The Long and Short of It

by Jodi Taylor

  The actors were good. They were better than good. They were amazing. I don’t know why I was surprised. I can only assume that I’d thought, given the lack of scenery and the smallness of the stage, that the performance would be … well … unsophisticated, and it wasn’t. Far from it.

  The story progressed at a tremendous rate and the theatre crackled with energy. The actors were never still, continually moving around the stage. All of us, wherever we were, standing or seated, were made to feel included in the drama. To feel a part of what was going on. It was a very personal, intimate performance. They strode around the stage, cloaks swirling, taking the story to the furthest reaches of the theatre, their voices perfectly audible over the continual hum of those watching who, themselves, were never still.

  I don’t know about anyone else, but I was right there with them. I was there at Elsinore, on a dark winter’s night, standing on the battlements as the frightened guards discussed the mysterious appearance of the spectral apparition, building up to the moment of the Ghost’s entrance. Played by William Shakespeare himself.

  And then, suddenly, there he was, appearing mysteriously from the back of the stage, dark and unmoving. The audience gasped. Like everyone else, I craned to see his face, lost in the shadows of his deep hood. I hopped with frustration. I hoped Lingoss, taller than me, was getting better shots. If everything had gone according to plan, there would have been historians at strategic points all around the theatre, capturing every moment, every line, every gesture, but they, of course, were all off irresponsibly sailing away to the New World or recklessly starting a riot in the market. You just can’t get the staff these days.

  Unlike the rest of the glittering cast, the Ghost was enveloped in voluminous draperies of grey, under which was just the hint of a breastplate, to denote his armour. I don’t know what sort of material they’d used for his cloak, but even the slightest movement caused it to flutter away from his body, giving the appearance of wavering transparency. On this dull day, the effect was excellent. Mrs Enderby would be thrilled. Or would have been had she actually been here.

  I was right there again when Horatio brought Hamlet to see the Ghost for himself. I watched the two of them exit, pause, to signify a new scene, and then reappear almost immediately.

  The crowd shuddered with delicious horror at the Ghost’s words of murder and incest, and if Markham had got any closer he would have been up on the stage with them.

  The story thundered on. The Ghost admitted he was Hamlet’s father and charged him to avenge his murder. All around me, people were nodding in agreement. This was accepted ghostly behaviour. The themes of the play were recognisable in any age. Murder and revenge.

  I began to calm down a little. We were getting some great shots. Peterson and Sykes would sort out Professor Rapson. The combination of Dr Bairstow and Major Guthrie was unbeatable and, even should the unthinkable happen and they fail, there was always Mrs Mack. And actually, now I came to think of it, I wouldn’t cross Mrs Enderby, either. She has a nasty repertoire of hard stares. And then there was Miss North. The universe had been smoothing her family’s path to success for centuries. She was definitely not one to let anyone or anything stand between her and her goal. They’d be fine.

  We’d be fine.

  Everything would be fine.

  And right at that very moment, Shakespeare burst into flames.

  My first thought was that we were witnessing a case of spontaneous human combustion and how disappointed Professor Rapson would be to have missed it, and then common sense kicked in.

  I’d been so involved in the various St Mary’s crises – to say nothing of the play – that I hadn’t notice the wind was getting up, sending dark clouds moving atmospherically across the sky. With a dramatic gesture of departure that sent his draperies flying out around him, the Ghost had flung out his arm. The movement, together with a sudden gust of wind, picked up the gauzy material of his cloak and blew it across one of the braziers. The next minute, Shakespeare – oh my God, the Shakespeare – was alight.

  For a moment, everyone stood, frozen. Someone screamed. We stood on the brink of mass panic. The theatre was made entirely of wood. Fire exits hadn’t been invented yet. A mass stampede would probably kill more people than any fire.

  But not today. Before anyone else could move, Markham had vaulted up onto the stage and cannoned into Shakespeare, knocking him to the ground. I just had time to think – oh my God, that’s Shakespeare, for God’s sake be careful with him – when he began to roll him over, beating out the flames with his bare hands. The classic Stop, Drop and Roll. We’re good at that. Markham can do it in his sleep. I scrabbled in my basket, pulled out my cloak, and tossed it up to him. He used it to envelop the Ghost and an instant later, the flames were out.

