Love's Will Page 7

  “Did you not? Well, things could be worse. I’ve a decent home, even if it’s not my own, and three healthy children I love. Remember how before we married we used to talk of how unhappy we were? We’re five years older and no better off, except for the children. And sixteen pounds.”

  “Sixteen pounds would hire and furnish a house.”

  “Here in Stratford?”

  “Wherever you wanted.”

  “London?”

  “Do you want to go to London?”

  “I’m not sure, Will.” She sat on the side of the bed and ran her fingers through his hair. “I always wanted to see London, but live there? I don’t know. But the players are in town, and if you don’t at least talk to them and ask them their advice, I will take the children and go home to Hewlands Farm – not forever, not to leave you, but because I need a change. Because you are twenty-three and look forty, and you’re unhappy and hard to live with.”

  “Am I really that bad? I work long hours, true, but that’s for money for you and the children. We could have our own house.”

  “Before you woke up I was thinking how much I’d enjoy stabbing you to death. You’re not so bad. I love you. But I won’t live with an unhappy coward who lost his dream for lack of effort or courage, and punishes his wife for it.”

  Rather pale, watching her intently, he said, “What if I try, and fail?”

  “At least you’d know. At least you will have tried. Better to be a glover or an usher in a school because that is what you do best. But Will, look – Dick Field said he had no trouble selling those plays you sent him, and I’ve always thought you could have got more for them if you had been in London yourself. Give it a try. Speak to the players today. Ask them for advice, ask what your chances are of a playing company taking you on. Show them your plays, tell them you sold two to Whatsisname.”

  “Henslowe.”

  “Whatever. Or, William, and you laughed at me last time I suggested this, you could write to Lord Strange, for whom you used to work in Lancashire, and ask him if his company of players would take you on.”

  “I could not write to a nobleman I’ve not seen in five, six years.”

  “Why not? I’ve never been more than five miles from Stratford but I know how things are done; country town or capital city, it’s who you know, it’s using people you’ve met, it’s reminding useful people of old acquaintance or obligation. So, William, you can rot here blaming me or your stars for the rest of your life, or you can test out your dream. Start by coming to the play today.”

  It sounded like the sort of line on which players made their exit from a scene on stage, and so she exited, downstairs to feed her family their breakfast.

  2.

  The play ended. There was a moment’s hush, then the audience burst into applause. As they stamped and whistled the players lined up to take their bows, again and again, then filed away through the curtains at the stage’s sides. Spain became once more just some rickety boards on trestles, a painted backcloth and Stratford Guildhall.

  “Did you like it, sweetheart?” Anne asked Susanna. The little girl had watched with her father’s intensity, hardly breathing.

  “Yes. Mama, that lady was a man. Why was she?”

  “Women aren’t allowed to act on the stage. Boys play all the ladies.”

  “Oh. Why?”

  “It’s simply not allowed,” William said, standing up and easing his back; the wooden benches were no couches of luxury. “Shall I, after all...”

  “Yes.” Anne took her daughter’s hand and marched around to the back of the Guildhall. William flapped along behind.

  The players were bundling their materials into hampers, loading them onto a cart. Two of them were squabbling bitterly. Watching them was a rosy-faced man Anne recognised as Richard Tarleton, clown to the Queen’s Men. On stage he made you want to laugh as soon as he put his head round the curtains; now he looked tired and as if laughter were the last thing on his mind. Smaller, too, than on stage.

  “Excuse me, sirs,” William began.

  “If you’re selling something,” Mr Tarleton gave him a dismissive glance, “you’ve come to the wrong place. We’re players. No money.”

  “Oh no, it’s nothing like that. Sir, please could we – I mean, could I – speak privately? It’s about a matter of business. I would be glad to take you to the inn and buy a drink.”

  Astonished, Tarleton’s brows shot up and he glanced at Anne in a way she didn’t quite like. She had worn her only ‘best’ dress, her wedding dress, and had thought its flowered linen and her little lace-edged cap modest enough. Surely she didn’t deserve that appraising, almost salacious look. Was it common for men in country towns to pimp their women to travelling actors?

