by JL Merrow
Con was now positively crimson. “Bottom.” He took an over-hasty gulp of coffee, then made the sort of face you’d expect from someone who had just burned their mouth and was trying not to show it.
Two years in rep and an MA in Classical Acting stood Tristan in good stead. He was—barely—able to keep a straight face. “Hmm. Not my usual role, I’d have to say. But what about you? I’d think you’d make an excellent Bottom.”
“That’s what she said,” Con muttered.
Tristan laughed politely, then realised the man meant it literally, and not as a rather overused punchline. “She?”
“Hev. Heather. She’s playing Hermia. And directing.”
“Though she be but little, she is fierce?” Tristan guessed. “So what part do you play in this endeavour?”
“Me? I just make the scenery.”
“And I’m guessing this would be some sort of amateur dramatics group?”
“Yeah. Shamwell Amateur Dramatics Society.”
“Hm. I’m not entirely sure I’d like to be associated with a group that has the acronym SADS.” More to the point, they were undoubtedly an unholy mix of unrepentant scenery-chewers and wooden hacks. Did Tristan really want to cast his metaphorical pearls before such swine?
“Your gran used to go to all their plays,” Con said, an accusatory gleam in his eye.
Tristan thought quickly. Certain things were becoming clear to him. Firstly, that Con’s curious volte-face in attitude must be due not, as Tristan had hoped, to his charms, but to the rather less flattering explanation of Con wanting Tristan to do him a somewhat unwieldy favour. And secondly, that in the matter of wooing, refusal to oblige in this respect was likely to be a deal-breaker.
Was it worth it? Tristan eyed Con in assessment. His libido voted an enthusiastic yes, but what did his less easily swayed head think?
“She’d have loved to see you on stage in Shamwell,” Con added, impressing Tristan with his unsuspected affinity for dirty tactics.
Oh, hang it. It might be a bumbling village production, but it was still acting. And undoubtedly Tristan’s last chance to do any before taking on the yoke of wage-slavery. Plus, he could hardly spend the whole summer just wooing. He’d need something else to occupy his mind until October… Wait a minute. “When’s the production?”
“End of September. So, you know, before your job starts.” Con looked pleased with himself, as well he might.
“Hmmmmm…” His mind made up to go for it, Tristan nevertheless didn’t want to appear too easy.
“Look, just come along tonight, yeah? And, you know, see if you like it.”
“Will you be there?” Tristan asked, his eyes artlessly wide.
“Uh…”
“I’d really feel better if there were someone I knew there.” Tristan leaned in to place a hand on Con’s splendidly muscular forearm, enjoying the little frisson that spread through him at the touch.
Con swallowed. “Yeah, I can be there. Um. It’s seven thirty in the village hall.”
“Excellent!” Tristan rubbed his hands together. “Now, what shall we get on with first?”
“Uh…” Con glanced at the kitchen clock, which was of the old-fashioned china-plate variety, embellished with large, friendly numbers—all the better to be seen by elderly ladies who didn’t hold with wearing their spectacles all the time, as it would only encourage their eyes to be lazy. Tristan had given it to Nanna Geary for her seventy-eighth birthday. “I really gotta go. Cheers for the coffee. I’ll see you tonight, okay? Up at the hall.”
“Exit, pursued by a bear,” Tristan muttered, irritated, as Con took his leave with unseemly haste.
He felt he was entitled to feel a little miffed with the man. Having said he’d come round to do some work, he’d merely drunk Tristan’s coffee, eaten one of Tristan’s Belgian chocolate biscuits, press-ganged him into joining the local rag-tag band of rude mechanicals, and left.
Tristan stomped back into the kitchen to wash out the mugs, and cursed prolifically.
To add insult to injury, that bloody frog was back.
Chapter Four
By the Scroll
Con drew in a deep breath as Mrs. Geary’s front door closed behind him. That grandson of hers was really messing with his head. Con just wished he knew if the bloke was seriously coming on to him, or if he was just like that with everyone. Nah, Tristan couldn’t be serious. Not about wanting Con. He’d made it pretty bloody clear yesterday he thought Con was a complete thicko yob.
