The Great St Mary's Day Out (5 page)

Without thinking, I said, ‘A vicious form of maritime punishment mentioned as early as 800 BC, involving dragging the offender under the keel of a boat. Survival is rare – death being due either to drowning, or having clothes, skin, arms, legs et cetera, ripped off by the barnacles growing on the ship's bottom. Please use every effort to ensure that does not happen to the professor.' I played out possible scenarios in my head. ‘Or Dr Dowson, either.'

‘I'll do my best,' she said, cheerfully, ‘but I'm just a girl. No one's taking any notice of me.'

‘You underestimate your abilities, Miss Sykes.'

‘True. And the second mate appears to be extremely fond of the miracle fluid known as rum. I'm sure I can persuade him to let us all go. Everyone's quaffing away, including the real passenger for the New World – and a right miserable bugger he looks. I can feel the War of Independence coming on just by looking at him.'

She broke off and I heard an unearthly cry.

‘What the hell?'

‘Just a couple of passing seagulls who just popped in, had a quick quaff and are now unable to get airborne again. How are things with you?'

‘Absolutely fine,' I said, through gritted teeth.

‘Oh dear. Never mind.'

Long experience enabled me to identify the exact moment Dr Bairstow and his party assumed their seats in the gallery. The faint commotion caused by him staring at people long enough for them to move up and make room for him was lost in the general hubbub around me, but I knew he was there.

I ground my teeth, ignored his penetrating stare and turned back to the stage.

The play was resuming. Scenes came and went. I can only assume that players set fire to themselves all the time, because no one seemed in the slightest bit perturbed. Actors swirled around the stage. Hamlet went not so quietly mad. Glittering costumes mingled with glittering words. The smoke from braziers and a hundred pipes made my eyes sting. I shifted from foot to foot, half discomfort, half anxiety. What was happening? Why hadn't Markham returned? Were they still under the stage? How badly was Shakespeare injured? Was Markham being held responsible? Right now, not ten feet away, Shakespeare could be breathing his last.

I broke my self-imposed rule.

‘Markham. Talk to me. Are you being cut into tiny pieces?'

‘No, I'm having a beer.'

Of course he bloody was. Any concern I might have felt took wings and flew away.

‘What about Shakespeare? He's on again in Act Three.'

‘He's not going to make it.'

‘He must.'

‘He can't. He can't even focus, let alone stand up.'

‘Is there an understudy?'

A long silence. ‘No.'

I gave him my version of an even longer silence.

‘You're sure?'

‘Yep.'

‘You're absolutely sure?'

‘Well, there's a young lad here, but he plays Gertrude as well, and they're on at the same time.'

I sighed. Heavily. I was doing that a lot this afternoon. Some holiday this was turning out to be. ‘Have you still got my cloak?'

‘It's here. Stop panicking.'

‘You've got my chocolate.'

There was an oddly long pause. ‘Not any longer.'

‘Is it melted?'

Another oddly long pause.

‘Yes.'

I could feel Dr Bairstow's potential wrath hanging over me like the Sword of Damocles. Should I recall Markham? There must surely be an understudy somewhere in this theatre.

He took the matter out of my hands. ‘There's nothing you can do, Max. Just relax and enjoy the show.'

I might as well. Everyone else was. All around me, people were buying pies, arguing with their friends, rolling the dice, or booking a prostitute. I felt quite angry on the actors' behalf. Didn't people know what was happening here? How important this moment was? And here they all were, carrying on as if the whole thing was simply some sort of massive social event, designed for nothing more than to see and be seen.

Until that moment. That magical moment.

Hamlet, wrapped in a cloak and his own thoughts, strode to the edge of the stage, and paused, staring at his own feet. Standing motionless, he stared. And stared. Gradually, the noise of the crowd died away as everyone turned to watch. The background noises were hushed. Prossies went unrented. I swear, even outside, the clatter of cartwheels on cobbles, the shouts, the everyday noises all fell away. For all I know, even mighty Father Thames paused in anticipation. Complete silence fell, and still Hamlet stared at his feet, unmoving. The silence stretched to an impossible length. People began to look at each other in puzzlement.

