish
bastards.”

“Margaret!” exclaimed Sarah.

“Well most of them are, anyway. There are the
occasional exceptions, and if you find one, and want to set a bait
to catch him and haul him aboard, then my only advice is that men
cannot resist the sight of exposed flesh. You can start with your
ankle. You may go higher if you wish.”

Sarah closed her large blue eyes and blushed
at the thought. Her concept of modesty was such that she had barely
seen her own ankles herself, much less let anybody else observe
them. When she bathed, in a small wooden tub upstairs, even though
she knew the door was locked and she was all alone, she still
grabbed for the towel immediately on exiting the bath and covered
herself fully before getting dressed. Her demure upbringing and
attitude was underlined by the fact that she was the only one among
the serving staff that worked in a high-neck blouse rather than the
low-cut version that all the others wore and which, as Margaret put
it, “Drives men crazy with lust, and makes them consume more
drink.”

“Trouble is,” Margaret said, leaning forward
to display her impressive cleavage and emphasise the point, “after
one of these fellows has spent all night talking directly to your
chest, and you finally say yes, when you get him into bed, you
discover he is all talk and no action!”

Sarah’s blush reddened further.

“This little limp turnip about this long,”
continued Margaret, holding up her right thumb and forefinger about
an inch apart, “just lies there, flattened by the intake of beer,
and no amount of coaxing will stir it into life.” She let out a
mighty laugh, and Sarah, seized by the imagery, burst into
red-faced giggles. “I tell you, the number of times I have crept
back down the hallway while a so-called romantic hero is lying back
on the bed drunk and snoring …”

The pair burst into laughter again.

“Ladies, ladies,” suddenly came a
recognizable voice, “we appear to be enjoying our work this
morning.”

The pair looked up from their pies and their
mirth, to see the large and imposing figure of Mr Budsby, wearing
his big coat over his Turkish potentate’s outfit, edging through
the door.

“Oh, Mr Budsby,” said Sarah, regaining her
composure. “Margaret was just saying that …”

“Working around this place is certainly not
boring …” continued her working partner.

Sarah’s delightful laughter peeled through
the kitchen again.

“Ah, that is the sound I love to hear,” said
Budsby, with cheery enthusiasm. “Laughter resolves all issues,
heals all ills, revives all broken spirits. That’s the sort of
laughter that greets Soho when he is in top form.”

“And how can we help you, Mr Budsby?” said
Margaret.

“Before we go out on our last procession to
promote the play, I just wanted to see what Sarah thought about my
dear friend Percy. Is there any chance he will snap out of this
awful state he is in?”

Sarah frowned. “I would hope so, Mr Budsby,”
she said. “Every now and then he shows a bit of interest in
something - perhaps a new style of pie we have cooked - but by and
large he is still the same.”

“It’s a sad thing,” said Budsby slowly.
“Percy’s tavern is the talk of the town and we are salting away
enormous profits for him, but he is incapable of enjoying the
experience.”

“Perhaps some sort of shock might bring him
out of his state,” said Sarah.

“Take him out and show him Rasa in her
Turkish outfit!” said Margaret with a chuckle. “That’ll bring him
round.”

Sarah began to giggle again.

“It certainly stirred that young Master
Marlowe into action,” added Margaret with a wink.

There was an awkward silence.

“Pardon?’ said Budsby.

“Oh, dear, I think I may have said too much,”
said Margaret, pushing a wisp of hair out of face and getting back
to the pastry.

“No, no, continue,” said Sarah, intrigued.
“Please.”

Margaret looked at Sarah and then at the big
fellow. “Well, Mr Budsby, it appears not only was Mr Marlowe
impressed by your magnificent procession that promoted his play,
what was the name of it now ..?”

“Tamburlaine,” said Budsby.

“Tamburlaine, yes,” said Margaret.

“Get to the point, Margaret,” said Sarah.

“I’m getting there, missy. Don’t get anxious.
Well, it appears, he was also smitten by what he saw up on the
litter.”

“Oh?” said the big fellow, frowning.

“And I don’t mean you, Mr Budsby!” said
Margaret, letting out a roar of a laugh.

“No, well, one would hope not!”

“He’s in love with Rasa,” said Margaret.
“Besotted. One sight of that noble face and that lovely figure of
hers, and he was gone. See, what did I tell you, young lady?”

Sarah turned crimson again, and went back to
shaping the pastry in the pie dishes.

“Hmm,” said Budsby.

“You look a bit concerned, Mr Budsby,” said
Margaret.

“Not really, Margaret. It’s just Tamburlaine
has been such a success …”

“Because of your help, Mr Budsby.”

“I did my bit, Margaret. But it has been a
success because of Christopher’s beautiful writing. And now there
is a proposal to produce a second version, Part Two, and have it
also played by the same band of esteemed actors, the Admiral’s
Men.”

“An Admiral! I had one of those once, too,”
said Margaret, enthusiastically. “Same old story. Too much rum.
Couldn’t weigh anchor …”

“Margaret, you are indefatigable,” said
Budsby warmly.

