Stratford Jewel

by Oliver, Marina

  'Sure will.' Rosa swung round. The tall American was still there. He was almost unrecognisable, his clothes filthy and torn, his face black with smuts, his hair singed. 'The townsfolk won't let a fire prevent them from having their Shakespeare Festival.'

  'You are clearly not one of the townsfolk,' the reporter said. 'Our readers will be interested that you helped. May I have your name, sir? And which part of America do you come from?'

  'Max Higham, architect, from the Shenandoah region, small town called Woodstock.'

  'Woodstock? Like our Woodstock, in Oxfordshire?'

  'Yes. Often wondered if there's any connection.'

  'Do you work at the Theatre? Is that why you're here?'

  'I'm not involved.'

  'We'll have the Festival,' Rosa declared, her energy suddenly renewed, 'and we'll build a new theatre.'

  'People here will want that?' Max asked.

  'Of course. But can we afford it?' Rosa asked slowly. 'It was insured, I know.'

  'Probably not enough for a new building,' Max suggested.

  The reporter looked interested. 'As an architect, have you any idea how much a new theatre might cost?'

  'No. But this was old, and small. The fire's a nuisance, but might be a blessing. Stratford deserves a better memorial to her greatest son. And you can be sure the money will be raised. Americans will want to help.'

  After a few more questions the reporter moved away and Max grinned down at Rosa. 'I hope I didn't open my mouth too wide,' he said, a grin, attractively lopsided, splitting his grimy face and revealing startlingly white teeth. 'I saw you at the theatre yesterday. Aren't you one of the actresses?'

  Swiftly Rosa shook her head. 'Not really. I'm doing a small part.'

  'A supernumary? That's a start. Look, may I buy you a cup of tea? I'm sure you're as cold as I am, and we deserve something after all our hard work.'

  The mention of tea reminded Rosa she should have been at home long since, but she had no wish to be there. Adam made her feel uncomfortable, constantly urging her to give up her acting ambitions and marry him, which she wasn't at all ready to do. She smiled at Max and nodded, and they began to walk towards Bridge Street. It was slow, hundreds of people were still watching the theatre, but eventually they got through and Max led the way to a small tearoom. Other people just as dirty from the smoke and dust were there. Max and Rosa found a table at the back of the room and he ordered tea and cakes.

  'You heard my name, Max Higham. I'm staying at the Shakespeare Hotel in Chapel Street,' he said when the waitress had departed. 'But as I almost ran you down you'll know that.'

  Rosa laughed. 'I'm Rosa Greenwood. I live in Rother Street near the marketplace with my family.'

  'Parents? Brothers and sisters?'

  'My father, he runs a carrier business. An older sister and brother. My mother died a few years ago. Her old nurse Winnie keeps house for us now, she was our nurse too.'

  'I always wished I had a sister. Instead I've three older brothers.'

  Rosa almost said he was welcome to hers but bit back the retort. Celia could be enchanting, but not usually to her family, and since they'd become involved as actresses with the Shakespeare company she'd been particularly difficult, by turns fretful and elated. But that wasn't Mr Higham's concern. She studied him, trying to see beneath the film of smoky grime. He was tall, with broad shoulders, though he looked thin and vibrated with energy. She thought he was in his late twenties but it was hard to tell. The sports jacket and slacks he wore, though dirty and torn now, looked good quality. His bone structure, all she could distinguish of his face apart from bright, intelligent blue eyes, was good, high cheek bones, a decisive nose and a wide forehead. As he spoke he illustrated his words with hands that never seemed still. They were long-fingered, slender and, she saw with a shock, the back of one of them was marked by a grid of angry red blisters.

  'You should see a doctor,' she exclaimed, reaching across the table and gently grasping his fingers.'What happened? Hold still, let me see how bad they are.'

  'It's nothing. They'll heal.'

  'How did it happen?'

  'Max, darling, here you are,' an imperious voice cut in, and Rosa flushed, releasing his hand abruptly.

  She looked at the speaker, a small plump woman swathed in furs and an elegant cloche hat, who stared haughtily at her, plucked eyebrows raised so far they almost disappeared under her fringe of honey-coloured hair.