  The crowd applauded wildly. I don’t know if they thought it was part of the play. Someone shouted something I didn’t catch, and the pair of them, Markham and Shakespeare, must have been lying on a trapdoor because, suddenly, they both disappeared from view.

  ‘And then there were two,’ intoned Lingoss.

  And with that unerring instinct for knowing exactly when his staff are cantering along the catastrophe curve towards disaster, Dr Bairstow spoke in my ear.

  ‘Good afternoon, Dr Maxwell.’

  ‘Oh, hello sir. How is your riot progressing?’

  ‘A most satisfactory resolution, thank you. We expect to be with you very soon. How is the play?’

  I stared at the spot where I’d last seen Markham and Shakespeare. ‘I’m sorry sir, I can’t hear you very well. There’s a lot of noise here. I’ll try again in a minute.’

  I closed the link on him. In itself a capital offence.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Lingoss beside me. ‘Did you just hang up on the Boss?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said, unconvincingly and inaccurately. ‘Carry on recording, please Miss Lingoss.’

  I wasn’t the only one promoting the whole ‘show must go on’ scenario. Hamlet himself, taking one or two deep breaths, turned to Marcellus and Horatio, themselves realistically pale and shocked – as well they might be since their foremost playwright and actor/shareholder had just gone up in flames – and the play continued.

  ‘I hope to God he’s all right,’ said Lingoss, anxiously, and I was pretty sure she wasn’t talking about Markham. ‘This is bloody Bill the Bard, you know.’ Just in case I’d forgotten.

  ‘We’ll know in a minute,’ I said. ‘The Ghost speaks again very soon.’

  And indeed, we were approaching that moment. Hamlet, having entreated his friends to silence, instructs them to swear an oath on his sword. They pause, uncertain and afraid, and, according to the play, the unearthly voice of the Ghost filters up, supposedly from the underworld, but in this case from below the stage, commanding them to swear.

  There was a long silence. No voice from anywhere, never mind the underworld.

  ‘Shit,’ said Lingoss, and then…

  ‘Swear,’ boomed an unearthly voice, resonant with the terrors of Hell.

  Lingoss stiffened. ‘I know that voice.’

  ‘Swear,’ intoned the voice sepulchrally, throbbing with all the despair and grief and sorrow and desolation of a lost soul. And with a bit of a Bristol accent.

  ‘We all know that voice,’ I said, through clenched teeth.

  ‘Swear by his sword,’ commanded the eldritch voice, rising in tone and pitch and finishing on a strangulated note that even a banshee with its balls trapped in a vice couldn’t have achieved. All around the stage people stepped back, and on the stage itself, Hamlet’s companions completed the scene with almost indecent haste.

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Lingoss to me, agitated, but still recording I was pleased to note. ‘What did he think he was doing?’

  The scene ended and the actors swept from the stage.

  Time to find out.

  I opened my com and taking advantage of the milling crowd said quietly, ‘Mr Markham. Report.’

 
‘It’s fine. Everything’s fine.’

  This is St Mary’s speak for ‘Everything’s gone tits up, but I’m trying to sort things out so leave me alone to get on with it.’

  ‘Do you require any assistance?’

  ‘No. No. Everything’s fine.’

  I stared at the stage as if I could see through the wood.

  Dr Bairstow’s voice sounded in my ear. ‘Dr Maxwell, we appear to have lost contact.’

  ‘Really, sir?’

  ‘Report, please.’

  In situations like this – the ones where I’m not quite sure what’s going on – it is important to report as fully and clearly as possible without actually saying anything at all.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said, borrowing from the master. ‘Everything’s fine.’

  There was a short, disbelieving silence and then he closed the link.

  ‘Just act normally,’ said Markham, in my ear again. ‘Everything’s fine.’

  ‘Stop saying that.’

  ‘Well it is.’

  Where are you?

