Twelve Theo
Twelve
THEO
R at-a-tat-tat …
I glance at the front door of my chintz digs. Through the frosted glass the ominous shape of a visitor looms.
‘Go away,’ I mutter, hunkering down in my rose-bedecked armchair, nursing a half-empty beer bottle that’s my third of the evening. I was going to find food in town after our disastrous first rehearsal, but with the ongoing #NotMyGabriel scandal still in full flow, I opted for beer instead.
Rat-a-tat-tat .
I don’t move, praying whoever it is won’t see me through the door glass as clearly as I see them. With any luck they’ll figure I’m not in and …
Rat-a-tat-tat .
‘Coo-ee! Mr Larkin?’
Oh no. Not now.
Barry said this would happen. I thought he was winding me up, but it appears my agent was breaking the habit of a lifetime and telling me the truth.
If I can sit it out now, hopefully my enthusiastic landlady will give up and go home. With any luck …
There’s a loud click from the front door – and, to my horror, I see it opening.
She has a key.
Of course she has.
Can today get any worse?
I scramble out of my chair as Mrs Lilia Hetherington-Lynes tiptoes in. She’s a vision in pink satin: a long, Nehru-collared shirt and matching wide-legged trousers the colour of sugared almonds, with a generous fuchsia-pink silk pashmina strewn artfully around her shoulders. Pearls nestle against her earlobes, loop in obedient lines around her neck and dangle from her wrist where she leans on a pink chintz-patterned walking stick. She’s tiny but statuesque at the same time, with a demeanour I’ve only ever seen in actresses of a certain age. Think Dame Judi Dench, Dame Maggie Smith and Dame June Plowright rolled into one very elegant, very pink package.
‘Mr Larkin!’ she declares, holding out a bejewelled hand to me. ‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’
‘No, not at all.’ I lift her hand to my lips, remembering my manners despite wishing she wasn’t here.
‘I thought I might see how you were settling in,’ she says, beaming, her bright pink painted lips curving into a perfect inverted arch.
‘Oh, er, fine, thanks.’
‘You have everything you need?’
‘Can’t complain.’ Please go away now …
‘Excellent.’ She has a way of staring at you that feels like she’s inspecting your bones. It’s unnerving. ‘I hear you’re to be appearing at the Birthplace Gardens this summer?’
Cheers, Barry … What else has he told her?
‘I am. Kind of a last-minute thing before I start rehearsals for Hamlet . I figured it would be good to immerse myself, you know.’
‘Quite, quite. Lovely little company, they are. Run by a former protégée of mine, as a matter of fact. Ophelia Henry?’
Surprised, I reply, ‘Yes – she’s the Director of Garden Performance.’
Lilia raises a perfectly drawn eyebrow. ‘Is she now? Well, well, quite a step up for her. I always thought she had potential. Of course, when I knew the girl she was just starting out. Wet behind the ears, thought having a name like hers would make her a dead cert for the leads. It didn’t, needless to say.’
I’m not entirely sure if this is my landlady engaging in gossip or her idea of a compliment, so I just nod and smile. I don’t want to speak ill of my current employer, not least because she appears to be my only ally in The Garden Players.
‘And how are you finding it?’
Maybe if I give her a little more conversation she’ll be satisfied enough to leave? ‘Had my first rehearsal today, actually.’
‘Oh? What pieces for your first recital?’
‘Ferdinand from The Tempest and Petruchio from The Taming of the Shrew .’
‘Excellent!’ Lilia taps her stick on the floor. ‘A lover and a brute! As it should be. And how did it go?’
‘Great.’ My smile feels tight but I work it.
Lilia seems pleased, so maybe now she’ll …
‘Liar.’
‘Excuse me?’
She leans on her stick. ‘ Liar , Mr Larkin. It was a disaster. And now you’re hiding here, hoping to make it all go away with—’ she eyes the bottle I hastily deposited on the coffee table when she arrived ‘—woefully sub-standard alcohol.’