  'What on earth have you been doing? You look utterly disgusting, and seem to have forgotten we were going out to dine.'

  Max looked at his watch. 'Oh, Lord, is it that late? I'm sorry, Felicity. It's fortunate you found me.'

  'One of the other hotel guests said she'd seen you coming in here. Though how on earth she recognised you I don't know.'

  'There's still half an hour, if Miss Greenwood will excuse me. Do you know Miss Rosa Greenwood? This is Mrs Corbin, Rosa.'

  'We have met,' Rosa began but the older woman ignored her.

  'You'll never be cleaned up in time, Max. Not for my friends, they're out of the top drawer. I'll make some excuse.'

  'You must go,' Rosa said hurriedly, hoping her heightened colour was invisible under the grime. She was no longer blushing because of what she'd been doing, though she couldn't think what on earth had possessed her to hold hands with a stranger, even in these odd circumstances. It was the disdain Mrs Corbin showed that made her angry. Everyone in Stratford knew this wealthy widow of a Birmingham manufacturer, and all but the most charitable considered her outrageous behaviour enough to make her poor husband turn in his grave. She held frequent parties in her big house on the Warwick Road, parties no respectable matron would attend, even if they'd been invited. Rumours of the goings-on there circulated freely, and her guests were, the townsfolk whispered, shameless hussies and infamous degenerates. Rosa didn't know whether to be sorry the pleasant-seeming Mr Higham was caught in her toils or scornful he even knew her.

  Mrs Corbin swung on her delicate little heels and departed. Max shrugged, and grinned at Rosa.

  'The lady is annoyed. I'm sorry for the way she behaved. At least I can finish my tea in peace.'

  'Should you follow her?'

  'She'll calm down. We were interrupted.' He held his hand out to Rosa, a wicked glint in his eye. 'You were commiserating over the burn on my hand.'

  Rosa blushed again, and carefully folded her own hands in her lap. 'What happened?' she said, her breath constricting in her throat.

  'I was helping inside the gallery, getting pictures off the wall. As I came out something burning fell on me. Don't worry, the skin's not broken.'

  Rosa's eyes widened. 'It was you saved that child, and your hair's been singed too! I didn't recognise you then, but you looked familiar. You were so brave, you could have been killed.'

  Max felt his hair and grinned. 'I'm not bald, am I? I just reached him first.'

  'You should see a doctor.'

  'I'd rather see a nurse. You don't happen to be Florence Nightingale, do you? Seriously, I'm OK. My father and uncles are all doctors, so I know when to yell for help and when I can cope on my own.'

  He began to talk about the theatre, asking questions about the festivals of previous years and discussing productions he'd seen of Shakespeare's plays. He knew far more than she did, although she'd been acting in them for years, first at school and then with a local amateur group. Rosa quite forgot the unpleasant interlude with Mrs Corbin, and as they strolled along the High Street, she heard with surprise the church clock strike seven. It was high time she was home.

  *

  Celia had joined a small group of actors congregating on Waterside. 'What will happen now?' she asked. 'Will the Festival go ahead?'

  One of the men turned towards her and, an arm about her shoulders, drew her into the group. 'We can't disappoint the audiences,' he said. 'Stratford's had Shakespeare Festivals for a hundred and fifty years, since the Garrick Jubilee.'

  'The theatre would have been fifty years o
ld soon,' Celia said, 'My mother saw the foundation stone laid in 1877, when she was a child. and from that day she wanted to act here. She never did, and it doesn't look as though I will, either.'

  'You'll act in better theatres,' they promised her, and resumed discussing the prospects for the current season. Celia's companion drew her aside.

  'Come and have dinner with me,' he suggested, turning her and guiding her towards Clopton Bridge.

  'Gilbert, I'm not dressed for a smart hotel. I have smuts all over my face.'

  'You haven't. I promise. Just a few bits of straw in your hair,' he teased, pulling strands out and showing them to her.

  Celia giggled. 'It's easy to see you're town-bred. That's hay, not straw.'

  'So who was sporting with you in a haystack? I'm infernally jealous.'

  'I live next door to stables. Hay is always blowing about the yard,' Celia declared, a smile trembling on her lips. 'You've no right to be jealous even if your suspicions were correct,' she added mischievously.

