The Playmakers Read online

  There was a moment’s silence, before Mr Pollock cleared his throat and returned to business, stating, “I’m afraid I don’t have a ruff to go with it.”

  “No need,” said Budsby pointing to the changing curtain with his stick. And there was Soho emerging, looking splendid in his new outfit. With his recently acquired pink handkerchief tied around his neck …

  The triumph, however, was the purchase made by Budsby himself.

  Aware that the group’s future hinged greatly on his image, and determined to become a big player in London, he went for overkill.

  There was a lot of huffing and puffing and to-ing and fro-ing behind the curtains, and several times Mr Pollock ran to the back of the shop muttering darkly about “elephantine shapes”, to return with yet another outfit.

  Eventually, out stepped Budsby, the peak of Elizabethan fashion, resplendent in doublet, jerkin, ruff, sur-coat and three-quarter cape.

  The outfit was in the most splendid of greens, with red trimmings, beautifully tailored to fit not only his ample fifty-six inch chest, but also his luxuriant seventy-six inch waist! The Italian-style hat sat perkily on his head, and his whiskers were combed to perfection. Only the florid complexion and the silver-topped stick remained of the Old Budsby.

  “Are you impressed?” said the big fellow, as he twirled around on the surprisingly small, dainty feet.

  “It’s Lord Budsby for mine,” said Shakespeare, clapping his hands.

  “Prince Regent of All He Surveys,” said Mr Mullins.

  “Except Norwich …” added Davidson.

  “Superb, superb. But, now, may I ask,” came a voice, “how does My Lord Budsby intend to pay?”

  There was silence as the group turned to see Mr Pollock intently surveying a large piece of paper held in his thin scrawny hands. The sharp beak of a nose followed his darting eyes up and down the list of figures. Shakespeare thought he looked like a starling examining an inventory of twigs he had ordered to make a nest.

  Budsby moved forward, quietly took the document out of Mr Pollock’s hands, and looked at the bottom figure.

  Something approaching a low whistle could be faintly heard, followed by the trademark bassoon laugh. “A bargain at twice the price!” declared Budsby.

  “Just paying that figure will be sufficient,” said Mr Pollock.

  “As I explained sir,” replied the big voice, “I am Rufus J. Budsby, entrepreneur, raconteur and bon vivant.”

  “All very well, Mr Budsby, but alas, we don’t give credit.”

  “Of course not, sir, I would not expect that you would.”

  “We only take cash.”

  “Absolutely,’ said Budsby, unscrewing the silver cap of his Blackwood stick.

  “Coin of the realm.”

  “Quite correct, Mr Pollock. May I call you Ezra? It’s hard enough to make a living in these difficult times,” he added, pulling out the silver phial. “What with the Spanish and all.”

  “Tell me about it, Mr Budsby,” said Mr Pollock despondently.

  “Why, sir,” said Budsby, taking the cork off the phial, “we ourselves have survived years on the road as travelling mummers.”

  “All the more reason for me to get my money now,” said Mr Pollock.

  “But we are travellers no longer. Here in the glorious city of London, not just a stone’s throw from this commodious and quality fashion emporium run by your good self and kindly brother, we are taking up a generous business offer which requires us to look at our best, and which will ultimately bring rich rewards, allowing us to pay our bills all in good time. Ezra, if I may call you Ezra, can I tempt you with a little whisky ..?”

  “Flattery and liquor will get you nowhere, Mr Budsby,” came the reply. “Only cash will improve my demeanour. If you can’t pay, I will have to ask you to take the clothes off, please.”

  “But, but …” spluttered Budsby. And for the first time Shakespeare saw his hero and father figure showing symptoms of anxiety.

  “Off with the clothes, please.”

  “These clothes are important to us,” pleaded Budsby.

  “And that is why,” said Shakespeare, suddenly stepping forward, and throwing a small leather bag on the counter, “we are paying with this.”

