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“Aye, ‘tis he.”
“There can be no mistake?”
“I should think that I would know my own father, Will.”
“Aye… well… perhaps, but…”
“What?”
Shakespeare bit his lower lip. “Well… meaning no offense, you understand, but, ah… you told me that your father was a gentleman and that man there does not look much like a gentleman.”
“He never was,” said Smythe, with a shrug, “save in his name and his attire. The name he kept. The attire he appears to have lost, along with his fortune.”
As they stood there, looking out across the yard at him, Symington Smythe II stood there, looking back, dressed in a coarse green woolen cloak and cap, a plain brown doublet, homespun breeches, and worn boots. He carried a walking staff and little else. He did not even seem to have a sword. It was a far cry from the rich apparrel that he once habitually wore, although no matter what he wore, how costly or well-tailored, clothes had never seemed to sit well on him. Thomas Smythe had once remarked that for all the money his older brother spent on his varied and expensive wardrobe, it was like trying to caparison a dray horse. Those words came back to Tuck as he stood there, staring at his father, thinking that he now looked more like a bedraggled tenant farmer than a man with his own family coat of arms. Indeed, he thought, as Will had observed, he did not look much like a gentleman. But then, he had never really acted like one, either.
“Do you not think that you should go and greet him?” Shakespeare asked, raising his eyebrows.
“I was hoping to find some excuse to avoid it,” Smythe replied, with a sigh. “However, I suppose ‘twould be the proper thing for a dutiful son to do.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
Smythe moistened his lips as he thought about it for a moment. Finally, he made up his mind. “I am grateful for your offer of support, Will, but methinks that this is something I had best see to myself,” he replied.
“Would you like me to wait for you?” Shakespeare asked.
“Nay, Will, go on. S’trewth, I am not sure what he could want with me, and if there is an argument, I should not wish for you to witness it. I shall see you when I get back.”
“If that is what you wish.”
“I do. Go on. I shall go and speak with him.”
“Will you be all right?”
“Aye, Will.” Smythe clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks. Go on. I will follow before long.”
Most of the others had already left. A few were still lingering, putting things in order or else talking amongst themselves. Smythe watched Shakespeare walk away. He looked back and called out, “I will see you anon, Tuck,” then continued on his way. Tuck’s father glanced at him as Will passed him, and Will gave him a polite nod of greeting, but they did not speak. Tuck stood there watching his father for a few moments. Then he smiled to himself. His father would not come to him. He was expected to make the approach, as always. He took a deep breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. “Very well then,” he said to himself. “On with it.”
He walked across the yard to meet his father. As he approached, he saw that his father looked thinner and there was more white in his hair than before. The dark hair was now liberally streaked. The crow’s feet around his eyes looked more pronounced than he remembered, and his features seemed a bit more gaunt. Clearly, he had not been eating as well as was his wont. But in a curious way, the loss of weight seemed to agree with him. He looked older and leaner, but more fit for it. As h
is son approached, Symington Smythe II drew himself up to stand erect and proud, his chin high, his gaze aloof. It was his “knight’s demeanor,” as Tuck had always thought of it. Well, the knighthood had eluded him, and though he had somehow managed to cozen his way to an escutcheon, everything else he had now seemed lost to him as well. But the proud “knight’s demeanor” still remained, even though it did not go with the clothes.
“ ‘Allo, Father,” Tuck said, as he came up to him.
“Son,” his father said, curdy. He looked him up and down. “You look well. Seem fit, as always.”
“Did you expect me not to be?”
“Well… with the indolent life these players lead, I scarcely expected you to look as hale and hearty as you did when you were at your uncle’s forge. Hard work always agreed with you.”
“It still does, Father. My life is not quite so indolent as you might imagine it to be. There is much hard work to be done at a playhouse, and I still keep my hand in at a forge. There is a blacksmith here in London who is good enough to give me work anytime I need it.”
His father raised his eyebrows. “So? You are a journeyman blacksmith, then?”
“Nothing quite so respectable, I fear,” Tuck replied. “Liam Bailey lost an apprentice not too long ago, and I fill in for him, after a fashion, every now and then. He pays me. Not a great deal, but ‘tis a fair wage.”
The corners of his father’s mouth turned down slightly. “I see. And this…” he waved his hand in a sort of desultory fashion, taking in the yard and the theatre all around them, “… this is where you… what is the word? Perform?” He said it with distaste.
“Aye, among other things,” said Smythe. “But then, you already knew that, Father, else you would not be here. I take it Uncle Thomas told you that you could find me here.”