Although he’d been different today. Nicer. None of those digs about spelling and stuff. He’d even made him coffee and offered him one of his posh biscuits. It’d been just like when he used to go round to do work with Mrs. Geary. Course, it’d been tea when she’d been alive, and most likely a custard cream, but, well, it was the same sort of thing.
And…and it was stupid, anyway, because even if there was anything between them, it obviously wouldn’t be going anywhere, not with Tristan buggering off out of the country at the end of September. He had to remember that, or it’d end up just like with Mo, wouldn’t it? Just as Con started getting serious—which he would, because he always bloody did, he always fell too hard and too fast—the other bloke would be packing his bags and leaving him high and dry.
Of course, he wouldn’t have to worry about seeing Tristan around town all the time after they split up. If Con was honest, he probably wouldn’t have moved out of Bedford after Gran died if it hadn’t been for seeing his ex out and about with the new bloke. Well, blokes.
Huh. Some bloody comfort that’d be.
No, he was better off keeping his distance.
Course, when he rang Heather to let her know Tristan would be coming along to rehearsal that night, she practically had the two of ’em married already. “Well, duh,” she said, and he could almost hear her rolling her eyes. “Course he’s into you. I knew it. He’s a professional actor, in’t ’e? There’s only one reason he’d bother doing a village production for free. Oi, you did tell him he’s doing it for free, yeah?”
“I…” Shit. That hadn’t been mentioned. “Nah, he’s gotta know,” Con reassured her and himself. “I told him it was an amateur dramatics society.” He decided not to mention the crack about the name.
“So it’s obvious. He fancies the pants off you. I mean, come on, who wouldn’t? And it’s about time you got some action. That Mo bastard was ages ago.”
“Leave it out,” Con muttered. “And anyway, nothing’s gonna happen. Told you, he’s a prick.” Although he felt a bit bad about saying it, after the way Tristan had been this morning. Then again… “I think I woke him up when I went round, and he leaned out the window and started slagging me off.”
“What, and he still agreed to do it? What did you do—take him back to bed?”
“No!”
“But I thought you liked pricks,” she teased.
“Har bloody har. Look, nothing’s gonna happen, all right? Even if I did like him, which I don’t, he’s going off to New York in October.”
“So? You could go with him. Why not? You’re young and single—live a bit. Take a chance. It’d be brilliant.”
“What the bloody hell would I do in New York? Anyway, I like it here. Feels like home.”
“Yeah, but you don’t wanna be a village odd-job man all your life, do you? You could do something proper with your life.”
“What’s wrong with what I’m doing now?” Con demanded. “I make a living at it.”
“And you wanna be stuck in that flat over the post office for the rest of your life? What about if you wanna have kids? Gonna keep ’em in the window box?”
“Yeah, like being an office dogsbody pays so much better,” Con snapped, hurt.
“Not gonna do that all my life, though, am I? One day I’ll be running the place. You gotta have plans, or you never get anyw
here in life. Look, I’m only saying this ’cos I care about you. You know that, right? I just think you need to broaden your horizons a bit. Land of opportunities, America, innit?”
“Yeah, but… It’s different for you. You’ve got exams and stuff. Failed all mine, didn’t I?”
“You ought to sue that bloody school you went to. I can’t believe they didn’t get you diagnosed and get you some help. How come your gran didn’t push for it? She must have known something was wrong.”
“She had a lot on her plate, all right? And I’m fine, anyway. I don’t need any bloody bits of paper to prove I’m not thick. When did school ever teach you anything worth knowing, anyhow?” It maybe came out a bit loud, but sod it, nobody got to say stuff about Gran. Nobody. All right, maybe she hadn’t ever got round to doing one of those adult literacy courses people kept telling her to try, but she’d managed just fine. Brought up two kids on her own too, including him, after being widowed way younger than was fair.
“Jesus, keep your hair on. Look, I gotta go. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”
“Yeah. See you tonight.” Con hung up, breathing hard. God, he wanted to punch something again. Blokes like Tristan, yeah, he expected them to look down on him. But not Heather. He’d thought she was on his side.
