by James Eddy
Chapter 3 – Three Nights Earlier...
1.
He stared out at the first four rows of the audience who were looking back at him and the others on the stage. The faces he saw were pleasant and the people all seemed to be having a good time. Beyond those rows though, he couldn’t see much except the curve of the back wall of the theatre, and a blur of other faces in the circle above.
Oliver walked out onto the stage with two other men. They were dressed in tights, ruffs, shirts, and waistcoats and he wasn’t just Oliver anymore. He was also Mercutio and the other men were Romeo and Benvolio.
“What shall this speech be spoke for our excuse? Or shall we without apology,” said Romeo.
“The date is out of such prolixity. We'll have no cupid hoodwinked with a scarf, bearing a tartars painted bow of lath, scaring the ladies like a crowkeeper; nor no without book prologue, faintly spoke. After the prompter for our entrance; but let them measure us by what they will, we'll measure them a measure and be gone,” Benvolio replied.
“Give me a torch,” Romeo added, “I am not for this ambling; being but heavy, I will bear the light.”
Oliver's heart pounded. He couldn’t find the words he was meant to say. Desperately searching through his mind didn’t help. He could feel the eyes of the audience gazing upon him and he panicked; frozen with fear until the words came unprompted from above his head.
“Nay gentle Romeo, we must have you dance,” the girl said.
Oliver looked up and saw her, floating freely in the air. Straight away, he knew only he could see her. She smiled down at him and his heart was calmed as he looked back at Romeo and Benvolio and repeated her words.
“Nay gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.”
“Not I, believe me,” said Romeo, “You have dancing shoes. With Nimble soles: I have a soul of lead. So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.”
Again, Oliver couldn’t find the words and it was left to the girl to remind him.
“You are a lover; borrow cupids wings,” she whispered in his ear.
“You are a lover; borrow cupids wings,” he said.
“And soar with them above a common bound,” the girl continued, before the same words were immediately repeated to Oliver’s companions.
“I am too sore empierced with his shaft to soar with his light feathers,” countered Romeo, “And so bound... I cannot bound above dull woe... Under loves heavy burden do I sink.”
And suddenly Oliver knew exactly what to say:
“And to sink in it should you burden love... Too great oppression for a tender thing.”
“Is love a tender thing?” Romeo asked, “It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous and it pricks like thorn.”
“If love be rough with you be rough with love,” Oliver told him, “Prick love for pricking and you beat love down.”
He took a mask in his hands and went on.
“Give me a case to put my visage in,” he said, covering his face with the mask, “A visor for a visor! What care I what curious eye doth quote deformities? Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me.”
“Come knock and enter,” said Benvolio, “ And no sooner in but ever man betake him to his legs.”
Darkness enveloped all the stage except Oliver and the girl floating over him. It didn’t lift, even as Romeo said, “A torch for me, let wantons light of heart, tickle the senseless rushes with their heels; for I am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase; I'll be a candle holder and look on; the game was ne'er so fair. And I am done.”
“Tut, dun's the mouse, the constable's own words,” Oliver said, “If thou art dun we'll draw thee from the mire of this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stickest up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, Ho!”
“Nay that's not so,” said Romeo.
Oliver looked, through the eyeholes of his mask, to the girl still hovering above him. Her eyes met his and when he spoke again, their eyes didn’t wander.
“I mean sir in delay,” they said together, the words flowing sweetly from their mouths like a fine wine, “We waste our nights in vain – like lights by day... Take our good meaning, for our judgement sits five times in that ere once in our five wits.”
“And we mean well in going to this mask; but tis no wit to go,” said Romeo.
“Why may one ask?”
“I dreamt a dream tonight,” he told them.
“And so did I.”
“Well what was yours?”
Oliver and the girl only spoke to each other. Words reflecting the only dream either of them had ever really wanted:
“That dreamers often lie. In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.”
She held her hand out to Oliver and the touch of their fingers sent a crackle of static electricity along his arm. The audience, the stage, and Romeo and Benvolio, all faded totally into darkness. All that was left was her, floating in space with him. Oliver closed his eyes.
2.
When he opened them again, the girl was still holding his hand. The whole world was below them. Land, lakes, seas, forests, mountains, and valleys went by, lit up by sunlight and a cloudless china blue sky.
They approached a large wood and gently dropped towards a clearing near its centre. Bluebells carpeted the entire area in a sea of vivid blue and gave them the softest, sweetest landing possible. They stood in the wildflowers for a moment before Oliver looked at her.
“Of course knickers doesn't begin with an 'N' and Norwich doesn't begin with a 'K',” he told her with a grin.
She laughed. A full throated but pretty laugh.
“Well, what were you expecting?” she asked.
She didn’t wait for an answer. She was already pulling him down onto the bed of bluebells. He didn’t resist her and they lay on their backs next to each other; their fingers entangled as they stared up at the sky.
