The Playmakers (5 page)

And nine weeks after Susanna was born,
William came up the rickety stairs one Thursday, at the end of
another session making gloves, to find the little garret perfectly
tidy, the baby asleep, a flagon of wine on the table, and his wife
standing at the far end with the heavy curtain that served as the
bedroom wall wrapped around her.

With a dramatic thrust of both arms, she
flung the curtain away to reveal her naked body. Her tall, lissom
figure had regained its magnificent farm-bred sinewy shape, and
William gasped and blinked in awe.

She narrowed her eyes, stretched out her
right arm, beckoned him with her forefinger, and said, “Come on,
little hay-stacks …”

And for the next seven months a truce was
declared and regular passers-by down below were puzzled to find the
customary shouting and sound of plates crashing that usually
emanated from the two big windows up above the leather works had
been replaced by awesome silence or a hint of delicate moaning.

William would reflect later that this was the
sanest period of his marriage, as he worked hard downstairs all
day, and came upstairs to a meal, a baby daughter and some love and
affection.

The memory of Anne Whateley began to dim just
slightly and John and Mary Shakespeare began to breathe a little
more easily and concentrate on the other six children of the
family.

Then, one morning in May, 1584, Anne advised
William she was pregnant again, got out of bed, threw up in the
little wooden bowl, and to the delight of regular passers-by below,
normal shouting and plate-smashing resumed.

They fought about money. They fought about
his work. They fought about how she felt.

“I’m going out,” he would say.

“You are not,” she would fly back at him, as
he scrambled down the stairs, dodging the A-frames and the hurled
pots, and ran off to the Stratford Arms to seek some ale with his
mates, and try and sneak back later when all was quiet.

On February 2, 1585, Anne went into labour,
and a harried William Shakespeare was thrust downstairs by a
forceful mid-wife in all-white garb and bonnet shouting at him,
“Come back in two hours, Mr Shakespeare. Two hours, mind.”

William grabbed a handful of coins from his
father’s hiding place of the business’s daily cash, and strolled to
the Stratford Arms two streets away. He did this with mixed
feelings. He knew from harsh experience the positives were the
warmth and noise of the tavern gave him temporary respite from the
frozen atmosphere of the garret, and the alcohol either made him
euphoric or drowned his sorrows. But the downside was conversation
with his friends made him feel isolated.

To them life was still worth living.

Unmarried and unfettered by responsibilities,
they could drink as much as they liked, say what they liked, and do
what they liked. They could go where they wanted to, within the
bounds of travelling possibilities, and chase whatever woman they
liked. It was all too easy.

Here he was, chained to a harridan with the
strength of an Amazon, the tongue of a viper, and a temper that
knew no bounds.

Even though his drinking mates had been
friends since Grammar School, he was now living in a different
world, and their conversations were losing their spark.

Any talk of Susanna’s development plodded
along for a few sentences until it veered toward more
bachelor-related topics.

Ah, but this night was different.

For some reason, the concept of impending
fatherhood seems to excite the celebratory nerve in all men.

“A drink for my friend Will, here,” shouted a
tall robust young man, with an almost rectangular face, as he
welcomed his pal to the table right in the middle of the crowded
smoky room. “He’s going to be a father again!”

This was Harold Granville, one of William’s
best friends. Handsome, intelligent, mischievous.

The serving wench came with the ales,
catching Harold’s eye as she put the tray down, bending down to
give him a good view of her breasts in the low-cut dress as she
placed the drinks before the group. There was a mighty roar as
Harold pulled her down onto his knee, and whispered in her ear.
“Not now, Harold! Later,” she blushed, got up and bounced away.

“I wish I could do that,” said Will staring
gloomily into his beer.

“Will, you’re a lucky man, you have your own
woman - every night!” said Harold. “Here I am, chatting up
bar-girls with no luck at all.”

“The luck is always on your side,” said Will.
“And I can tell you, I have no luck any night, these days. Any
night at all.”

“Will, Will,” said Harold. “You’re going to
be a father again, that’s a wonderful event. The rest of us can
only dream about that. Who knows, this time you might have a son!”
Grabbing his tankard he stood up and shouted, “Here’s to William
Shakespeare and his son. We think …”

The mob stood as one, shouted “To William
Shakespeare and his son. We think!” They downed their ales, and
called for more.

After four more rounds, William began to look
around and judge the time. “Two hours,” he said. “I’ve got to
go.”

“What’s this?” said Harold. “Leaving already?
The night is but young.”

“Yes, Will,” chimed in Charles Porter, a
young man with a pointed goatee beard and coal-black eyes. “Plenty
of time yet to have a baby.”

“One more?” said Harold, his arm around Will,
his eyes sparkling.

The serving girl arrived, and moved next to
Harold. “What will it be, gentlemen?”

“One more, especially for my friend Will
here, who is going to have a son.”

An elderly man at the next table turned
around, his big red face creased with a mighty grin. “What, young
Shakespeare, you’ve had a son? Have an ale on me!”

“I actually haven’t had a son, yet ...”

“But he will have one, that’s for sure,” said
Harold. “I have that feeling.”

The man laughed, his giant belly flopping up
and down. “From what I understand, you’ve always got that feeling,
Harold!”

The crowd roared with laughter, intermingled
with the phrase, “A drink for young Shakespeare, on me,” coming
from all quarters.

“Two hours, Harold,” said Will, taking a sip.
“They told me two hours.”

The next thing Will remembered was hearing
the laughter. The bell-like laughter! That girlish giggle that
enthralled him in ages past, in the good times before one stupid
mistake had ruined things forever. The laughter resounded through
his head, and he reached out to touch the image of Anne Whateley,
smiling, giggling, beautiful as ever, before him.

