Authors: Meredith Whitford
3.
Six
weeks later William wrote that he had found a house. It was in Shoreditch, near the playhouses, with open fields at its back. A kitchen and two rooms downstairs, three rooms upstairs, a privy in the garden and a wash-house at the back. It had some furniture, he wrote, beds and tables, but Anne must bring all her household stuff.
Household
stuff, she thought; did she have enough? She routed out her trousseau goods, most of which had lain untouched in boxes in the attic all these years. Cooking pans, pewter and earthenware plates and cups, towels, two precious crystal glasses, some cushions and, most special of all, a tapestry. Little enough. The blankets and bed curtains, the painted wall-hanging and the rug which she had brought to her marriage had seen hard wear. Ruthlessly she threw out anything too shabby and bought new, spending some of the extra money William had sent with his letter. It meant paying for carriage to London, but that was better than arriving in the city, with winter coming on, without enough warm blankets and curtains. Her stepmother combed Hewlands Farm for goods and sent in a wagon loaded with three chairs, a table, a court cupboard, a hamper of hangings and a carpet, a lot of bottled fruit, some excellent copper pans, a ham and two hard cheeses. Mrs Shakspere and Joan worked day and night with Anne, washing and polishing, and sewing new clothes for the children and the only new dress Anne had had since her wedding.
At
the middle of October they set out. Held down to the slow pace of the wagon, they were lucky to make ten or twelve miles a day; a good thing, Anne believed, that they were travelling before the worst of winter made the roads into quagmires. She spared a thought for William and the other players who did this sort of journey year in, year out, in the heat of summer or through the worst weather, trudging beside their carts from one country town to another, lucky to find a decent inn at the end of the day.
The
children soon grew bored with travelling and squabbled endlessly over who was to ride on the cart and who up behind Anne or their uncle Gilbert (Mr Shakspere would not hear of a woman and children travelling alone, not these days, you never knew). Anne made them walk most of the time it wasn’t raining, because it left them too tired at nightfall to quarrel.
Ten
days on the road, then they saw London ahead.
The
children had envisaged an instant visit to the menagerie in the Tower, and they were disappointed to enter from the north by the road which, through the wall of the City proper, became Bishopsgate Street. William’s letter had given careful directions but still Anne couldn’t believe this was the right house. It was almost new, not more than fifty years old. And fine. Too fine. Newly whitewashed, the windows gleaming; more broad windows upstairs. But there was William lounging through the front door, a smug smile on his face.
“Welcome
home, Mrs Shakspere. Will it do?”
“Do?
Oh, Will. Can we afford it?”
“Yes,”
he said negligently. “It’s been empty some time and the landlord was glad to let it. Hello, my darlings, like your new home?” They did. Pausing only to hug William, they raced inside to explore, their shoes echoing on the floors and stairs. “You look tired,” William told Anne, giving her a kiss. “A hard journey?”
“Tiresome
more than hard. It’s good to see you. Well, let’s see this house.”
It
was splendid. Two spacious rooms downstairs and a kitchen with a clear-burning hearth; upstairs, a big room overlooking the street and two smaller rooms for the children. Up in the roof were another two tiny rooms for servants. William had had a woman come in to scrub, he proudly told Anne, and the maid was at the market even as they spoke.
“So
all you need do is make the beds. Gil and I will bring all these goods in. Look, Mistress Burbage sent a basket of wafers, and these flowers, to welcome you, and she’ll call tomorrow when you’ve had a chance to settle in. Dick Field’s wife, too, and Ned Alleyn’s. You won’t be without friends here, Anne.”
“How
kind,” Anne said dazedly. The scrub-woman had missed a few cobwebs high up, she noted, but it would be churlish to mention it. The children thundered back down the stairs and out through the kitchen, Judith screeching about the garden.
“They’re
happy. Come, let’s have a glass of wine to christen the house.”
“No
cups till we unpack.”
“Damn.
Then come on, brother, let’s to it.”