“It's just something I remember from when I was little... It was on ‘The Two Ronnies’ and I didn't understand it or anything but I thought it was funny because it had the word knickers in it.”
“Well yeah, that is hilarious!”
“Shut up... I was little,” she told him, with a smile.
Oliver turned towards her, moving onto his side for a clearer view of her face. An eyeful of bluebells shrouded her in a beautiful blue haze.
“And I bet you were oh so innocent back then?”
“Still am!” she informed him.
“I'm sure you are.”
She fluttered her eyelashes very deliberately.
“You'd better believe it, baby!”
Then she turned her head fully to look back at him through the flowers.
“Nothing silly like that when you were little then?” she asked.
“Nah, not really,” he told her.
She sat up and looked down at him.
“I thought so... That's why you're prematurely aged!”
She stared at his face and Oliver thought she could see all the way through him.
“I think you could do with rediscovering your innocence young man!”
Something about the way she called him 'young man' made him happy. There was an intimacy to it he’d never known before and he liked it.
“Didn't you ever play around in the snow on a winter day? Or just lay back and catch snowflakes on your tongue. Or something like that?” she asked.
“Nope, can't say I ever did any of that.”
The change came immediately. Snow began falling on Oliver and the girl. At first it was just a few light powdery flakes, falling gently to earth but it soon became a full blown snow shower. Then they were on their feet, which were soon being buried beneath the growing blank page of snow.
The girl didn’t stand for long. She leaned back against the bare air and flakes, and fell all the way onto the whitened ground; a crystal crunch that was accompanied by a lovely giggle of pleasure. Oliver watched her flap her arms to make a snow angel on the ground and with only a slight tug of her hand, he joined he
r on the soft cushion of snow.
They both sat up, facing each other and then she threw her head back to look up at the sky with her mouth wide open.
“You just have to catch the snowflakes on your tongue and let them melt,” she garbled in a way that Oliver could barely understand.
That didn’t stop him copying her. He arched his head up, opened his mouth wide, stuck out his tongue, and waited. Flakes glanced off his teeth and onto his tongue and he felt the ice prick upon his senses. It made him shiver and he tasted the tiniest hint of salt that lingered and worked its way back towards his throat; he swallowed it and for the first time he felt the cold on his body; spreading down from his mouth and tickling his insides and skin at the same time. He closed his eyes and, as more of the snow covered the lids, he started to laugh at the numbing sensation that tingled on his skin.
“I can't believe you never did this,” the girl said to him.
“I can hardly believe we're doing it now.”
It was only after saying this that he shook his head and threw off snow from his hair. He opened his eyes and found that she was grinning at him.
“You're a natural,” she told him.
The snow stopped as quickly as it had begun. It thawed even quicker. Oliver continued to lie on his back and the girl sat upright, while the bluebells emerged from their icy shroud.
“This is probably a really stupid thing to ask,” the girl began to say, before stopping herself.
“What?” he asked.
“No, it's nothing... Honestly, it's just stupid.”
“Go on,” he urged her.
She took a deep breath but didn’t resist.
“Okay... It just kind of popped into my head to ask if you'd ever read any Byron.”
“I dunno, I might’ve done.”
“You’d probably remember if you had,” she told him.
“Well there are bits I think. 'She walks in beauty like the night,' and all that stuff. But, it's not like I knew his nickname as a kid or anything like that.”
“Yeah, it's cool,” she said.
Oliver felt calm and content for almost the first time in his life. He wanted more of it and, more importantly, he wanted to understand more about her.
“What is it about Byron that's so interesting to you then?”
“I don't really know,” she said after a little pause, “You just made me think of him.”
“I made you think of a dead English poet?”
“Yeah, I know. It sounds strange to me too,” she told him, “It's hard to explain. There’s a lot to love in his poems but that's not really the reason... I don't know... It might just be that he wrote so beautifully about loss and desire because he knew those things so well. He knew they went together. And it still didn’t stop him taking risks and living his life without limits, without guarantees. He made himself into an outcast and even that didn't stop him trying to make reality out of his fantasies...”
The calm and contentment was gone. Oliver's heart was beating faster, too aware of where the conversation was going. He still tried to deny his own instincts.
“So what?” he asked.
She looked slightly embarrassed at having to make her feelings and thoughts so obvious.
“Uh well, young man,” she said, “I was thinking that I'd quite like to know what happened to you. Because you seem like someone who lost something and got left with regrets and sadness in its place.”
“So it would appear,” he said.
“You can tell me, you know,” she said to him.
But he looked away, unready to give her what she wanted and quietly hating himself for it.
“I only ask because I care,” the girl added sadly.
“And I only keep my mouth shut for the same reason.”
She managed to force a smile that relaxed him a little.
