My Jane Austen Summer: A Season in Mansfield Park

by Cindy Jones

  * * *

  A knock rattled my door and I jumped out of my skin.

  "It's me, Gary," the voice of my driver who'd left me less than ten minutes ago called through the open transom. Only it sounded more like, "Ees me, Gahr-ree."

  I opened the door a tiny crack and peeked. Gary offered me a small white bakery bag.

  "Arabic cookies. For you. Ees very goot."

  "Oh, thank you." I reached out and accepted the bag. "That's sweet of you." I gave him the unencouraging smile for door-to-door magazine salesmen.

  "I make dem," he said, planting his large brown foreign student sandals closer to my threshold.

  "You made the cookies?" I peeked into the bag.

  He nodded. "Middle Eastern Bakery in Hedingham. My job." He said something in Arabic, and then translated for himself, smiling, his white teeth contrasting with his swarthy skin. He could be a young Omar Sharif except for the accent. "You going to the pub?" he asked.

  "Not yet." I backed away. "I'll see you later," I said as his face fell. "Good-bye." I waved, closing the door, listening as the muffled creak of his footsteps faded.

  When I was sure he was gone, I walked over to the pub alone.

  * * *

  From the steps of my residence hall I enjoyed a perfect view of the town below: a double row of antique limestone buildings situated parallel to the river. Double-decker buses tottered up the hill, and tourists, my future audiences, wandered among faded pastel shop doors. An unfamiliar chill sparked the air, and clouds clogged the sky. The pub, a whitewashed two-story stucco building with multiple chimneys and abundant creeper, stood between the main street and the river. A charming shingle on the street announced: "The Grey Hare." Flaming carriage lanterns, smaller than those on Texas McMansions, flanked the door illuminating a hand-lettered sign proclaiming, "Literature Live Staff Night." That would be me, I thought proudly. Inside, a horseshoe-shaped bar dominated the room, its pewter countertop patched and polished. Behind, a sign on the mirror proclaimed "Bloody Mary Bar Every Sunday" with a price I couldn't yet convert in my head.

  Searching among the bare boards, wooden panels, and high-backed settles, I sought a familiar face, all the while scanning name tags for the dreaded Miss Banks. A stuffed rabbit collection crowded a shelf behind the bar, illustrating the pub's name: the Grey Hare. On the wall next to me hung a familiar portrait of an old man in a powdered wig, labeled "Dr. Johnson." Below, someone had handwritten, "The Grey Hair." Several other gray-hair portraits hung around the bar. I ordered a glass of ale, proud to be there, surprised that no one was in costume. How silly to think of finding a Janeite in a pub.

  Some guys next to me at the bar spoke to each other in erudite phrases like "the origins of informality." One struck me as a grad student, having mentioned his thesis; the other couldn't have been over nineteen. Their conversation flowed around me until I cleared my throat rather conspicuously and asked what they were talking about. They said, "incorporeal hereditament" as if I should have understood from context. When I asked what that was, they said, "intangible rights that are inheritable."

  "Oh, that." I sipped my ale thoughtfully and imagined myself in an improv exercise. During a break in their dialogue, I mentioned Lockley's interesting theory on the roots of incorporeal hereditament in The Approach of Modernity, title and author invented by me. I made sure to turn away before they could ask to borrow my copy. But as I turned, I found myself looking into the eyes of a short, dark man in wire-rim glasses. His name tag said Omar.

  "Are you new here?" he asked, obviously Arabic like Gary, dark hair, dark skin, no trace of the Middle East in his accent, but maybe a hint of New Jersey. I felt drawn to his open face, his diminutive size, and his generous regard. "I overheard you talking with those friendly guys," he said. I warmed to the sarcasm in his voice. "What are you doing here?" he asked. He raised his glass, pausing midway to his mouth waiting for my response.

  "I'm an actress," I said. "And you?"

  "I'm an English teacher," Omar said. "I help prepare the scripts and teach a writing workshop."

  "The scripts?" I asked. Maybe he knew what part I would play.

  "I adapt Austen's novels for Literature Live," Omar said, emitting a titter of insider animation.

  "Which novel is your favorite?" I asked.

  Omar sipped from his mug. "Personally, I don't have one," he said, his jaws locked, making his remark sound especially snooty. Surely, he was gay.