What do I say to that? ‘It’s just a beer …’
‘Just three beers, judging by that depressing little line of bottle soldiers beside your armchair.’ She tuts and shakes her head, snow-white pinwheel curls bobbing as she does so. ‘That won’t do, sir. Not at all.’
Does she disapprove of drinking? I must admit I hadn’t even considered if this chintz palace had house rules. If that’s the case, I will have words with Barry when we next talk. He should have told me! And now I’ve offended my landlady – what happens if she asks me to leave?
‘I’m sorry. I—’
‘What you need is a proper drink.’
Now I’m speechless.
‘Don’t flap your mouth like that, Mr Larkin, you look like a guileless turbot. Come with me.’
‘Really, I couldn’t …’
She pins me to the spot with a harsh green stare. ‘That wasn’t an invitation. Fetch a jacket if you need one, put on some shoes and come with me.’
I’m so surprised I just do as I’m told, wondering what the ethical connotations are of being dragged out to drink by your octogenarian landlady.
I follow her outside, locking the door behind me, and start walking up the path towards her elegant Cotswold-stone three-storey house.
‘Where are you going?’ she demands.
‘I was – er – aren’t we … ?’ I stumble, jabbing my thumb in the direction of her home.
‘Not in there ,’ she admonishes. ‘When I said a proper drink I meant a proper drink. Did you assume I was about to ply you with cooking sherry?’ She turns her back, chortling away to herself, and powers off down the garden path towards the gate that leads to the street beyond.
For a lady of later years she’s fast .
I hurry to catch up with her.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask, finally reaching her side on the residential street.
Lilia beams up at me. ‘To see the boys!’
We walk around Stratford’s winding backstreets until we emerge from an alleyway opposite a church. A few hundred yards down the road we come to an ancient-looking pub, situated in a higgledy-piggledy half-timbered building. The faded sign hanging over its entrance reads: The Star and Hope. I have to duck to enter through the old oak doorway, following Lilia into its small interior.
I am not expecting to see what I see.
A bendy oak bar, seemingly built to fit the uneven floors and gently sloping walls of the building, dominates one side of the single room. The ceiling bulges between cracked, dark-stained beams that traverse the space and, like the walls, is painted a deep midnight blue. Shiny horse brasses hang from time-bent nails hammered into the beams and struts, which make them appear like gilded stars against the walls and ceiling. The tables look like they have been made from ancient beer barrels. Every stool and bench seat is upholstered in velvet the colour of scarlet theatre curtains.
It’s warm in here; the aroma of beer and spirits reminding me of the pub my parents ran when I was little. It’s as if it has always been here, unchanged by the years, waiting to be found.
As we enter, a cheer rises from the beer barrel tables. A group of older men is seated there, blessed with a smorgasbord of beards and facial hair any TV period-drama make-up department would be proud of. Mutton chops, twirly-ended moustaches, pointed mini-beards that balance perfectly on chins and even a full-on Methuselah-length beauty. My own attempt at beard cultivation seems woefully inadequate in this company.
‘Lil, my angel! We thought you’d abandoned us!’ a splendidly moustachioed man booms, jumping up from his velvet stool to escort Lilia to a vacant seat.
‘Abandon you, Dougie? Never!’ She beams, batting his hand away as she slowly sits.
A mutton-chop-sporting gentleman wearing a white collarless shirt and green tweed waistcoat nudges Lilia’s elbow. ‘We were just saying, I wonder where Lil is these days , and presto! Here you are!’
She grins at him, patting his knee with her jewelled ring-adorned hand. ‘Here I am indeed, Cyril.’
‘To our Queen!’ the man bearing the most impressive beard slurs, raising his glass with a worrying wobble, amber liquid sloshing wildly in it as he does.
‘Hardly, Michael. Put that whisky down before you wear it, dear.’
I stay where I am, unsure what to do.
