Stratford Jewel

by Oliver, Marina

  Tempted to retreat, Adam caught sight of Rosa emerging from behind a roll of purple velvet. He went towards her, stepping round a pair of gesticulating actors, and waited while she swiftly measured a length of the velvet and cut it from the roll.

  'The same pattern as the last, Cynthia,' she said briskly as a young woman beside her began to fold up the material. She turned away and saw Adam.

  'What are you doing, Rosa?'

  'See these sketches? I'm trying to follow them, cutting out the material for the women to take the pieces away and make up the costumes in their own homes.'

  'You have enough to clothe the whole town.'

  'It seems a lot, but we have hundreds of costumes to do. The material has come from all over, as far away as London. Have you come to help?' she asked, turning back before he could reply to measure out another length of velvet, this time black.

  'Not by dressmaking,' he said with a laugh. 'I've been to the factory, and called in to ask if you'd heard of tonight's meeting?'

  'In the Town Hall? Are you going?'

  'Will you come with me, and perhaps we could have dinner afterwards. It's a long time since I saw you.'

  'I'm sorry about Saturday,' Rosa began stiffly, but Adam waved her apology aside. 'Well, it's only just over a week since we went riding. I've been so busy,' she added, gesturing.

  'Is it going to take up all your time?'

  'Most of it, at least until the Festival begins.'

  'You have to eat, so how about tonight?'

  Suddenly Rosa yawned. 'If I can keep awake,' she said with a faint laugh. 'Thanks, Adam.'

  'I'll call for you. We can walk to the Town Hall and afterwards have dinner at the Shakespeare Hotel.'

  *

  Jack looked blankly at the knot tied in the corner of his handkerchief. He simply couldn't think why he'd tied it there. It wasn't until he was passing the turning to Wilmcote that he remembered. He frowned. Despite his father's reminder he'd forgotten to collect that wretched table on Monday. Now he'd almost done it again.

  The table loaded and old Mrs Finch pacified with copious apologies, Jack continued. He had several deliveries in Wootton Wawen and Henley-in-Arden, and he meant to call on a couple of people and try to win business from Mr Watson, a local carrier from the town. Afterwards he would take the winding lanes through various small villages on his way back home. This was one of his favourite routes, gently rolling hills and occasional wooded patches, all that remained of the ancient forest. His sisters, absorbed in make-believe, often accused him of having no imagination. Just because he didn't long to prance about on a stage in doublet and hose didn't mean he lacked the ability to dream, though. These dreams centered on what life had really been like centuries ago, not poetic interpretations of an Elizabethan play-actor. He would like to have lived in early times, peaceful times, perhaps been a sailor and set off to look for new worlds.

  In 1914 he had been sixteen, at school and looking forward to going to Oxford. Instead, he'd found himself in the mud of Flanders, enduring a living hell. When he'd returned home, twenty years old and his body whole but his nerves shattered, he knew he could not endure the cloistered life of an academic. He craved the calm of a peaceful countryside, the endless vault of the heavens above and wide-open spaces where the noises were of birdsong and the infrequent motor tractor, and the steady clop-clop of iron-shod hooves on the roads. For eight years he'd driven Mustard, and before him the old black gelding, Caliban, around these familiar lanes. At first the occasional noise when someone was shooting rabbits or pigeons had made him start and tremble, but gradually he became used to the sound and it no longer disturbed him.

  He was dreaming, imagining himself aboard the Mayflower or an even earlier ship which had ventured to the Americas, when he heard a motor engine. Mustard had been ambling along, finding his own way through the familiar lanes, but he was still nervous of the few motor cars they met. Hastily Jack gathered up the reins and steadied the great horse, just before Adam Thorn's vehicle rounded the corner and slowed to a halt.

  'Jack! Nice to see you. Have you delivered anything to Thornley Grange today?' Adam asked, looking up at Jack high on the waggon.

  'No. Were you expecting something?' Jack asked curtly.

  'Nothing I know about. Most of our stuff is delivered by the shops, or comes by train. Have you time to come back for a drink? It's months since we had a chat.'

