One May Smile

by Penny Freedman

  ‘I’ve only met him once,’ I say. ‘He seems quite a serious person.’

  ‘Well he can be really funny actually, but he’s not frivolous. Whereas I,’ she gives a sigh, ‘I am deeply frivolous.’ She gives a throaty laugh and I wonder if she’s a smoker.

  ‘You and he were together a long time, weren’t you – since your first year?’

  ‘I thought he was the love of my life, and we were fine in the Oxford bubble but then I realised it was absolutely not going to work out in the real world.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, money – and the strings that go with it. Ironically, it was actually this play that knocked it on the head. It was such a fun idea to be doing a last Oxford thing and for us to be acting together, doing Claudius and Gertrude, and then Daddy announced that we were taking the yacht on a big family cruise. Jon was invited along – I think Daddy had decided it was time for him to propose or get lost – but the dates he’d arranged clashed with the play. I assumed we’d drop out of the play. I was really sick about it but I knew you don’t say no to Daddy. Jon said he wasn’t dropping out for anything and we had a row. It was trivial really but we both said things we’d been bottling up and that was that.’

  ‘But you decided to do the play?’

  ‘Oh Daddy rearranged the dates, but it was too late then. We’d looked into the future and seen that it was bloody.’

  ‘Have you got job plans?’

  ‘Zilch. If I was interested in politics Daddy’s got the contacts to get me something with the EU, using my languages, but I’m absolutely not interested.’ She looks across at Freda, who is carefully dismantling a ham sandwich, and says, ‘What I really want is to have babies.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. I think I’m one of those women who can’t settle down to life until they’ve had their children. I’m permanently broody.’ She rummages in her bag. ‘I need a ciggie. Do you mind?’

  She goes outside and I clear up some of the mess around Freda’s plate. Listening to Zada talking about her father has made me think about the Christodoulous again and I check my phone to make sure I haven’t missed a call. I don’t want to talk to him but it worries me that he hasn’t rung. Who has he been shouting at if not me? It’s too late to ring anyone at the college now so there’s nothing to be done – except worry, of course. Freda has finished her demolition job and is getting droopy and fretful with tiredness. I make a look at the time signal to Zada out of the window and she grinds her cigarette underfoot – to the evident displeasure of several passers-by – breezes in, summons the bill and says, as we’re waiting for it, ‘I do feel bad about Marianne. I feel it was a rotten trick to snaffle Adam like I did.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll survive.’

  ‘I suppose. It’s just I know I’m not really serious about him. Actually, I’ve got a theory about Gertrude. Adam wants her to be very sensual and the relationship with Claudius to be loaded with sex. Well that’s pretty awkward as things stand and anyway I don’t see why it has to be about sex at all. Hamlet thinks it is, but then she’s his mother and he doesn’t like to think about her having sex at all. I think Claudius has good political reasons for marrying his brother’s widow – it strengthens his claim to the throne if he marries the Queen Mum – she’s the ‘imperial jointress of this warlike state’ – and maybe she just needs someone to look after her. I mean, she’s been a queen and Hamlet tells us that his father was so protective that he wouldn’t even let the wind blow on her et cetera, so she wants to go on being looked after. And I think that’s my problem. I’m used to being looked after and I’ve hitched up with Adam because he’s the king around here.’

  She snatches the bill as it arrives and says, ‘I’m getting this – apology for being so boring. Last heart to heart, I promise. It’s all going to be fun from now on.’

  *

  We’re not the last back to the van; they’re waiting for James as well as us, sitting in a row on a low wall, looking out at the harbour. Freda, who has reached the frenetic stage of tiredness, refuses to sit, however, or to be held by me. She starts to rush around and I am forced to hare after her, knowing that any moment she will trip and fall. As I’m pursuing her I spot James some distance away, talking to a young woman. I don’t have time to look at them for long, needing as I do to keep an eye on Freda, but when I picture them afterwards I remember that she was wearing a pair of denim dungarees and a pink t-shirt, and that their body language was oddly neutral: not intimate, not friendly, not hostile, just businesslike is the word that comes to mind. I don’t know if she was Danish or English and I didn’t get the chance to see if there was a parting handshake, which would have been the clincher. And anyway, as Annie no doubt would tell me, it’s none of my business.