  Budsby recognised the pouch immediately. It was the one thing of value that the muddied and broken William Shakespeare had on him the day the old trouper stumbled across the young runaway beside a cold stream outside Stratford.

  “William, no,” pleaded Budsby. “That’s yours. It contains memories as much as money.”

  “They are memories I would prefer to erase,” he said.

  “But Will …”

  “Mr Budsby. I knew the day I walked out of my father’s business that there would come a moment when this would be needed most. And now, this is it. You have been so helpful to me, sir, and now is my chance to repay you.”

  The starling needed no further encouragement. He snatched the bag with a bony claw, and in seconds had withdrawn enough to pay the bill. The remaining gold coins - and Budsby noticed there were more than just a few - went back in the bag, and it was returned with a smile. “Gentlemen, it has been a pleasure to do business with you.”

  “We thank you, kind sir,” said Budsby, touching the rim of his new Italian-style hat with the silver top of his stick. “Good-day.”

  And as they walked out, Budsby whispered, “William Shakespeare, how much did you take from your father’s business that day?”

  “I don’t know,” Shakespeare said nudging him. “The bag’s never been fully opened until now. But it looks like I did all right!”

  “Will, my friend, nothing can stop us now,” said Budsby.

  When they finally burst into the inn, Rufus did a twirl on his dainty feet and said, “What do you think, Percy?”

  “She left me, Rufus,” was all Percy could say, staring into the middle distance. “She just up and left me.”

  “Er, yes, Percy, I understand.”

  Sarah was far more impressed, particularly with Will’s outfit.

  “You will be the talk of the town, Mr Shakespeare,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

  “Sarah, just call me Will,” said Shakespeare softly, looking directly at her.

  The girl blushed, and an experienced campaigner such as Budsby could not help but notice The Moment.

  That moment when two people stare into each other’s eyes and realise that while intently traversing the roads, highways and blind alleys on the Map of Life, they have suddenly stumbled across a soul mate destined to make the remainder of the journey an easier, more enjoyable and more loving experience.

  “Yes, well,” said Budsby finally, taking Shakespeare quietly by the arm and leading him to the area that had sparked their enthusiasm in the first place - the vacant space near the rear wall of the tavern. “I supposed we had best be getting on with it.”

  It turned out that more tables and chairs had been earmarked to go in the space, but had never been delivered when heart-broken Percy fell behind in his payments to the furniture-maker. The entrepreneur in both of them saw it as an ideal area for a stage, and immediately got Mr Mullins, Samuel Davidson and Soho on to the job.

  “Can’t you just see it, young Will?” said Budsby as the trio began hammering and sawing away.

  “Exactly, sir,” said Shakespeare. “Entertainment in a tavern. We invite the patrons to come in and not only eat and drink, but enjoy a show.”

  “What a formula! I’ll wager there is nothing else like it in London.”

  “Who will perform?” said Sarah.

  “Well, to start with, we’ll use Soho, and Mr Davidson, and Rasa and Emily,” said Shakespeare intently.

  “And,” added Budsby enthusiastically, “in the meantime, young Master Shakespeare here will go and scour London for any more acts he can find - no doubt there are a few old mummers and a few young up-and-comers out there looking for work.”

  “But how will you pay them?” said Sarah.

&nbs
p; “Sarah, once we tell them they will get free food and drink, we’ll be beating them back with a stick.”

  “So, what does Uncle Percy get out of this?” asked Sarah as they sat down again at a table.

  Budsby was unfazed. “A good question, young Sarah, a good question indeed. I am pleased that you are looking after your uncle’s interests.” He leaned across the table. “This is what we propose,” said the big man earnestly. “Percy provides the locale, the food, and the drink. We will provide the entertainment, the promotion, and, hopefully the crowd.”

  “And in return,” added Shakespeare, “we get twenty-five per cent of the take.”

  Sarah stared at the table for a little while, and then looked up.