Maybe he’d go and see if the old bloke up on the Hill wanted his tree stump digging out today, instead of waiting till Monday. Yeah. Bit of hard work, that was what he needed.
Come seven o’clock that evening, Con was grimy, aching—in a good way—and drenched in sweat. And oh shit, he had just half an hour to get to rehearsal. Digging out that tree stump had gone on a bit longer than he’d expected. ’Specially as he’d noticed a few loose tiles on the roof, so he’d fixed those before he started on the digging. Old Mr. Smith had said it could wait, but Con hadn’t liked to leave it like that—the forecast on the radio had said it might rain tonight.
By the time he’d packed up here, he’d have time to either grab something to eat or shower, but not both. Con looked down at himself and had a go at brushing off some of the dirt. All that happened was that the few slightly cleaner patches that resulted meant the streaks on his T-shirt where he’d used the bottom of it to wipe sweat off his forehead showed up even more.
Sod it. He probably stank too. Shower it was, then, Con decided regretfully as he packed up the last of his kit and went to knock on the kitchen door. He watched as the old bloke shuffled towards him, a hunched blur through the frosted glass that got slowly larger.
It seemed like forever before the door creaked open, letting out a tantalising whiff of meat pie. “All done, Mr. Smith,” Con said with a smile.
Watery grey eyes blinked up at him from underneath wispy white hair. “Oh, good, good. How much do I owe you?”
Con named his figure, after mentally adjusting it down a bit because, well, the old bloke couldn’t have a lot to live off if the shiny, bagged-out knees of his trousers and the threadbare elbows of his cardigan were any guide.
Mr. Smith nodded. “I’ll write you a cheque. Won’t be a tick.” He shuffled over to the kitchen table, where Con saw chequebook and pen lying ready, and lowered himself into a chair. “Who do I make it out to?”
“C. Izzard, please,” Con said.
“Izzard, Izzard… I used to know an Izzard. Long time ago now. We were at school together during the war.” Con guessed he meant the Second World War, not the Falklands War. God knew the bloke looked almost old enough for it to be the First World War. “Bill, that was his name. Bill Izzard.”
“Yeah?” Con looked at him with sudden interest. “That was my grandad’s name. William Izzard. And yeah, that sounds about right. He was evacuated here. Didn’t know he went to school here, though.”
“Oh, life went on, you know. Everything didn’t stop just because there was a war on. There was a bomb fell on Shamwell one time, but it didn’t explode. Just crashed through the old brewhouse roof and sat there on the stairs…” Mr. Smith trailed off, his eyes getting even more out of focus, then seemed to come back to the present. “Well, well. Bill Izzard’s grandson.” He shook his head, smiling. “He was a regular rapscallion, was Bill. Always getting into scrapes, as I recall.”
“Yeah? Do you remember much about him?” Con asked eagerly, then thought he probably ought to explain. “I never knew him. He died when Ca—when my mum was little. But Gran told me about him being evacuated here. That’s why I moved here.” Well, it was close enough. He’d come to see the village out of curiosity, one time he’d been in the area, and, well, pretty much fallen in love with the place. “I mean, I haven’t got any family here—not that I know of, anyhow—but it’s still nice to have the connection, you know?”
The old man rubbed his chin. “Let me think… Now, he was a Barnardo’s boy, wasn’t he? And there was something about a graveyard…”
Con nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. He was a foundling—the vicar here at St Saviour’s heard a baby crying in the churchyard one morning and found him wrapped up in a blanket on some long-dead bloke’s grave. So they called him William Izzard, ’cos that was the name on the gravestone.” Least, that had been what he’d told Gran. And she’d reckoned his birth certificate just had “unknown” on it for his mum and dad. “He got sent to the children’s home in Stortford, but when they started sending the kids to the countryside, the vicar took him back in.”
