In my edition of Tales from Shakespeare there was a wonderful glossy picture of Juliet leaning over the balcony, her golden hair flowing down to her waist and a tender expression on her face. Romeo (red tights, black top) had struck a declamatory pose and was looking up at her. You couldn’t see his face, and he wore an odd little black cap, and pointy black shoes. There were banks of sky-blue flowers, like hydrangeas, beneath the balcony; and although everything in the picture was brightly coloured you could see from the moon and stars that it must be night. Juliet’s dress was white and low-cut and fluid, with sparkly things on it, and she wore a gold chain around her neck.
I gazed at this picture for a while, worried by the gap between what it displayed and what was possible for me. A discreet rummage through the toy box turned up an old set of Barbie jewellery: some pieces were missing, but there was a silver chain with a sort of red glass pendant attached. I remember that I thought it a little vulgar, but I shoved it in my pocket.
But there was no garment suitable for Rose as Juliet, who was shorter and plumper than the Barbie dolls Pippa had favoured. It needed to be a white dress (since Romeo had said that Juliet was like a snowy dove trooping with crows), and I could find nothing that was even halfway appropriate.
I thought wistfully also of Fort Dread, which would have provided a nice balcony for Juliet to stand on.
I wished things were not always beyond my reach.
I asked, on Saturday afternoon, if I could go round to Grandpa’s. My mother was sitting at the sunroom table, papers strewn about her, red pen in hand. She regarded me doubtfully, and ran her fingers through her curls.
‘I don’t know, Nicky,’ she said. ‘I’ve got all these essays to get through.’
I thought this was a ridiculous objection.
‘If I’m at Grandpa’s I won’t be in your way. You can do all your marking and I won’t even be here.’
‘No, but, well—’
‘Is it because I might meet Rose?’
‘No,’ she said, too quickly. ‘Of course not.’
I stared at her with what I hoped was a reproachful stare.
‘Oh, Nicky!’ she said. ‘Darling, you can’t possibly understand any of this. I know you like Rose, but—’
‘I like Grandpa, too,’ I said, even more cleverly than I realised. ‘I want to go round and see Grandpa.’
She dragged at her curls again. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘How’s this? Let’s ring Grandpa and make sure he’s at home. Then you can go, and I’ll pop over later to pick you up.’
‘I can come home by myself,’ I said.
‘Yes, I know you can, but that’s not the point.’
‘Why?’
‘Nicky, please don’t be difficult. If we do it this way, it means I can come over, and say hello to Grandpa, without making a fuss about it.’
‘And to Rose?’ I asked suspiciously.
‘Yes, to Rose, if she’s there.’
‘Are you going to be nice to Rose?’
‘Yes,’ she said. She waited. ‘Nicky, Daddy and I think Grandpa is going through—well, through a difficult time. He’s very upset, of course, because of Didie not being here anymore, and that’s made him a bit lonely, and, well, emotionally vulnerable. Do you understand what I mean?’
I nodded. I had come across the word vulnerable in Macbeth, when Macbeth is defying Macduff: As easily thou mayest impress the air with thy sword, as make me vulnerable. I couldn’t square this with Grandpa, but I wasn’t going to admit that.
‘And so Daddy and I think the best thing we can do is just go along with him, try not to upset him, or oppose him, and be friendly to Rose, and act as if nothing’s wrong. And then everything might settle down, do you see?’
‘Okay,’ I said, not seeing.
‘And so, if I come and pick you up, it makes it all a bit easier, because it gives me a reason to be there, and I can say hello to Grandpa and Rose.’
So I wandered over to Grandpa’s, where he, Rose and the jigsaw awaited me. My welcome was exuberant: much was made of my brief illness and renewed health, and the jigsaw was set out at what had become my place at the table. Rose made a chocolate cake to celebrate my recovery and my visit, and its rich aroma swirled promisingly around the garden room. A milkshake was promised for afternoon tea. I was the hero of the hour.
