The Playmakers Read online

  Anne Hathaway triumphantly folded her arms over her stomach, and gave a haughty toss of her head as the other two women dissolved into tears and the two men grappled and tore at each other on the floor.

  Eventually, Mary Shakespeare pulled her husband away from where he was dedicatedly strangling his son, and some sort of sanity was restored.

  Anne Whateley stared forlornly at her now ex-fiancé.

  “How could you do this?” she finally whispered. There was no laughter this time, only hurt. She burst into tears. “How could you? You told me you were visiting their farm on business.” She grabbed her skirts and ran out, sobbing.

  “Anne, Anne, I’m sorry, I …” pleaded William Shakespeare lamely as she disappeared out the door.

  There was silence.

  Ultimately, John Shakespeare turned to Anne Hathaway and spoke. “Are you sure, um, that he is, the, um …”

  “Oh yes, he’s the father, all right, thank you for asking. There’s no one else involved.”

  “But I don’t, I don’t want get married to you!” Will blurted sullenly. “I want to marry Anne.”

  “You should have thought of that earlier, William Shakespeare,” said Anne Hathaway, “when you were being so amorous in my father’s haystack.”

  “I didn’t think it would lead to this.”

  “Ah, the innocence of youth! Have you not heard that if you play with fire you will get burnt?”

  “But, Anne,” interrupted Mary Shakespeare. “You’re a mature woman. Eight years older. William’s only a boy. Surely we could sort something out.”

  “He may be a boy, but he’s going to be a father now!”

  William winced at the thought.

  “Don’t put on the petulant face,” Anne continued. “You will be marrying me, because if you don’t, I will expose you to the deacons, who will, in duty bound, have you consigned to the stocks and exposed to public ridicule. How does that sound?”

  John Shakespeare shook his head. The family had taken enough knocks lately, and such community humiliation would be the killer blow.

  “Enough,” he said. “Enough.” And he pushed the plate of scones away.

  The following day, accompanied by the stern, unyielding Anne Hathaway, and with the giggles and guffaws of the Stratford public ringing in his ears, a red-faced William Shakespeare walked sombrely down the street to the church and asked a startled deacon about issuing a second marriage licence in two days.

  “But William,” said the deacon, “didn’t we … er … yesterday?”

  “Just do it, deacon. Just do it,” mumbled William.

  Later that day, an old farmer, noticing a usually closed door open in his barn two miles out of town, came across Anne Whateley.

  The thin strips of leather that were intended to spearhead Anne and William’s business plans were wound at one end around her neck, and at the other around a rafter.

  She swung listlessly, her life expunged, her heart beneath the perfect bosom broken, her joyous laugh silenced forever.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When news of the death of Anne Whateley reached William Shakespeare, he turned on his new bride-to-be in blind fury.

  Prior to that, in the intervening hours between the ignominious declaration of his impending fatherhood at age eighteen and the news of the suicide, Shakespeare had gone all but silent. He had answered the queries of his parents - “How could you let this happen?” and “How could you do this after all we have done for you?” and “Didn’t we warn you about things like this?” - with teenage monosyllabic grunts.

  He had greeted the prodding jibes of Anne Hathaway - “So, you thought you’d get away with it, did you?” and “She was never your type,” and “No more wild times down the inn for you, will there father-to-be?” - with snarls.

  His face had turned ashen, his hands clammy, his eyes dull.

  But inside, his mind had been working overtime.

  Hold on, he kept telling himself.

  Hold on, Will. Hold on.

  Hold on to the dream. The dream that one day you will be back in the arms of Anne Whateley. That you’ll hear the tinkle of the bell-like laugh again. That she will hold you and kiss you and love you. And stay with you forever.

  Hold on to the dream, Will, that one day this … this mess … will be sorted out; that maybe this bitch of a woman is having us all on and she is not really pregnant; that maybe she won’t carry the baby the full distance. She’s bloody old enough as it is.

