Hymen wasn’t in attendance that night. He was where we’d left him – in the forest of Arden, with Anne’s lost maidenhead. And we began the next stage of our copulative lives in Richard Hathaway’s inherited double bed – elderly enough, but eminently suited to the galloping of four bare legs. It served its turn. When the New Year began to grow, so did Anne. Apace. We were parents to be – the lover and his lass is what we’d been. With a hey and a ho and a hey nonino. We’d passed through the green cornfield, we’d lain between the acres of the rye, we pretty cuntrie folks, we’d rung our pretty ring time and had had our hour. Hey ho.
And that – is the Anne Hathaway story.
18
‘And quite a story it is too, Will.’
Francis was half sitting up, leaning on one arm, the recumbent whale now a bleary sea-lion.
‘And I’m sorry it’s over.’
It was over a long time ago, my friend. How long have you been awake?
‘You said it yourself – lawyers seldom sleep, not entirely.’
Always scratching out a living –
‘A meagre one.’
Even inside your skulls.
‘Even in our dreams. Talking of scratching –’
I know.
‘Your talk of Anne is timely. What are we going to do about her?’
There’s nothing to be done about her – she is as she is.
‘I mean what do you want to do about her? In the will. What provision?’
None.
‘You don’t mean that.’
She’ll not be destitute.
‘Look old friend, you have to do the right thing.’
What’s right? What’s wrong?
‘The fact is that most wills leave some sort of provision for the wife. Any old blanket phrase will do – the residue of my estate, or something of that nature. As your lawyer I have to advise you –’
Francis, stop worrying. She’ll be taken care of. I have a daughter.
‘You have two daughters, old man.’
Two daughters and no son, that’s right.
‘Well?’
Well, it was late in May my little Susanna was born – in May, when there’s that greenness in the leaves that they’ll never know again.
‘Oh, Will, don’t wander off again. I thought we were going to sew this up.’
When green virgins make dancing rings on the fresh green grass. And when young men, their fancies lightly turning to thoughts of love, give rings to girls to put their virginity to bed.
‘This calls for more wine – to dull the pain of living!’
Help yourself, Francis – and another cup for me.
‘You should stay clear-headed.’
More so you, quillman. Anne’s ring grew wider than I’d have thought possible, allowing egress to our first born. Heycroft hurried from a day-bed where he’d left his Emme lying careless, having doubtless first taken good care of her ring, and he baptized Susanna for us on the twenty-sixth.
‘Of ’83?’
You keep count. That’s what you’re here for. A year later Anne’s magic ring rang again, like uncracked gold, and at the end of the January the next year –
‘’85 then.’
We were surprised by the twins, Hamnet and Judith, baptized on Candlemas by Richard Barnton, Heycroft having gotten himself a better benefice in Rowington.
‘A ten-mile walk to work and back again.’
Well worth it to fall into the pretty ring of careless Emme. And in Henley Street out went the light of love and we were left darkling.
‘Don’t make it sound so gloomy.’
My mother wasn’t unpleased in the end. It was a house of five Shakespeare males, with Edmund still an infant. Here was an Anne to replace the one she’d lost – no greensick girl but a seasoned housewife, chasing thirty by the time the twins were born.
‘Joan was the only Shakespeare girl.’
And Anne had added two more. Here was house-help and the sounds and scents of women. Good happenings for Mary Arden.
‘Not for you?’
Not for a thoughtful man. Other than myself and my wife at Henley Street – a woman I hardly knew, let’s face it, except as Adam knew Eve and she conceived – there were my father and mother, three brothers, two of them children, a sister of sixteen, a daughter of my own, of only twenty months, and now a set of new-born twins, for God’s sake.
‘Eleven of you.’
From fifty-five down to infancy, all living under the same roof. Thought was crowded out. The private life was over, such as it had been. Not that it had ever been much, in Stratford. Sometimes I looked at my wife and mother together and could see not much difference between them. The voices started up again, poisonous minerals of the mind. Then let thy love be younger than thyself –
‘Oh, not that old song again!’
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent.
‘We’re off again! For women are as roses –’
Whose fair flower, being once displayed, doth fall that very hour.
‘That very hour? Poetic hyperbole.’
Women change the day they give birth.
‘Not a gate I’ve been through myself.’
And out comes the shrew.
‘Thanks for the warning.’
Stay single, Francis.
‘I’ll bear it in mind. But you didn’t.’
Alas, alas.
‘And now you have a wife and children to make provision for. How are you going to leave them?’
In a coffin, I’d say.
‘Be serious. How do you intend that they should be left? Richly or beggarly or what?’
Nobody will be a beggar. But there are conditions must be met.
‘There are no particular conditions in the January draft.’
The what?
The fat man took a long slow draught and smacked his lips.
‘You know what I said, Will.’
I know what I told you – that document was to be destroyed! Fill me up, you tub of lard, and explain yourself.
‘Lawyers don’t destroy documents, old friend, they hold them back – just in case.’