  3

  DAY TWO

  Come, give me a taste of your quality.

  Come, a passionate speech. 2.2

  As I should have predicted, Freda panicked at the idea of being put to bed and left alone in a strange room in an unknown house. She has had a pretty communal upbringing up till now: first in a chaotic house shared by Ellie with an ever-shifting group of fellow lodgers, and then in my house where, for various reasons, there were more of us than felt quite comfortable. When she and Ellie moved in with Ben a few months ago, I warned Ellie sternly against letting her sleep with them. I was ignored, however, and the chickens, as they so often do, have ended up in my roost, if you take my meaning, because there I was yesterday evening with her sitting up in bed refusing point blank to sleep by my own. Thus it came about that at 8.30 I put myself to bed; not long afterwards Sophie appeared saying an early night was just what she needed and we were soon all tucked up like babes in the nursery while the grown-ups let their hair down downstairs.

  As a consequence, this morning we all wake early, Freda distinctly lark-like, I rather less so, and Sophie like the waking dead. I urge her downstairs with the lure of coffee and find in the kitchen cupboards several packs of expensive-looking coffee and a positive charivari of cereals, but no milk in the fridge. Sophie and I are sipping black coffee and Freda is picking unenthusiastically at a bowl of dry cocopops when the back door bursts open and Ray appears, panting slightly and glowing with exercise and virtue. He stands there looking at us as I remember my once-upon-a-time husband used to do whenever he had been out doing something energetic, apparently expecting praise and admiration for his efforts. We look back at him and I say merely, ‘Well, you are the early bird.’

  I’m glad I’m not more cutting because he says, ‘And I have juicy worms’, yanks off the backpack he’s wearing and produces a fat bag of rolls, still warm from the baker’s, and two litres of milk. I give him my nicest smile.

  ‘Brilliant!’ I say. ‘What a marvellous necessary man you are, Ray.’ As soon as I’ve said it I am horrified. It’s a quote from The Changeling and it’s about De Flores, who is a repulsive murderer and seducer. I watch for his reaction, ready with apologies, but he looks unruffled. Not an Eng Lit student then. I take a look at him as he’s pouring himself some coffee: he’s a big chap – beefy – with freckles and thick sandy hair and he looks a bit older than the others do. Mature student or taking eight years to finish a DPhil? There’s the hint of an Australian accent in his speech, which I had discounted as affectation since quite a lot of students acquire these on gap years spent in the laid-back Antipodes, but now I think he may be a genuine colonial on a second degree. He takes a couple of rolls, says he’s going to grab a shower, and leaves us to our breakfast, which Freda and I both enjoy, though I can’t persuade Sophie to eat anything.

  An hour or so later we’re ready to depart for the first day’s rehearsal in the castle. Some pile into the van, including Freda and me, while others head for the bus stop. In the van are Emma and Clare, who have taken on the job of catering. They are cheery, apparently unflappable girls who warm to Freda and offer to take her with them in the van to the supermarket and deliver her to me at the castle before taking the food hom
e. Freda loves shopping and I could do with an unfettered morning to sort the costumes, so I agree gratefully although I know that as soon as they’ve gone I shall be assailed by fears for her safety: will they crash the van? Or let her fall out of the supermarket trolley? Or turn their backs while someone abducts her? And then how will I face Ellie, on her honeymoon, happily unaware of my neglect? And so on, and so on. Freda, happily doubt-free, waves to me out of the van window as they drive away. I text Ellie, as I promised to do every morning, and tell her that everything is just fine.

  We are, of course, a considerable tourist attraction, here in the heart of the castle. Our stage area has been cordoned off, but once rehearsal gets under way there is a permanent audience standing round the perimeter, watching. Most of the cast blossom under the attention, and even I feel a little frisson of importance as I supervise the transport of my costume hampers through the crowd, with a castle official going before me opening doors labelled ADGANG FORBUDT. Only James seems ill at ease. From rehearsals in Oxford Annie said he wasn’t going to be a brilliant Hamlet, but he’s intelligent and has a good voice and Adam thought he would be all right. Today, though, he seems completely non-plussed, stiff and awkward, more Coriolanus than Hamlet under the gaze of the vulgar throng. But it’s not the throng that is the real problem – it’s Conrad. He manages to be always in James’s sight line and I believe he is actually mouthing the lines ahead of James.