  "Really?" I said.

  "I'm with Mark Twain, I'd like to dig Jane Austen up and hit her over the head with her own shinbone." Omar stole a sideways glance, then turned to me and whispered, "Austen's work doesn't adapt well or easily."

  "Why?"

  "Well, because"—Omar assumed a serious expression, a teacher explaining to a student—"when you adapt Austen's novels for stage, you lose the interiority, the sparkling narrative if you will, which, in my opinion, leaves us with nothing but a dreadful romance. Think of the films." Omar leaned toward me again. "Shaw's my field of study."

  I nodded.

  Omar invited me to join him at a table in the back where the noise level and general animation increased. Unfortunately, no one in the large group wore a name tag. Omar raised his voice to seize the group's attention. "I would like to introduce a fellow actress"—he put his hand on my arm and read my name tag—"Lily Berry."

  They all looked at me expecting something, so—I waved. Then a man with a beautiful smile stepped forward and extended his hand.

  "Damn glad to meet you," he said. "Name's Hamlet." Hair randomly bleached, buttons on his plaid shirt misaligned, his smile so contagious I wanted to laugh at whatever he was saying whether I could hear it over the din or not. Hamlet's eyes locked with mine even as his arm rose in a professional flourish, indicating the man on his right, "Allow me to present Veal Cutlet." Hamlet's other arm extended like a conductor calling on the brass, toward the couple at the end of the table. "Country Ribs, there." A tall, lanky man nodded at me gravely. "And his little Pork Chop." The woman turned to her partner, selected a finger, and began gnawing.

  I enjoyed the joke and his lovely British accent until Hamlet's mischievous eyes met mine, expecting me to reciprocate in kind. "And you are?" he said, and I knew I was supposed to be some sort of meat. No time to unwind the jet-lag gauze straitjacketing my brain, I smiled. "I'm still Lily Berry," I said, adding, like a beauty contestant with a Southern drawl, "From the great state of Texas," applying specific gusto to the word great. I couldn't read the expression on Hamlet's face. Fearing he might expose me for a fraud, the suspense was unbearable. I looked to Omar for a cue but he had started a conversation with someone else. Hamlet raised his arm again and I flinched like a needy dog expecting to be hit. To my utter astonishment he opened his mouth and began singing to me. Conversations halted and heads turned as his rich baritone filled the pub; even the people in the front looked to see what was happening.

  "Oh I wish I wa-as in the land of cotton," he sang, pausing to savor the full effect of the longing he expressed. Some began singing harmony. "Old times there are not forgotten." He took my hands in his as if this were a love song. "Look away, look away, look away Dixie land." He immediately segued into "The Yellow Rose of Texas," but mixed it up with "Yankee Doodle." Omar winked, as if Hamlet serenading me were normal behavior. The bartenders looked mildly pleased, as if this sort of thing happened when you associated with actors. But I felt myself on fire because, as an actress, I would be expected to improvise something original, soon.

  "The Yellow Rose of Texas is the only gal for me," Hamlet continued, swinging me around in a little colonial do-si-do. Others joined the act, humming the accompaniment. Country Ribs and his little Pork Chop performed backup vocals; another actor played his air guitar, closing his eyes for the more challenging riffs. Veal Cutlet on percussion used spoons to beat the table as one of his mates played the air trombone. Others provided vocal accompaniment and stomping feet; the whole front of the room improvised to Hamle
t's crazy medley while I scrambled for an idea. Unless I thought of something quick, it would be very obvious who was not an actress in the room.

  Hamlet went down on one knee and seated me on the other. I managed to smile and raise my arms in a little shimmy, my butt bones digging into his thigh, ideas racing. Although I never played a lead, I memorized all the solos and sang them to my bathroom mirror. I stood and launched into "People Will Say We're in Love," as if I'd come straight from Broadway, the breath released from my diaphragm, flowing over my vocal cords exactly the way my voice teacher had taught me years ago. I felt like a pro and Hamlet crooned his part, making up words as he sang. We held hands as if we really were Curly and Laurey.

