“We’ll find it,” Ms Benn snapped. She turned on her high heels and stormed back out into the street. Brownlow twinkled apologetically in Trish’s direction, making a helpless gesture. Trish almost swooned. Too late she considered chasing after him with her smart phone for a photo opportunity. She spent the rest of the day kicking herself for that.
“I’ll call us a taxi,” Ms Benn pulled out her phone.
“Can’t we walk? I want to get a feel of the place. Get my bearings, you know?”
“I think it’s a bit far.”
“This is England not Texas. If you’re thinking about your shoes, we can stop off at a store and get you some sneakers. I’m sure the budget will stretch to that.”
“Actually, Hank, I was thinking about the time we’d save.”
“There is that, yeah.”
He stood with his hands in his jacket pockets, looking around, willing someone to recognise him while Ms Benn arranged with the taxi firm to pick them up at the edge of the pedestrianized area by a statue of a jester.
“It’s kinda quaint, ain’t it?” he indicated the paved expanse of Henley Street with its boutiques and coffee shops.
“Mr Brownlow,” Ms Benn silenced him with a level stare. “I beseech you: never use the Q word in the presence of an English person. Not if you wish to be considered as anything like credible.”
“There’s nothing wrong with quaint,” Brownlow sulked.
They waited in frosty silence for their second taxi of the trip and they hadn’t been in town for twenty minutes. Brownlow peered at the statue, which was green from exposure to the elements. Quaint, he thought. No; kitsch. Sorry, ‘mate’, he sent the merry jester an apologetic smile, there’s no place for you in my serious, insightful show.
Ms Brownlow sent some messages while they waited. As the car pulled up with a honk of its horn, she took a swig of bottled water.
***
Professor Auberon Cheese sat in the shelter of a structure made of willow. He was out of sight and enjoying the solitude away from the bustle of tourists in the farmhouse known as Anne Hathaway’s cottage. A school trip had just arrived; Professor Cheese preferred not to be present on such occasions. It was too stressful, too much to keep track of all those sticky fingers, which might contain penknives or marker pens or, bane of modern civilisation, chewing gum. He liked to leave all of that to the staff in their period costumes.
The moment of solace restored his sense of calm. If he kept still he could listen to the birds in the Tudor garden and be forewarned of any intrusion from the school party. There was a button you could press and the arbour would resonate with the booming voice of a famous actor reciting a famous sonnet. Cheese couldn’t remember who it was exactly. You know: him who was in that film. Played a wizard or some such. Cheese had a disdain for actors who wasted their time on anything that wasn’t Shakespeare but the Trust had voted and this actor chappie had got the job.
School party notwithstanding, the farmhouse was still standing and all was as it should be. The staff had been surprised to see him; the cottage was not strictly speaking in his purview, but they had bowed and scraped in the manner they thought he expected them to do and eventually they had left him in peace to attend to the paying customers.
He had been able to achieve what he wanted to achieve, out of sight of prying eyes. He felt a lot better, a lot safer now that his task was done.
He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his hands. They would be better off with a thorough wash with soap and water but that could wait until he got back to town. He consulted his weighty fob watch.
Lunchtime was upon him!
He replaced it in his waistcoat pocket and, utilising his other affectation the silver-topped cane, left the arbour. He touched the brim of his hat to an attendant dressed as a Tudor gardener and headed back towards Stratford proper. It was a pleasant walk that took him across a brook. It was under a mile but, do you know, many tourists baulked at the prospect, preferring to patronise the local taxi firms instead of stretching their legs. It was no wonder the majority of the visitors from the former colonies were obese if that was their attitude. They were missing out. Professor Cheese liked to imagine a teenage Will Shakespeare making that same journey many a time and oft in order to see his sweetheart and fornicate with her.
He deviated from the pretty footpath and strode through the area known as the ‘old town’. The lure of the Filthy Fowl was too great to resist. He hoped the management had returned to its senses and reinstated shepherd’s pie to the specials board.
