by Kiley Dunbar
Mirren thought it best not to mention these small misgivings to Mari who was peering with some interest at Mirren’s phone as she scrolled through the apps.
It took half an hour and only a little cajoling to convince a blushing, flustered Mari to set up her profile picture. She had a fortnight’s free trial on a site for women over forty seeking dates with single professionals.
Mirren snapped a picture of her by the window in the soft autumn light and attached it to her profile. It was a good picture. Even Mari liked it. Mari had always been proud of her long hair, once dark, now beautifully sparkling with a few silvery strands. Kelsey got her light brown Celtic waves from Lewis’s side of the family, who were firmly in the freckled, sandy-haired-leaning-towards-ginger part of the genome, but Mari was dark, tall and curvy, more like Mirren than her daughter Kelsey.
They clicked the ‘Go Live’ button on Mari’s dating profile, and refilled their glasses, clinking them in celebration before reopening the app and scrolling through the profiles, placing a love-heart ‘bookmark’ on some of the sweeter-looking men.
Mari’s reactions showed she definitely still had a type; quiet-looking strawberry blonds with glasses and soft smiles, men like Lewis. They’d married straight out of school and Kelsey had come along after a few years of domestic bliss. Though no one could ever come close to replicating his kindness and gentle nature, Mari Anderson, for the very first time, and at the age of fifty-six, was ready to meet someone new, and Mirren grinned at the sight of Mari blushing and trying not to get too swept up in the excitement as she pored over the profiles.
Mirren couldn’t help thinking of how Mari was intent on changing her life, just like her daughter had recently with her move to England. If they could do it, she thought, could her own mum, who she loved so much in spite of everything, turn things around in her sixties and begin a happier, healthier life again? Would she ever be able to talk unguardedly with Jeanie the way she did with Kelsey’s mum? Her heart sank in answer to the questions so she drained her glass and fixed her eyes on Mari’s scrolling profiles once more.
Chapter Nine
‘I count myself in nothing else so happy
As in a soul remembering my good friends’
(Richard II)
‘OK, that’s definitely a bit of blue sky. If I don’t try now, the rainclouds will be back.’
Kelsey grabbed her camera case and the box of business cards her mum had sent her as a gift weeks ago and headed out of the studio and down the stairs. She’d spent the first two hours of her working day sitting at her desk waiting for the phone to ring, hoping even just one of the local schools would respond to her hastily sent on-spec emails and invite her to do the new term photographs, but nobody had. Mr Ferdinand hadn’t given her another commission yet either, and nor had he paid her. She glanced at the date on her phone. It was Friday the sixteenth of October and her business still wasn’t off the ground.
‘Sitting here isn’t working; this is just wasting time,’ she scolded herself, so she took to the street, all the while repeating the mantra, ‘Make Success Happen’.
This was something she’d heard her ex-boyfriend, Fran, say many times. It had worked for him; he was well on his way to becoming a young headmaster at his posh grey-walled school back in Scotland, his dream job and life’s ambition.
A light autumn breeze blew down Henley Street, making the leaves swirl. The cafés were still busy, mainly with locals and their dogs stopping mid-walk for a cream tea in spite of the morning’s rain bursts.
‘Desperate times, and all that,’ Kelsey muttered as she made her way towards the house where Shakespeare was born, now a major tourist attraction and one of Kelsey’s favourite spots in all the world. She had visited with her dad years ago on their last ever family holiday and he’d handed her his camera for the first time, letting her snap pictures of the pretty, old cottage. She couldn’t walk past the spot now without imagining her younger self there and her gentle dad by her side, coaching her on how to turn the camera’s focusing ring and get the light metering right. That holiday, and in particular that one moment, had influenced her future path so much that the spirit of Lewis Anderson was inextricably entangled in her love of the town, of Shakespeare, and photography; loves that had only grown as she aged.
Stopping across the wide street from the heritage spot where the Shakespeare family crest flapped wildly at the end of the flagpole in the cottage garden, she scanned left to right. Now the weather was improving the tourists would hit the streets again on the hunt for selfies and souvenirs, and she’d be there to meet them.
