Shakespeare 2012 - Part III Read online

  Chapter 29

  After printing his essay, Leon had loitered in Hackney Central library, idly browsing the books about William Shakespeare. There were books about Elizabethan theatre, the Globe, study guides, literary criticisms, and biographies. William Shakespeare was a veritable one-man publishing institution. Leon had arranged to meet Will at the cafe at the front of the library at midday. Leon arrived at 11:55 pm. He felt mildly concerned when Will still hadn’t shown up by 12:05 pm. When Will was still absent at 12:15 pm, Leon started to worry. Will didn’t have a mobile phone, and didn’t know his way around Hackney. The area had some rough estates which Leon didn’t want to imagine Will inadvertently walking through. Leon’s relief was immense when he finally spotted Will strolling languorously towards the cafe with a can of beer in his hand.

  “Hey Will, you found it ok then?”

  “Well, I got lost, but some local kids pointed me right. Hackney is a friendly area. This is a turnip farm back in 1612.”

  Leon laughed. “You remember when this were all fields, eh? The poet’s love of nature?”

  “Oh, there is poetry in Hackney yet.”

  From the library, Leon led Will to Hackney Central train station. He was quietly pleased to observe Will seamlessly tap through the gates with his Oyster card like a regular Londoner. He was adapting to his new environment like a fox in a forest. When they exited Swiss Cottage tube station, Leon noticed Will was walking quicker than usual. He clearly remembered the route to the college. Will pushed through the college doors as if he was late for something, neglecting to hold it open for Leon.

  Chapter 30

  “Come on, Florizel! We’re leaving now!” Camilla called into the flat from the open front door.

  “Ok, ok mum, I can’t find my football boots,” a voice shouted from within the flat.

  “They’re in the bag under the kitchen table. Come on! Let’s go!”

  Her ten years old son, Florizel, emerged from the kitchen, lifting the string-draw plastic bag over his head. He rested it on top of his school bag. Camilla adjusted Florizel’s tie, folded down his shirt collars, and smoothed his hair. “There we go.” She accompanied Florizel out of the block of flats to the street corner where they met the walking bus. Two adults wearing fluorescent yellow bibs escorted a group of children from the estate to the nearest primary school two blocks away. “Have a nice day, love,” Camilla bent down and kissed the top of Florizel’s head. “And good luck in the match.” After exchanging pleasantries with the two supervisors, she turned to go to the bus stop for her commute to work.

  Camilla was the receptionist at the Central College of Speech and Drama. Officially her job was to greet visitors and answer the phone, but she had become the presumed personal assistant to the lazy or disorganised college lecturers and managers. Her friends in the services and facilities sections of the college staff called her Polly, short for Polyfilla, as Camilla was the stuff that filled the cracks in the college’s daily functioning. Vivacious, voluble, Camilla loved her job, as she loved the banter and gossip with the flamboyant and uninhibited drama students who were continuously passing through reception. She knew all their names, and tried to know most of their gossip. She also liked the spin-off glamour and kudos she earned when one of the college’s former students landed a role in a TV show or movie, no matter how minor. She reckoned she could make millions from celebrity tittle-tattle magazines if she was to reveal how these new young stars had behaved at college.

  She had just replaced the phone after redirecting an incoming call when the door to the college suddenly thrashed open. A chap in a Back to the Future T-shirt was striding swiftly to the reception with a large smile revealing stained, disfigured, and missing teeth. The door swung open again. Leon rushed in holding a folder. He grabbed hold of the older guy’s elbow and pulled him away from the reception towards the stairs.

  “Leon!” Camilla called out. “Back again today? Can only mean you’re in trouble!”

  “Oh hi, Camilla. No, not at all. I’m now in Mr Rumpold’s Golden Boy Book.” Leon waved the folder he was carrying in the air and walked on.

  “Don’t flub anything!” Camilla shouted after Leon.

  “You devilish rascal! I thought you liked me,” he called back.

  “I do like you,” Camilla replied, looking suggestively at Leon’s friend. The man abruptly jerked his arm away from Leon’s hand and strode briskly to the reception.

  Camilla stood up and offered her hand. “Hi, I’m Camilla.”

  The man lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “A name to write in lights as bright as thy beauty. W- ... Billy.”