He could murder a shepherd’s pie.
***
“You would tell me, wouldn’t you?” said Harry. “If you’re not real, I mean; if you’re just a figment of my cracked imagination, you would tell me? Before I try to introduce you to one of the most respected Shakespearean academics in the world today.”
They were sitting in the cosy bar of the Fowl. Harry had a bitter shandy in front of him and Ariel a glass of sparkling water. The spirit was puzzling over a packet of crisps, imagining it to be some kind of ineffectual cushion, perhaps.
“I am real, Harry. Just not part of what you define as reality.”
“That’s no bloody help.”
“I’m here, am I not? I am present.”
“But are you invisible? If someone else was to walk in, would they see you? Would they hear you?”
“Unless they were deaf and blind, Harry. It happens.”
“And stop calling me Mast- Oh! You have. Give me that!” He snatched the packet of crisps and opened it. A waft of cheese and onion flavouring rose up to greet him but Harry had no appetite.
He approached the bar and beckoned a barman.
“You will let me know when the Prof comes in?” he said. The barman, registering Harry’s anxiety, assured him he would.
“Cheers,” said Harry. “You won’t forget?”
The barman assured him he wouldn’t. He turned to his co-worker. “Here, Phil; tell us if Professor Cheese comes in.”
The other barman, pulling a pint of Guinness, had time to stand and chat. “Oh, him? He’s in the restaurant. Been here twenty minutes.”
The first barman turned to convey this information to his anxious customer but Harry was already grabbing the sleeve of his companion and rushing through to the other room.
“We’re fully booked -” a waiter tried to tell them but Harry pulled Ariel into the restaurant regardless. The room backed up the waiter’s statement: every chair was occupied and the air was full of the sound of chatter and cutlery clattering against china. A miasma of aromas caught Ariel’s attention. He inhaled them all and began to name the ingredients of every meal.
“Will you be quiet!” Harry tugged his sleeve. “Look for an old man. White goatee and probably a striped blazer. He usually wears a striped - Never mind; there he is.”
He dragged Ariel across to a table in a corner, as though the spirit was a naughty child being forced to apologise for bad manners. The waiter, tracking their progress among the diners, took a short cut and intercepted the gatecrashers at the professor’s table.
“Terribly sorry, Professor,” the waiter oozed customer care. “I’ll have them leave at once.”
“Hmm?” Professor Cheese barely glanced up from his TV listings magazine. “Any word on my shepherd’s pie?”
“Professor!” Harry called over the waiter’s shoulder. “May we join you?”
The waiter smirked. There was no way the old duffer would permit these wild-eyed (and in the case of the other one, wild-nostriled) pair.
“Harry, is that you?” the Professor tried to see past the waiter. “Oh, get out of the way, you oaf.” He gave the waiter a shove. He gave Harry a cold look but his expression softened when he caught sight of Harry’s companion. He tugged the waiter’s cuff. “You better set an
other two places.”
The waiter stomped away to fetch cutlery, napkins and side plates. Harry slid onto a chair and moved around the table, pulling Ariel along with him.
“Thanks, Prof,” he grinned.
But the professor ignored Harry. His attention was taken by the other young man across the table. There seemed to be some unspoken understanding between them.
Professor Cheese picked up the salt cellar. He half-emptied it into his glass of water, which he then pushed across the table towards Ariel.
Ariel smiled.
A second later, there was a pile of salt grains on the tablecloth. The professor took a sip of the water and nodded, satisfied.
“That’s not all he can do,” said Harry. “He -”
Professor Cheese held up a hand, silencing Harry.
“Not here,” Cheese affected to look at his magazine. He marked something off on BBC 2 next Tuesday. “Come to my house in a couple of hours. Now, leave me; I have shepherd’s pie in my immediate future and I have no desire for a side order of indigestion.”
The waiter returned just as Harry stood up and pulled Ariel to his feet.