  Hold on, Will, hold on. That maybe we can persuade her to see Mrs Armitage down at the apothecary to, you know, er, do something. Dad could lend me the money and I could work hard to pay him back.

  That maybe even after the baby is born I will somehow get away, run away, fly away, into the arms, and the laugh, and sensational bosom of Anne Whateley.

  That’s it. I’ll just fly away. Like a little bird.

  It might take a week. Or a month. Or a year. Or two years.

  But I’ll fly away, and explain it all to Anne, my beautiful Anne, the real Anne, not this awful Anne, and she’ll listen to me, and understand me, and take me back, and love me forever.

  Hold on, Will. Hold on.

  Hold on to the dream.

  But William Shakespeare’s little bird of freedom came plummeting earthwards that next day when Anne’s uncle, Christopher Whateley, appeared at the door, hat scrunched in hand, staring at his boots, tears rolling down reddened cheeks into his beard.

  He delivered his gloomy message to the Shakespeare family, mumbled something about, “Funeral Tuesday, but don’t think it advisable you attend.” And fled.

  Now there was no reason for Will to hold on to the dream.

  “You bitch!” Shakespeare screamed at Anne Hathaway, his quivering, tear-stained face barely two inches from hers. “You absolute bitch. Listen to me and listen well. You’ll regret the day you forced me to marry you, because as far as I’m concerned, from now on, you can expect absolutely nothing of me. Or nothing from me!”

  But if he thought this would force a back down, a retreat, or even, God be merciful, that she might just disappear magically out of his miserable life forever, then he was wrong. Instead of backing away, Anne Hathaway leaned forward, halving the already minuscule distance between their faces. And in a whisper that dripped menace, hissed, “Listen, you spineless little prick, don’t you dare threaten me. You knocked me up in a haystack, and you will do exactly as you should, as my husband!”

  She stared deeper into his eyes.

  “And you know why?” she continued, raising her voice so his parents could hear every word. “Because the deacons would be only too happy to lock you up in the stocks for a few days to entertain the villagers, thus dragging the so-called good name of Shakespeare through the mud.”

  Rambling thoughts went through William’s mind. Heavens, I’m only a poor Catholic boy and I didn’t mean to have my wicked way and put a bun in her ancient oven.

  There was silence.

  John Shakespeare, trying to maintain some semblance of control as master of his crumbling house, stepped forward to pat his boy on the shoulder and head off public ridicule.

  “Son, I don’t think it would be very good if you …”

  “It’s all right, dad,” William replied evenly, without taking his eyes off his adversary. “I understand.”

  The two stared, unblinking.

  The only sound that could be heard was the distressed sniffling of Mary Shakespeare.

  “I will do it,” said Will ultimately and quietly. “I will do it. I have no choice. I will marry you. But listen, you screeching harridan, you think you’ve got the best of me! I will be patient. That’s all you can expect. I will bide my time, and wait for my moment. You hear? My moment!”

  Thus it came about, the happy union of William Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway.

  And if the build-up had been traumatic, the wedding was a disaster. The body language of the pair as they stood before the altar suggested combatants rather
than lovers, prompting one guest to nudge his partner, nod towards them, and whisper, “Bloody War of Roses all over again …”

  The couple barely smiled during the vows, pecked at each other’s cheek at the end, and sat stolidly at the celebrations in silence.

  As there had been no time, and the circumstances were so acrimonious, Anne had not carried out the usual tradition of brewing and selling bride’s ale to defray the wedding expenses, adding further to their financial woes.

  This did not deter William. Having caught the eye of the waiter, an old friend from the Stratford Arms, he latched on to every tankard of beer, goblet of wine, and tumbler of brandy that came within reaching distance of the bridal table.

  By the time it came for the dancing he was stumbling.

  By the time it came to make a speech, he was mumbling.

  By the time they got to share the marital bed for the first time as Mr and Mrs Shakespeare, he was beyond fumbling and bumbling.

