A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (18 page)

When I first heard that Thursday was back in Swindon I was delighted. I never fully believed that she had gone for good. I had heard of her problems in London and I also knew how she reacted to stress. All of us who returned from the peninsula were to become experts on the subject whether we liked it or not . . .

LANDEN PARKE
-
LAINE
—
Memoirs of a Crimean Veteran

I
TOLD
Mr. Parke-Laine that you had hemorrhagic fever but he didn't believe me,” said Liz on reception at the Finis.

“The flu would have been more believable.”

Liz was unrepentant.

“He sent you this.”

She passed across an envelope. I was tempted just to throw it in the bin, but I felt slightly guilty about giving him a hard time when we had met the previous night. The envelope contained a numbered ticket for
Richard III
which played every Friday evening at the Ritz Theater. We used to attend almost every week when we were going out together. It was a good show; the audience made it even better.

“When did you last go out with him?” asked Liz, sensing my indecision.

I looked up.

“Ten years ago.”

“
Ten years?
Go, darling. Most of my boyfriends would have trouble even remembering that long.”

I looked at the ticket again. The show began in an hour.

“Is that why you left Swindon?” asked Liz, keen to be of some help.

I nodded.

“And did you keep a photo of him all those years?”

I nodded again.

“I see,” replied Liz thoughtfully. “I'll call a cab while you go and change.”

It was good advice, and I trotted off to my room, had a quick shower and tried on almost everything in my wardrobe. I put my hair up, then down again, then up once more, muttered “Too boyish” at a pair of trousers and slipped into a dress. I selected some earrings that Landen had given me and locked my automatic in the room safe. I just had time to put on a small amount of eyeliner before I was whisked through the streets of Swindon by a taxi driver, an ex-Marine involved in the retaking of Balaclava in '61. We chatted about the Crimea. He didn't know where Colonel Phelps was going to talk either, but when he found out, he said, he would heckle for all his worth.

The Ritz looked a good deal shabbier. I doubted whether it had been repainted at all since we were last here. The gold-painted plaster moldings around the stage were dusty and unwashed, the curtain stained with the rainwater that had leaked in. No other play but
Richard III
had been performed here for over fifteen years, and the theater itself had no company to speak of, just a backstage crew and a prompter. All the actors were pulled from an audience who had been to the play so many times they
knew it back to front. Casting was usually done only half an hour before curtain-up.

Occasionally seasoned actors and actresses would make guest appearances, although never by advance booking. If they were at a loose end late Friday night, perhaps after their performance at one of Swindon's three other theaters, they might come along and be selected by the manager as an impromptu treat for audience and cast. Just the week before, a local Richard III had found himself playing opposite Lola Vavoom, currently starring in the musical stage version of
Fancy-free in Ludlow
at the Swindon Crucible. It had been something of a treat for him; he didn't need to buy dinner for a month.

Landen was waiting for me outside the theater. It was five minutes to curtain-up and the actors had already been chosen by the manager, plus one in reserve in case anybody had a bad attack of the nerves and started chucking up in the bathroom.

“Thanks for coming,” said Landen.

“Yeah,” I replied, kissing him on the cheek and taking a deep breath of his aftershave. It was Bodmin; I recognized the earthy scent.

“How was your first day?” he asked.

“Kidnappings, vampires, shot dead a suspect, lost a witness to a gunman, Goliath tried to have me killed, puncture on the car. Usual shit.”

“A puncture? Really?”

“Not really. I made that bit up. Listen, I'm sorry about yesterday. I think I'm taking my work a bit too seriously.”

“If you weren't,” agreed Landen with an understanding smile, “I'd really start worrying. Come on, it's nearly curtain-up.”

He took my arm in a familiar gesture that I liked and led me inside. The theatergoers were chattering noisily, the brightly colored costumes of the unchosen actors in the audience giving
a gala flavor to the occasion. I felt the electricity in the air and realized how much I had missed it. We found our seats.

“When was the last time you were here?” I asked when we were comfortable.

“With you,” replied Landen, standing up and applauding wildly as the curtain opened to a wheezing alarm. I did the same.

A compé¨re in a black cloak with red lining swept onto the stage.

“Welcome, all you Will-loving R3 fans, to the Ritz at Swindon, where tonight (drum roll), for your DELECTATION, for your GRATIFICATION, for your EDIFICATION, for your JOLLIFICATION, for your SHAKESPEARIFICATION, we will perform Will's
Richard III,
for the audience, to the audience, BY THE AUDIENCE!”

The crowd cheered and he held up his hands to quieten them.

“But before we start!—Let's give a big hand to Ralph and Thea Swanavon who are attending for their two hundredth time!!”

The crowd applauded wildly as Ralph and Thea walked on. They were dressed as Richard and Lady Anne and bowed and curtsied to the audience, who threw flowers onto the stage.

“Ralph has played Dick the shit twenty-seven times and Creepy Clarence twelve times; Thea has been Lady Anne thirty-one times and Margaret eight times!”

The audience stamped their feet and whistled.

“So to commemorate their bicentennial, they will be playing opposite each other for the first time!”

They respectively bowed and curtsied once more as the audience applauded and the curtains closed, jammed, opened slightly and closed again.

There was a moment's pause and then the curtains reopened, revealing Richard at the side of the stage. He limped up
and down the boards, eyeing the audience malevolently past a particularly ugly prosthetic nose.

“Ham!” yelled someone at the back.

Richard opened his mouth to speak and the whole audience erupted in unison:

“
When
is the winter of our discontent?”

