The Playmakers (3 page)

“And it’s harder when religion comes into
it,” Shakespeare would repeatedly bemoan to those he could trust,
“and a man sticks to his Catholic guns in the face of the
ever-growing wave of State-inspired Protestantism.”

John Shakespeare had been born and raised
Catholic, and had flourished, as best as anyone could have done,
during the turbulent Papal rule of Bloody Mary. He was determined
to stay that way, even going so far as being a recusant, refusing
to attend Church of England services.

“John,” Mary would say, “this is not a good
position to adopt. It provokes attention, criticism, and possible
prosecution. You could be … er …”

“ Killed?” he would answer. “Let them try to
burn me at the stake. I’ll never attend the ceremony devised by a
bloated old monarch who married nearly as many times as I have had
children.”

With all these forces at work, the family
leather business had battled in recent years to make a profit and
keep the large, well-appointed house with seven children going. The
big decision had come when John ultimately found it impossible to
support William’s schooling, preferring him, as the oldest son, to
join the family business. Thus, after an indifferent few years at
the local Grammar School, predominately taught by Catholic
teachers, William had finished up before he turned fifteen. While
feigning disappointment to his parents, he joyously picked his way
down the muddy lane-way on his final day, free from books and study
at last. But despite his optimistic enthusiasm for post-school
life, the testing experiences of the three years since, as the
father-master tried to teach his pupil-son, had only heightened the
tension in the house.

“That son of ours is so frustrating,” John
would angrily say at the end of yet another long day. “He won’t
listen to a word I say.”

“John, you were a boy like that once,” Mary
would say, quietening him down.

“Mary, he’s a dreamer. He’s got ideas, but
they are all impractical.”

The pressure became relentless when John
faced the ignominy of being unable to pay his regular community
contributions, levied from town leaders to support the less well
off. He had begun shying away from his duties as an alderman,
preferring not to be seen at public gatherings.

“I know what they are saying behind my back,”
John would glower at Mary. “That I’m a Catholic, and fast going
bankrupt, but I will show them.”

And on this day, at last, John Shakespeare
was smiling. Finally, here was a chance to throw something back at
his arch-critics.

“Mary,” John said, “we will show everyone in
Stratford that the Shakespeares are still a family of substance,
with a grand wedding of our son to Anne Whateley.”

Anne Whateley was a pretty local girl of
similar age to William, and in the few short months she had come
into their lives had endeared herself to John and Mary Shakespeare
with her sweet nature, pert good looks and sensible approach to
life. Now the licence had been taken out for them to be
married.

“Although,” said John, covertly reaching for
a scone again, “I can’t see what she sees in our William.”

“John,” Mary replied, smacking his wrist for
the second time, “she’s a lovely girl, she can see things in him
that not even you and I can, and she will do wonders for him.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a peal
of girlish laughter from the kitchen, and they looked across to
acknowledge a young man and a young woman entering the main room
arm-in-arm.

The first thing John Shakespeare noticed
about Anne Whateley - as he did every time he saw her - was the
whiteness and evenness of her teeth. While many Stratford girls,
and certainly a lot of the boys, exhibited mouths of dark, rotting
cavities, Anne Whateley displayed dental perfection. And they were
teeth that were regularly on display because she laughed a lot.

She laughed both at, and with, William.

She laughed at any attempts at humour by Mr
Shakespeare, no matter how feeble.

She laughed at the discreet comments by Mrs
Shakespeare, who had quickly taken her into her confidence, about
the inefficiencies and inabilities of the males in the household,
and men in general.

She laughed at life, because life was there
to be taken - and she would be taking William with her on this
journey of fun.

“And, Lord God, forgive me for saying this,”
John Shakespeare would say to himself, when no one was within
ear-shot, “if her teeth are perfect, then her figure is exquisite.”
Village gossip held that when the Joshua Simpson the tailor had
placed his tape around her waist as a preliminary measurement for
the wedding dress, it stopped at a whisker under nineteen
inches.