  He had passed out.

  “Who gives a toss?” he said next morning, nursing a hangover. “I’ve been there, know what’s it like, and didn’t think much of it anyway …”

  She hurled a pot at him, which missed him by inches and crashed against the wall, making him wince. “That’s not what you said when it was free and easy, with no complications, my boy,” she screamed.

  “Don’t … don’t … ooh … ahh …don’t shout,” he pleaded. “Not only because I feel awful, but everyone will hear.”

  And that was true.

  William being but a boy, and Anne a daughter of a farming family and therefore not in line for hereditary or other financial support, the pair had nowhere to live. John Shakespeare had come up with something of a solution.

  “After the wedding, you can live in the garret above the leather works, until you get on your feet,” he offered. “It’s not much, but it’s clean, and it’ll cost nought.”

  It was also in the main commercial thoroughfare of Stratford, with two large windows opening onto the street, perfect for letting conversations fly out and be picked up by passers-by.

  “I don’t care what they hear,” Anne shouted. “The more it adds to the public humiliation of William Shakespeare, famous outdoors lover and would-be leaver, the better.”

  The floor of the garret was of bare boards and the ceiling of thin shingles, held together by five A-frames of strong oak beams, strategically angled so the unwary could catch their temple on them at any time. At one end, a determined Mary Shakespeare, doing her utmost to make the best of a bad situation for her beloved son, had arranged a hanging curtain of the thickest material to hive off a bedroom, “so you’ll at least get some privacy.”

  “Privacy didn’t seem to be much of an issue when he was banging away in the haystack,” added his father glumly.

  Behind the curtain lay a rudimentary double bed, and a small table. At the other end of the garret there was a kitchen of sorts, with a small wooden bowl, some battered tin plates and bowls, and a handful of knives and spoons, all on a tiny bench. There was a small dining table, a brace of mixed chairs, and a tiny footstool covered in embroidered leather, one of the first pieces William had made as an apprentice. A temporary hearth had been constructed out of stone, with a primitive chimney linked through a leaking hole in the shingles.

  The requirement that a trip had to be made down a sharply-angled, rocking wooden ladder and through the leather-works for supplies and essentials such as water soon became a constant source of irritation between the newly-weds, especially as Anne’s pregnancy rolled on and she became fatigued and washed out.

  “Go and get and some water,” Anne would say, straightening up, and holding her hands at the base of her spine to relieve the pressure on her back.

  “Get it yourself.”

  “I hate going down there,” Anne she would reply. “All your father’s workers staring at me.”

  “Well, don’t go down there, then. Don’t go anywhere! Just stay up here and make my life miserable.”

  Will spent the days in the factory, finishing his apprenticeship stoically and with no drive or ambition.

  His dreams of revolutionising the industry, so naively and lovingly outlined to his parents a few weeks before by Anne Whateley, were shattered.

  Every time he saw a strip of thin leather, the same cord that Anne had used to end her life in a cold, lonely crofter’s shed because he had betrayed her, bitter tears would flow.

  His father’s workers, many of whom had known young Will since he was a toddler, had to look away.

  On those days, when he went back upstairs at the end of work, he would sit moodily and stare into space, oblivious of Anne’s constant verbal barrages directed at him about his lack of care, lack of drive, lack of love.

  One evening, he snapped out of this stare into space, to find that he was a father.

  A little girl, unaware of the turbulent role she had played in her parents’ lives, was born on May 26, 1583, and after much discussion, was named Susanna.

  Unsure of what actually a father was meant to do, Will stretched out a finger, watched as a little hand grasped it, and whispered “She’s beautiful.”

  His wife - Yes, Will thought, this woman who is the scourge of my life and never given me one minute’s peace, is actually my wife – looked into his eyes, and for the first time in their brief and tumultuous marriage, smiled at him.

  It was the same smile she had given him the day she had seduced the fumbling apprentice boy in the haystack.