  His voice steely, William introduced her and Susanna.

  “Mr Tarleton,” said Anne smoothly, “may I say how much I admired your performance? I’d heard yours is the best acting troupe in the land, and now I see it’s true. And your performance, sir, was… was… incomparable.” It was the right tack to take. He expanded like a watered flower. Well, she thought, I did like his performance.

  “I thank you, madam. Now, your business?”

  “Sir, we heard that in Thame one of your company was killed.”

  “Yes, William Knell, God rest him. Though Towne, who killed him, was acquitted. Self-defence. A quarrel. Yes, he’s a loss to us.” Real feeling lurked behind the mannered phrases.

  “And you have our sorrow for it. And it may give offence to ask you this so soon after his death, but I want to be a player.” William lifted his hand at the other man’s instinctive protest. “Please, sir, hear me out. I daresay you get all sorts of people wanting to join your troupe.”

  “Aye, we do. Runaway apprentices, boys who’ve gone too far with a girl and have an irate father after them; sometimes even the girls. We are not recruiting, young man. And certainly not in a country town.” He smiled, pleasantly but firmly, and began to turn away.

  “Mr Tarleton, I ask you only for a few moments of your time to advise me over a drink. I was one of a private troupe of players in the north, I have performed for Lord Strange and Lord Derby among others, and I have sold two plays to Mr Henslowe at the...the...”

  “The Curtain,” said Tarleton, looking at him oddly. “What’s your name?”

  For a moment William couldn’t remember. He looked blankly at Anne for help. She gave him a pitying smile.

  “Shakspere. William Shakspere.”

  “You wrote that piece about King Henry the Sixth?”

  “Yes, sir. You know of it?’

  Tartleton made a mouth. “It was inexperienced, but not so bad. How much did they pay you for it?”

  “A pound,” he said proudly.

  “Next time ask for more.” There was a moment when he almost bade them good-day and left, then he said, “You offered me a drink? I’ll accept, gladly, and if I can advise you I will, but only for half an hour.”

  “That is more than I dared to hope. Thank you.”

  He wasn’t home to supper, or by the time Anne went to bed. She tried to stay up but was too tired, and only woke at the sound of William’s boots hitting the floor. She pulled back the bed-curtain and saw him in his shirt, stretching until his arms cracked.

  “Will?”

  “Did I wake you? Sorry.” Shorry; he wasn’t drunk, but nor was he quite sober.

  Anne sat up, clasping her knees. “Where have you been all this time? What did Mr Tarleton say? Will?” Maddeningly he stopped to kiss the twins and tuck their covers in. “William!”

  He collapsed into bed beside her, folding his arms behind his head. “I’ve been out walking. Nowhere much, just walking. Thinking. I stayed an hour or more with Tarleton and some other players. Drank too much, I suppose. Then I walked. Out in the forest. By the river. Thinking.”

  “Did Mr Tarleton not encourage you?”

  “He was quite encouraging. He’d read the Henry play that Dick Field sold to Mr Henslowe, and
he’d seen the comedy performed. I didn’t know they had actually played it. He said it went well, the audience liked it. He said I have great promise as a writer for the theatre.”

  “Oh, Will!” In the moonlight she could see the silly great grin on his face. “What else did he say?”

  “He asked if I could act. I told him of the little experience I’ve had and he made me read a piece through.” The grin widened. “He said I show some promise.” Suddenly he unclasped his hands and threw himself over to look at Anne. “He said I should try my luck in London. He can’t take me on with the Queen’s Men, it’s not for him to do and they’re the pick of England’s players; ’sides, they’ve others waiting for their turn, men who’ve done their ’prenticeship. Ap-prenticeship. Three years, is usual.”

  Rather flattened, Anne said, “And was that all?”

  “No, no. No. He says, said, I should go to London. Try my luck in London. He said, do I know anyone in London ’n I said, Dick Field, ’prentish to the printer. ’N he said, good, best to have some friends in the city. He said, when the Queen’s Men are back from their tour, to come and see him at Henslowe’s playhouse. But the best, the best…”

  “Tell me or I’ll smother you with the pillows.”