  'It is. Before Christmas. I'm going home. Come up! Mustard, giddup!'

  'Perhaps I'll see you at the town meeting tonight,' Adam called after him, but Jack did not reply.

  Adam stared after him. Why did Jack Greenwood dislike him so? Was it because Adam, two years his junior, had missed the war and gained a degree? Was it simple jealousy of another man's good fortune, or was there a different, more obscure reason? Adam shrugged, and drove on thoughtfully. It would not help his plans for Rosa if Jack were antagonistic. Rosa had always worshipped her brother.

  *

  Celia had no desire to spend her days sewing costumes for other people. No designs had yet been produced for her small roles, but with Rosa preoccupied she had no one to accompany her when she went shopping, or wished to talk or rehearse the various parts she was determined, one day, to play. Bored, she counted off her friends. Mary, Elizabeth and Alice were married to Stratford businessmen, absorbed in housewifely duties Celia found tedious. Emily and Fanny were engaged and busy with preparations for their Easter weddings. All these friends were prone to express polite astonishment that Celia herself was neither engaged nor expecting to be so in the near future.

  'You're twenty, Celia,' Fanny had said just a week ago. 'Why, it's almost on the shelf.'

  'At this rate Rosa will be married first, and how could you bear that?' Emily added smugly.

  No amount of protestations that she had no wish to be married, being bound to one man was unbearably tedious, and anyway she was wed to the theatre, had any effect on them. They glanced sideways at her and shrugged. Neither did the list of young men who had sought Celia's hand impress them, and as she still wished to maintain their goodwill she bit back the information that both their prospective husbands had, in the past, gone down on bended knees to solicit her favours. She smiled briefly, recalling a couple of exciting episodes when she had been so carried away she'd almost succumbed to their fervent entreaties. Fanny and Emily wouldn't believe her. Several more friends were away, the bookish ones at colleges, others spending the winter in the South of France or visiting relatives in South Africa and Argentina. Only Agnes, boring and sycophantic, always on the fringes of Celia's particular band of cronies, was still in Stratford and still unattached. Celia sighed. She'd have to make up their latest quarrel.

  She donned her new outfit, a pleated skirt in a fine grey wool that only just covered her knees and had provoked Winnie into several caustic remarks about girls who looked as if they were trollops rather than well-brought up young ladies, a matching jumper, and a loose, darker grey fur-trimmed coat. With grey shoes that had high Louis heels, a cheeky cloche hat and fine leather gloves in a dashing shade of pink, she could face anyone.

  Agnes had just come in from riding her pony. Regretting her spurt of temper which had deprived her of the fascinating American's company on Sunday, she was willing to accept Celia's apologies after only a brief hesitation. She agreed to stroll round the town and see what was happening at the Memorial Theatre site, though she insisted Celia wait while she changed into her own newest outfit. She yearned to be a part of that glamorous, slightly wicked world of the theatre. She knew that she was prettier than Celia, though not so slender, and her hair was of a deeper gold. Celia, however, was more vivacious and oozed confidence, while Agnes's short leg and limp made it impossible for her to act. At school productions she'd usually helped behind the scenes, finding mislaid clothes and properties, prompting, helping the actresses to dress and put on their greasepaint.

  'Do you think we'll meet any of the Company?' she asked as they turned into Watersi
de.

  Celia shrugged. 'I really don't know. With all the upheaval there's no certainty of anything. I really do believe Mr Bridges-Adams looks round the Picture House each morning and collects together whoever he sees there, then rehearses whichever scenes they happen to be in together, whatever play it is.'

  'Gosh, how confusing. I'd forget the words completely if that happened to me.'

  'You wouldn't if you were a professional,' Celia informed her. 'But it would be more settling to know when to be there. Otherwise it's such a waste of time going.'

  'Maybe if you were there when he wanted to rehearse a big scene, like the balcony one, and if Juliet happened not to be there, he might ask you to understudy the part?' Agnes suggested.