  ‘I’m carrying Shakespeare out from under the stage.’

  ‘Oh my God, is he badly burned?’

  ‘No, not at all. His costume is, but he’s fine.’

  I was puzzled. ‘So why are you carrying him?’

  ‘He’s just a little bit limp at the moment.’

  ‘He’d better not be. The Ghost appears again later on.’

  ‘That won’t be a problem.’

  I stopped. Did that mean that Shakespeare would have recovered by then? Or that someone was available to carry on? I wish people would report more clearly.

  ‘Was that you just now?’

  Silence.

  I ground my teeth again. ‘Was it?’

  ‘I’m not sure what the correct answer is to that one, so I’m not saying anything. Anyway, I can’t talk now – I’m heaving a living legend around and I need to concentrate on what I’m doing.’

  I took a moment. This was Markham. Himself a living legend, but for completely the wrong reasons. On the other hand, he usually managed to emerge from whatever crisis he had embroiled himself in more or less unscathed. I should let him get on with it.

  ‘Do whatever you think necessary,’ I said, mentally crossing my fingers.

  ‘Okey dokey,’ he said cheerfully and, if Major Guthrie had heard him say that, he’d suffer for it big time later on.

  Guiltily, I remembered my other crisis. The one that didn’t involve the world’s most famous writer going up in flames.

  ‘Miss Sykes, report.’

  ‘Oh, hello Max.’

  As always, she sounded delighted to hear from me. I wasn’t fooled for an instant. Who did she think invented that voice?

  ‘Report.’

  ‘Well, there’s good and there’s bad. The original passenger has turned up and is accusing the professor of stealing his berth. He’s quite indignant about it. The captain and his first mate aren’t actually on the ship at the moment. Popular opinion has it they’re out rogering as many barmaids as they can find in preparation for the long voyage ahead, but the rest of the crew are accusing the professor of trying to stow away. Which I gather is quite a serious crime, although since he’s been marching around the deck talking to all the sailors, demanding to know how everything works, and showing them new knots he’s invented, there hasn’t been a lot of stowing going on. I can’t honestly see how they’ll make the charge stick. Can I just ask – what’s keelhauling?’

  Without thinking, I said, ‘A vicious form of maritime punishment mentioned as early as 800BC, involving dragging the offender under the keel of a boat. Survival is rare – death being due either to drowning, or having clothes, skin, arms, legs et cetera, ripped off by the barnacles growing on the ship’s bottom. Please use every effort to ensure that does not happen to the professor.’ I played out possible scenarios in my head. ‘Or Dr Dowson, either.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ she said, cheerfully, ‘but I’m just a girl. No one’s taking any notice of me.’

  ‘You underestimate your abilities, Miss Sykes.’

  ‘True. And the second mate appears to be extremely fond of the miracle fluid known as rum. I’m sure I can persuade him to let us all go. Everyone’s quaffing away, including the real passenger for the New World – and a right miserable bugger he looks. I can feel the War of Independence coming on just by looking at him.’

  She broke off and I heard an unearthly cry.

  ‘What the hell?’

  ‘Just a couple of passing seagulls who just popped in, had a quick quaff and are now unable to get airborne again. How are things with you?’

  ‘Absolutely fine,’ I said, through gritted teeth.

  ‘Oh dear. Never mind.’

  Long experience enabled me to identify the exact moment Dr Bairstow and his party assumed their seats in the gallery. The faint commotion caused by him staring at people long enough for them to move up and make room for him was lost in the general hubbub around me, but I knew he was there.

  I ground my teeth, ignored his penetrating stare and turned back to the stage.

  The play was resuming. Scenes came and went. I can only assume that players set fire to themselves all the time, because no one seemed in the slightest bit perturbed. Actors swirled around the stage. Hamlet went not so quietly mad. Glittering costumes mingled with glittering words. The smoke from braziers and a hundred pipes made my eyes sting. I shifted from foot to foot, half discomfort, half anxiety. What was happening? Why hadn’t Markham returned? Were they still under the stage? How badly was Shakespeare injured? Was Markham being held responsible? Right now, not ten feet away, Shakespeare could be breathing his last.