  They struggle through as far as the latter part of Act 1 scene 2, but when James gets to ‘O that this too, too solid flesh would melt’ it becomes clear that soliloquizing is going to be a stretch too far for him. He is groping for lines and twice Conrad ostentatiously prompts him from memory. The second time, Adam calls out quite sharply, ‘Thanks, Conrad, but leave the prompting to Kelly, will you?’ but the damage is done and he can only attempt limitation. ‘Soliloquies we can work on later,’ he says and, with an eye perhaps to pleasing the crowd, switches us deftly to the final scene of the play, on the grounds that it requires the same personnel as 1.2 – apart from those who have died on the way, of course.

  The change of scene doesn’t help. James, who is wearing long shorts and what looks like an old-fashioned aertex tennis shirt, looks – and obviously feels – foolish with a rapier strapped on over these togs. He gets increasingly tetchy, stopping constantly to nit-pick over details and sapping any energy the others can muster. It is bewilderingly self-destructive of him because every time he starts this textual nit-picking, Conrad is there, chipping in with his views, staking a claim. The schoolteacher in me wants to send him outside to stand in the corridor – I know all about silly attention-seeking boys like this – but Adam, for all his confidence, doesn’t know how to deal with him. He’s used to managing people by charming them, I think, and he doesn’t know how to slap someone down.

  When they get to the duel, James and Stefan, who is playing Laertes, are all over the place. They have rehearsed it in Oxford with a fight trainer, but you wouldn’t think so this morning. They are awkward, tentative, half-hearted and completely unconvincing. Conrad has gone silent, but he sits hunched forward, watching with exaggerated intentness, following every move. Bored and embarrassed, those who aren’t needed slip away to the quiet of the battlements; even Annie deserts her post at Adam’s side. Only Conrad, Sophie and I stay to watch, he with narrowed, unblinking eyes, she blank-faced and vacant, I awaiting the return of Freda

  I’m starting to fret about what has happened to Freda. Even allowing for the fact that they are feeding a multitude, shopping in a foreign language and young enough not to be bored with shopping, Emma and Clare seem to me to have been an unconscionably long time and I’m already beginning to frame the terrible conversation I may have to have with Ellie before I spot them ambling through the archway on the far side of the courtyard, toting shopping bags. Freda is hurtling ahead of them and I go speeding to meet her. The bags, it turns out, contain our lunch, and the girls are proposing that we picnic up on the battlements, so Freda and I go with them to help to carry and organise the food. As a result, I miss a drama the origins of which I shall never get to discover. All I can say is that when I return to the courtyard to see if the actors are ready for a lunch break, I find our impromptu audience dispersed, Adam, tight-lipped, making adjustments to the rehearsal schedule, James impassively smoking a cigarette and Conrad with his arm round a weeping Sophie. ‘Lunch, anyone?’ I ask brightly, and am largely ignored, though Adam hauls himself wearily to his feet.

  ‘Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples,’ he says.

  ‘For I am sick with love?’ I ask. ‘Is that the problem?’

  ‘Not with me,’ he says, ‘I can assure you. Where are we eating?’

  ’Up on the battlements.’

  ‘Lead the way.’

  As we leave the courtyard, he fishes a cigarette out of a crushed packet in the pocket of his skinny jeans and lights it with a less than steady hand.

  ‘To mangle Romeo,’ he says, ‘Here’s much to do with love but more with hate.’

  ‘Hate?’

  ‘You haven’t noticed the hate whirling around this production?’

  ‘You think Conrad hates James?’

  ‘Undoubtedly. And Sophie hates James, and everyone hates Conrad, and I hate myself for letting him anywhere near this thing. I was soft enough to give him Rosencrantz because I felt sorry for him. Well that’s a lesson learnt for the future.’ He takes a deep drag on his cigarette and then says, ‘If I’ve got a future. If I can’t pull this show round, my directing career is over before it’s begun. There’s no established route to being a director – you have to make and take your chances as you can. This is my chance to make a splash and it’s going tits up.’