Rose had her hair loose, and she wore jeans and a pink jumper. I hadn’t ever seen her dressed so informally and I thought she looked heart-stoppingly beautiful. Her demeanour was different, too: she seemed more extroverted, more confident. Once she bent over Grandpa (who was sitting opposite me as I made slow headway over the jigsaw), and dropped a light kiss on his forehead. As she straightened, I saw that she glanced at me and I dropped my eyes. In theory, I was her absolute and loyal supporter; in practice, I found that this intimacy between them made me uncomfortable. And, although she was laughing and in high spirits, and although nobody could have been warmer to me, there was something challenging in her eyes, something that dared me to object.
I covertly watched Grandpa, trying to see him as a possible husband for Rose. It was difficult. Grandpa was pigeonholed in my mind as Old. I was familiar with the Mr Debonair photograph, but so far as I could see, Grandpa, even though he was always spruce, was long past his debonair days. Still, I noticed that his eyes followed Rose around the room, and that she knew this, and liked it, and turned it into a kind of silent game between them. I supposed he had been right and my mother wrong when he had said that age was irrelevant. If Rose didn’t mind, after all, why should we?
My mother arrived in time for afternoon tea. She greeted both of them brightly and praised the appearance of Rose’s cake, which sat in a place of honour on the table. It was on a china plate which Didie had kept for special occasions, but my mother forbore to make any comment, which must have cost her. She inspected my progress with the jigsaw and suggested two insertions, neither of which worked. We had afternoon tea (again, using Didie’s best china) and we talked about nothing in particular, and we were all paralysingly polite to each other.
Before we left, my mother helped to clear up the cups and saucers and take them to the kitchen. As she deposited them on the sink, she could not resist saying to Rose, ‘Such pretty cups, these ones.’
‘Yes,’ said Rose, smiling.
‘They’re very good, you know,’ said my mother.
‘I know,’ said Rose. ‘I always think pretty things should be used, don’t you?’
My mother struggled with herself a moment before managing a thin-lipped smile. She said little on the way home, and walked more quickly than usual, so that I had to break into a trot to keep up with her.
My father returned triumphant that night. The Hawks had defeated Carlton by seventy-nine points. ‘Did you go round, then?’ he asked my mother.
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘How did it go, then? Stick to Plan A, did you?’
‘More or less,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how long I can keep on doing it, though.’
‘Was she okay?’
‘It depends what you mean by okay. I suppose you could say she was civil.’
‘What’s wrong, then?’
‘She used the Wedgwood cups and saucers,’ said my mother, in a strangled voice.
‘What?’
‘I said, she used the good teacups.’
My father digested this. ‘Okay,’ he said warily. ‘But does that matter, Jen?’
‘Yes,’ said my mother.
‘But perhaps she didn’t understand how you would feel about it?’
‘Don’t be absurd.’ Her voice rose. ‘Of course she understood how I would feel about it.’
It was with relief, I thought, that my father left this conversation to describe to me how our team had performed. Some of the commentators had described Hawthorn as a team of has-beens, a bunch of old men who should hang up their boots. It gave him enormous pleasure to be able to jeer at such remarks.
‘Old men?’ he said. ‘Too s
low? I don’t think so. These men are athletes, Nicky. Knights kicked nine. Think of that!’
‘How old is Knights?’ I asked.
‘Thirty-three,’ said my father. Even older than Rose, I thought with surprise. ‘But it doesn’t matter. In this sort of case, age is irrelevant. There was one mark he took—you should have seen it, Nicky. He flew. He soared above that young Silvagni bloke. Didn’t know what was happening. Suddenly Knights is six feet above him, twisting in the air, perfect control, proper screamer.’
I had heard that great chess players could recall every move they’d ever played, and my father’s capacity to replay matches struck me as just as phenomenal.
‘Who else kicked goals?’
‘It was spread around,’ said my father happily. ‘Matthews, Buckenara, Wallace, three apiece. Strengths all around, you see, Nicky: we’re not just relying on one or two blokes. They’re a real team. And I reckon we’ve got the best defence in the league.’
I’d heard so many times that we had the best defence in the league that I couldn’t think of any possible comment, so I nodded. It was enough for my father, who launched into an account of the most memorable passages of the game. He was coming down with a cold, and every so often he interrupted his tale by pulling out a handkerchief and fiercely blowing his nose on it.