  “Smother me in my bed. Put out the light, and then put out the light… I’ll use that one day. Anne, he gave me an introduction to James Burbage. He said you were quite right and I should approach Lord Strange because knowing someone like that helps, but still he gave me an introduction to Mr Burbage! Head player of the Earl of Leicester’s Men! He wrote it down, it’s in my purse. A letter, Anne! Said I’m a promising writer and a passable actor, and willing to do anything, and he’d take me on if he could but he can’t so Burbage should. Wrote it down. Said I should try.”

  It was true you could feel more than one emotion at once. Joy, relief, sorrow, envy, cold and lonely misery. “I’m glad, Will.”

  His eyes held hers, some of his elation ebbing. Gently, commandingly, he said, “Are you? It would mean leaving you here. It would mean at least a year before I could send for you to come to London. I’d be paid for my work, but not enough, not yet, for you and the children. Or you’d have a miserable little lodging not fit for you. And the acting companies go on tour. In summer, they’re on the road, travelling all over England, for months on end. I’d send you all the money I could, but we couldn’t be together. You’d have to live here or with your step-mother.”

  “I know.”

  He turned over again and lay staring up at the tester. “You’d do that? Put up with that?”

  “Yes. And when you were touring, you could come home now and again. Other times, perhaps. I could come to London.”

  “Four days on the road, at least. And what of the children?” Blindly he reached for her hand. “Anne, I want this so much, but I know how selfish it is. Five years, and I’ve given you no happiness.”

  “You have, Will. You have.” All this time she’d been sitting up, her chin on her knees. She slid down beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. “I love you and I’d rather have you in London and happy, than here and miserable.” Keeping her voice steady with an effort she said, “I want the lovely boy I married back again. I want that happy man.”

  “Even if my happiness takes me a hundred miles away and leaves you here?”

  “Rather that than a bitter man who hates me after thirty years at each other’s side.”

  “I could never hate you, Anne.”

  “But always in the back of your mind would be the knowledge that but for me… When would you go?”

  “Mr Tarleton said the autumn would be best. London’s unhealthy in summer. Plague always about. He suggested I go when the touring companies are coming back and the winter season’s being planned.”

  “That’s sense. It gives us time to plan. To get your clothes together, all that kind of thing. Time to write to Dick Field to find you a London lodging. Or do they put you up at the playhouse?”

  “No, I’d need a lodging. Anne?’

  “What?”

  “Now it has almost happened, it frightens me. A dream come true, or a nightmare? What if I fail?”

  “Then at least you’ll know. You won’t live all your life with what might have been.”

  “There is that. Yes. G’night.” He was asleep almost before he’d finished the word. Anne lay awake all night.

  3.

  Two doublets, one of good green cloth with spare sleeves, the other of brown leather. Breeches and stockings, a new woollen cloak, a hat. Three pairs of gloves, two belts, a new purse, six handkerchiefs. Two pairs of boots. A knitted scarf. A brush, a comb, a razor. Cloths for cleaning teeth, two balls of soap. Paper, pens, a stoppered ink-pot. A knife, a spoon. A jar of herbal nostrum, sovereign against colds and coughs; a pot of goose-grease and wintergreen, cure for almost anything. Three books, the rest to be sent by carrier.

  Anne had spread all these things, William’s entire possessions, across the bed; the bed in which from now on she must sleep alone. The thought made her want to cry. Everything made her want to cry, these days. Two more days and William would be gone.

  Mrs Shakspere came in, holding a pile of shirts and under-linen from the laundry. Susanna was with her, clinging to her, and their two faces wore, for their different reasons, identical expressions of mulish dislike. Mrs Shakspere disapproved of this whole venture of going to London. Disapproval was one thing, but Susanna’s stark, painful disbelief that not even for her would her father stay, was almost beyond bearing. They both blamed Anne, and the two pairs of cold eyes fixed on her, day in, day out, rasped her nerves raw.