  “That sounds fair to me,” she said. “That’s seventy-five per cent for Uncle Percy. Right now, he is getting seventy-five per cent of nothing.” Turning, she said, “What do you think, Uncle Percy?”

  “She left me,” said Percy staring into the middle distance. “She just up and left me.”

  There was a silence.

  “I take that as a yes, Percival, old friend,” said Budsby evenly.

  “But what entertainment are you going to put on there?” said Sarah.

  This time, Budsby was just a little fazed.

  “Another good question, young Sarah,” said Budsby thoughtfully. “An excellent query, indeed. We will have to cobble something together very quickly. Our little show, full of dedicated artisans, went well in the innocent green countryside of Merry England, but lacked a certain spark to appeal to a more cynical metropolitan audience.”

  “I see.”

  “Look at the response to Viktor, our supreme high-wire walker,” continued Budsby almost in resignation. “The Londoners wanted him to fall! I don’t understand this town any more.”

  Suddenly, there was a mighty bang. The three turned around to the new stage under construction. Soho had fallen off the ladder, landing heavily amongst pieces of wood, tools and sawdust. He got up, his ugly little face covered in dust, his new outfit dirty, his eyes rolling as he staggered from side to side, dazed.

  Shakespeare and Budsby got up to anxiously help their little gargoyle in his moment of need.

  But Sarah - London-born and London-bred - just sat there and laughed.

  The two impresarios were shocked to see the otherwise sweet and innocent girl wiping the tears from her eyes, laughing at another’s misfortune.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, finally catching her breath, and bursting into hysterics again. “It was just so funny.”

  “Well, O mighty entrepreneur,” said Shakespeare, clapping his hand on the shoulder of his mentor. “There’s part of your answer at least …”

  Seven days later, Lord Burghley swung in to the top end of the street and began marching down to the tavern door.

  “We shall evict potty Percy, and that fat fellow what’s-his-name, and his band of travelling vagabonds from this financial black hole forthwith,” he said to his four dutiful soldiers as they hurried through the mud.

  But when he reached the door of Percy Fletcher’s inn, he was surprised to be greeted by a young man, looking very impressive in a new outfit.

  “Ah, Mr … er … um …” said Lord Burghley.

  “Shakespeare, William Shakespeare,” said the young man, bowing low. “I am Mr Budsby’s assistant.”

  “I see you have taken heed of my advice regarding clothes,” said Burghley, examining him from top to toe.

  “We have indeed, Lord Burghley. Mr Budsby agrees that to be successful, one must look successful.

  “And I trust that somewhere in the pockets of your splendid new outfit is the rent that is owing to the Earl of Oxford.”

  “Ah, well, no, my lord.”

  “No!”

  “I have no rent to give you, Lord Burghley. Perhaps if we were to step inside and discuss the matter further?”

  “We certainly will step inside this tomb. But there will be no discussion. We will proceed to throw you, and Percy, and Budsby, and everybody, out into the street.”

  Followed by his guards, Burghley pushed past Shakespeare, grabbed the handle of the door, swung it open, and stepped in. Shakespeare fell in behind, with just a hint of a smile.

  Two steps inside, and a look of amazement spread across Burghley’s face.

  Where seven days ago there were empty chairs and tables, there were now people - dozens of them, seated, standing, jamming the room. Where there was once silence, there was noise. A buzz of excitement and hearty conversation rippled through the air. Where there was once nothing happening, the young niece of Percy’s was just one of several pretty wenches working hard to dish out food and drink.

  “Gee, my lordship,” said the senior guard at Burghley’s shoulder, “we’ll have a bit of a job throwing this lot out!”

  “A brilliant observation,” snapped Burghley. “What is going on here?”

  “Ah-ha!” came a booming voice from the middle of the excited room.

  Burghley looked across to see Budsby, also in a new outfit.

  “Lord Burghley,” crooned Budsby, “welcome to our little house.”