  Then I heard the words of Oklahoma! coming from the sidelines, gaining momentum, the beat growing stronger, wind sweeping the plains, hawks flying in circles. My heart swelled and I wanted to laugh and cry as I joined in, singing the harmony when I could find the note. We sang and danced, arms in the air, feet stomping; I felt such a sense of belonging in this moment with these people, right up to the final okay!

  Hamlet cradled me so far backward I had no sense of balance and no ability to right myself. Then he planted a real kiss on my mouth. He tasted bitter, like ale. Huge applause erupted, encouraging my inner protagonist. When Hamlet prepared to stand, I pulled him back and wrapped my arms around his neck for another kiss. And kicked a leg in the air. The room loved it.

  "Well done, Lily," Hamlet whispered. We bowed and then Hamlet took my hands in his. "I think I'm in love." He snapped his fingers. "Let's improvise. Omar, get a pen, this will be good."

  A new group of people entered our section of the room and chatter resumed.

  "Lily," Hamlet said, slightly breathless, "I have an idea. Let's work up an act. You and me."

  I smiled; no idea what he was talking about but I liked the way he said "you and me."

  "Shall we have a go at the follies?"

  "Yes," I said. The arrival of the new people interrupted the flow. Hamlet let go of me as a striking woman approached him lips first. He held her in a tango dip and I watched their bodies move, so precise and fluid it seemed they must have practiced earlier. I hoped she already had a partner for the follies. After that, people moved around and old friends greeted each other.

  I asked Omar, "Is Newton Priors far from here?"

  "About a mile."

  "Can I go there?"

  "What for?" He made a face.

  I felt very comfortable with Omar. "I want to see it before we're evicted."

  * * *

  "What are the follies?" I asked, approaching Newton Priors in the mounting gloom of half light via a narrow path lined with tall shrubs on both sides.

  "The follies," Omar said, "is an evening in late July when alumni visit and we present a talent show among ourselves."

  "Like playing the piano or singing a song?"

  "Not exactly," Omar said. "It derives from the impulse of Jane Austen's family skit nights. Most acts have something to do with her." Omar told me that Hamlet's real name was Sixby Godwin, a professional actor who studied at the Bristol Old Vic Theatre School, currently auditioning with the RSC, the Royal Shakespeare Company.

  "He's auditioning? What about Literature Live?" I asked, locking my jaws to stifle a jet-lag yawn.

  "When he gets on with the RSC, he'll be out of here. And he will get on, you can depend on it. He's very talented."

  I knew that. "But why leave?"

  Omar smiled patronizingly. "Darling," he said, "surely you don't expect him to go down with the ship." Omar extended an arm. "Prepare to feast your eyes," he said.

  Trees and plump shrubs on either side of the path still obscured the view. Only a hint of red brick peeked through the leaves. A sign appeared on our right announcing Newton Priors, open to the public the first Sunday of the month. "Open to the public?" I asked.

  "They get a tax break for sharing," Omar said, and stopped walking.

  There before us, the grand house rose from the earth in majesty.

  "Queen Anne in the English Baroque style." Omar gestured.

  "It's lovely." The main door centered between two wings curved gracefully at the ends, constructed of deep red stone, face full of tall windows and lovely bays rendering the house more vulnerable than the Palladian boxes with their perfectly square corners. The central tower climbed three stories, crowned by a filigreed stone balustrade filtering the sky. But mostly I got a sense of serenity, very still and very quiet. Soft green grass surrounded the house, reaching out to the place where the lovely gardens began. Soft and fine like the grass on a putting green or a carpet. "Look, bats." I pointed at winged specks flying from the roof. A steeple rose not far from the house. "Does the church belong with the estate?"

  "Yes, St. James's Church. The tower dates from the early sixteenth century and the bells from 1350. The Weston family rebuilt the rest of it in the late 1800s."

  So wonderful to have my own personal church so close, like having a bit of my mother at Literature Live with me. The problem: how to give Omar the slip and indulge a solitary church visit. I felt my neck for the cross but it wasn't there. Sheer panic seized me before I remembered I'd placed it in my jewelry pouch for safekeeping.

  Omar said, "Conservationists are toiling around the clock to get ready for opening day. Just don't expect them to fix anything." Omar's remarks came with a side of sarcasm.

  "Who is Magda anyway?" I asked.

  "More like what is she." He laughed. "We're sure she's not human. We think she drinks Janeite blood. We know she can smell fear. And Archie loves her."