  ‘And you blame Conrad?’

  ‘He’s set out to destroy James and James is letting him do it.’

  ‘Have you tried talking to him?’

  ‘Of course. He’s actually mad, I think. Certifiable. Says James cracking up is just proof that he’s not up to the part. Doesn’t say take it away from him and give it to me, but that’s what he’s waiting for.’

  We’ve been walking fast. He’s a skinny bundle of nervous energy at the best of times and his legs are a lot longer than mine so I’m having to do undignified little skips and runs to keep up with him. Suddenly he stops and turns to look at me.

  ‘I’m not the only one,’ he says. ‘Other people have got a lot riding on this as well. Tom Yeoman – the work he’s put into writing the music – composing is even more random than directing as a career, I imagine. And Stefan. He’s a good actor but he’s applied for PG acting courses and had no luck yet. This on his CV could just swing it if we get some decent reviews. I’ve got a promise from a couple of the nationals to review it – they’ll send some green junior but they’ll still be national reviews.’ He drops his cigarette and grinds it hard under his foot. ‘And if they’re crap then we’re all blown to buggery.’

  We eat sprawled on the rough, springy grass that grows up on the battlements, and the sunshine and dappled shade, the gulls’ cries and glitter of the sea below, the salamis, sweet cheeses, rye bread and cans of Carlsberg do something to cheer us all up, but the prospect of a stressful afternoon keeps us lingering long over our comforting apples and even Adam is in no hurry to chivvy anyone back to work. He sits talking quietly to Stefan long after his apple has been reduced to nothing more than pips and stalk. Emma makes a start on clearing up but Clare is deep in talk with Tom Yeoman. He is mechanically pulling up tufts of grass and she has a consoling hand on his arm, stroking and smoothing. I gathered only just now, as I was helping to carry the lunch up here, that Clare and Emma volunteered for this job only because their boyfriends are here – Tom in Clare’s case and David Underwood in Emma’s. He’s a serious lad who looks old beyond his years and is playing Polonius and the gravedigger. I realise that I’ve been in danger of regarding the two girls – and presenting them to you – as a pair, Siamese twins with no individual charact
eristics. Much like Rosencratz and Guildenstern, in fact. Actually, they are quite different in appearance and, I think, in temperament. Clare is tall and broad-shouldered with a substantial bust and a calm, unflappable air. She has a degree in Music, plays the cello and seems destined to mother people. Emma is small and red-headed, energetic and practical. She’s a farmer’s daughter from North Wales and I can quite believe that she has delivered calves single-handed. Thank heavens they’re here is all I can say. Whatever artistic disasters lie ahead, we shall, at least, be fed – and I shan’t have to do the feeding.

  Eventually, we get up and straggle back to find James pacing the courtyard with Ray, going over lines. Ray must, I suppose, have slipped away to find James when he didn’t turn up for lunch. I’m beginning to think he’s really a rather nice chap. There is no sign of Conrad or Sophie but just as we get started on the second half of 1.2, they appear, breathless, at the entrance from the gatehouse. Sophie is looking more animated than I’ve seen her in the last twenty-four hours and Conrad is looking smug. He starts talking from the other side of the courtyard, his voice ringing round the stone walls.

  ‘Sorry if we’ve kept you waiting,’ he roars. ‘Thought you’d have plenty to be getting on with the rate things were going, so we just popped out to hire ourselves a car. Thought we might fit in a trip to Copenhagen tomorrow while James is wrestling with a couple of soliloquies.’

  No-one looks at James, though I shall wish later that I had, and Ray barges in to fill the buzzing silence that follows. ‘What’ve you got, Conrad?’

  It is Sophie who answers, hanging on Conrad’s arm, almost squealing with delight. ‘It’s a convertible – pale blue and beautiful – but don’t ask me what make – I’ve no idea.’ She squeezes Conrad’s arm and looks up at him as he towers above her. ‘I do like a man with a good credit card,’ she giggles.