Read Online The Secret Life of William Shakespeare by Jude Morgan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jude Morgan
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way to sensation. The breathing weight and warmth of her astonished him. It was as if he had never touched a human being before. Eighteen years old: eighteen years’ worth of living, and now it seemed a long, fusty drowse before a proper waking.
He never wanted a play to end. But this was different. Of course he could not kneel for ever; but it was enough to imagine doing it, to see himself lit by the new blaze of possibility.
* * *
Outside the Guildhall Joan, stretching, yawning, chattering all at once, was still in command. ‘Lord, how bright it is – I feel like a mole. That clown was monstrous, was he not? He tried to fix my eye when he did that shocking jig, but I would have none of him. Still, I had to laugh. Pooh, don’t look, mistress, the beasts, they might wait until they get home.’ Along an alleyway beside the Guildhall a file of groaning men were emptying their bladders against the wall. ‘A pity the play brings out the low sort, for it’s a pleasant, pretty diversion after all. Does no one fetch you, Anne? Then you must have Will attend you home. No, I insist, I have only Henley Street to go to and Gilbert with me, but I can’t think of you and your chick plying the Shottery road alone, not when I’ve seen such Brummagem faces about.’
It should have been me proposing that, Will thought. He was glad to be doing it but faintly sick, queasy with doubt. Why? Perhaps because, although they took the Shottery field path at a slow enough pace, in his mind he felt himself running again full pelt, running beyond his reach.
‘Looks like a poorish harvest,’ he said, then wondered if these were her brother’s fields.
‘Does it?’ Her look was surprised, then awkward. ‘I’m never good at judging these things.’
He had an empty-handed feeling, as if he were trying to make a purchase with no money. Then he remembered the unborn calf, and thought that perhaps she could never forgive him for seeing her in extremity, and wondered if they could walk all the way to Hewlands Farm in silence. They might have, if it had not been for the boy, John. Freed from physical constriction, he was a wild thing, climbing, leaping, tumbling, rolling in mud.
‘John, come down from there – you’ll hurt yourself.’
‘I never hurt myself.’ He landed at their feet clutching a broken branch, thwacked himself across the head with it. ‘See?’ He squinted up at Will. ‘Did you like that play?’
‘Aye, did you?’
‘It went on too long.’ The boy flung the stick and hared off, flapping his arms and shrieking.
‘I can remember being like that,’ Will said, then stilled his tongue disgustedly. The remark exposed his youth; besides, it was sheer cant. He could not recall ever feeling that degree of abandon even as a child. Yielding to the moment – no, it meant losing sight of the moment before and the moment after. He needed to see all round.
‘Did you really like the play?’ she asked.
‘I like all plays. I like them better than life.’ A crude statement, but it was a relief to find himself saying something true. ‘Did you not care for it?’
‘I wonder they can remember all those speeches. It is very clever.’
‘But no more?’
Even so gentle a pressure seemed to make her withdraw, her lips biting back the words. Hers was no token blush: you were reminded that it was made of blood. He thought: Shyness? But how could you be shy, fortified by that beauty and grace? How not cry defiance from the battlements?
‘I felt it was not real,’ she said at last. ‘But perhaps I take after my brother. He says the play is idle feigning and breeds vain dreams.’
Will had not supposed Master Hathaway a Puritan; though, of course, there were many shades beside the hard crow-black piety of the Fields. ‘But he didn’t mind your going?’
She shook her head. ‘I may do as I like,’ she said. Somehow it sounded like the wretchedest of confessions.
John came back to them, leaping and stamping.
He never wanted a play to end. But this was different. Of course he could not kneel for ever; but it was enough to imagine doing it, to see himself lit by the new blaze of possibility.
* * *
Outside the Guildhall Joan, stretching, yawning, chattering all at once, was still in command. ‘Lord, how bright it is – I feel like a mole. That clown was monstrous, was he not? He tried to fix my eye when he did that shocking jig, but I would have none of him. Still, I had to laugh. Pooh, don’t look, mistress, the beasts, they might wait until they get home.’ Along an alleyway beside the Guildhall a file of groaning men were emptying their bladders against the wall. ‘A pity the play brings out the low sort, for it’s a pleasant, pretty diversion after all. Does no one fetch you, Anne? Then you must have Will attend you home. No, I insist, I have only Henley Street to go to and Gilbert with me, but I can’t think of you and your chick plying the Shottery road alone, not when I’ve seen such Brummagem faces about.’
It should have been me proposing that, Will thought. He was glad to be doing it but faintly sick, queasy with doubt. Why? Perhaps because, although they took the Shottery field path at a slow enough pace, in his mind he felt himself running again full pelt, running beyond his reach.
‘Looks like a poorish harvest,’ he said, then wondered if these were her brother’s fields.
‘Does it?’ Her look was surprised, then awkward. ‘I’m never good at judging these things.’
He had an empty-handed feeling, as if he were trying to make a purchase with no money. Then he remembered the unborn calf, and thought that perhaps she could never forgive him for seeing her in extremity, and wondered if they could walk all the way to Hewlands Farm in silence. They might have, if it had not been for the boy, John. Freed from physical constriction, he was a wild thing, climbing, leaping, tumbling, rolling in mud.
‘John, come down from there – you’ll hurt yourself.’
‘I never hurt myself.’ He landed at their feet clutching a broken branch, thwacked himself across the head with it. ‘See?’ He squinted up at Will. ‘Did you like that play?’
‘Aye, did you?’
‘It went on too long.’ The boy flung the stick and hared off, flapping his arms and shrieking.
‘I can remember being like that,’ Will said, then stilled his tongue disgustedly. The remark exposed his youth; besides, it was sheer cant. He could not recall ever feeling that degree of abandon even as a child. Yielding to the moment – no, it meant losing sight of the moment before and the moment after. He needed to see all round.
‘Did you really like the play?’ she asked.
‘I like all plays. I like them better than life.’ A crude statement, but it was a relief to find himself saying something true. ‘Did you not care for it?’
‘I wonder they can remember all those speeches. It is very clever.’
‘But no more?’
Even so gentle a pressure seemed to make her withdraw, her lips biting back the words. Hers was no token blush: you were reminded that it was made of blood. He thought: Shyness? But how could you be shy, fortified by that beauty and grace? How not cry defiance from the battlements?
‘I felt it was not real,’ she said at last. ‘But perhaps I take after my brother. He says the play is idle feigning and breeds vain dreams.’
Will had not supposed Master Hathaway a Puritan; though, of course, there were many shades beside the hard crow-black piety of the Fields. ‘But he didn’t mind your going?’
She shook her head. ‘I may do as I like,’ she said. Somehow it sounded like the wretchedest of confessions.
John came back to them, leaping and stamping.
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