‘Oh my God,' whispered Lingoss. ‘He's forgotten his lines.'

No, he hadn't.

Slowly, he lifted his head and swept his gaze over the upturned faces around him. No one moved. No one spoke. The whole world waited.

‘To be, or not to be,

That is the question.'

A kind of sigh rippled around the Yard – and the galleries, too. I felt my heart thump in my chest. I had an overwhelming desire to burst into tears.

He completed the soliloquy, every word taking flight and soaring to the heavens above. Like golden birds. When he finished, there was a moment of respectful silence and then the sound of tumultuous, rapturous applause. Even the people in the galleries stamped their feet. I clapped until my hands hurt, tears running down my cheeks.

Burbage stood, head lowered for a moment, and then he placed his hand on his heart, bowed deeply just once, swept his cloak around him in a grand gesture and the play continued.

There have been some wonderful moments in my life and that was well up with the best of them. I wiped my face on my sleeve, realised I'd completely forgotten my aching legs and feet, slapped another memory stick into my recorder and carried on.

Until two scenes later and the return of the Ghost who, this time, appeared in his nightgown. I wondered if the part had called for this or whether they were improvising after his original costume had gone up in flames. Whatever the reason, it's become traditional. If you've ever wondered why, in Act III Scene IV, after appearing heavily cloaked and in his armour, the Ghost turns up in his nightgown, it's because he set fire to himself in a previous scene. Beside me, Lingoss stiffened and said in a strangled whisper, ‘Max...'

Because without his all-concealing cloak this was, at last, our opportunity to see Shakespeare himself, to compare the real man to the very few portraits of him. To be able to say, once and for all – this is the face of William Shakespeare. My palms were sticky. I checked my recorder for the umpteenth time. This was it.

Except that it wasn't. It wasn't Shakespeare, I mean. This Ghost was a good half a head shorter than the previous version, and bore a startling resemblance to Mr Markham.

‘
Shit
,' said Lingoss, which pretty much summed it all up. ‘What is he
doing
?'

Why does everyone always think I know what's going on?

I could feel Dr Bairstow's eyes boring into the back of my head. I refused to look around, concentrating instead on formulating plans to spend the rest of my life in this century.

Back on the stage, Hamlet has killed Polonius in front of his mother and, even more emotional than usual – which is saying a lot – is trying to show her the Ghost, terrifying her even further. She flees around the stage, as Hamlet, increasingly desperate and increasingly mad, tries to seize her hands and force her to confront a spectre she cannot believe exists.

All this was happening at the front of the stage. So far, the Ghost had wisely stayed well back, a silent and motionless figure. For some reason, the effect was far more sinister than if he had gallivanted around the stage waving his arms and wailing. Which, I admit, had been my second fear. My first fear, of course, being what Dr Bairstow was going to say when all this was over. However, back to the plot.

The Ghost was about to speak.

I held my breath.

In a voice resonating with sadness and despair, he spoke.

‘Do not forget. This visitation

Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.

But look, amazement on thy mother sits.'

As well it might since the young lad playing the queen had suddenly found himself being addressed by a complete stranger.

‘O step between her and her fighting soul.

Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works.

Speak to her, Hamlet.'

To no avail. Gertrude cannot see the Ghost. After a final moment of silent anguish, conveyed, according to the Markham School of Acting, by him clutching at his bosom with both hands, the Ghost drifts away, never, thank God, to be seen again.

A polite round of applause accompanied his exit.

I realised I'd been holding my breath.

‘Hey, Max.'

Don't ever tell Peterson I'd completely forgotten about him.

‘Tim? Where are you? What's happening?'

You're supposed to say ‘Report'. It doesn't always happen.

‘Bit of a full-scale war here. I'm pulling everyone out.'

I could hear a woman shrieking.

I asked who that was, because he does have a tendency to get himself involved with difficult women.