  “Do you want me to start by throwing the big fellow out first?” interjected the guard, nodding at Budsby.

  “Be quiet, you idiot!” Burghley growled.

  “Once we’ve got him out of the way,” continued the guard, “then we’ll start on this table over here.”

  “Shut up you fool,” Burghley snapped. And turning to Budsby he said, “Mr Budsby, I’ve come only to get the Earl of Oxford’s rent. Or failing that, to throw you out.”

  “I see,” said Budsby, “but perhaps, before we start any discussions about money, you might like to look at this.”

  And turning, he pointed to the rear of the room, where Burghley noticed some sort of stage had been built in what had once been a vacant space.

  “What the hell ..?” But before Burghley he could say any more, the red curtains drew back to reveal a strange-looking scenario.

  On the extreme right of the stage, stood the lovely, delicate Emily, the smaller of the former twins. Rasa, the elegant Nubian, stood on the left of stage.

  At their mere appearance in their brand new outfits, the mainly male clientele began stamping and whistling in glee.

  In the middle of the stage was Samuel Davidson carrying a huge wooden mallet. Next to him was a thick plank resting on a wooden barrel, just like a seesaw, with the up end closest to him. On the opposite side of the barrel, standing on the down end of the see-saw, stood Soho in his blue and orange striped uniform, wearing what was obviously a fake red beard.

  Rasa began walking across the stage in a most flirtatious manner. As she strolled near Soho, wiggling her hips, the gargoyle began indicating an intense physical interest in her. He clutched at his heart, he hit himself on the side of the head, he pursed his lips as if to kiss her.

  Davidson stood silent, staring straight at the audience.

  As the flirt scene developed - Rasa wiggling her hips and shaking her bosom, and Soho beating his chest like Neanderthal man - the crowd buzzed with anticipation.

  Then Emily began to recite:

  “There was a tiny young lad with a beard,

  “Whose obsession with a girl was quite weird

  “But along came her friend

  “Who said ‘That’s the end.’

  “And the little bloke, he disappeared …”

  With that, Samuel Davidson turned, raised his mallet high, brought it down with a mighty swing, and struck the up end of the seesaw with a crashing blow.

  The up end went down, the down end went up. Soho rocketed straight up, out of sight.

  Not even those closest to the stage could see the little fellow after he had disappeared rapidly into the heavens, seemingly never to return.

  A mighty guffaw of laughter ripped across the tavern, and the crowd jumped to their feet, stamping and whistling.

  Their roars grew even louder, when, a few seconds late
r Soho - as if by magic -suddenly re-appeared behind them, standing on top of the bar!

  His hair was frizzed, his face smudged, his clothes half off. He staggered around the bar for a few seconds, then hopped off, weaving his way back to the stage through the tables. His beard was askew, revealing vestiges of what appeared to be a pink handkerchief around his neck.

  On spotting this, Burghley grew redder in the face.

  The crowd roared as Soho clambered up onto the stage and collapsed at the feet of Rasa.

  Rasa stooped down, her low-cut dress revealing her large dark breasts, driving the crowd even wilder. She picked Soho up, and as she cuddled him, Emily recited:

  “But then the tiny young lad with a beard,

  “Whose obsession with a girl was quite weird

  “He got back on the track

  “He made a comeback

  “And into her bosom, he disappeared …”

  The noise was deafening as the performers bowed and the curtain came down

  “There you go, sir,” said Budsby to Lord Burghley as the applause gave way to orders for more beer and wine. “Not only did I follow your advice on my apparel …”

  “So I see,” said Burghley cautiously.

  “ … but we have re-invented ourselves in seven short days, from innocent travelling mummers adored in the countryside to hard-edged performers loved in London.”

  “Now can I throw him out, boss?” interjected the guard over Burghley’s shoulder.

  But before he could answer, Budsby tossed over a small leather bag of coins, saying solemnly, “And as a result of our efforts, Lord Burghley, there is the rent Percy owes you up until today.”