  “Oh, my word! How chivalrous! You’ll make me swoon.”

  “You swoon? I swoon!” Billy lowered Camilla’s hand but didn’t release it. “Let’s swoon. How soon?”

  Camilla was astounded by Billy’s directness. But she felt a formidable presence, she felt intrigued. She let her hand rest in Billy’s and studied him. Bit old, she thought, unfortunate rustic accent, teeth needed some work, but he exuded a powerful charismatic pull. Camilla felt herself fluttering.

  “How soon? How soon what?” she replied wispily.

  She felt Billy squeeze her hand. “This night!” He pressed his other hand around hers.

  Camilla giggled. She enjoyed flirting innocently with the young male students at the college, but she never openly discussed soirees at the reception. Yet she felt her eyes open wider, stuck in the moment, looking at Billy. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

  “A date?” Billy replied with gravitas. “For you a month, a year, all now.”

  Camilla felt a little swoon come upon her. She flicked her hair with her free hand. “My word, you are smooth.” The phone on her desk started ringing. She tried to recompose herself. “Ok, I finish here at five. And I need to go home and change and sort out a babysitter.” She studied Billy for a second. Yeah, what harm could a drink with him do? “Do you know the King’s Head on Upper Street? Near Angel?”

  “Of course!” Billy answered decisively.

  “I could meet ya there at eight?”

  Billy kissed her hand. “An angel, at eight, we start.” He bowed to Camilla.

  “Come on, Billy,” Leon said, dragging Billy’s sleeve. “Camilla has work to do.”

  Chapter 31

  Leon didn’t want Will to date Camilla. He was worried with the idea of Will dating in general, but especially with someone from his university. It could create all manner of awkward situations, and perhaps necessitate the creation of a messy web of complex lies. Leon was resolute in his belief that nobody else could know about Will’s identity – for everyone’s sakes. Will would be either endlessly ridiculed or perpetually harassed. Leon and Hermione would face accusations from their friends either of taking too many mushrooms or of betrayal. If the story broke in the media then they would either be accused of lunacy or of concealing a truth the world needed to know and investigate. He wasn’t sure that Will fully appreciated the severe unforeseeable consequences if his identity slipped into public knowledge. So if Will started going out on his own, Leon was concerned he would lose control of the maintenance of the secret. And if Will started dating, or worse, if he fell in love with someone, then Leon could lose his status as Will’s guide and guardian. Leon wanted to keep Will to himself as much as possible.

  “You’ve got a date!” Hermione exclaimed at home later that evening. “Fantastic! Who’s the lucky damsel?”

  “The fair Camilla,” Will replied. “A beauty as radiant as the stars.”

  “Who’s Camilla?”

  “The receptionist at college,” Leon answered. “She’s ... a character and a half. Always flirting with the boys, always gossiping with the girls. All the boys fancy her, all the girls confide in her.“

  “Lucky Camilla,” Hermione said happily to Will.

  Leon looked sharply at Hermione. Did he detect a note of jealousy in her tone? Hermione was smitten with having Will stay in their fl
at. But was that all? Will had a powerful presence, and an unfathomably immense legend, only rivalled by some of the greatest names from history. Was Hermione slipping into becoming an adoring domestic groupie?

  “Quite,” Leon said, hoping he didn’t sound too caustic.

  “So what are you going to wear?” Hermione asked. “Clothes maketh the date!”

  “What doth my master suggest?” Will asked Leon.

  “For Camilla, I’d recommend something smart grungey.”

  “Smart what?”

  “Hither, step into your dressing room.”

  The three of them entered Leon and Hermione’s bedroom. Leon selected some clothes from his wardrobe and displayed them on the bed. Hermione positioned Will in front of the full-length mirror. She picked out shirts and T-shirts from the bed and, standing behind Will, held them up over his chest. Will pouted and posed and checked himself out in the mirror.

  “This one,” Hermione announced about a light blue, military style, short-sleeved shirt, laughing at Will’s childish pose. “Like a rugged urban adventurer.”

  She moved to the range of trousers Leon had spread on the bed. Standing behind Will, Hermione held each pair up over his waist. Leon watched them closely, silently.