It’s only when their welcomes are all made that my landlady’s friends turn to look at me.
‘And who is this handsome stranger? Don’t look so scared, lad, we aren’t as fearsome as we might first appear.’
My landlady grins at me. I just about manage to smile back. The combination of three bottles of beer, no dinner and our sudden dash through the streets to arrive here has left me shaky. I wouldn’t be surprised if I woke right now to find this was all a weirdly vivid, beer-induced dream.
‘Boys, this is Mr Theo Larkin. My summer tenant and soon to give his Hamlet at the Big Place.’
This news is met by a ripple of approval.
I raise my hand. ‘Hi.’
‘Come, sit by me,’ Lilia demands, and Cyril-with-themutton-chops gladly moves to the next stool so I can sit down.
‘Thanks,’ I say to him.
‘Most welcome. You know, I gave my Hamlet in 1952. Short run, alas, but I worked the old tortured Dane for all he was worth.’
‘Hamlet, 1967, here,’ booms Splendid-Moustachioed-Dougie, raising his glass. ‘Pseudo-psychedelic production, saved only by the fact that the audience were more off their tits on illegal substances than the director.’
‘Too short to play Hamlet, apparently,’ Slightly-Drunk-Bearded-Michael sniffs into his whisky. ‘But The Times considered my Laertes “one of the few high points amid the dirge”.’
‘He loves that quote,’ Lilia tells me.
‘It’s a great quote,’ I reply.
Michael perks up a little.
‘Who’s the director?’ Dougie asks, handing me a glass of whisky I haven’t ordered.
‘Greg Dabrowski.’
‘Who?’ Cyril asks.
‘Wunderkind. Wins all the awards,’ Dougie replies, as his friends nod knowingly.
Cyril rolls his eyes. ‘Yank.’
His comment is met with groans.
‘Making Shakespeare relevant to the Tockity-Tick generation, no doubt.’
‘It’s TikTok,’ Lilia corrects Michael, who retreats back to his glass. ‘And don’t be such a prude, Mickey. Shakespeare is for everyone.’
Now I understand why Lilia wanted me to meet her friends. Actors, the lot of them! For the first time in hours, I relax.
Beside me, Cyril sighs. ‘It’s the same old story, love. Every director of every production claims to be bringing The Bard up to date, making him appeal to a generation that’s likely been bored senseless studying the plays at school.’
‘Which is good and noble if that’s actually their aim,’ Dougie agrees, draining his glass and reaching for the half-empty bottle in the middle of the beer-barrel table. ‘But more often than not it’s the press office speaking, while the director just wants to make it as wacky and left field as possible.’ He sips his drink. ‘Hence the blue goose in ours.’
I almost choke on my whisky. ‘A blue goose? In Hamlet ?’
‘A real goose, covered in blue dye.’
I stare at him. ‘You’re having me on.’
‘Nope, all true. It was supposed to embody the Dane’s slow descent into madness. They’d trained it to dash across stage at key moments in his decline.’ Dougie sniggers. ‘Only it turned out the goose had severe stage-fright in front of an audience and spent the whole run very publicly crapping itself. Our Polonius slipped and sprained his ankle. Twice!’
I burst out laughing along with Lilia’s friends. It’s so good to feel welcomed and accepted without having to prove myself. I relax into their good-natured chat, loving their stories of RSC productions in years gone by. Every now and again, I catch my canny landlady beaming proudly at me. Apparently, Mrs Lilia Hetherington-Lynes is my secret fairy godmother …
We stay for far longer than a single drink and as 11 p.m. rolls around we say our goodbyes, promising to return soon. I don’t remember much of the stagger home, apart from seeing Lilia to her door and crashing out on my sofa. But it’s good – all of it. Far away from what I was expecting, but so much better.
Acting with The Garden Players might be as comfortable as pulling teeth – and Lucie and Ced might never welcome me – but the discovery of this place and this company gives me hope.
Despite everything, I think I’m going to like it here.