  "Who's Archie?"

  "Her immediate supervisor."

  "Oh."

  "Here's some good advice: Avoid eye contact with Magda."

  "Is she from the Middle East?" I asked.

  "Lebanese." Omar held a gate open, admitting me onto the immediate grounds. "She was once a student of Archie's but she currently resides in Ann Arbor, where she intimidates freshman English students."

  "You know her from there?"

  "Yes, we're in the same department. Archie worships her."

  I waited.

  "When he's not at home with his wife and children in London," he added, offering his arm as we reached the steps.

  "Oh," I said.

  We climbed the oversized sloping stone steps, worn from age and moisture, to the formal double-door entrance.

  "And don't let her catch you smoking," he said. "Her friend died of lung cancer—a nonsmoker—last year, and she takes smoking as a personal affront. If you see Archie smoking, look the other way quick." Omar held the door for me. "After you."

  "I don't smoke."

  Inside, the wide planks creaked and sloped. A marble placed on the floor would roll into a corner. The door handles weren't where I expected them to be, and paint on the ceiling medallion peeled and flaked onto the floor. This wasn't a stately mansion where you pay $16.50 for a tour of immaculate rooms decorated in Smithsonian perfection. But I could feel My Jane Austen in this place. Omar became my tour guide, occasionally abandoning sarcasm to teach me something.

  "Please note the whimsical fault lines over the doorway to the ballroom. Repairs were last attempted in 1920." My eyes ascended the fourteen-foot ceilings, taking note of the cracking plaster, the first thing to greet patrons upon arrival. The walls needed paint. Omar showed me a bald spot in the hallway where, in the 1960s, an official of the Historical Society had gouged a sample of the plaster to test for composition.

  Omar gestured to dark, somber portraits in gilt frames, suspended by wire from a line of molding. "Ancestors, mostly," he said. On the opposite wall, floor-to-ceiling lace curtains dressed the windows like spinsters left over from the Depression. I sensed an attitude of flexibility in our production, a handmade flavor to the house.

  Omar noticed my glance at the floor. "The rugs have been taken out for a beating." We entered a small room off the front hall. "This is the Freezer," he said. "Your greenroom where you
will escape the scrutiny of patrons while you spend quality time with fellow actors cramming for the next scene. Or checking your e-mail."

  The Freezer reminded me of an oversized coat-check room furnished with mismatched contemporary sofas better suited for a fraternity house, a lime green area rug, and faux Danish modern end tables; it was the only room lacking a fireplace. A noble mahogany library table and sideboard waited here, slumming while a better placement was scouted.

  "That's Magda's desk," Omar said, pointing to a surface buried in papers and books. "And that's everyone else's." He indicated a table, bare except for a previous-generation computer and monitor. I could imagine actors lounging with scripts in this room, memorizing Jane Austen's prose. Or checking their e-mail.

  "How long has it been since anyone really lived here?" I asked, following Omar back to the entry and turning left at the archway.

  "Nineteen forty-five," he said. "And this is the ballroom."

  "Wow." I gazed into the cavernous hall. A couple in deep discussion sat at a folding table erected just inside the door.

  "Hello." Omar waved. The middle-aged man waved in our direction without looking up. Omar whispered to me, "The scenes are presented in here, some of the lectures, and all of the big meetings. The ballroom is one of the few rooms in the house wired for electricity." I imagined actors performing against the backdrop of the raised-panel wall, patrons seated in rows of folding chairs.

  "No electricity?" That explained the orange electric cords snaking along the floor, taped over thresholds; powering the rest of the house. Surely the cords would be less obvious by opening day.

  "That's Archie," he said, waving to the man with the gray comb-over ponytail and facial hair. "And Magda," a woman who looked young, twenty-nine or thirty, did not wave but kept talking to Archie, her hand on a stack of paper, obviously the same Magda who was giving the women in period attire so much grief over their ball. Magda wore a scarf covering her hair but the rest of her clothing was typical college garb: black jeans and T-shirt. She was strikingly beautiful, even partially hidden by the scarf. Her lack of visible hair called attention to her clear brown skin and perfect white teeth. At the moment she looked rather agitated, thumping the pages in front of her, speaking with a pronounced Arabic accent.