  “This raiment is for courting?” Will asked after Hermione had settled on a pair of baggy blue jeans.

  “Will, you shall look dazzling,” Hermione replied, “like the 21st century street poet genius you are.”

  Will carried the clothes into his room. Minutes later he returned to the lounge wearing his new outfit. “Give us a twirl then,” Hermione ordered. Will spun around slowly, with one are lifted over his head like a flamenco dancer. “Woof! Too hot!” Hermione said. She jumped up from the sofa, adjusted the collar on Will’s shirt, and gave Will a peck on the cheek.

  “Too hot,” Leon repeated softly, casting a suspicious look into the mirror on the lounge wall, meeting Will’s eyes briefly.

  Chapter 32

  Camilla was also pondering her outfit for the date. She settled on a navy blue frock, respectably low in front, but with a suggestible high hemline. She had inherited jet black hair from her Italian mother, and light brown skin from her Moroccan father. She posed in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, and blew a kiss at herself. “Still got it, sorta,” she joked.

  She crossed the hall to the doorway of their living room. “So how do I look?” she asked Florizel.

  “Alright, bare shabby,” he replied without turning around from the Xbox game he was playing on the TV.

  Camilla smiled at her son’s cheeky humour. “I can never tell if your slang is a compliment or an insult.”

  “What time you be back at?”

  “You setting your mum a curfew?”

  “If you’re not back by 10:30 you’ll be grounded.”

  “Oh, why thanks for the warning, dad!”

  The doorbell rang. Camilla opened it for the babysitter. “Perfect timing. I’ll be back by half ten. He’s been warned. There’s pizza and lemonade for youse both in the fridge.” She kissed the top of Florizel’s head. “Behave yourself Flori, or that Xbox gets grounded.”

  This was Camilla’s first date in months. She’d intentionally removed herself from the dating scene after a series of short-lived, misaligned relationships: when she had wanted something serious, the bloke didn’t, when she didn’t, the bloke did. The course never did run smooth. She had unintentionally developed a protective, cynical veneer over the years, allowing herself to enjoy the surface-level banter with men, but compelling herself to keep her emotions in check.

  She also compelled herself to have low expectations. For this date, she had decided to purely go with the flow, to enjoy the company of Leon’s quirky but intriguing older friend Billy, but nothing else. She had created a daft scoring scheme in her mind with a running points total for the guys she dated. If someone got over one hundred she would see him again. Few men scored above fifty. She fixed her hair outside the pub door, set Billy’s points total in her head to zero, then entered. She spotted Billy at the bar, two almost empty glass tankards were in front of him, next to one which was half full. Terrific, Camilla thought sarcastically, a boozehound. Minus ten points. She started thinking of excuses why Florizel would need her back early.

  “Fairest Camilla!” Billy said when he spotted her. “Let us retire yonder.” He took his beer in one hand and Camilla’s elbow in the other and escorted her to a table near the pub toilets. Minus ten. He hadn’t offered to buy her a drink. Minus ten. They sat at opposite sides of the table. Some of the beer sloshed up and out of the glass when Billy smacked it down on the table. He swiped it off the table onto the floor with his hand. Minus ten. Camilla caught Billy looking her over. Was he looking at her with barely disguised lust? Minus twenty. He didn’t initiate any conversation. Minus ten. How much was that now? She’d already lost count. Must be almost minus one hundred or so and they’d only just sat down. It was statistically the worst start to a date ever. She wondered if she could escape without even having to get a drink.

  “So Billy,” Camilla said, breaking the silence, “how do you know Leon?”

  “We met after he appeared in a play I had wr- ... after a play I had recommended, and we’ve stayed in contact since. He’s been very good to me, like a grown-up son shepherding his out-of-touch dad.” He took a noisy slurp of beer. He seemed serious, solemn.

  “Yeah, he’s a good kid,” Camilla replied dully. She tried to lift the mood. “He’s promised to treat me to a VIP trip to Hollywood when he’s nominated for his first Oscar.”

  “Yes, yes, he’ll hit the stars. I have high hopes he’ll take me on some interstellar adventures too. But that book’s not been written yet ...”

  Billy seemed lost in his own thoughts. Camilla felt that she was going to have to carry the conversation all night. “Are you bookish, Billy?”