Having worked as a tour guide that summer she’d found her voice and lost the self-consciousness that seemed bred into working-class Scottish girls back home, so she knew she’d be fine approaching the bus-loads of tourists as they made their way from beauty spot to historic wonder.
‘Hello, I’m Kelsey Anderson of Kelsey Anderson Photography. Would you like me to take your picture? I’ll print them within the hour, ready for you to collect at my studio. Eight pounds for a ten by twelve…’
She lost count of how many times she ran through her spiel, almost never getting to the end of it before being met by a silent, polite bow, a clipped ‘no thank you’, a full body swerve, or worst of all, the blank disinterest of someone intent on ignoring her as though she weren’t even there.
‘Excuse me, emm, excuse me, sorry. One hour portraits in front of Shakespeare’s birthplace? Only five pounds, yours to treasure… OK, never mind.’
Dropping her prices wasn’t working either. Yet another couple waved their hands in awkward dismissal. She could see herself from their point of view and it made her cringe. They had no reason to believe that she wasn’t some kind of fraudster, out to trick unwary tourists into parting with the unfamiliar sterling in their wallets.
An hour passed and she hadn’t taken a single shot, let alone raced along the street to the chemist’s where the photo-printing machine she’d planned on using waited idly.
‘You don’t have examples of your work? How am I supposed to know what these shots will turn out like? And what guarantee do I have that you’ll even be here in an hour?’ asked a bluff American in a red baseball cap pushed down over sandy hair. ‘You could be anybody.’
‘I know, but I’m not. That’s my studio just over there, and here’s my business card with my mobile number, you can ring it now if you like, so you’ll know for sure…’
But he was already walking away, re-joining his family as they queued for tickets for Shakespeare’s house. He’d made a good point. She needed a board of some kind with pictures on and a price list, something that made her look more legit. Was she even allowed to do that? Unsure if taking commercial street shots was even lawful, she felt convinced some local statute or other would prevent her setting up an actual stall or putting out a board without a permit.
The bells of Holy Trinity on the riverside tolled one o’clock as she called it an unsuccessful day – besides, the clouds were closing in again and the air was growing damp.
‘Well that was a total failure. I should have planned this properly,’ she chided herself, zipping her camera away in its case ready to trudge back to the studio for a long afternoon hitting ‘refresh’ on the inbox.
‘Kelsey?’ someone called from a distance behind her.
It was a voice she knew well; a loud, Texan drawl like Jerry Hall. She spun round to be greeted by its owner pacing down Henley Street towards her, her arms outstretched.
‘Myrtle! I knew that was you.’
‘Honey, are you tour-guiding again? What about your photography studio? Is everything OK?’
‘Oh, no, things are fine, brilliant in fact, but I could use a little more trade at the studio… and I thought…’ Kelsey’s words faltered. She’d worked closely with Myrtle, one of the agency’s best and longest-serving tour guides, all summer. Myrtle had been able to see through Kelsey’s hidden attraction to Jonathan and she could see through this false jollity
too.
‘You look like you need a break. You got time?’ Myrtle was already looping an arm into Kelsey’s and walking her through the clusters of tourists making peace signs into their selfie sticks towards the little café by the newsagent’s. The foody aromas in the air reminded Kelsey she hadn’t eaten yet.
That was one of the best things about Stratford, Kelsey had found; you’re never more than ten feet away from the nearest freshly baked scone, but today she hesitated, thinking of the dwindling cash in her bank account. She’d managed to save a tiny proportion of her tour guiding wages and all of her tips, but now that money was running out. Even the money from the joint bank account that Fran, her ex back home, had split between them, was almost gone, spent on her rents – the bedsit and Norma’s old office – paid for until February, thank goodness. The rest was spent on getting the studio up to scratch. ‘Oh, I don’t know, I…’ she flustered.
‘My treat.’ Myrtle patted her hand. ‘Have you been hiding away at the studio? We haven’t seen you in weeks.’