  I broke my self-imposed rule.

  ‘Markham. Talk to me. Are you being cut into tiny pieces?’

  ‘No, I’m having a beer.’

  Of course he bloody was. Any concern I might have felt took wings and flew away.

  ‘What about Shakespeare? He’s on again in Act Three.’

  ‘He’s not going to make it.’

  ‘He must.’

  ‘He can’t. He can’t even focus, let alone stand up.’

  ‘Is there an understudy?’

  A long silence. ‘No.’

  I gave him my version of an even longer silence.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You’re absolutely sure?’

  ‘Well, there’s a young lad here, but he plays Gertrude as well, and they’re on at the same time.’

  I sighed. Heavily. I was doing that a lot this afternoon. Some holiday this was turning out to be. ‘Have you still got my cloak?’

  ‘It’s here. Stop panicking.’

  ‘You’ve got my chocolate.’

  There was an oddly long pause. ‘Not any longer.’

  ‘Is it melted?’

  Another oddly long pause.

  ‘Yes.’

  I could feel Dr Bairstow’s potential wrath hanging over me like the Sword of Damocles. Should I recall Markham? There must surely be an understudy somewhere in this theatre.

  He took the matter out of my hands. ‘There’s nothing you can do, Max. Just relax and enjoy the show.’

  I might as well. Everyone else was. All around me, people were buying pies, arguing with their friends, rolling the dice, or booking a prostitute. I felt quite angry on the actors’ behalf. Didn’t people know what was happening here? How important this moment was? And here they all were, carrying on as if the whole thing was simply some sort of massive social event, designed for nothing more than to see and be seen.

  Until that moment. That magical moment.

  Hamlet, wrapped in a cloak and his own thoughts, strode to the edge of the stage, and paused, staring at his own feet. Standing motionless, he stared. And stared. Gradually, the noise of the crowd died away as everyone turned to watch. The background noises were hushed. Prossies went unrented. I swear, even outside, the clatter of cartwheels on cobbles, the shouts, the
everyday noises all fell away. For all I know, even mighty Father Thames paused in anticipation. Complete silence fell, and still Hamlet stared at his feet, unmoving. The silence stretched to an impossible length. People began to look at each other in puzzlement.

  ‘Oh my God,’ whispered Lingoss. ‘He’s forgotten his lines.’

  No, he hadn’t.

  Slowly, he lifted his head and swept his gaze over the upturned faces around him. No one moved. No one spoke. The whole world waited.

  ‘To be, or not to be,

  That is the question.’

  A kind of sigh rippled around the Yard – and the galleries, too. I felt my heart thump in my chest. I had an overwhelming desire to burst into tears.

  He completed the soliloquy, every word taking flight and soaring to the heavens above. Like golden birds. When he finished, there was a moment of respectful silence and then the sound of tumultuous, rapturous applause. Even the people in the galleries stamped their feet. I clapped until my hands hurt, tears running down my cheeks.

  Burbage stood, head lowered for a moment, and then he placed his hand on his heart, bowed deeply just once, swept his cloak around him in a grand gesture and the play continued.

  There have been some wonderful moments in my life and that was well up with the best of them. I wiped my face on my sleeve, realised I’d completely forgotten my aching legs and feet, slapped another memory stick into my recorder and carried on.

  Until two scenes later and the return of the Ghost who, this time, appeared in his nightgown. I wondered if the part had called for this or whether they were improvising after his original costume had gone up in flames. Whatever the reason, it’s become traditional. If you’ve ever wondered why, in Act III Scene IV, after appearing heavily cloaked and in his armour, the Ghost turns up in his nightgown, it’s because he set fire to himself in a previous scene. Beside me, Lingoss stiffened and said in a strangled whisper, ‘Max…’

  Because without his all-concealing cloak this was, at last, our opportunity to see Shakespeare himself, to compare the real man to the very few portraits of him. To be able to say, once and for all – this is the face of William Shakespeare. My palms were sticky. I checked my recorder for the umpteenth time. This was it.