“Now,” replied Richard with a cruel smile, “is the winter of our discontent . . .”

A cheer went up to the chandeliers high in the ceiling. The play had begun. Landen and I cheered with them.
Richard III
was one of those plays that could repeal the law of diminishing returns; it could be enjoyed over and over again.

“. . . made glorious summer by this son of York,” continued Richard, limping to the side of the stage. On the word “ summer” six hundred people placed sunglasses on and looked up at an imaginary sun.

“. . . and all the clouds that lower'd upon our house in the deep bosom of the ocean, buried . . .”

“
When
were our brows bound?” yelled the audience.

“Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths,” continued Richard, ignoring them completely. We must have been to this show thirty times and even now I could feel myself mouthing the words with the actor on the stage.

“... to the lascivious pleasing of a lute...” continued Richard, saying “lute” loudly as several other members of the audience gave alternative suggestions.

“Piano!” shouted out one person near us. “Bagpipes!” said another. Someone at the back, missing the cue entirely, shouted in a high voice “Euphonium!” halfway through the next line and was drowned out when the audience yelled: “Pick a card!” as Richard told them that he “was not shaped for sportive tricks . . .”

Landen looked across at me and smiled. I returned the smile instinctively; I was enjoying myself.

“I that am rudely stamp'd . . .” muttered Richard, as the audience took its cue and stamped the ground with a crash that reverberated around the auditorium.

Landen and I had never wanted to tread the boards ourselves and had never troubled to dress up. The production was the only show at the Ritz; it was empty the rest of the week. Keen amateur thespians and Shakespeare fans would drive from all over the country to participate, and it was never anything but a full house. A few years back a French troupe performed the play in French to rapturous applause; a troupe went to Sauvignon a few months later to repay the gesture.

“. . . and that so lamely and unfashionable, that dogs bark at me...”

The audience barked loudly, making a noise like feeding time at the dogs' home. Outside in the alley several cats new to the vicinity momentarily flinched, while more seasoned moggies looked at each other with a knowing smile.

The play went on, the actors doing sterling work and the audience parrying with quips that ranged from the intelligent to the obscure to the downright vulgar. When Clarence explained that the king was convinced that “. . . by the letter ‘G' his issue disinherited shall be . . .” the audience yelled out:

“Gloucester begins with G, dummy!”

And when the Lady Anne had Richard on his knees in front of her with his sword at his throat, the audience encouraged her to run him through; and just before one of Richard's nephews, the young Duke of York, alluded to Richard's hump: “Uncle, my brother mocks both you and me; because that I am little, like an ape, he thinks that you should bear me on your shoulders—!!!” the audience yelled out: “Don't mention the hump, kid!,” and after he did: “The Tower! The Tower!”

The play was the Garrick cut and lasted only about two and a half hours; at Bosworth field most of the audience ended up
on the stage as they helped reenact the battle. Richard, Catesby and Richmond had to finish the play in the aisle as the battle raged about them. A pink pantomime horse appeared on cue when Richard offered to swap his kingdom for just such a beast, and the battle finally ended in the foyer. Richmond then took one of the girls from behind the ice-cream counter as his Elizabeth and continued his final speech from the balcony with the audience below hailing him as the new king of England, the soldiers who had fought on Richard's side proclaiming their new allegiance. The play ended with Richmond saying: “God say Amen!”

“Amen!” said the crowd, amid happy applause. It had been a good show. The cast had done a fine job and fortunately this time no one had been seriously injured during Bosworth. Landen and I filed out quickly and found a table in a café across the road. Landen ordered two coffees and we looked at one another.

“You're looking good, Thursday. You've aged better than me.”

“Nonsense,” I replied. “Look at these lines!—”

“Laughter lines,” asserted Landen.

“Nothing's
that
funny.”

“Are you here for good?” he asked suddenly.

“I don't know,” I answered. I dropped my gaze. I had promised myself I wouldn't feel guilty about leaving, but—

“It depends.”

“On?—”

I looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

“—on SpecOps.”

The coffee arrived at that point and I smiled brightly.

“So, how have you been?”

“I've been good,” he said, then added in a lower tone, “I've been lonely too. Very lonely. I'm not getting any younger, either. How have
you
been?”

I wanted to tell him that I'd been lonely too, but some
things can't easily be said. I wanted him to know that I still wasn't happy with what he had done. Forgive and forget is all very well, but no one was going to forgive and forget my brother. Anton's dead name was mud and that was solely down to Landen.

“I've been fine.” I thought about it. “I haven't, actually.”

“I'm listening.”

“I'm having a shitty time right now. I lost two colleagues in London. I'm chasing after a lunatic who most people think is dead, Mycroft and Polly have been kidnapped, Goliath is breathing down my neck and the regional commander at SpecOps might just have my badge. As you can see, things are just peachy.”

“Compared to the Crimea, this is small beer, Thursday. You're stronger than all this crap.”

Landen stirred three sugars into his coffee and I looked at him again.

“Are you hoping for us to get back together?”

He was taken aback by the directness of my question. He shrugged.

“I don't think we were ever truly apart.”

I knew exactly what he meant. Spiritually, we never were.

“I can't apologize anymore, Thursday. You lost a brother, I lost some good friends, my whole platoon and a leg. I know what Anton means to you but I saw him pointing up the wrong valley to Colonel Frobisher just before the armored column moved off. It was a crazy day and crazy circumstances, but it happened and I had to say what I saw!—”