That night Anne lay wakeful beside her snoring husband, listening to London. At Stratford a fox barking in the distance was a din; here, despite the curfew, people never seemed to go to bed. A horse clopped past, a cat yowled the agonies of love, two people across the way started a violent argument. Hamnet stirred in his sleep, whimpering with a dream. Anne tried to ease her body, aching from the journey and the rush of unpacking. She felt deadly tired yet wide awake.
She tried planning the things needed in the house: the kitchen walls washing, shelves to be put up for William’s books and her pieces of pewter and glass. Another clothes chest for the twins’ room. And really they were too old now to share a bed. Judith must be made to move to Susanna’s room. Where are the best shops and who are the reliable tradesmen? Put up that extra hanging in here, although it was a good room, high and wide, with a really handsome bed. Some new curtains wouldn’t hurt. Speak to William about money and get a household allowance. Get Gilbert to nail down some squeaky floorboards; he was good with his hands. Plant out winter vegetables.
In
everything, it was a new life. And William would not have wanted her to come to London if there was anything… anyone...
4.
Another
new play, and Anne was going to the theatre. Hamnet was at school, Susanna and Judith spending the day with the family of one of the other players. For any housewife with children, a day to herself was a holiday, and Anne sang under her breath as she dressed. In Stratford a woman who used face-paint was rated as a whore, but in London a touch of rouge and black on the eyelashes was permissible. At thirty-six she had some fine lines around her eyes, but her skin was clear and soft, she had no need of the white-lead pastes and vivid stains of city women. On the whole, she thought as she peered at her reflection in William’s small mirror, not too bad for a middle-aged woman. A dab of scent behind the ears, and she was ready.
Hearing
the knock on the door she pulled on her new green coat and hat and hurried down the stairs. One thing London was not, was a place where a woman could safely go about alone, and William paid one of the theatre boys, a Cockney hanger-on who did rather well out of holding horses and running messages, to escort her to the playhouse. She liked this boy, whose only name seemed to be Nol, and he was a good escort, although she would not have cared to translate some of his advice to people who jostled her.
When
first she came to the capital she had expected shining white towers and a silken ribbon of blue for a river, people in bright clothes, scented air. What she had found was a tangle of little streets under a haze of smoke; mud and middens; coarse-voiced people drably dressed; and the chance of losing your purse or your life if you didn’t look lively. It was filthy and stinking, a hotbed of vice and crime, and at first she had hated it. But soon the city had won her round. It had life. Only in London could you find such shops and grand palaces among the warrens, or see ships in from Venice, Spain, Turkey. Only here could you take a boat idly on the river to see the sights, and find yourself waving to the Queen as her barge passed on a wave of music and scent. Only here could you rub elbows with the men whose names rang around England: Raleigh, Drake, Howard, Essex, Cecil, Walsingham. And only here were the playhouses.
At
The Theatre, Nol saw her to her seat, paid the extra penny for a cushion, bought her a poke of hazelnuts and a mug of ale and gave a little more advice to a man who thought a woman coming alone to the playhouse must be plying for trade.
“Better
sit wiv you, Mrs S, keep fellows like that away.” His eyes shone with longing as he looked at the stage, and solemnly Anne agreed that would be best.
“Have
you seen this play, Nol?”
“Richard
Free? Only in rehearsal, like. It’s Master Will’s best, they say. ’E packs ’em in, does Master Will. they take more money off of ’is plays than all the rest. Nor it ain’t just the take. ’e’s good.”
In
his way this boy was a connoisseur: he’d been hanging around playhouses since he was old enough to pick a pocket. He must have seen every play put on in London in his lifetime.
“He
is good,” Anne agreed, and companionably they shared the hazelnuts. “Not a bad house. Nearly full.”
“They’ll
pack a few more in. Oi, Kit Marlowe’s in.”
“Wants
to find out how it’s done, no doubt. Where? I don’t see him.”
“Down
the front. See?”
Anne
peered, and located Christopher Marlowe by his bobbing black head. He was talking (but when was he not?) to someone, his hands flying as he rattled earnestly on. Anne caught his eye and waved. He blew her a kiss, and indicated by a complex gesture that the playhouse was too full for him to join her. “See you afterwards?” she made out, and nodded.