“Oooh, no, not me, Mr Budsby,” Margaret
replied, suddenly very serious. “I don’t go in for anything quirky,
like, with my gentlemen …”

Budsby smiled, shook his head. “No, no.
Margaret, I mean you are unstoppable.”

“Oh, well, that’s all right, then.”

Budsby made for the door, but at the last
second he stopped, turned back, and said, “Oh, and Sarah?”

“Yes, Mr Budsby?”

“Don’t show too much ankle. William is such a
delicate boy …”

And as he left, Sarah turned the brightest
crimson and Margaret burst into laughter.

The laughter cascaded out into the street
where Soho was limbering up for his daily ritual of leading the
procession, and Shakespeare stood next to the sedan chair counting
the pile of leaflets to distribute.

“Just enough for one more run,” said
Shakespeare, almost absent-mindedly. “Perfect.”

“And what about Part Two?” said a voice.

Shakespeare turned to see a face smiling at
him from the other side of the chair. It was the scrappily bearded
face of Christopher Marlowe and it was beaming with joy.

“Part Two, Christopher? What’s this I hear
about Part Two?”

“Ah, Will,” said the young playwright, coming
around from the other side, “Tamburlaine has been a great success,
in no small way due to your brilliant promotion. I have so much
material left over from it, I can do some more, and repeat that
success.”

“Is this wise? Shouldn’t you be looking at
something else?”

“I am, William, I am. Kings, Queens, princes.
The French. Now there’s a source of inspiration if ever there was
one. People called Henry. The Florentines. The Vikings! I have my
ideas.”

“That’s good.”

“But,” continued Marlowe, patting the spot
where Rasa always positioned herself on the litter, “you can’t get
too much of a good thing!”

“So I hear,” said Shakespeare quietly.

“Will, Will, do I detect a note of jealousy?
Are you concerned that I am in love with the most beautiful human
being in all of England? In fact, in the whole of the world?”

“No, no,” said Shakespeare. “I congratulate
you. You are a lucky man.”

“So?”

“It’s just that if you are to do a second
Tamburlaine, then we will have to come up with another idea to tell
people about it.”

“But, Will, this works so well!”

“This time around, yes,” said Shakespeare.
“But we can’t afford to repeat ourselves. That’s the name of the
game, Christopher. We need something new every time.”

“Ah, well,” said Marlowe, confidently. “How’s
this for something new, then?” He looked skyward, as if reading a
giant poster, and waving his arm across the sky with a flourish, he
pretended to read, ‘Tamburlaine The Second Part, written by
Christopher Marlowe, portrayed by the Admiral’s Men, and featuring
the newest talent to entrance you with his acting skills, William
Shakespeare …’”

There was silence as Shakespeare let the
words sink in, and Marlowe watched his face with joyful
anticipation.

“What? Me? Act?” said Shakespeare
eventually.

“See?” said Marlowe, jumping to within an
inch of his face. “I knew you had what it takes. If only we had a
reflector glass. Your look of fake alarm right now is priceless,
worthy of Alleyn himself.”

“Christopher, Edward Alleyn is the premiere
actor of the Admiral’s Men. I would never in my wildest dreams be
considered to be like him. Besides, my look of shock right now is
real.”

“Well, hold it. Remember it. Learn how to
reproduce it. And I’ll write a line in the play for you to employ
it!”

“But Christopher. I have never acted!”

“Will,” said Christopher fondly, “you have
all the attributes. The voice, the presence, the confidence. All
honed on those years on the road with Mr Budsby. Why, the big
fellow has even knocked the edges off your Stratford accent and
filled your mouth with his rounded, mellow tones.”

Shakespeare looked down at the ground.
It was true,
he thought. Day by day, out
at the front with the banner, or down at the back with the posters,
he had been slowly developing a talent for performance without
realising it, and had, unwittingly or otherwise, picked up the
marvellous, fruity tones of his London-born and educated
mentor.

Shakespeare slowly looked up, and said
firmly, “All right, Christopher, I …”

But Marlowe was no longer in front of him. He
had moved with the speed of a cat, and was now ten yards away, at
the door of the tavern, assisting Rasa out into the street and onto
the litter for her last performance with the fan. He was chatting
to her, cuddling her, kissing her, offering to take her coat off to
reveal her sensational outfit.

“ … will be only too pleased to play a role,”
concluded Shakespeare quietly.

As the lovebirds giggled, Will shrugged,
looked around, down, sideways, anywhere, along as it took his eyes
off the sickly smooching scene before him.

Eventually he looked upwards, to the first
floor of the tavern.

And there, at the window of her tiny bedroom,
Sarah stood, staring down at him.

History might show that Shakespeare’s first
acting performance, in a theatre before a large crowd, may well
have been in Tamburlaine, Part Two. But, in fact, his first real
use of his acting skills was on this day, in a London street,
watched from above by a captive audience of one.