I don’t want that one held anywhere. It’s history.
‘Even history is on record. You can revoke it as soon as we’ve seen to this.’
Then we’d better see to it, then. Never mind your glass, give your pen something to drink, man. It’s been in dry dock all day.
‘You can put a thirst on it, then. Let’s go.’
Try to stop me. Item, I give and bequeath unto my son-in-law one hundred and fifty pounds of lawful English money –
‘Now you’re talking!’ Scribble scribble. ‘Which son-in-law?’
What do you mean, son-in-law?
‘You’ve just said, son-in-law. Quiney or Hall?’
Neither, neither, that’s not my meaning.
‘You’re confused, old man. Shall we do this tomorrow?’
It was a slip, that’s all. Still living in the past. Cross out son-in-law and put my daughter Judith. One hundred and fifty pounds of lawful English money to be paid unto her in the manner and form following –
‘Just a moment, just a moment, let me get this down. We can work from the old draft – it’ll be quicker.’
No, no, new pages, and get rid of that thing, cancel and tear to pieces that great bond which keeps me pale, yes, yes.
‘In the manner and form following, right.’
That is to say, one hundred pounds in discharge of her marriage portion within one year after my decease, with consideration after the rate of two shillings in the pound for so long time as the same shall be unpaid unto her after my decease –
‘Wait a minute, I can’t keep up!’
Shorthand it!
‘I like to be neat.’
It’s only a draft.
‘I don’t do shorthand, my clerk does that.’
Get him here.
‘He’s in Warwick, Will, waken up. What next?’
Ne
xt – and the fifty pounds residue thereof upon her surrendering of or giving of such sufficient security as the overseers of this my will shall like of –
‘That’s me. Slow down.’
And Thomas Russell. And then go on – to surrender or grant, all her estate and right that shall descend or come unto her after my decease, or that she now hath, of, in, or to, one copy-hold tenement, with the appurtenances – keep scratching, Francis.
‘You’re going too fast, hang on. One copy-hold tenement –’
With the appurtenances, lying and being in Stratford upon Avon aforesaid in the said county of Warwick –
‘I’ll fill that in later.’
No you won’t, I know you, you never get round to fair copies.
‘It’s still legal.’
I don’t care. No mistakes, no loopholes, every word down now, verbatim.
‘Jesus. The man’s gone mad. What next?’
In the said county of Warwick –
‘I can abbreviate that, I take it?’
Not funny –being parcel or holden of the manor of Rowington, unto my daughter Susanna Hall and her heirs forever.
‘Susanna? Just a minute, what’s going on?’
Explanations later. Item, I give and bequeath unto my said daughter Judith one hundred and fifty pounds more, if she or any issue of her body be living at the end of three years next ensuing the day of the date of this my will – what’s the date today, Francis?
‘25th March. Hang on a second… Right.’
During which time my executors to pay her consideration from my decease according to the rate aforesaid.
‘Slower, slower.’
And if she die within the said term without issue of her body, then my will is, and I do give and bequeath one hundred pounds thereof to my niece Elizabeth Hall –
‘Isn’t that your grand-daughter?’
Did I say niece? My wit’s diseased, Francis, scratch it out!
‘I’ll get it later, I can’t keep up as it is.’
And the fifty pounds to be set forth by my executors during the life of my sister Joan Hart, and the use and profit thereof coming shall be paid to my said sister Joan –
‘Use and profit thereof –’
And after her decease the said fifty pounds shall remain amongst the children of my said sister –
‘Equally?’
Equally to be divided amongst them.
‘And if Judith lives?’
But if my said daughter Judith be living at the end of the said three years –
‘Or any issue?’
Or any issue of her body, then my will is, and so I devise and bequeath the said hundred and fifty pounds to be set out by my executors and overseers for the best benefit of her and her issue –
‘You’re running ahead of me again.’
And the stock not to be paid unto her so long as she shall be married and covert baron.
‘But –’
But my will is, that she shall have the consideration yearly paid unto her during her life –
‘I see.’
That’s a good boy. Always useful to have a lawyer with half a brain.
‘Sneck up, will you?’
And, after her decease, the said stock and consideration to be paid to her children, if she have any.
‘And if not?’
And if not to her executors or assigns, she living the said term after my decease.
‘End of paragraph.’
No, not quite. Provided that if such husband as she shall at the end of the said three years be married unto, or attain after –
‘Such husband? What are you talking about?’
Such husband do sufficiently assure unto her and the issue of her body lands answerable to the portion of this my will given up to her, and to be adjudged so by my executors and overseers – and you’re my man, Francis, a big man for a big provision – then my will is, that the said £150 shall be paid to such husband as shall make assurance, to his own use. Let’s pause there.
‘Pause? Jesus, let’s have a drink! You should have been a lawyer after all, Will.’
I should have been lots of things. But it’s too late now.
‘Not if your will’s made out.’
Francis chuckled fatly and waved the parchment beneath my nose. I always loved the smell of fresh ink.