“My guests have changed their minds,” Cheese gave a peremptory smile. “Now, you may top up my wine and give the cook a kick up the arse.”
The waiter went away, a professional smile masking his annoyance - just.
“Thanks, Prof; I knew you’d be able to help -”
The professor waved Harry away like a fly. “Two hours,” he said.
Harry led Ariel away. Had he turned around he would have seen the professor watching them leave, his old eyes wet with joy and wonder.
Thirteen.
“I have to admit: it sure is pretty.” Hank Brownlow slammed the cab door behind him, leaving Ms Benn to pay the fare. He drank in the sight of Anne Hathaway’s cottage ahead of him and rubbed his hands. Cheese would be powerless in the face of Brownlow’s interrogative powers. Brownlow who had reduced top brass in the CIA to tears - on camera! - in his show about the Roswell aliens.
Ms Benn, apparently indifferent to the charm of the place, strode ahead to the entrance, where she proceeded to bark questions at anyone in period costume.
“No!” she cried in exasperation. “I do not want your artisan cheeses. I want Auberon Cheese, you know, the world-renowned Shakespeare expert? You might have heard of him.”
She turned on her heels and stalked back to Brownlow with a face like thunder.
“He’s not here. According to the peasants, anyway. They say he was here but we’ve just missed him.”
“So what -”
“Back to the birthplace. He’ll show up eventually. I’ll call us another taxi.”
She whipped out her phone while Brownlow wondered if the show’s entire budget was going to be blown on cab rides.
“Tell you what,” Ms Benn handed him a ten-pound note, “You go back to town. I’ll join you later.”
“Why, what are you going to do?”
“Oh,” Ms Benn shrugged, “have a look around. Think I’ll get a souvenir for my mother.”
“Ah. Okay; see you later, then.”
“Yes.”
She tottered away to the gift shop. Brownlow watched her go and then looked up the road, in both directions, wondering from which direction the cab would come.
Kelly Benn followed the signs to the Ladies toilet. She ran the tap in the wash basin.
Ah, water!
Was there anything better in the whole wide world?
***
“I don’t understand...” Harry tried his key again. He checked and re-checked it was the right bloody key. It wasn’t the key; it was the bloody lock. He stepped back from the front door and looked up at the building. Yes, it was his house all right. “The lock’s been changed!” he gaped in shock. “She’s only been and gone and changed the bloody lock.”
“Problem?” Ariel was drinking in the scent of the weeds that were thriving along the garden wall.
“My housemate’s bloody girlfriend has changed the lock. I’m locked out. We can’t get in. That’s what’s the problem.”
“We, Harry? I can get in. No lock can keep me out.”
Ariel floated towards the door.
“No, no; wait!” Harry chewed his lip. “Let me think. She won’t be in there; she’ll be at work. And Olly won’t be in there; he’ll be at work.”
“Then it is no problem.” Ariel’s hand turned to a facsimile of itself in vapour and melted through the door.
“No, wait... If you let me in, that will give rise to questions. She’ll accuse me of breaking in! It will be more ammunition for her to use against me. She’s already trying to turn Olly against me.” Harry’s mind was racing. “Can you believe how evil this woman is?”
Ariel withdrew his hand and it solidified.
“Aye, verily. I have met her like before.” A shudder ran through the spirit like a shimmer across a pond as he remembered the witch Sycorax. “Shut me in a pine tree for twelve years.”
“Then you know the kind of enemy we’re dealing with. Yours shut you up; mine’s shut me out. I’m going to call Olly.”
He took out his phone. Ariel was fascinated by the device. Harry could summon spirits of light and sound with the small and sleek rectangle. It was like the late master’s staff, the conduit of his powers. And the slightest glance around revealed that most people were in possession of these objects, bending sights and sounds to their will. Just about everyone was a sorcerer! O, brave new world!