“To be honest, a girl only needs to know the important things.”
“Like what?”
“Well… For a start it’d be good to know if you're ever going to step out from under the big black cloud that’s following you around.”
His head dropped automatically and Oliver was more aware than ever of his own weakness and how much more he still had to do.
“I'll do my best,” he said, without looking up, “But I think I might need some help.”
“Hey come on!” she said, trying to lighten the mood, “Is it time for the waterworks or are you just in need of another prompt young man?”
It was only when he heard these words that he allowed himself to look at her sweet face again. She leaned down towards him and whispered into his ear, so her words could not be mistaken or misheard:
“I think I love you, even if I've barely scratched the surface.”
“And I think I love you,” Oliver whispered back, “And I think that might be for the best.”
Then Oliver closed his eyes again and everything went dark.
3.
When he woke up, the strangeness of the room was both a disappointment and a relief. The bright light streaming through the curtains lifted his spirits and he realised that it was a day where he could do exactly what he wanted. He quickly decided against staying in his room. After travelling so far, it only seemed right to spend some time exploring Norwich.
He dressed slowly and casually before leaving the room and going straight out into the bright shining day. He stood for a moment while cars passed, reflecting sunlight from their metal and glass, and then he took a left turn in the direction of the city centre.
He barely walked a dozen steps before realising that he ought to make a phone call. It had finally clicked into place in his mind that his boss would notice he still wasn’t back at work. That meant that a phone call would probably be made to his mum to check he was okay. Oliver didn’t want to worry her, so it seemed like a good idea to call and let her know he was fine. He took some change from his pocket and looked for the nearest phone box.
4.
“Hi mum... It's Oliver,” he told her, “Yeah, yeah, no. I'm just calling because I'm not at home at the minute... No, no. I've taken a little trip... Norwich, I just... No, they don't know I'm here... No mum I haven't been sacked, it's just... It's something I had to do... Don't worry, that's why I called... In case you called me at home or something and worried, okay... Yeah, it's a hotel in Norwich, it's nice... I... The Hotel Nelson... Yes, all right... Look mum, I'm really sorry but I've got to go, I'm running low on change... Yes I know. I don't like mobile phones... I've got to go... It costs more for me to phone out... I'm... I'm sorry I really must go... There's lots I have to do today... Okay, bye, yeah all right, bye.”
Oliver hung up the phone and took a very deep breath, fairly certain that what he’d just done was a mistake.
5.
Oliver stepped away from the clear glass phone box. The sun was still shining and that seemed to help him. The warmth and light were comforting and made him feel that he really was free to do and go wherever he wanted.
It quickly became obvious that this city was completely different to London. Norwich was much gentler. There was a sense of life and danger but not on every corner. London had always worried Oliver and, in many ways, it was simply wrong for him.
Even the traffic in Norwich seemed less aggressive, with less clatter and more calm. There was a more rural and old fashioned quality in the way the city was laid out, and in names like Rampant Horse Street and Castle Meadow. He immediately liked it a great deal.
Wandering the streets, Oliver found it impossible to miss the way that the skyline was dominated by a single building. The Cathedral stood imperiously over the city; the sandstone spire like an extension of yellow earth, stretching up to puncture the perfect sky. It was a building that amazed Oliver not because it was exceptionally tall but more because of the way it stood alone and still remained a living part of the city that had brought it into being.
6.
By accident, he found some quiet and a place
to sit and rest his feet. The grass and trees, bushes and hedges of Chapelfield Gardens stretched out, clean and inviting in the sun. The sounds of the city deadened as pathways wound round the park, flanked by benches and with a wooden pavilion at the centre, painted white by the sun.
Oliver lay down on one of the benches and closed his eyes. He didn’t sleep though. His mind was much too busy. Strange thoughts and ideas bubbled up from somewhere inside and he suddenly started wondering if time was really moving forward. He thought the passage of time could just as easily be existing as a circle. In that way, everything that had already happened would and could happen again.
The idea made him happy and terrified at the same time and he tried to block it out. He opened his eyes, stood up and walked out of the gardens with the idea still circulating inside his head. The fear and joy of it, only reminding him of the eyes of the woman he knew so well and also not at all.
7.
Over new stone pavements Oliver went looking for a second hand bookshop. He travelled the back streets and small alleyways until he saw a sign over the door of a small, stone building that read, 'Partridge Books'. The hinges on the old wooden door creaked as he went into the shop. It was little more than a small room with walls filled with books that went almost all the way up to the ceiling. He walked over the threadbare remains of a Persian rug and began to browse the books stacked chaotically on the shelves.
The room was largely silent and the grey haired owner said nothing; choosing instead to remain behind his desk with a newspaper covering his face. The muskiness of the room made Oliver feel like he’d stepped into the past, and the whitewashed walls and dark wooden beams across the ceiling only added to the sensation.