I hadn’t solved the problem of Juliet’s clothing, and my father’s large white hanky gave me a helpful idea. Later that evening I slipped into his room and borrowed another white hanky from the neat pile in his top drawer. A tidy little split in the very centre of this item, and, hey presto! Juliet had a flowing white caftan, which would enable her to participate creditably in the balcony scene. I tried the effect against the caftan’s fine white fabric of the silver chain with its red pendant, and was encouraged. I could see how it should all be.
ACT ONE
At the Capulets’, who are throwing a party.
Zarlok/Romeo: Look at her!
Karkin/Benvolio: Who?
Zarlok/Romeo: That girl over there. Look, she is like a snowy dove trooping with crows!
Karkin/Benvolio: Watch it! She’s Juliet Capulet.
Zarlok/Romeo: Really?
Hateshi/Mercutio: You better believe it. Anyway, I thought you were in love with the fair Rosaline?
Zarlok/Romeo: No, no! Yon Juliet’s beauty and perfections shine so richly!
Fleshbane/Tybalt: You are Romeo Montague! I will strike you dead!
Brutum/Lord Capulet: Tybalt, this is a virtuous and well-governed youth. Leave him alone.
Fleshbane/Tybalt: Oh, all right. But another time he will dearly pay for his intrusion.
Zarlok/Romeo: Juliet, will you dance with me?
Rose/Juliet: You’re wearing a mask, so I don’t know who you are.
Zarlok/Romeo: That’s the point of wearing a mask.
Rose/Juliet: My mother is calling me. Goodbye.
Crystal/Lady: Capulet Juliet, that is Romeo Montague, and you mustn’t have anything to do with him.
Rose/Juliet: Oh, dear. I am smit with a hasty and inconsiderate passion. This is a prodigious birth of love.
ACT TWO
Juliet is on her balcony. Romeo is hiding behind an apple tree.
Rose/Juliet: Ah, me! Oh, Romeo!
Zarlok/Romeo: Goodness! She’s talking about me!
Rose/Juliet: I wish you weren’t a Montague. I wish I wasn’t a Capulet.
Zarlok/Romeo: (loudly) I won’t be a Montague, if that’s what you’d like!
Rose/Juliet: Oh, you gave me such a scare! Who are you? No, don’t tell me! I can tell! You’re Romeo! How did you get in?
Zarlok/Romeo: Love directed me.
Rose/Juliet: Good heavens! Ah, I would fain recall my words.
Zarlok/Romeo: Truly?
Rose/Juliet: Well, perhaps not.
Crystal/Nurse: (offstage) Juliet! Where are you?
Rose/Juliet: I have to go now.
Zarlok/Romeo: Already?
Crystal/Nurse: (offstage) What are you doing out there?
Rose/Juliet: Nothing.
Crystal/Nurse: (offstage) Come inside, then. It’s high time you were in bed.
Rose/Juliet: I really do have to go.
Zarlok/Romeo: I just want to ask you something important. Can we not exchange a vow of love?
Rose/Juliet: All right. My bounty is as infinite as the sea, and my love as deep.
Zarlok/Romeo: And mine is too.
Rose/Juliet: I’ll send you a messenger tomorrow, so we can get married. I really do have to go now.
ACT THREE
In Friar Laurence’s cell.
Zarlok/Romeo: Hello, Friar Laurence. Will you marry me, please?
Ironstrike/Friar Laurence: To Rosaline?
Zarlok/Romeo: Who? Oh, no, to Juliet.
Ironstrike/Friar Laurence: Are you sure?
Zarlok/Romeo: Yes. Oh, look, here she comes.
Enter Juliet.
Ironstrike/Friar Laurence: Come then and I shall join your hands in marriage.
ACT FOUR
In the streets of Verona. Benvolio and Mercutio are walking along.
Fleshbane/Tybalt: Hey, you!
Hateshi/Mercutio: Me?
Fleshbane/Tybalt: Yes, you. Romeo’s friend. I dare you to fight me.
Enter Romeo.
Fleshbane/Tybalt: Here you are then, villain!