And suddenly, she was gone, and he awoke, his
head ringing, his eyes scratchy, his mouth dry.

He was lying on the floor, a dirty, smelly,
earthen floor. Next to him, barely a foot away, Charles Porter lay,
snoring through his pointed goatee. And beyond him a lay a girl
Will had never seen before, asleep on her side.

The girlish giggle continued to haunt him,
and he turned to see that it was coming from the corner where
Harold and the wench from the inn were cuddled up in the only bed
in the room, a low-slung single sleeper made of rough logs and
straw. They were both obviously naked, but under a grubby sheet,
and Harold was tickling her nose with a piece of straw, lightly
touching it and just as suddenly, pulling it away, making her
laugh. That laugh.

Will pushed himself up on one elbow. His
forehead felt sore and he brushed it with his hand. He felt a lump,
and examined the palm of his hand. There was blood.

“Where … what?”

“Ah,” said Harold from the comfort of his
bed. “Alive at last, young Will.”

“What happened?”

“Do you want the long version, or the short
version?”

“Any version. Just tell me what
happened.”

“Well, basically, you consumed lots of
ale.”

“And ..?”

“Which somewhat retarded your debating skills
…”

“Debating?”

“Yes, debating. To reply to the ungenerous
gentleman who, in a similarly debilitated state, commented that in
a perverse switch of the usual roles of nature, you had been taken
to the altar by an older woman. That is, you were
cradle-snatched.”

“So I debated this?”

“No, no. That’s what I’m saying. Your
debating skills had been dimmed by the ale.”

“And so?”

“So you elected to resolve it with your
fisticuffs skills. But, alas, they were similarly hobbled by your
intake of the Stratford Arms’ finest brew.”

“So that’s how I got this bump on the
head.”

“He belted you, my dear baby boy!”

“The baby!” said Will suddenly shaking his
head. “Why didn’t you take me home!”

“Will, you were indescribably drunk,
bloodied, dirty from being flung in the street, and smelling of
cow-shit where you landed. You were aggressive, nasty, and trying
to thump anyone who came near you. Charles and I made an executive
decision to carry you home here - after you mercifully passed
out.”

“Passed out?”

“Believe me, you were in no condition to be
hanging around a birth.”

Will staggered to his feet, clutching his
head, stepped across the bodies on the floor and rushed out the
door.

He ran the streets and lanes to the
leather-works, pushing people out of the way, swearing to himself
and feeling sickness rising to his throat through the excess of
alcohol and the realisation of what he had done.

He reached the doorway breathless, threw up
over the steps, and went to the bottom of the rickety stairs to the
garret. A stopped, grey-haired old man, with a kindly wrinkled
face, one of John Shakespeare’s veteran leading hands, stopped
him.

“I would take it easy, if I were you, young
Will,” he said calmly.

Will looked at the old man’s gentle face, and
looked down at himself. He was filthy, bloodied and he smelled of
shit and vomit. “Is the … has she ..?”

“You have a son,” said the old man.

“Praise the Lord,” whispered Will.

“And a daughter as well.”

“Yes, I know I have a daughter!”

“No, no, no. A daughter this time, too.”

“You mean …”

The old man nodded. “There are two
babies.”

“Twins!” said Will, his red eyes opening as
wide as his shocking condition would allow them. “We’ve had twins!
Holy Jesus.”

He began to stagger up the stairs, wiping the
vomit from his mouth and the blood from his head as he went. But if
he felt that his behaviour would be overlooked, or ameliorated by
the unexpected arrival of an extra baby, or that people would look
kindly upon this because he had put up with such a miserable
existence through most of his marriage, then he was wrong.

When he got to the top of the stairs, he
looked down the far end of the garret to see Anne in bed holding
two little bundles wrapped in white rugs.

Next to the bed stood the mid-wife, and next
to her stood his father and his mother.

All staring at him, silently.

“I’m … er …I’m sorry, I …” he mumbled,
staring at the floor.

But this time, there were no screams of abuse
from the viper, no yells of contempt from the harridan. Nothing he
could even retort to, or maybe mount a defence against, with his
own invective and shouting.

This time there was silence.

A silence that shamed him as he stood there
hung-over, dirty and smelling.

But then, almost right on schedule, a pot
flew across the room, glancing off the unwounded side of his head,
and clattering to the floor.

And this time, he knew he had no other choice
but to go downstairs, grab the remainder of the cash from the
business, and walk out into the street and on to a new life.

Because this time the pot had been thrown by
his mother.

CHAPTER THREE

The water was cold. Damn cold. Rightly or
wrongly, William Shakespeare had walked away from his family, his
village, his life.

But doing it on a February afternoon in
England, he soon discovered, was not the wisest of decisions in
terms of escapee comfort. Especially so when he splashed water on
his face from the tiny creek to try and clean off the mud, the
blood, the cow-shit, the memories of his drunken night, and the
awful follow-up. Even though it was now mid-afternoon, and the
feeble winter sun was endeavouring to vainly signal its existence
from behind a bank of dull cloud, there was still a thin crust of
ice near the bank, extending nearly a yard out into the rocky
stream.

There was no choice. He would have to break
this with his fist so he could get at the freezing, almost still
water underneath.

It had to be done. He was filthy and he knew
it.

He knew it from the way the townsfolk and the
farmers had stared at him as he had marched angrily out of
Stratford earlier that day and up the main road, south-west towards
Bristol, anywhere, just to get away from a marriage that he had
never wanted in the first place and which had now gone horribly
wrong.