His eyes searched for 'Byron' on the spines of the variously coloured books. There was no rush and his eyes moved along and down four levels of shelves until he eventually found a thick volume of ‘Byron's Complete Works’, encased in a tattered black leather cover. He took it from the shelf and opened it up. None of the pages of thin paper were loose and, other than the cover, it looked in pretty good condition.
Oliver found a price sticker on the black leather and thought five pounds seemed fair. There was no hesitation in taking the book and placing it gently onto the smooth, wood grained counter to pay.
That sound, although soft, was enough to alert the owner into lowering and folding up his newspaper. The man that was revealed was in his mid-sixties and had a huge grey moustache, with monstrous flecks of silver in the bristles. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Oliver heard Johnny's voice singing 'I am the Walrus.'
He coughed to suppress his smile. He paid, thanked the man, and left the shop. Once outside, he realised he didn’t really have anywhere else to go. All he did then was follow his feet to see where they would take him and, when cobblestone pathways eventually gave way to gravel tracks, he found himself beside the river.
The sun was lower in the sky and its blinding rays were reflected in the relative stillness of the water while, on the riverbank, trees offered Oliver some shade. There was a chill in the air and he carried on walking, shielding his eyes to look up at the cathedral. This was the closest he’d been to it and another turn took him even closer. That was enough to make him realise that he wanted to have a closer look at the building with his waking eyes.
The rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath his feet only lasted a couple more minutes before he was on a path of smooth stone that cut through a lawn he remembered. He went to the spot where he’d sat during his dream and was relieved to find that both statues were the way they’d been before; the two English heroes who’d helped shape his adventure were still frozen forever in the shadow of the cathedral.
Of course, part of him had hoped she might be there waiting for him. She wasn’t and Oliver knew that was fine. There was still a lot more to come and more that he had to do, which he found exciting and worrying at the same time. He pushed both feelings away and simply made a return to the relative safety of the hotel, as the dark of the night closed in and encased the city.
8.
Oliver saw the receptionist again when he arrived. He didn’t stop to talk. All he wanted was to get back to his room. He smiled and strolled past.
“Excuse me, Mr Bell!” he heard her say.
He stopped and faced her, noticing the badge on her lapel that told him her name was Rose.
“There have been several calls for you this afternoon,” she told him.
“Really?” he asked, “Are you sure? I mean, were they definitely calls for me?”
“Definitely. Your brother has called... Several times.”
His heart sank at hearing this. He could already tell that the poor girl’s dealings with Stephen hadn’t been a lot of fun.
“Oh right... Well, thank you for letting me know,” he said, trying to walk away again. He didn’t get very far.
“Mr Bell,” she called after him.
He turned back towards her again.
“I'm sorry but he did leave you a message... He was really quite insistent that I told you to call him back.”
“Oh... Thank you,” said Oliver.
“You're very welcome Mr Bell,”
He only walked on a few steps before going back to the desk.
“Um, I'm sorry to disturb you,” he said nervously, “I really hope I didn't seem rude just then. I mean it's just I didn't expect to have any calls or anything and well...”
His voice trailed off, unable to find any more words and that was when he saw a change in the look on her face. It wasn’t unpleasant and it was still kind. It was just that it was elusive to him; a look and an expression that he didn’t understand.
“It's fine sir...” she said softly as she leaned across the desk, “If your brother calls again I can tell him you still aren't back if you want.”
It was a tempting offer but he dismissed it straight away:
“No, no he probably wouldn't believe you anyway. If he calls, direct it straight up to me.”
“Of course, Mr Bell.”
He thanked her and walked away. This time he didn’t stop until he reached his room and sat in silence on the bed. There was no point calling Stephen. Instead, he waited for what he knew was inevitable.
It wasn’t a long wait. The telephone rang out its obnoxious sound and took away whatever calm was left in the room. Despite this, Oliver immediately picked up the receiver from the phone on the bedside table.
“Hello? Stephen... Oh no, I've literally just got back. How are you?”
His mistake was waiting for a reply that was never going to come. All that it did was force him fully onto the defensive.
“I just let mum know so...”
He wasn’t allowed to finish.
“No, I haven't yet... Well I probably should but... Okay... Well I had some things to do here. I...”
He wasn’t allowed to finish.
“I don't know. Things... I'm not sure yet... Because I'm... Soon… No,” he said to his brother, annoyance veiled far better than his misery, “I don't do things just to embarrass you... No, there's no need for you to do that. I'll sort it out... All right then... Love to the...”
Oliver wasn’t allowed to finish and all he could do was put the phone receiver back down.
He was worn out; unable to do anything other than curl himself up into a ball and yield to the day. His hope was that there might be better times ahead. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Oliver really should have known better.