The Playmakers (8 page)

The little fellow knew when to pull back, and
leave people merely with a fast-beating heart and an implanted
message that they must view the show and see what the rest of it
was all about.

It was marketing at its cleverest, the
drummer-boy providing the sound, the bouncing dwarf the action, and
the standard-bearer declaring that Mr Budsby’s mummers would
“Astound, Astonish and Amaze With Acts of Unparalleled
Agility.”

Because most of the populace could barely
read, the canvas also carried true-to-life paintings of three of
the premiere acts - the Siamese twins, the strong man and the
fire-eater. This was important, for while Rufus J. Budsby could
smell the money, it required cleverness and persistence to seduce
it out of tight rural purses.

The troupe carried with them no tent, but
rather, performed on a brightly decorated stage cleverly made up on
the flat of one of the wagons. People simply gathered around, and
therefore the mummers could not charge an admission fee, relying,
instead, on money thrown on stage by an appreciative audience. It
was therefore imperative that all acts, whether sent out to shock,
amuse, or amaze, had to perform at their very best. A bad fall by
one of the acrobats, or a poor lift by the strongman, and the day’s
pickings would be lean.

On those nights, Budsby would stare morosely
into his jug of wine and order his right-hand man, Nick Sayers, to
tell the troupe to smarten up, practice their routines, and ensure
that such sloppy performances were eliminated.

He would get the offenders to reprise their
act by the fire until the problem was ironed out.

Then, after a couple of more drinks, a hearty
feed, and a warm-up by the flickering flames, the optimist in
Budsby would re-surface and roar heartily, “Tomorrow, my friends,
those coins will clatter across the stage like the sound of rolling
thunder.” Then he would let out the bassoon laugh and stagger off
to sleep in his wagon, leaving Soho to batten things down.

Shakespeare would return to his cart, too,
and survey the work needing to be done next morning.

While he had had great success with the
softer leathers, using the relatively primitive tools left behind
by Mr Mullins, he struggled initially with the tougher, thicker
leather for the bridles, harnesses and other more utilitarian gear.
The large, unwieldy needles and the sinewy thread regularly ripped
his skin. But sitting in the maintenance van, amid a ramshackle
collection of tools, strips of leather, and jobs in need of repair,
he willed himself to overlook the blood and discomfort to show his
appreciation for his new family.

As they travelled that summer through Dorset
and Somerset, reaching the western seaboard for an extended stay -
a long way from Stratford,
he reflected -
he stuck at his task, developing thick calluses on his hands as a
protection against further cuts.

By the time Christmas had come, he had
mastered most jobs, not only with leather, but any other repairs to
vehicles and equipment that were needed.

He was therefore ready when presented with a
vital challenge - to fix the rapidly deteriorating leather
strapping for “The Mighty Hercules, The Strongest Man in all of
Merry England.”

Almost eighteen inches wide at its broadest,
the thick embossed belt was wrapped around Hercules’ rock-hard
stomach by Soho prior to each performance, then pulled tight and
locked with two huge brass buckles at the back.

While adding glamor and drama to the act, the
belt had an important duty - providing support for Hercules’ spine
when he bent down and picked up the bar with the huge,
perfectly-round metal spheres on each end.

As the season wore on, the stitching had
started to unravel, making the procedure, which was the climax of
his engrossing act, all the more precarious. By the time they
reached Taunton, immediate action was required.

“It’s been terrible, Will,” Hercules said to
Shakespeare, as he handed over the belt in the cluttered van.

“I think I should be able to do something
with it,” replied Shakespeare, closely examining the frayed webbing
and picking at it with a fingernail.

“I haven’t been able to lift with confidence,
you know what I mean?” continued the big man, his giant waxed
moustache twitching with anxiety.

“I think I do.”

“You’ve got to feel confident in my
game.”

“I see.”

“Otherwise, you never get the thing off the
ground.”

“Right.”

“I know blokes, some stronger than me -
farm-boys, that type - big enough to pull a stuck bull out of the
mud.”