‘Now we know why the original passenger was so keen to get to the New World, Max. His wife and seventeen children have just turned up. She's hanging around his neck like a dead albatross. The kids are screaming. He's alternately trying to pretend he's never seen any of them before and shouting at the crew to cast off. The crew are laughing their heads off. It's all happening. Hang on, she's wants me to ... No, I will not hold the baby. No. Let go of me. Get off. For God's sake, madam, will you kindly desist. Thank you. Max, stop laughing.'

‘It's good training for when you're married.'

‘I should live that long. Look out, Atherton, she's heading your way. Watch out for that baby. It's leaking at both ends. Sorry Max – have to go. Speak to you later.'

It was all right for Peterson. He only had an angry ship's crew, two uncontrollable academics, Psycho Psykes, and an enraged wife and her seventeen children to contend with. I didn't have to turn around to know that Dr Bairstow was glaring balefully at the back of my head.

‘Dr Maxwell.'

‘Oh, hello, sir,' I said cheerfully, grasping the bull by his horns. ‘Everything all right up there?'

‘
We
are all present and correct, yes.'

‘Jolly good,' I said, ignoring the implication that my team wasn't, and moved slightly to my left to get a better shot of Hamlet ranting about something to someone.

‘Is there something you want to tell me?'

‘I don't think so sir. Everything seems to be under control here.'

‘We shall speak later,' he promised and closed his link.

The play cruised smoothly on – which was more than I was doing – the final scene especially providing a body count high enough to compare favourably with that of a modern day blockbuster. The final tally:

The Queen – poisoned by the king, her husband.

Ophelia – drowned.

Polonius – stabbed through the arras by Hamlet.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern – both beheaded by the English.

Laertes – stabbed and poisoned by Hamlet.

Claudius – stabbed and poisoned by Hamlet.

And Hamlet himself – goes mad and then, continuing the established theme – stabbed and poisoned by Laertes.

A dark day for Denmark.

I was on the verge of calling Peterson. His silence was either a very good thing or a very bad thing – but if he needed assistance he would call me. Or so I told myself.

The players took their bows with Markham, obviously aware that the sands of his life were running out, trying to stand at the back and look inconspicuous – something that was never going to happen in any century.

And then it was time to go.

I turned away from the stage and, not without misgivings, opened my com. ‘Tim, what's happening?

‘All present and correct. Well, mostly correct. A few bumps and bruises.'

‘You've been fighting?'

‘Only a little. Most of the damage was done when Keller tripped over a coil of rope and brought a couple of sailors down with him. They were at some pains to point out they weren't those sort of boys and we had to run for it.'

‘Bloody hell, where are you now?'

‘In the Tabard. We gave up on Shakespeare. Some days you can have too much drama. We've pooled our pennies instead, and there's a lake of ale on the table in front of us. What's happening with you?'

‘Shakespeare set fire to himself and Markham made his stage debut.'

He whistled. ‘OK, you win. Much more disastrous than a couple of bloody noses and a crushed codpiece. How about Dr Bairstow?'

‘Up in the gallery.'

‘Isn't there a song about that?'

‘How much beer have you actually had?'

‘Hardly any at all,' he said unconvincingly. ‘So what are you up to, then?'

‘I, along with Miss Lingoss, whose behaviour has been exemplary, I might add...' We both paused to savour this unaccustomed phrase, ‘...have been concentrating on the real assignment. Which is more than can be said for the rest of this bloody unit.'

I closed the link. All right, harsh words, but what would you have said?

It took us over an hour to get out of the theatre. No one seemed in any hurry to leave. There was food, drink and company. Why would anyone want to be anywhere else? The actors jumped down off the stage and mingled with the crowd, slapping backs and cadging drinks. I looked for Shakespeare. A brief glimpse, even at this late stage, might go a long way towards placating Dr Bairstow, but I couldn't see him anywhere. Sometimes I think the god of historians' job description needs upgrading. Along with the actual god of historians.