Despite the best efforts of the sweep-up boy
to rummage through every scrap of paper in the shop, the actual
figure of the dimensions of her magnificent bosom taken that day
were never sighted.

But it is said that on peering at the tape
through his eyes weakened by years of work, Joshua Simpson blinked,
read it again, let out a low whistle, and wandered out to the back
of the shop shaking his head.

The perfect figure and the perfect teeth
complemented Anne Whateley’s perfectly shaped nose, clear blue
eyes, and creamy skin. By contrast, the skin of the dark-haired
young man accompanying her was more sallow, a series of ugly
pimples battling to find their way through the surface of a flimsy
field of herbage purporting to be a beard. The eyes were doleful,
almost heavy-lidded, but with a spark of a villain about them. The
mouth was full-lipped, curving sensuously at its apex.

“And what are you two laughing about?” said
Mrs Shakespeare as they entered.

“We have been talking of the future,” Anne
replied.

“Oh, and I take it, it will be a happy
one?”

“William says he is going to revolutionise
the leather business,” said Anne, cuddling up closer to him and
looking into his eyes.

“Ah,” said Mr Shakespeare, tearing himself
away from the perfect teeth and the perfect bosom, at the mention
of business, “and how does Will propose to do that?”

“I thought we should design some new
products,” said William, “like making better use of these strips of
leather we make to tie men’s breeches below the knee.” He held up a
piece of finely crafted leather a yard long.

‘They’re wondrous, so strong,” he said,
grabbing more, and tying several together into one long piece, and
adding triumphantly, “I reckon there is a market for these in
skipping ropes!”

John Shakespeare gave an icy smile, and was
about to chastise his son for coming up with yet another idea he
felt was frivolous and of little potential. But out of the corner
of his eye he caught the face of his wife signalling him to be
positive. “Why, William, that is brilliant,” he said
unconvincingly.

Anne Whateley linked her arms with both
William’s and that of her future father-in-law and laughed her
engaging girlish laugh. “Life with William is going to be
wonderful.”

As if to put an exclamation mark onto her
statement, there came a loud knock on the front door.

“Must be someone to wish you well,” said John
Shakespeare, as he disentangled himself from her arm, turned,
walked to the door and swept it open with a swish.

There stood a woman wrapped in a huge brown
woollen shawl, covering her from head to foot.

Despite the camouflage provided by the
clothing, John knew only too well it was the figure of Anne
Hathaway, daughter of a farmer and family friend from nearby
Shottery.

She was tall, robust, of farming stock, with
a sharply angled face.

The face, peering out from under the brown
shawl, was now twisted with anger.

“Why, Anne,” said John, diplomatically, “how
good to see you. Are your parents well? Come in, we’re having a
small celebration for William’s impending marriage.”

“I heard on the grapevine the Shakespeare
family was planning a wedding,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “But
I suggest there needs to be a variation to the list of personnel
involved.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“You will,” she said, shoving past and
entering the main room. “Now, where is the spineless little
rat?”

A hint, just a shadow, of a spineless little
rat could be seen pulling away from the arm of Anne Whateley and
making a hasty exit through to the kitchen.

Anne Hathaway let out a yell with a voice
reinforced by years of calling in cattle from faraway hills.
“William Shakespeare!” the voice boomed, “you come back here this
minute.”

There was silence.

“William,” boomed Anne Hathaway again towards
the doorway of the kitchen. “Here! Now.”

Silence.

“William! You evil little n’er-do-well, we
can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”

Finally, a shuffling of feet could be heard
from the kitchen, and ultimately a sad, whiskery face, its eyes
bulging in terror, peeked around the corner.

“Here! Here, here,” said the voice, a little
less strident. “C’mon. That’s the boy.”

Astonished, Anne Whateley stared as the
cowering William edged in sideways with his hands loosely clasped
in front of his chest. She looked back in confusion at the tall,
forbidding presence issuing the instructions, and turned to her
fiancé again.

“William, William? What’s going on?” she
blurted, rushing to his side. “What on earth is this all
about?”