She
liked Kit Marlowe; impossible not to, for all he was the most notorious bugger in London and almost certainly one of Walsingham’s spies. He had been kind to Will when he first came to London, reading his work and approving it, and he showed commendably little resentment that his one-time protégé was rapidly overtaking him in fame. He had charm, that was the thing. He flirted outrageously with Anne, which she enjoyed because it was safe, but under the flirting and the loudly paraded atheism and love of boys he had a keen mind and a surprising gentleness. William trusted him and was his friend, which was good enough for Anne, even if she hadn’t liked him for his own sake.
Nol
tugged at her sleeve. “There’s a feller over there wavin’ at you, Mrs S. Shall I go an’ give ’im what for?”
“No,”
Anne said hastily. “I know him.” She waved back to Sir George Carewe; he was one of the richest men from Stratford way, he had married a Clopton heiress. Bowing, he beckoned to her: come join me. There was just time before the play started. With Nol clearing a way for her, Anne threaded through the crowded galleries, clutching her penny cushion, and sat down beside Sir George.
“My
dear Mistress Anne, how pleasant to see you.” He leaned forward a little to speak to the lady on his other side. “Your ladyship, your lordship, may I present to you Mrs Shakspere?” The blue hat with the fantastically long, curving feathers turned, revealing a tired, pretty, face. Without much interest, but willing to be pleasant, the lady nodded to Anne. Beside her a very young man whose auburn hair fell to his shoulders, turned also. Anne bowed. “Her ladyship the Dowager Countess of Southampton,” said Sir George, “and her son the Lord Southampton.” Astounded, Anne bowed again, more deeply, murmuring a greeting.
“Shakspere?”
said the young man, and his cornflower eyes sparked. “Are you related to the playwright?”
“I
am his wife, my lord.”
“Then
it is an honour to meet you. I greatly admire your husband’s work. I’ve seen all his plays. I think him a good actor, too.”
“Thank
you, my lord.”
“Yes,”
said the Countess, “his plays always entertain. We have thought of asking this company to enact a play for us, privately. I believe they do that. In private houses.”
“Indeed
they do, my lady.”
“Then
we shall see to it. But hush, it’s starting.”
Expectation
fell over the audience. Anne knew William came on early in the play, and she knew he would be waiting behind the curtains, trying to calm the stage-fright that still came over him. Other actors, Anne knew, needed a drink or a pipe of tobacco – or other things – before they went on; William’s stage-fright took the form of intense sleepiness. It vanished the moment he went on stage, but between his scenes he had to fight to stay awake.
Outside
a clock chimed the hour. The trumpets blew. The audience rustled into silence, then gasped as an evil, black, hunchbacked creature lurched onto the stage:
“Now
is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this Sun of York, and all the clouds that lour’d upon our house are in the deep bosom of the ocean buried.”
Anne
almost forgot to look for William, realised he was playing Clarence, shoved her knuckles in her mouth when the guards hauled him away to prison and death. Then the wooing scene took her breath away, even if she’d laughed when William read her the scene: what woman, she had mocked, could fall so instantly in love with the man who’d killed her family? William had sulked. And he’d been right, for the scene worked on stage. It worked superbly.
The
play sped on, the bottled spider dominating every scene and making the audience like him for all his wickedness. Yes, Anne thought, this is good, it’s his best, it will live and live. William was back as Tyrell, then as a soldier in the final battle, and then it was over. On her feet with the rest, applauding, shouting, Anne knew she had seen a great play, a superb play, a play for all time. And that word-struck boy I loved in Stratford wrote it. The man capable of writing this play married me, Anne Hathaway the farmer’s daughter. I was right to send him away. For all it cost me, I was right. And had I not encouraged him, would he still be making gloves in Stratford, a bitter man with failed longing in his eyes?
“Mrs
S?” Nol gingerly touched her elbow. “Mrs S? You want to go backstage? I’ll take you.”
“Yes.
Yes, Nol, I do. It was good, wasn’t it?
“It’s
’is best. See Buckin’am forget ’is lines? I thought Master Will’d belt ’im one in the chops.”