“Olly!” Harry snapped at Olly’s voicemail recorder. “What the bloody fuck is going on? She’s changed the locks. Did you know about this? What the fuck, Olly? Right. Well. If that’s the way you want it, you can have it. I’ll pick up my stuff later although fuck knows where I’m going to go. Did you think about that, Olly, when you let that witch lose on our locks? Did you?”
With a roar of frustration, Harry threw his phone across the front garden. Ariel rushed to catch it before it could hit the ground. He cradled the precious, powerful object in his hands. It lay as though dead, like a stone. While Harry fumed and fretted, Ariel tried to activate the device as he had seen Harry do, but it would not respond to his fingers, no matter how he wiped them across the dark reflective surface.
“Give it here,” Harry held his hand out. “I’ll book us a B and B for tonight. The bloody witch can pay for it, or Olly can. Serves them right for not giving me proper notice. Hey! I wonder where I stand legally... They can’t do this to me.”
“What’s a B and a B?”
“A B and B. Bed and breakfast. A sort of hostelry. You get somewhere to sleep and something to eat in the morning.”
“I do neither of those things, Harry.”
“Well, bully for you. But I do. Hello, yes, is that Goosegog Cottage? Hello, Dickie. It’s me, Harry. You know, from the tours? Wondering if you’ve got a room for the night. No...” He looked at Ariel, “Just a single. Cheers, Dickie; you’re a star.”
He put the device away and said, “Sorted.”
Ariel was none the wiser.
“Right, come on,” Harry clapped his hands together. “Off to the prof’s. We can pick me up a toothbrush on the way. The witch can pay for that and all.”
“Toothbrush, Harry?”
“Don’t tell me: you don’t need one.”
Ariel bared his teeth and ran his tongue over them. “I confess mine are for show. I adopt this form so you can relate to me.”
“Yeah, that’s working out really well...”
Harry’s sarcasm was lost on the spirit. “Thanks, Harry,” he grinned.
***
Back at the Birthplace, Hank Brownlow wangled free admittance, by cooing at the girl on the box office and suggesting that she might appear as a talking hea
d in his next TV show, giving her expert testimony. Trish, turning fuchsia pink, had let him through the turnstile. He autographed the pale skin of the underside of her forearm and she resolved to have it tattooed on straight after work.
Brownlow kicked his way around the neat little garden. The house would look good in the background as he spoke to camera. He might even be able to use a couple of the actors who were wandering around in costume. He took a few snaps with his phone; he may as well use the time productively, but things had reached a pretty pass when a historian of his calibre was reduced to scouting out his own locations. A couple of things had potential. There were the windows with graffiti - over the years, visiting writers and other worthies had etched their names into the glass in a collective act of vandalism that spanned centuries. How many of those names, Dickens, Wilde and so on, could Brownlow recruit into his hypothesis? How many of them were ‘in on it’? - the ‘it’ being Shakespeare’s hidden identity as a master of black magic.
What was taking Ms what’s-her-name so long, he couldn’t guess. And of the elusive Professor Cheese there was also no sign. Brownlow had enlisted the ditzy chick on the ticket counter to alert him as soon as the prof showed up. How long a lunch break did the old coot need anyways?
Brownlow guessed that was where Ms Benn - that was it: Benn - was. Having a crafty lunch break while he was left dawdling around this old house. Well, if it was good for the goose... Brownlow took himself to the Birthplace’s coffee shop, which was glaringly modern next to the old house. He was dismayed by the menu, which listed several types of tea. What was wrong with the Brits and their obsession with tea? They didn’t even take it iced, for Christ’s sake.
He ordered coffee, strong and black, and a portion of apple pie. The mere idea of it made him homesick.
Through the cafe window he could see the house. The actors were performing an al fresco scene, something silly and charming from a comedy, he guessed. In Brownlow’s show, he decided, he would have them do a scene from Macbeth, casting spells. Shakespeare knew what he was on about, sure enough.
His order arrived. He thanked the elderly waitress and offered her his autograph. The old dear shuffled away, ignoring him.
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