‘I’ve been so busy, but I don’t feel like I’ve achieved much yet— Hold up a sec!’ Kelsey’s eyes fell upon the newspaper stand between the newsagent and the café’s doors. ‘Look!’ There on the rack amongst the garish, alarmist tabloid headlines was Blythe Goode, a vision in pastel pink and black lace, raising her gin glass with a bold stare down Kelsey’s lens. ‘I took those pictures.’
Myrtle was by her side and reaching for her own copy of the Examiner as Kelsey showed it to anyone walking by who would listen. ‘Front cover shots! I took these!’
‘That’s my girl, Kelsey. Come on, let’s buy a bundle and then we’re getting the prosecco cream tea! Come on.’
* * *
They pushed inside the café, all knowingly on-trend chintz and so welcome after the autumn chill on Henley Street. They found a table in a quiet corner and devoured the cover page. Blythe really did look wonderful, a true star.
‘I had some experience of this paper before,’ Kelsey said after a few moments. ‘Do you remember that hack-job they wrote about Jonathan and his co-star, Peony, in the summer, saying they were as good as engaged? It was all made up but I fell for it completely.’ The resentment still stung. If she’d had her wits about her she’d have questioned what she read, spoken to Jonathan, clarified everything, and then maybe they’d have got together sooner. Kelsey pouted, thinking of all the kisses she’d missed and how the Examiner had been her only option for placing cheap business ads.
‘I’d take most of the stuff printed in this rag with a big pinch of salt,’ said Myrtle. ‘They’re notoriously slapdash. It’s kinda sad. Years ago, when I first moved to town it was famous as a theatre paper, covering all the arts news, but it’s gone downhill. Ninety per cent of it is advertising now… though it’s clearly improved drastically since they got you on board.’ Myrtle winked and bowed her closely pixie-cropped white head to read again.
Kelsey spotted the advertisement she’d shelled out for on the front page, smaller than she’d expected but a nice bold purple and there all the same.
Her mouth turned down as she scanned the article accompanying her pictures. ‘Hmm. That’s weird, this story’s pretty good. It’s so complimentary about Blythe, and it’s well researched. I didn’t think Mr Ferdinand had it in him, to be honest. He was so strange when I met him, half asleep and kind of disinterested in his paper. But look, the by-line says Clive Ferdinand wrote this.’
Myrtle read aloud, her accent drawling wonderfully.
‘During Stratford’s theatrical heyday Blythe Goode (72) drew crowds from across the country to see her starring roles as Shakespeare’s Ophelia, Juliet and Beatrice, as well as her ground-breaking and controversial Duchess of Malfi.
‘Goode’s career came abruptly to an end in nineteen sixty-eight following her double billing as Cleopatra and Queen Margaret in Stratford. She retired from the stage after a mysterious illness that winter, leaving British theatre sadly depleted in her absence.
‘Her modest Stratford-upon-Avon home is a treasure trove of theatre memorabilia. Goode is pictured wearing the black lace headdress she wore onstage as Webster’s Duchess of Malfi in nineteen sixty-seven, hailed as a landmark performance in the history of experimental British theatre, in spite of the production’s ill-fated cast. Local legend, actor John Wagstaff, playing the Duchess’ steward and lover Antonio, as well as Antony to her Cleopatra that same season, famously fell from the stage, breaking both legs…’
‘Woah, no way! I must ask her about that. She’s my neighbour you know? Lives in my building,’ interrupted Kelsey.
‘A celebrity neighbour, huh? You’d better take her a copy of this.’
‘I will. She’ll be thrilled… I think.’ Kelsey thought for a moment about smart, fierce, fabulous Blythe Goode rattling around her kitchen conducting her explosive gin experiments. ‘She must be lonely, hidden away from the world in that downstairs flat, especially after years in the spotlight. I didn’t even know she existed until last week. She clearly doesn’t get out much. I’ve never seen her leaving our building anyway.’
‘Well, now she has you. Lucky Blythe. You can talk Shakespeare together to your hearts’ content.’
‘True. I’m glad I got the commission from the Examiner or I may never have met her. So it wasn’t a complete disaster.’ A frown formed as Kelsey spoke. ‘But I’d hoped Mr Ferdinand would have paid me by now. I sent my invoice for this job straight away. I could do with the money.’
