So I closed mine and played a tune I had recently been playing, and thought of Rose as I did so.
All the day the sun that lends me shine
By frowns do cause me pine
And feeds me with delay;
Her smiles, my springs that makes my joys to grow,
Her frowns the Winters of my woe.
When I stopped singing I looked at the four faces staring silently at me.
‘Ale!’ shouted Kemp. ‘Lord, give me ale!’
‘The boy’s good,’ said Burbage, ‘if you ignore the song.’
‘And the singing,’ said Elsa.
‘You play well,’ said Shakespeare. ‘Be at the Globe Theatre tomorrow. Eleven o’clock. Twelve shillings a week.’
‘Thank you, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘Twelve shillings aweek?’
Rose couldn’t believe it. It was morning. We were out fetching water before work. Rose had to stop and place the bucket of water down. I placed mine down too. The water – for cleaning, not drinking – was from the well at the end of the lane, nearly a mile north of Oat Barn and the orchards, so we needed the rest. The morning sky blushed an ominous pink.
‘Yes. Twelve shillings a week.’
‘Working for Mr Shakespeare?’
‘The Lord Chamberlain’s Men. Yes.’
‘Tom, that is joy.’
She hugged me. Like a sister. More than a sister.
And then a cloud of sadness fell across her face as she picked up her bucket again.
‘What?’
‘I expect we won’t be seeing much more of you then.’
‘I will walk home each evening just the same. Around the walls or through.’
‘That was not my meaning.’
‘So, what is your meaning?’
‘Your life will be too colourful for a dull market girl.’
‘You are not dull, Rose.’
‘A blade of grass is not dull until you see a flower.’
‘It is. A blade of grass is always dull. You are not a blade of grass.’
‘And you are not a stayer, Tom. You ran from France. And you ran from Suffolk. You will run from here. You do not settle. Since we kissed even your eyes fear settling on mine.’