“Yes?”

“But they can’t do what I do. Bring them up
on stage, and they go to water. They can’t pick up that bar.”

“I’ve seen them.”

And it was true, too, one of the highlights
of Hercules’ act was to challenge locals to a test of strength, and
in doing so, reassure even the most cynical that the round weights
were genuine.

Peering from out of his van, Shakespeare had
witnessed many a strong young country lad, red-faced from
embarrassment as back-slappers pushed him forward, fail at the
first hurdle. Even though they sometimes rivalled Hercules in size
and bulk, they could rarely get the bar with its two dead-weight
orbs off the ground, much less over their head.

“That’s because they don’t think about it,
they don’t have the timing, they don’t have the confidence,” said
Hercules.

“Right.”

That’s what life’s all about it, isn’t it,
hey? Three things. Thinking. Timing. Confidence.”

Shakespeare, The New Shakespeare, that is,
looked up from the stitching with wonderment on his face.

He was taken aback that such a simple but
potent philosophy on life could be presented to him by a man whose
success in matters seemed to be based more on things muscular than
cerebral.

“Yes, yes! You are right, Hercules, you are
absolutely right!”

“Aw, just call me Max. Hercules is only my
stage name.”

“Max. Okay, Max it is then.”

“Can you fix it?”

Shakespeare peered again at the big man in
front of him. The mighty handlebar moustache flourished beneath two
high cheekbones. Above them sat a pair of brown eyes, which
sparkled, a tribute to the fellow’s fitness and good health. On
top, a thatch of glossy black hair matched the moustache in both
colour and flair.

Shakespeare thought to himself how, out of
his traditional stage clothes of leopard-skin loincloth and
calf-high boots, and standing in simple trousers and shirt,
Hercules looked a true gentle giant.

It was said that despite his size, he had
never raised a fist in anger to anyone, and that somewhere back in
London there was a wife and two children that he adored, and which
he supported by saving whatever he could from his displays of
strength on the road, and took back to his little family when the
opportunity presented itself.

“Yes, I can fix it,” Shakespeare reassured
him.

“Beautiful. Beautiful,” said Hercules. “I’ve
never felt confident at all since we were in that little seaside
village a couple of weeks ago, and I bent down, the belt started to
slip, and I couldn’t get a grip of my balls.”

Shakespeare couldn’t help it. A glimmer of a
smile came to his lips.

“And I let go of both of them.”

The smile began to develop into a discrete
laugh.

“And they rolled into the crowd and flattened
a little old lady!”

It was too much. Shakespeare cast the belt
aside and burst into laughter.

“What?” said Hercules, puzzled. “What?”

“It’s nothing, Max, nothing.”

“Oh, I see,” said Hercules, smiling as the
picture developed in his mind. “My balls!”

“And the little old lady,” added Shakespeare,
tears streaming down his face, “the poor old thing … Ohhh, dear
…”

“My balls nearly killed her!” roared
Hercules, bursting into laughter, and slapping Shakespeare on the
shoulder.

Shakespeare bent forward under the pressure
of the mighty blow, his laughter suddenly changing into a
spluttering, coughing sound.

“Ohhh,” said Max, patting him apologetically.
“Sorry, Will. Don’t know me own strength!”

The pair began to roar laughing again, but
suddenly stopped when the van began shaking.

It was rocking up and down, and side to side
so violently that even the strongman began to blanch. They looked
at each other in fear, as the rocking continued, Shakespeare’s
tools began to roll across his mottled work-board, and the pots and
pans hanging at the back began to clang.

“Blimey,” said Hercules.

“Is it an earthquake?” said Shakespeare.

“Ha! No, no, only me,” came a booming voice,
followed by a hearty chuckle. Shakespeare and Hercules turned to
the entrance of the van, to see Budsby trying to heave his giant
figure up from the step onto the platform, rocking the wagon as he
struggled for balance. “These steps are getting higher every day,”
he said, as Soho appeared from behind and began pushing his boss.
“Remind me, if we should ever make a fortune, to buy myself a wagon
that is built lower to the ground. It’s all I can do to get into
bed at night.”