‘Oh honey, that’s how things are these days. You could wait weeks to see that money.’
‘Mirren said the same thing when I talked to her last week.’ Kelsey registered with some alarm that she hadn’t heard from Mirren in days, not since her friend had got the good news about her weekend women’s pages feature and she was planning on visiting Mari to let her know. She set a mental reminder to ring her soon for a proper catch-up.
A waiter brought over a tray piled high with scones, little pots of strawberry jam and two dishes of clotted cream. As the women prepared to dive in, he reappeared with two tall stemmed glasses.
‘Well, here’s to your success, Kelsey. See, there is life outside of tour-guiding,’ said Myrtle. ‘Cheers.’ They both sipped the prosecco.
‘Well, this is an unexpected treat, thank you,’ Kelsey said, letting herself relax. ‘So, what have you been up to since the agency closed? And how’s Valeria? I haven’t even asked yet, sorry.’
Valeria was Myrtle’s partner, another ex-tour guide. It had taken the unobservant Kelsey the whole summer to figure out they were together and she’d been embarrassed to hear they’d shared a life in their little terraced cottage in the old town for seven years by that point. She really had been very green and more than a little self-absorbed as she’d tried to figure out her new life over the summer months.
‘We’re good,’ Myrtle was nodding. ‘In fact it was Valeria who helped us out of our fix. You know it was kinda tough both of us being out of work after so long guiding for Norma.’
Kelsey slathered jam then cream on the split scone, still warm from the oven, occasionally looking up into Myrtle’s eyes. ‘Got you out of the fix? How?’
‘Valeria heard that the main theatres were having a costume sale and we used some of our savings to buy up as much stuff as we could. Five chests full. And not just costumes; there were stage swords, wigs, shoes, everything. We’re setting up a costume rental shop by the riverside; you know, fancy dress hire as well as theatrical rentals? I already sent out flyers to all the am-dram companies in the county. We’ll be opening our doors for the first time a week on Saturday.’
‘Wow, you’ve got it all figured out. Good for you two.’
‘I know, right? Let’s hope it pays off. We sank what was left of our money into the business rates for the year.’
‘Can I come visit?’
‘You better. Come to the grand opening, OK? We’re right between the Yorick pub and the Willow Studio Theatre. You know the little door
nobody ever seems to use?’
Kelsey couldn’t picture it. Had she ever noticed a door there? She’d always been so focused on the Willow theatre and wondering if Jonathan was in there whenever she’d passed by that summer. He’d wowed the crowds there all season long as Oberon in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
‘Another secret little place I’ve yet to discover in town.’ Kelsey shrugged happily. ‘Doesn’t surprise me; this place is full of magical nooks and crannies the tourists don’t see unless they’re really paying attention. I can close the studio for an hour and come along to the opening next Saturday. It’s not like I have many bookings.’ Or any bookings. Kelsey gulped at her drink.
‘It’ll pick up. Just you wait.’ Myrtle was always reassuring. She was smart and steady and believed in Kelsey too; it showed in her face.
Kelsey wished she had Myrtle’s confidence in her. She had all the equipment, the perfect studio, and as of today she had her advert going out to every house in the Examiner’s circulation. The only thing she lacked was the clients and their money.
‘And look, there’s your name on the front page of the paper,’ Myrtle was pointing to the wording under the largest picture of Blythe, ‘Photographs by Kelly Anderson. Oh!’
‘Kelly? Ugh, that Mr Ferdinand! That’s exactly what I’d expect of him. Can’t even get my name right.’
‘There’ll be other opportunities. You can set him straight for next time,’ Myrtle reached a hand over and tapped Kelsey’s forearm. ‘So… I can’t hold out any longer, tell me about you and Jonathan. Things going OK?’
The prosecco and the sudden shift to her favourite topic of conversation brought heat to Kelsey’s cheeks. ‘He’s lovely, thanks.’
Myrtle gave a satisfied chuckle and took a big bite of scone, leaving Kelsey to fill the silence.
‘He’s so busy with his run of Hamlet. I read some reviews online; the Canadian critics are loving him. One of them said he was the greatest Hamlet of his generation.’