  'Beware, fair maid, for "Jealousy is cruel as the grave".'

  Celia puckered her brow. 'I don't know that one. Which play is it?'

  'Not the bard, sweeting. It's the Song of Solomon.'

  Celia chuckled. 'We didn't read that in Sunday School. But "Beware, my lord, of jealousy; it is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on".'

  'Talking of which, dinner. You can come to my room and make yourself tidy if you really can't believe you look as enchanting as ever.'

  Celia eyed him speculatively. 'I don't go to men's rooms,' she said, her eyes dropping demurely and her long eyelashes hiding her expression.

  'Not unless you know them very well?'

  'Not even then. But with all the confusion today I don't expect the hotel will object. I certainly look better than some of the people who were nearer the fire,' she added glancing at the tired and weary people still lingering close to the theatre.

  'In rags you would still be a queen,' Gilbert declared gallantly, and taking her arm began to walk towards his hotel.

  *

  Beyond grumbling mildly that Rosa had not been there to entertain his guest, Mr Greenwood said no more about her tardiness. Celia had still not returned. After supper he suggested they walk down to Waterside to see what was happening and Rosa went to fetch a coat.

  'It was far too small for modern productions,' Mr Greenwood said abruptly as they stood in the dark, along with hundreds more spectators, and surveyed the gutted building silhouetted against the sycamores and the sky.

  'That's what Mr Shaw said last year, isn't it? He said we'd have to build a new theatre soon.'

  'George Bernard Shaw had the right idea but it's difficult to persuade people to change. There was a sentimental attachment to the old place despite the problems. Your mother would have resisted any changes.'

  'They managed,' Rosa said. 'I know it was difficult to change the scenery, but it was done.'

  'Yes, but modern ideas involve raising and lowering the flats from above to change scenes,' a man beside them said quietly, and Rosa recognised one of the older actors. 'The roof was too low and there were odd gables all over the place making that impossible. Perhaps the fire's a blessing, we'll build a more suitable theatre.'

  'Can we do it? It will take years. And what happens meanwhile?' someone else asked.

  'There'll be some new arrangement for the Festival.'

  'But the cost! And I've heard people saying the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre should be in London.'

  'Maybe they'll want to move the Festival there.'

  'They can't do that, it belongs to Stratford,' Rosa exclaimed.

  Mr Greenwood sighed and took Rosa's arm. 'Come, child, let's go home.' As they turned into Scholar's Lane he sighed again. 'If they do move the Festival you know I couldn't permit you and Celia to go to London, any more than I will permit you to join the Company on tours,' he said slowly. 'I know how much it means to you, an opportunity to act professionally, but you can't live away from home.'

  After a moment Rosa grunted an acknowledgement. She dared not speak for fear of betraying her anger and disappointment. If she succeeded in getting parts in the professional theatre, though, she'd have to leave home eventually. She couldn't spend her entire life doing minor roles in the Festivals here in Stratford, but now was not the time for argument. Her father must eventually give way. If not, she'd defy him when she was twenty-one, but that meant three lost years when she could be learning her trade and playing the young roles.

  He patted her hand. 'Your mother always wanted to be an actress,' he said gruffly. 'Sometimes I think she was too involved, didn't distinguish between reality and imagination.'

  'Like our names?' Rosa managed.

  Mr Greenwood chuckled. 'With my name being Oliver, she wanted you all named after characters in As You Like It. It was performed in the first festival in the new theatre, the first she saw. It's always done on important occasions. Celia and Rosalind were acceptable, but I put my foot down on Orlando.'

  'I suppose Jaques is slightly better.' Rosa was now in control of her voice.

  'Even if Jack doesn't think so,' her father said, laughing. 'When he was about five years old he refused to answer to anything but plain Jack. Even your mother had to comply, he was very strong-willed even then.'

  'Is that why Mother was so determined to encourage Adam Thorn?' Rosa demanded. 'Because he fitted her fantasies? There's an Adam in the play.'

  'He's a fine man. You know I'd be pleased if anything – deeper – came of your friendship, and so would his mother, but I won't try to persuade you.'