  This brightened Billy. “Bookish? Oh yes! I live for books.”

  “Yeah? Who’s your favourite writer?”

  Billy slurped another glug of beer and wiped his mouth with his hand. “I prefer old stuff like the Greek and Roman classics: Homer, Ovid, Plutarch. And mod-, stuff from the Middle Ages like Ben Jonson, Christopher Marlowe. I’m still catching up with more modern stuff. What about you?”

  Camilla was pleased that the conversation was beginning to flow more naturally. “I prefer page-turners like the Da Vinci Code, something with a mystery, a conspiracy. It’s gotta have a plot, and preferably some romance. I don’t really read classics, well except for Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. I read it to my son every Christmas Eve. It’s so heart-warming and reassuring.”

  “Yeah, Dickens is cool. What about Shakespeare?”

  “Shakespeare?” Camilla had never read any. “He speaks a language I understand not,” she said dismissively.

  “Yes,” Billy replied softly, lowering his eyes to his drink, “he is easily misunderstood. Have you ever seen any of his plays performed?”

  “I prefer the movie versions. Like Romeo & Juliet, which was fabulous. And I adored Shakespeare in Love.” Camilla noticed Billy’s eyes flicker wider. “I know it’s just a film but he was so inspiring, so romantic, so ... lovable.”

  Billy looked at Camilla like he’d caught her reading his diary. “Shakespeare in Love? Really? Yes, that’s a ... an interesting film.” He lifted his tankard and finished off the last of his ale.

  “Didn’t someone else write his plays?” Camilla asked. “Edward de Vere or someone?”

  Suddenly, Billy choked and spat the ale out of his mouth back into the glass. He loudly slammed the tankard onto the table. “de Vere?” he shouted with obvious agitation, wiping the suds of beer from his goatee on the short sleeves of his shirt. “The Earl of Oxford? Write plays? Write Shakespeare? That reeky, wart-brained bladder-worm couldn’t write a sonnet!”

  Camilla couldn’t understand why Billy seemed so angry. “Sorry, it’s obviously important to you. I don’t really know en
ough about it,” she said, trying to backtrack. “I just read something about it in a magazine once.”

  An uneasy silence passed between them. Camilla deducted fifty points from Billy’s running total. She wondered if she could escape soon. She tried to move onto less contentious topics. “So what do you do for a living Billy?”

  “My employment? I work in theatre. Written a few plays. And the occasional poem. Nothing I ever imagined would get published, mind.”

  Camilla instantly gave Billy a generous and unprecedented eighty points for this. “A playwright! And a poet! Oh, how dreamy! I’ve never been on a date with a poet before. Boxers and bouncers yeah, but never someone with a gift for words. Tell me one of your poems.”

  “I’ll not tell you one, I’ll compose you one ...”

  Camilla sat motionless, sceptical, as Billy hesitated for a moment, as if he was letting ideas float into his imagination. She doubted this boorish boozer could recite a nursery rhyme never mind compose a poem spontaneously. After a short pause, Billy finally seemed to have found some inspiration.

  “I want to show you all the stars in the sky ...” Billy intoned slowly, softly, gesturing upwards. Camilla’s gaze followed his hand up.

  “Find one of our own and under it we’d lie ...”

  As she listened, Camilla pictured herself lying next to Billy in a field on a cloudless, moonless night. It was a mildly appealing prospect. She was surprised to feel Billy weave a beguilingly idyllic scene in her mind.

  “We’d talk about the universe, life, death and love ...”

  Billy’s slow speech had slowed Camilla’s mind, his words imperceptibly leading her into dreamily romantic visions.

  “With nothing between us and heaven except our star above.”

  Billy gazed straight at Camilla as he whispered the last line. Camilla swooned contentedly. Five hundred points. Here at last was the attraction she had encountered briefly in the college reception earlier. She felt her heart shiver with the power of Billy’s poetry. “A man in touch with his soul can melt a woman’s heart,” she mumbled, feeling trapped in the lush bubble Billy had created around them.

  Billy lifted Camilla’s hands and leaned across the table. Camilla leaned forward slightly. Billy was looking deep into her eyes. Camilla felt her usual protective defences crumbling.