  About to reject the idea Celia paused. That would be one way to bring her undoubted but as yet unappreciated talent to the notice of those who mattered. And she yearned to play Juliet, all the more so because when the school had performed it she had been thirteen, and an older girl had been given the part. She smiled at Agnes, then became distracted as she began to devise ways of contriving Juliet's absence. She was startled back into the present when Agnes pinched her arm.

  'Ouch! Why did you do that?' she demanded.

  'That man, over by the old Library, that tall dark one, he's waving to you,' Agnes hissed. 'Golly, isn't it the American?'

  Celia glanced across the road and smiled. She waved languidly, then turned away to reply to Agnes. 'Yes, it's Max. Don't stare, Agnes. Is he coming across?'

  Before Agnes could demand how Celia expected her to see without staring Max had reached their side.

  'I was going to find myself some tea and cakes, ladies. Would you join me?' he asked hospitably. Celia glanced at her watch, paused, then smiled brilliantly at him and nodded.

  'Thank you, Mr Higham, I think we have time.'

  *

  Rosa was thankful the walk from Rother Street to the Town Hall was a short one. She felt unsettled in Adam's company. Until recently he'd been like another big brother. In many ways she felt closer to him than to Jack, who, since his return, had been withdrawn, remote and grave but liable to unpredictable, furious rages. But during the past year Adam had abandoned his light-hearted brotherly teasing and begun to pay her compliments. These made her uncomfortable, unable to treat him naturally. She'd received plenty of admiring looks and compliments from other young men, and felt little embarrassment, accepting them with a smile or a laugh and then dismissing them from her mind. She couldn't treat Adam's compliments in the same way. He was too earnest, and she sensed he would be hurt if she didn't take them seriously. Yet she didn't want to be serious, distracted from her passion for the theatre. She didn't talk about it so openly as Celia did, but she was utterly determined that one day, as soon as she could persuade her father she was truly dedicated, she would become a real professional actress, not just for a few weeks in Stratford.

  To Rosa's relief Adam talked about plans both for the temporary theatre this year and rebuilding the Memorial Theatre in the future, and she barely managed to say a word during the short walk along Ely Street.

  The Town Hall, a prestigious stone building, was a little over a hundred and fifty years old. It faced down the High Street towards the site of the old Market Cross, which had been there when Bridge Street was the market. Arches revealed what had once been the corn market, and the functions room was above this. Tonight it was crammed to capacity, and Rosa identified most of the important inhabitants of the town and many from surrounding towns and villages. Max's dark head was visible in the midst of a group of theatre people, but he was talking with them, nodding at what they said, and didn't see her. She and Adam found seats towards the back of the room, and latecomers had to stand.

  'Is Alderman Winter going to preside?' Adam asked. 'Where's the Mayor?'

  'In London, trying to get help there.'

  Alderman Winter explained everyone wished the Festival to go ahead, despite the tragic events of Saturday. The Picture House Directors had offered their building, and Alderman Flower would explain what had already been done and what else was needed.

  'Fifty years ago the Shakespeare Festival consisted of six or so performances, to thin houses,' Alderman Flower reported. 'Last year, in 1925, there were ninety-six performances within a space of twelve weeks. This year, during a fifteen-week Festival, it is planned to give one hundred and twenty performances. People come to see Shakespeare's plays performed in the town where he was born, not only from every town in England, but from across the Atlantic and all parts of the Empire. We have already received many messages of support, from actors and playwrights, politicians and others, with offers of help now and in the future. The Festival must continue.'

  He went on to explain the arrangements at the Picture House, a building only fourteen years old, and why the tiny stage needed to be enlarged. Work on this and the construction of thirty dressing rooms had already started, at an estimated cost of a thousand pounds. A subscription list would be opened that very night and he would be the first to subscribe. Promises of small as well as large amounts would be welcome.

  A thousand pounds was raised in fifteen minutes, Rosa heard afterwards. She and Adam added their names then went to the Shakespeare Hotel next door.

  'So the Festival for this year is safe,' Adam said when they were drinking their soup. 'You will still be taking part?'

  'Yes. Why not?' Rosa queried, surprised.

  Adam shrugged. 'I thought maybe the numbers of extras would be reduced, with a smaller stage.'