Hercules moved forward, grabbed his boss by
the hand and in one quick movement, pulled him inside.

“Ah, thank you Master Hercules,” said Budsby,
catching his breath, which was icy from the December cold. “I know
it is said that intellect rules the world, but just occasionally a
bit of brute force wins the day.”

“Hercules, er, Max, that is, is a thinker as
well,” said Shakespeare.

“Oh, I know, I know,” said Budsby, catching
his breath. “I would not want you to believe that I feel otherwise.
Thinking. Timing. Confidence. That’s what it is all about, isn’t
it, Max?”

“Certainly is, Mr Budsby.”

“Mr New Shakespeare, one day, when you are
running your own show, you will be able to relate to your
associates how the most successful travelling mummer outfit you
ever came into contact with, worked on a three-point philosophy
espoused by the show’s resident muscle-man.”

There was a pause.

“Plus,” added Budsby, winking to Max, “other
unique strategies developed by its owner, of course!”

“Let me hear that again? My own show?” said
Shakespeare, with surprise.

“The time has come, Mr New Shakespeare, for
you to spread your wings.”

“But, Mr Budsby, I’m happy in my job. I’m
grateful that …”

“Sssh,” he said, just like he did the first
day they met at the stream, waving the big silver-capped Blackwood
stick at him to cease. “You don’t need to be grateful to me. I am
grateful to you for what you have done.”

“I’ve enjoyed every day since we met.”

“Excellent. But remember what we discussed on
that first night, around the fire? I will not blame if you cannot
recall the conversation, considering the state you were in.”

Shakespeare looked down at the strongman’s
belt and then back at Max.

Max gave him a nod, a knowing nod, as if to
you say “Come on, Will, I’ve told you how to do it. The three
steps.”

Will nodded.

First up, think,
he
said to himself.
Think.

He cast his mind back to that night.
There was the fire. And the beer that the big man
drank. And the acrobatic man that handed him the beer. Nick Sayers.
That’s it. The acrobat. Who is also the manager.

Of course, I remember what
he said!

But, wait, he thought.
Don’t spill the beans too quickly now. Timing. It’s all in
the timing.

Thinking.
Timing.

He paused, and looked up.

“Versatility,” he said, with confidence.

The chubby red face of the big man split into
a smile. Max beamed with pride.

“Splendid,” said Budsby. “Splendid, Mr New
Shakespeare. Versatility it is, and that is what I have in mind for
you. I thought we might take you away from the confines of the
maintenance wagon, bring you out front of house, and begin your
education in the world of entertainment.”

“But …”

“Will,” said Budsby kindly. “You have cut,
sewed, repaired and re-fitted every piece of leather in the entire
troupe. Twice! The bridles on the horses match those of the Queen’s
Guard. And you have learned how to make pots, repair pans, and fix
wagon wheels.”

“It’s just that,” said Shakespeare, waving at
a collection of pieces of leather hanging on hooks, “I’ve got to
finish Max’s belt, and a couple of other jobs.”

“Enough!” said Budsby, flourishing the stick,
and turning around. “I have that problem solved. Soho!”

The little man jumped at his name, turned and
walked to the back of the wagon. He looked outside and waved.

There was more movement of the wagon as
Shakespeare could feel another person climbing on board. But this
time the rocking was not of earthquake proportions, and the reason
soon became apparent.

The visitor appeared at the doorway, a figure
Shakespeare had never seen before. He was a short, wiry character,
his skin well weathered by the sun and wind. Under a thick
greatcoat, he wore a blue and white striped top, and in his hands
he carried some sort of cap, which he nervously turned over and
over again.

“Mr New Shakespeare,” boomed Budsby grandly,
“allow me to introduce to you - originally from Colchester, late of
Norway, and fresh from jumping ship at Deptford - Mr Mullins.”

CHAPTER FIVE