  And for a few weeks, between that smile and the arrival of the new little soul in the house, something approaching civility suddenly appeared in their relationship, bordering on affection, quite possibly love.

  Susanna was a good baby, a happy baby, and Anne felt fulfilled for the first time in her life. She felt good that, despite the trauma surrounding it all, she had given breath to a new life, the most rewarding thing a woman could do. She felt triumphant she had proved that she was more than just a hard-working, horse-riding toiler on her father’s farm and the subject of fearful gossip about her overwhelming personality and forbidding temper.

  If she had to jump some young buck in the haystack to achieve that aim, well, so be it.

  Besides, she recollected, young William, whom she had known as a family friend since he was six, certainly hadn’t been reticent about it. After a struggle to get his breeches off, it wasn’t long before his skinny little bottom was reflecting the rays of the late afternoon sun of that warm August day, as he pushed and shoved and wiggled and, by golly, by dint of his sheer enthusiasm rather than experience, had somehow got her to climax, a rare event around Shottery, at least for her, anyway. When it was all over they both laid back in the hay and laughed as he told her how when he was eleven and she was nineteen he used to lie on the rug at the combined family picnic and try and look up her bloomers and see what the mystery was all about.

  “And now I know the answer,” he said that day before pulling up his breeches and heading back up to the house. “And it’s pretty good, too,” he had turned and added as he headed into the sun.

  Anne lay in the bed in the garret and started to giggle at the memories. Maybe he was not so bad after all …

  And nine weeks after Susanna was born, William came up the rickety stairs one Thursday, at the end of another session making gloves, to find the little garret perfectly tidy, the baby asleep, a flagon of wine on the table, and his wife standing at the far end with the heavy curtain that served as the bedroom wall wrapped around her.

  With a dramatic thrust of both arms, she flung the curtain away to reveal her naked body. Her tall, lissom figure had regained its magnificent farm-bred sinewy shape, and William gasped and blinked in awe.

  She narrowed her eyes, stretched out her right arm, beckoned him with her forefinger, and said, “Come on, little hay-stacks …”

  And for the next seven months a truce was declared and regular passers-by down below were puzzled to find the customary shouting and
sound of plates crashing that usually emanated from the two big windows up above the leather works had been replaced by awesome silence or a hint of delicate moaning.

  William would reflect later that this was the sanest period of his marriage, as he worked hard downstairs all day, and came upstairs to a meal, a baby daughter and some love and affection.

  The memory of Anne Whateley began to dim just slightly and John and Mary Shakespeare began to breathe a little more easily and concentrate on the other six children of the family.

  Then, one morning in May, 1584, Anne advised William she was pregnant again, got out of bed, threw up in the little wooden bowl, and to the delight of regular passers-by below, normal shouting and plate-smashing resumed.

  They fought about money. They fought about his work. They fought about how she felt.

  “I’m going out,” he would say.

  “You are not,” she would fly back at him, as he scrambled down the stairs, dodging the A-frames and the hurled pots, and ran off to the Stratford Arms to seek some ale with his mates, and try and sneak back later when all was quiet.

  On February 2, 1585, Anne went into labour, and a harried William Shakespeare was thrust downstairs by a forceful mid-wife in all-white garb and bonnet shouting at him, “Come back in two hours, Mr Shakespeare. Two hours, mind.”

  William grabbed a handful of coins from his father’s hiding place of the business’s daily cash, and strolled to the Stratford Arms two streets away. He did this with mixed feelings. He knew from harsh experience the positives were the warmth and noise of the tavern gave him temporary respite from the frozen atmosphere of the garret, and the alcohol either made him euphoric or drowned his sorrows. But the downside was conversation with his friends made him feel isolated.

  To them life was still worth living.

  Unmarried and unfettered by responsibilities, they could drink as much as they liked, say what they liked, and do what they liked. They could go where they wanted to, within the bounds of travelling possibilities, and chase whatever woman they liked. It was all too easy.