  'From what Max Higham says Mr Bridges-Adams has already devised the staging to accommodate everyone. Max says he's brilliant at design. He admired the ingenuity, the way he wants the scenery adapted to fit the new conditions.'

  'Do you see a lot of this Max Higham?'

  'He's often at the theatre. But there isn't time to gossip,' Rosa said. Now Adam had raised the subject, though, she realised that Max always seemed to be at her side when she paused for a cup of tea, and twice had walked part of the way home with her. She bent her head to hide her sudden blush. It wasn't significant. It must be coincidence. Anyway, she thought a little bleakly, he talked about his plans, once the Festival was ready, to go back to New York. He made no mention of ever returning to Stratford.

  ***

  Chapter 3

  'Who was that with you last night?' Max asked Rosa. He and Agnes had met her at the corner of Ely and Rother Streets, and they were strolling towards the Picture House.

  'I heard they raised lots of money,' Agnes said eagerly.

  'Yes, enough to pay for the alterations to the Picture House.' Rosa turned to Max. 'I didn't know you'd seen me.'

  'I saw you leaving the meeting, but there were too many people in between for me to catch you up. Later I saw you dining.'

  'He's Adam Thorn. His mother, mine, and Agnes's, were schoolfriends. We've known him all our lives.'

  'He's handsome, isn't he?' Agnes put in.

  'Is he, Agnes? I suppose so.'

  'He lives in Stratford?' Max asked.

  'No. He has a house about six miles away, near Wootton Wawen.'

  'Woe-wen?' Max asked, distracted. 'Not War-wen? I'll never understand English pronunciation! You don't say the second W in Warwick, and Leamington is Lem, not Leem.'

  Rosa chuckled. 'I didn't see you in the hotel.'

  'I ate very late, had to have a table at the back. I came in as you were leaving. Is he connected to the theatre?'

  'Oh no, Adam's interested in cars and horses.'

  'I thought it was one or the other these days?'

  'He breeds horses, mainly for hunting,' Agnes explained. 'I can ride despite my limp, and my father bought my last horse from him.'

  'He also has shares in a factory making – building, I suppose you say – vans and trucks,' Rosa added. 'He thinks horse-drawn carts will soon give way to motor-driven ones.'

  'Has he a family?'

  'His mother lives mainly in Birmingham. They have a house the
re. That's a pity, she's very sweet, isn't she, Rosa?'

  'Yes, she is. He's an only child, his father died when he was fourteen, so he spent time with us in the holidays. He's like another brother.'

  Agnes giggled and tried to turn it into a cough. The others didn't notice. Max was preoccupied, and inside the Picture House Rosa went to where the costumes were being assembled, followed reluctantly by Agnes. Max strode towards the stage, castigating himself for showing such interest in a man he hadn't even met. Why should it matter to him whether Rosa regarded Adam Thorn as a brother or something more important? After he left Stratford he wouldn't see her again. Back home Jenny was waiting. He'd no intention of getting involved with another woman. It had been a mistake he'd regretted almost immediately, succumbing to the delectable Felicity's lures. He still winced when he recalled her lurid language when he'd told her they were finished.

  *

  As the weeks passed Celia became more reconciled to her small parts. She still hoped the actress playing Juliet would default, but no chances came her way of stepping into a leading role. Instead she became absorbed in various schemes for raising money towards the new theatre.

  'All the political leaders support it,' Mr Greenwood said as he read the Birmingham Post. 'Mr Thomas Hardy, and many other celebrated writers and actors have joined the appeal.'

  'Sybil Thorndike said people didn't like Shakespeare any more,' Celia said indignantly.

  'And Mr Shaw said the town was to be congratulated on the fire,' Rosa added, laughing. 'At the time we didn't believe it, but I think he's right. We can have a much better theatre.'

  'Is that what Max says?'

  'Everyone. Many newspapers in America have opened appeals.'

  Several theatrical groups in and around Stratford were planning to donate money from their next productions, and Celia was sure to secure leading roles in some of these. Meanwhile she helped organise sales of work and American Teas, dances and concerts, and apart from the Festival talked of little else.