“No,
I didn’t notice. It was wonderful. Come, then, let’s go behind. Lady Southampton, Lord Southampton, it was my great honour to meet you. Good day to you. And to you, Sir George. Perhaps we will meet again while I’m here.” With a final bow she gathered up her skirts to leave.
“Mistress
Anne,” Sir George’s voice halted her. “If you go behind scenes, would you be so kind as to allow his lordship to accompany you? I will see her ladyship home, but Lord Southampton has the fancy to pay his compliments to the players.”
If
the Earl of Southampton had not been so young, Anne would have felt overwhelmed; nervous, too, lest she commit some dreadful faux pas that would disgrace her husband. But he was young, just a boy, and so clearly eager to be pleased. Hamnet looked so like that when offered a treat that it was impossible for Anne be shy. Curtsying again she said, “Of course, sir. My lord, they will be delighted and honoured. But if you’ve not been back-stage before, be prepared, it can be noisy. You will think them all mad.”
People
knew Southampton and there was no need to clear the way for him. But at the bottom of the steps Christopher Marlowe waited, so that Anne walked almost into his arms.
“Your
lordship,” she turned to Southampton, “are you acquainted with Master Marlowe?”
With
a shy smile the young earl said, “We have met, yes. Do you also go behind scenes, Master Marlowe?”
“Indeed
I do, my lord. Anne, my lovely girl, light of my life, come kiss your humble servant.”
“The
day Kit Marlow’s humble we can look for a hot January.” She kissed him.
“And
Chaucer tells us January ran hot for a lovesome maid.”
“But
I’m no maid.”
“But
as lovely as May. Excellent play, isn’t it. That husband of yours is good. Some people even speak of him as a second Marlowe. Did you see that clodhopper playing Lady Anne get his dress stuck in his bum-crack? Come along, we’ll go behind and I’ll compliment your husband; through clenched teeth.” Serious for a moment he said, “He is good, Anne.”
“Better
than you?” she teased.
Still
serious, he said, “One day he will be. I’d better kill him, I think.”
“Would
you widow me, Christopher?”
“Only
if you would then marry me and bring me Will’s luck. Oh dear, oh dear, such fun we have back-stage.”
Southampton
looked taken aback, as well he might. A stranger might have thought the company all at odds, might have expected drawn swords and sent for the Watch. Anne knew it was only the euphoria and irresponsible high spirits of the good performance of a successful play, and here and there the free and frank exchange of views, meaning nothing but given meaning by the actors being still in their stage voices.
The
’tire-master was shrieking to have a care of the costumes as people jostled, the stage manager was counting the props back into the hamper, the actors congratulating themselves and each other, visitors trying to throng into the cramped confines back-stage. Cries rang in Anne’s ears: Well done, a perfect play. I look hideous in this dress. He missed my cue again, Will. Did you see that girl in the front, the one with the tits? Will, we must talk. Nearly ten pounds we took today. Early call tomorrow, gentlemen, to rehearse the new piece. I say well done, absolutely superb. It’s too long, Will, we have to cut it.
That
last caught William’s attention. “Cut it? Never.”
“But
Will...”
“Cut
a play by William Shakspere? Think what you say!”
“But
Will...”
“Go.”
William had seen his wife. “Anne, my dear. What did you think?”
“It
was good, Will.”
“Well
of course it was. I wrote it.”
“Yes,
and it is truly good. I’m proud of you. And you were right about the wooing scene.”
“I’m
always right, I’m Shakspere. Yes, Kit, what is it? Don’t pluck my sleeve like that.”
“No,
don’t, Master Marlowe,” said the passing ’tire-master. “It’s costume. Give it back, Will, before it’s damaged.”
Ignoring
him, Kit said, “We bring you an admirer, Will. My lord, William Shakspere, author of this piece. William, His Worship the Lord Southampton.”
That
brought a silence as perhaps nothing else could have done just then. Into the silence the Earl’s soft voice spoke. “I do not mean to intrude upon you, gentlemen. I wish to present my compliments. A wonderful play, wonderfully acted, and written by a master.”
William
smiled. Christopher Marlowe did not.