“That’s right. Yes, I remember, now. We used to play in the vicarage gardens. Lots of apple trees, there were, although we weren’t supposed to climb them when they were in fruit. Well, well,” the old man said again. “Fancy that. I haven’t thought about old Bill in donkey’s years. We were thick as thieves at one time,” he added wistfully, as he handed Con the cheque, carefully written out in shaky handwriting.
Con thanked him and shoved it in his back pocket. He was trying to work out how to politely grill the old bloke for more information about Bill when his stomach gave a loud rumble. “Sorry,” he said, embarrassed.
Mr. Smith chuckled wheezily. “Hungry? Not surprised, after all that hard work. You know, I always cook far too much. Never have got the hang of cooking for one. Why don’t you join me? It’s almost ready.”
Con was seriously torn. He desperately wanted to hear some more about his grandad, but he’d promised Tristan he’d be at rehearsal tonight. “Uh… That’s really kind, but I’m not sure I’ve got time to stay.”
“Oh, it won’t be a minute. And you wouldn’t want it to go to waste, now would you? Come and sit down.”
“Don’t wanna get your furniture dirty…”
“We’ll only be in the kitchen. I never use the dining room these days. You know, I can’t remember the last time I had company with my supper.” He blinked hopefully up at Con, who found himself sitting at the tiny kitchen table before he even knew he’d agreed to stay, while Mr. Smith, who told Con to call him Alf, served out boiled potatoes, boiled carrots and Tesco steak-and-kidney pie. It was just like something Gran might have made. Even down to the bottle of brown sauce on the table.
“So you and Bill Izzard were mates, yeah?” Con prompted, taking a forkful of pie.
“Oh yes.” Alf chuckled. “I don’t think my parents were too pleased at the time, but, well. They could hardly stop me going to the vicarage.”
“They didn’t like him? Bill, I mean?”
“I think they thought he was a bad influence. Of course, they were quite right. We used to cut tree branches with a penknife to make bows and arrows, I remember, and we got into terrible trouble for shooting at people’s cats.”
Er, yeah. Con could understand why that hadn’t made them any too popular.
“And there was one time we shot the lady who used to clean the church… Now what was her name? We both got a sound thrashing from the reverend for that. My father gave me another when I got home.”
Bloody hell. And people got all nostalgic about old-fashi
oned childhoods? Con had listened to Lord of the Flies last year, and he’d reckoned it was a bit far-fetched, all that descending into violence and murder. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
After a while, Alf moved on to stories about when he did his National Service in the fifties, half of which Con hoped were made up, because seriously, it did his head in to think of respectable old blokes getting up to all that sort of daft stuff. It was like hearing his gran talk about her old boyfriends.
Con stood up reluctantly at the end of the meal. “Thanks for dinner, that was really great. And for all the stories. Can’t believe I’ve finally found someone who remembers my grandad. But I really gotta get going now, or I’m gonna get in trouble. Got somewhere I need to be in—” He looked at the clock and winced. “Five minutes ago. Heather’s gonna kill me. Let me just wash the plates up quick and I’ll—”
“No, no, you leave that to me. And you must come again.” He ushered Con out of the door with surprising firmness. “Can’t keep your young lady waiting.” He chuckled again. “They don’t like that at all, I can tell you.”
Con opened his mouth to tell Alf he’d got the wrong end of the stick, then shut it quick when he remembered he needed to get a shift on. He wasn’t sure he wanted to come out to Alf just yet, anyhow. Blokes his age could be a bit, well, old-fashioned about stuff.
He dived into the van and got going. God, he hoped Tristan had actually turned up like he said he would. And not just because Heather was desperate for him to take the role. Con had to admit he was really curious to see just how good an actor the bloke really was. Yeah, his gran had thought he was fantastic, but that didn’t mean anything, did it? Neither did the way he was so bloody full of himself.
Con grinned. He might turn out to be a total ham. Which, if it hadn’t been for Heather, would probably be the outcome Con was hoping for. Then again, it wasn’t all that likely, was it? He’d actually got paid for acting in that touring company of his, the Something-pretentious Players, Mrs. Geary had said, so he couldn’t be completely crap.