  Mrs Shakspere put the linen on the bed. Only one of the shirts was new, Anne had only just finished making it, but everything was of good quality, beautifully mended, laundered snow-white, immaculately ironed. In that at least William’s womenfolk saw eye-to-eye: he would go with the best clothes they could contrive.

  Mrs Shakspere said nothing as she smoothed the shirts. Nor did Susanna. They hadn’t spoken to Anne for a week. Suddenly it was more than she could take.

  “I don’t want it either. But I have to let him go, or make him miserable.”

  “You told me that if you married him he would never go away.”

  “I lied.”

  “So I see. It’s not decent,” said Mrs Shakspere. “If you were any sort of wife you’d stop him going.”

  Anne saw Susanna nodding smugly, so like her grandmother that Anne longed to slap her. “Would I? How? You say you love him, yet you’d see him unhappy because you’re too selfish to part with him. I love him. I love him enough to let him go. And I think it will break my heart. And what do you think it is like for me, to mend his clothes and help him pack and see him longing to go away? And I have to bear it alone, for I’ve no one to comfort me, no one at all.”

  William came home that night cheerful, whistling as he bounded up the stairs. Free. His last day as a schoolteacher was over. In two days he’d be on the road to London.

  The landing was poorly lit and he almost fell over Susanna, sitting on the top stair. “Darling, what are you doing there?” She bounced to her feet, looking reproachfully back at him.

  “Mama’s crying and Grandam’s cross and I hate you and if you loved us you wouldn’t go away!” Then, frightened by her defiance, she ran away down the stairs. William caught her halfway down, shook her, spun her around to face him.

  “Don’t ever say that! I love you. I love you all more dearly than anything in the world. Even if you hate me I’ll still love you forever. Don’t say that to me, Susanna.” She stood rigid in his grasp, refusing to meet his eyes. “We explained it all to you, Susanna. I have to go to London to make more money for your mother and you children. I can only do that in London. It’s not forever, I’ll come home when I can, and when I’m settled in London your mother will bring you to me. It’s what must be, Susanna.”

  He wanted to add, “And I can take no more tears and tantrums and ungiving silenc
es,” but his child’s eyes were full of unshed tears. He loved her with that fearful, hopeless love that only parents know. He wanted to snatch her up in his arms, to take her with him, to change his mind and stay. He touched her face, angry when she shied back.

  “I love you, Susanna, and I will miss you, but go I must.” She tossed her head and marched off down the stairs; at the bottom she sped around the corner out of sight, to cry unobserved, he guessed. For a moment he was tempted to go after her. She was only four-and-a-half. But there was nothing more he could say to her.

  In his bedroom he found Anne packing his bag. As he watched, she tucked a sachet of lavender and herbs, guaranteed to keep fleas and lice at bay, between two of his shirts. Her face was calm but her eyes had the sodden look that comes from secret crying.

  “I have to go, Anne. It’s what must be.”

  “Yes,” she said tartly. “I heard your silver-tongued eloquence with Susanna. Much a four-year-old knows of ‘what must be’. Oh, I know, I know, she’s growing spoilt, and yes, it must be. But it is hard for me, Will; all adventure for you, all dreariness and loneliness for me. I’ve never said that to you before, but that too is what must be. And yes, I know it will be worth it in the end, and I believe in you and I’ll make no attempt to stop you. But you’re no child to think that what you do gives no hurt to others.”

  “I don’t think that. God’s nails, Anne! Adventure for me, yes, and fear and hardship and not knowing my way, and perhaps failing and having to slink home with my tail between my legs, the Warwickshire boy who thought he could succeed in London without money, influence, friends, education. Leaving my wife and children, living anyhow. Anne, don’t send me away with tears and anger, I’ve had enough of that.”

  “Would you have me send you away indifferently?” But her anger had gone, and with it some of her misery. Uncertainly she held out her arms. He came to her, resting his head on her shoulder, holding her.

  “If I could take you with me I would, but not this first time, my dear. Let me find a good lodging, let me begin to make my way a little. Then you shall come to me and bring the children.”