William drew slightly back from her, wiping
his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at the floor.

“Yes, William, what’s going on?” added his
mother.

John Shakespeare had had enough, and turning
to the disconcerting interloper, put on his best bailiff’s eviction
voice.

“Anne, cordial as the links between our two
families are, and acknowledging the fact that you and William are
friends, I still must ask you to leave. You are disrupting
William’s preparations for his marriage to Anne.”

“Depends on which Anne you mean,” came the
flat reply.

“Why, um, this … Anne … Anne Whateley, of
course,” said John, pointing in the general direction of the
perfect waist.

“Oh,” said Anne Hathaway, dropping her shawl
to the floor, and patting her own obviously expanding
waistline.

“Has he got her pregnant, too ..?”

The five figures stayed frozen for a moment;
the major figures of Anne Hathaway boldly exposing her swelling
belly and William Shakespeare wanly peering upwards and sideways at
her.

Then demons and spirits broke loose in a
manner that made the reign of Bloody Mary pale into
insignificance.

Mary Shakespeare let out a wail of the
dimensions heard only at the stake as the flames consumed the flesh
of some poor non-believing wretch. It is said that the scream of
horror and sadness that came from the mouth of Anne Whateley could
be heard in the outer suburbs of London, a hundred miles to the
south-east.

The bailiff in John Shakespeare emerging, he
angrily lunged at his son, grabbing him by the neck, bullying him
to the ground. “You stupid, stupid, wretch.”

Anne Hathaway triumphantly folded her arms
over her stomach, and gave a haughty toss of her head as the other
two women dissolved into tears and the two men grappled and tore at
each other on the floor.

Eventually, Mary Shakespeare pulled her
husband away from where he was dedicatedly strangling his son, and
some sort of sanity was restored.

Anne Whateley stared forlornly at her now
ex-fiancé.

“How could you do this?” she finally
whispered. There was no laughter this time, only hurt. She burst
into tears. “How could you? You told me you were visiting their
farm on business.” She grabbed her skirts and ran out, sobbing.

“Anne, Anne, I’m sorry, I …” pleaded William
Shakespeare lamely as she disappeared out the door.

There was silence.

Ultimately, John Shakespeare turned to Anne
Hathaway and spoke. “Are you sure, um, that he is, the, um …”

“Oh yes, he’s the father, all right, thank
you for asking. There’s no one else involved.”

“But I don’t, I don’t want get married to
you!” Will blurted sullenly. “I want to marry Anne.”

“You should have thought of that earlier,
William Shakespeare,” said Anne Hathaway, “when you were being so
amorous in my father’s haystack.”

“I didn’t think it would lead to this.”

“Ah, the innocence of youth! Have you not
heard that if you play with fire you will get burnt?”

“But, Anne,” interrupted Mary Shakespeare.
“You’re a mature woman. Eight years older. William’s only a boy.
Surely we could sort something out.”

“He may be a boy, but he’s going to be a
father now!”

William winced at the thought.

“Don’t put on the petulant face,” Anne
continued. “You will be marrying me, because if you don’t, I will
expose you to the deacons, who will, in duty bound, have you
consigned to the stocks and exposed to public ridicule. How does
that sound?”

John Shakespeare shook his head. The family
had taken enough knocks lately, and such community humiliation
would be the killer blow.

“Enough,” he said. “Enough.” And he pushed
the plate of scones away.

The following day, accompanied by the stern,
unyielding Anne Hathaway, and with the giggles and guffaws of the
Stratford public ringing in his ears, a red-faced William
Shakespeare walked sombrely down the street to the church and asked
a startled deacon about issuing a second marriage licence in two
days.

“But William,” said the deacon, “didn’t we …
er … yesterday?”

“Just do it, deacon. Just do it,” mumbled
William.

Later that day, an old farmer, noticing a
usually closed door open in his barn two miles out of town, came
across Anne Whateley.

The thin strips of leather that were intended
to spearhead Anne and William’s business plans were wound at one
end around her neck, and at the other around a rafter.