And one man in his time plays many parts. . .
Shakespeare was a strange actor. He was very quiet – I don’t mean in volume, I mean in mannerisms and presence. Such the opposite of a Burbage or a Kemp. There was something very un-Shakespearean about Shakespeare, especially when he was sober. A quietness, onstage and off it, as though he was absorbing the world rather than projecting it.
One Thursday I came home and found Grace crying and Rose hugging her. It turned out that Mr Willow had given their space to a woman who gave him sexual favours. He had tried it on with Rose too. And had strong words for both her and Grace.
‘It will be all right. We can still work there. Just not in the spot we had.’
I felt such rage. A burning anger devoured me. The next day, before heading to Southwark, I went to the market and I found Mr Willow, and, in my juvenile stupidity, ended up hitting him and shoving him into the spice stall. He fell in an orange cloud of exotic New World aromas.
Grace and Rose were now banned from the market completely. And it was only the knowledge that we knew about his desire for sexual favours that prevented him from taking further action against us.
Rose cursed my hot-headedness, even as she fired back her own in my direction.
It was our first argument. I remember the fury more than the words. I remember her worry about what she would tell Mr Sharpe.
‘We can’t justpickfruit, Tom. We have tosellit. Where will we sell it?’
‘I will mend this. I broke this. I will mend it, Rose. I promise.’
So I spoke to Shakespeare about the chance of Rose and Grace working as fruit sellers in the theatre. I saw him, after a performance, walking through the crowds on the green, in front of the Queen’s Tavern. He was heading into the alehouse, on his own, ignoring a man who recognised him as he disappeared in through the door.
I followed him. I had been in the Queen’s before. My young face was no problem there. I found Shakespeare, jar in hand, in a quiet corner.
I was wondering how – andif– I should approach him when his hand raised and beckoned me over.
‘Young Tom! Take a pew.’
I went over and sat on the bench opposite him, with a small oak table between us. Two men further along the table were studiously engaged in a game of draughts.
‘Hello, Mr Shakespeare.’
A barmaid nearby was clearing up abandoned jars, and Shakespeare called over.
‘An ale for my friend here.’
She nodded, then Shakespeare reconsidered. ‘But you are from France, aren’t you? You probably like beer.’
‘No, sir. I prefer ale.’
‘Your wisdom calms me, Tom. They serve the greatest and sweetest ale in all of London in here.’
He sipped on his, closing his eyes. ‘Ale doesn’t live well,’ he said. ‘A week from today this will taste as sour as a knight’s breeches. Beer lasts for ever. All the hops, they say, causes its immortality. Ale is a more worthy lesson on life. You wait too long, and you will be saying farewell before you say good day. My father was once an ale taster. I have an education in it.’
The ale came. It was indeed sweet. Shakespeare filled and lit a pipe. Like most theatre types with access to money he was a fan of tobacco. (‘The indian herb works wonders for my ailments.’) He told me it also helped with his writing.
‘Are you writing a new play?’ I wondered aloud. ‘Am I keeping you from your writing?’
He nodded. ‘I am, and, no, you are not.’
‘Ah,’ I said. (There was no one like Will Shakespeare to make you feel tongue-tied.) ‘Good. And good.’
‘It shall be calledJulius Caesar.’
‘So it is about the life of Julius Caesar?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