Hateshi/Mercutio: You shall not call him that. (Draws his sword)
Zarlok/Romeo: No. Mercutio, don’t!
Tybalt and Mercutio fight and Mercutio falls down dead.
Zarlok/Romeo: Oh, no! Oh, Mercutio, do not die! Tybalt, you are a villain!
Romeo and Tybalt fight and Tybalt falls down dead. Romeo runs away.
ACT FIVE
In Friar Laurence’s cell.
Zarlok/Romeo: Good Friar, I have killed Tybalt and now I am exiled. But I didn’t mean to do it.
Ironstrike/Friar Laurence: Probably the best thing is to go to Mantua.
Zarlok/Romeo: All right, I’ll go there tomorrow, but I want to go and see Juliet tonight.
Ironstrike/Friar Laurence: Doest thou that, and then come back here tomorrow.
ACT SIX
Juliet’s chamber. Juliet is sitting on the bed and Romeo climbs through the window.
Rose/Juliet: Oh, Romeo.
Zarlok/Romeo: I’m so sorry about Tybalt. I didn’t mean to do it.
Rose/Juliet: No, that’s all right. I know you didn’t mean to, but it is a pity, because now you are going to be exiled and we cannot be together.
Zarlok/Romeo: Well, at least we’re together now.
Rose/Juliet: Ah, listen, there is the song of the nightingale. Oh, no, it isn’t the nightingale at all: it’s the lark. It must be morning.
Zarlok/Romeo: I must away to Mantua.
Rose/Juliet: Make sure you write.
Zarlok/Romeo: You too. (Climbs over balcony and disappears from sight)
ACT SEVEN
In Friar Laurence’s cell. Enter Juliet.
Rose/Juliet: Ah, good Friar. My father says I have to marry Paris.
Ironstrike/Friar Laurence: But you can’t.
Rose/Juliet: No, of course I can’t, because I am already married to Romeo. But my father will kill me if I tell him that. What can I do?
Ironstrike/Friar Laurence: Here is a phial. It has a kind of medicine in it that will put you to sleep, but people will actually think you’re dead.
Rose/Juliet: But how will that help?
Ironstrike/Friar Laurence: If you drink it tonight, people will find you in the morning and think you are dead. And so they will put you in your family vault and leave you there. But I will write to Romeo, and he will come and find you in the vault and wake you up, and the two of you can escape together.
Rose/Juliet: Are you sure this will work?
Ironstrike/Friar Laurence: Trust me. Everything will be hunky-dory.
ACT EIGHT
In the Capulet family vault. The Capulet family and Paris bring in Juliet on her bier
. A sullen dirge plays and there is much lamenting. Then the family leave. Romeo enters.
Zarlok/Romeo: Oh, my dear love.
Paris returns.
Karkin/Paris: Foul Montague! What are you doing here? Desist!
Zarlok/Romeo: Oh, no, Paris. Go away. I don’t want to hurt you.
Paris draws his sword.
Zarlok/Romeo: Well, then, you leave me no choice.
Romeo and Paris fight until Paris drops dead. Romeo pulls out a bottle of water and splashes water over Juliet’s face. She wakes.
Rose/Juliet: Oh, my darling Romeo. It has all worked!
They hug each other.
Zarlok/Romeo: Off we go!
They hold hands and run off together.
Really, I thought, it was simple when you knew how to do it.
The telephone rang on Monday night, and for once nobody answered it. There was a sort of hierarchy about answering the phone in our house. Usually Pippa fell on it first, in the expectation that it would be one of her legion of friends ready to gossip for several hours. This annoyed my father, who always had the nagging worry that a patient might need his urgent attention while Pippa and her friends raved for hours about pop stars or clothing. My mother wasn’t obsessed about the phone, but she was generally happy to answer it. I never answered the phone. Nobody ever rang me.
But now the telephone rang and rang, and nobody answered. I was in my room, conducting an epic battle. Pippa was out having what she called a study session with Gina; my father was working late, some unfortunate patient needing his attention. I didn’t know why my mother didn’t pick up: I knew she was somewhere in the house.
The Starlings Page 11