We’re not there yet, Francis. But we’re getting there.
‘Maybe so, old man. But what was all that about?’
Later. I need a drink myself.
‘And if I’m invited to stay for dinner, by any chance –’
I want this signed today. I’m not letting you go until it’s sealed.
‘Then do you know what I’d fancy? A nice big capon – and lashings of sack!’
Sack makes a man fat and foggy, Francis.
‘But comforts the spirits marvellously.’
There’s no denying it. What would you say to a stewed carp instead? I could almost stomach a bite of fish.
‘Ah, but the pike is to be preferred to the carp.’
Why so, Francis?
‘Because the pike will already contain the carp – he’s a great eater.’
Of his own kind. Very true. With pike you get the best of both worlds.
‘And with a nice high Dutch sauce it would be almost irresistible. But no, I’m thinking capon today.’
And how would you like it?
‘With honey and herbs and spices – begging your pardon, Will – loads of cloves and nutmeg, ground almonds, raisins of Corinth, rosemary, cinnamon, mace – and garnished with barberries and prunes.’
Ah, you mustn’t omit the prunes.
‘Prunes for the privy, they pave the way sweetly.’
If you even reach it in time. I don’t want you on the close-stool – not as close as you are now, saving your presence.
‘And as a next course to the capon, a nice blancmange of his brains. That’s a tart to give courage to any man.’
Most tarts do get a man’s courage up.
‘Quite so. And a good slap of Hippocras to end with and wash it all down, well spiced with ginger, long pepper, and grains of paradise!’
Paradise, eh? That’s much on my mind too, while Francis drools over his food like a poet praising his lady’s eyebrow. He’s missed his calling for sure – what a man for his belly! Very well, mistress, let the next course come on! With all the trimmings you can muster, for poor starved Francis – one fair capon and no more, the which he lovèth passing well.
19
‘One fair capon and no more? You should have one, Will. They say a little chicken is good for the ailing.’
‘What rubbish are you talking now?’
Mistress Mine was muttering in the doorway, as soon as she came up.
‘From where I’m standing you two look like you’ve got till doomsday. How long does it take the two of you to cover a couple of sheets with lawyer’s cant. Just do the deed – and sign it, for God’s sake, if you can still hold a pen!’
Francis tried a sweetener.
‘I’ve been hearing all about your courting days, Mistress Anne.’
I could have advised him otherwise, but how can you advise your lawyer? She gave me that look, the love-withering one, the one that would make wormwood seem sweet, and left the room.
‘Oops.’
Francis followed on after her for his fifteenth piss and I managed at least to advise him to find Alison and ask her to smuggle us up some sack on the quiet, otherwise we’d never sniff a drop. When he came back light-footed, smiling and scratching his crutch, I reminded him I’d have to sing for my supper and he’d have to take down the notes.
When a fat face falls it’s all the sadder.
‘Oh, Will, I’m as melancholy as a gib-cat, or a lugged bear.’
At the thought of toil, yes. I’ll allow you the bear image – but let’s go to work.
‘Right then, old man, you’ve done one daughter, supposing we do the other – for the sake of symme
try.’
Ah, they’re not symmetrical. But well read, my thoughts. Are you ready?
‘Like greyhounds in the slips.’
That’s one image that won’t wash.
Item, I give, will, bequeath and devise unto my daughter Susanna Hall, for better enabling of her to perform this my will, and towards the performance thereof, all that capital messuage or tenement with the appurtenances, in Stratford aforesaid, called the New Place wherein I now dwell –
‘And where we now await our sack and capon.’
And two messuages or tenements with the appurtenances, situate, lying and being in Henley Street, within the borough of Stratford aforesaid –
‘Got it. Don’t run off from me, though.’
And all my barns, stables, orchards, gardens, lands, tenements, and hereditaments whatsoever, situate, lying and being or to be had, received, perceived, or taken –
‘I’d ask you to draft my will for me if I thought you’d be around.’
Do you think there’s any chance of it? Or taken – within the towns, hamlets, villages, fields and grounds of Stratford upon Avon, old Stratford, Bishopton, and Welcombe, or in any of them in the said county of Warwick.
‘That wraps that up – good.’
And also all that messuage or tenement, with the appurtenances, wherein one John Robinson dwelleth –
‘Remind me – who the hell is he?’
Nobody. Situate, lying, and being in the Blackfriars in London –
‘Specifically?’
Near the Wardrobe.
‘Aha!’
And all my other lands, tenements and hereditaments whatsoever, to have and to hold all –
‘Ah, to have, to hold, and then to part –’
Is the greatest sorrow of the human heart. Strange you always think that way – until you come to make your will.
‘And then?’
Then you come to realise that what you’ve held, and hold, and are about to part company with, is trash.
‘To a man in your position, yes. But to the young and healthy, to the living –’
Worth holding onto. And worth securing it for them. So let’s make things secure.
To have and to hold all and singular the said premises, with their appurtenances, unto the said Susanna Hall –
‘Any conditions?’
Will Page 17