  'Mother wanted him to marry one of us, didn't she? Ever since Celia and I were babies.'

  'Your mother was friendly with Mrs Thorn since they were at school together. They both loved acting. She was overjoyed when you and Celia shared her love of the theatre.'

  'I hope they manage to keep the Festival in Stratford,' Rosa said as they neared home. 'It would devastate Celia if she had to give up her parts.'

  Mr Greenwood looked at her with compassion in his eyes. 'And you? Wouldn't you mind just as much? Even though you wouldn't treat us to a full-scale tragedy.'

  *

  Max was up at dawn on Sunday to walk down to the river. The firemen were still there, ready to douse flames which still occasionally erupted from the ashes. Despite the early hour many people had come to view the gaunt ruins in daylight. They looked on apprehensively as smoke belched from the tower on the gusts of wind. Max recognised Baliol Holloway gesticulating to one of the firemen. Then as the fireman turned away with a shrug the actor cautiously went towards the stage end of the gutted building and passed out of sight through a gaping doorway.

  Other spectators tried to follow but the fireman held them back. 'Can't have everyone riskin' their necks,' he said, his voice hoarse with weariness. 'Mr Holloway's lookin' for things that might be his.'

  'But he's not in the Company this year,' a tall, gaunt man objected. 'What's he doin' here?'

  'Came down from London the minute he saw the news in the papers last night,' the fireman explained. 'I expect we'll have hundreds of gawpers with nothing better to do than get in our way,' he added sourly. None of the existing spectators took the hint until it became clear there would be nothing of interest happening that day. When Mr Holloway reappeared safely and rejoined the onlookers he was surrounded by people eager to tell him what they'd seen and ask what was being said in London. Max left to seek his breakfast.

  He'd been hoping, he discovered, somewhat to his dismay, to see Rosa Greenwood again. Despite the grime covering her face, he had discerned an air of cool elegance beneath. She was tall and slender, dark-haired with violet eyes. He suspected she was normally reserved, and only the extraordinary circumstances in which they had met had allowed her to talk so freely with him the previous day. He found himself wondering how she would treat him at their next meeting. Would she be friendly or embarrassed? Then he shrugged. He would be a fool to contriv
e further meetings, to allow a momentary attraction to divert him from his plans. His life was already laid out for him. Besides, becoming involved with a young and innocent girl would cause complications. Women like Felicity Corbin were different, all they wanted was a good time with a man who had money to spend. Until now there had been little temptation for he had been working. He was repelled by the free and easy attitudes of the actresses he met, and the behaviour of the flappers who shrieked and shouted their way through life, offending his ear with their shrill tones. Rosa's voice had been musical, deep for a young girl, very soothing.

  He grinned to himself. Why should it matter? She could be nothing to him. He'd be moving on soon, He'd had a wonderful few months touring European cities and seeing the great theatres and new picture houses, studying their design, learning the requirements for modern plays and films, new methods of staging, to use in the business back home. Girls met by chance had no part in his plans, he was far too busy. Soon he'd go home to establish himself more securely in the New York partnership, and in a few years marry Jenny.

  *

  Celia lay in bed, saying she simply could not bear to raise her head.

  'Do go away, Rosa. How can you be so insensitive? I don't want a cup of tea, and I can't bear the thought of porridge or toast. My life is ruined and all you can think of is food! It's heartless.'

  'Don't exaggerate,' Rosa replied, laughing. She was used to Celia and normally managed to ignore her petulance. 'In the first place if the Festival doesn't continue, there will be other people disappointed besides you, and in the second it's bound to be put on somehow.'

  'In a tent,' Celia exclaimed. 'How dreadful. So cold.'

  'Alderman Flower was thinking of some temporary building in the paddock, like that pavilion they used in 1864 for the tercentenary celebrations.'

  'That wouldn't be much better. And that's where Charles Flower built Avon Bank,' Celia objected. 'There wouldn't be room.' She giggled. 'Did you see Alderman Flower in his golfing clothes yesterday? He looked so odd.'

  'He came straight from the course when he heard about the fire. Father says Mr Bridges-Adams is coming down from London today, and people are already talking about using the Picture House. I believe they're going to look at it this morning.'