The Illumination of Ursula Flight

by Anna-Marie Crowhurst

  That I had seemingly begun to take ill of a sickness that laid me down very low at this important time, caused me much irritation and I prayed to Jesu in heaven that I would not get more seriously ill, and chanted a little to this effect. When I pondered upon it, it seemed that the malady had come upon me directly after I had finished the last line of my work (oh, such a joy it had been to scrawl CURTAIN with a flourish!). I wondered if perhaps I had over-exerted myself in the last few weeks, for I had worked late every night and sometimes risen before dawn to put pen to paper. I tried very hard to calm myself, thinking that perhaps the rheum was partly in my mind. It was true that I had many flurried feelings at the great liberty I was taking – for while I was writing it had crept into my mind that Parrykin might be very angry when he discovered my trick, and put me out, though even as I had fretted, the compulsion I had to try my hand at a playwright’s life grew stronger, and I found I could do nothing but continue with the thing.

  Arriving at the theatre for rehearsal a few days later, I immediately had to run backstage and vomit up a good quantity of bile into a bowl, while Bunty pushed at my back and muttered soothing words, wondering if I had eaten something disagreeable, or caught it from the audience, for in the hot months the playhouse was alive with contagions.

  Parrykin seemed that day to be in a very mild temper, for he strolled onto the stage with a careless tilt of his head and came to stand with us performers, with his hand on his hip in a jaunty sort of way.

  ‘Looks like Mrs Parrykin has finally allowed him his bi-annual billy-cocking,’ whispered Manners, near my ear, which made me laugh, and Parrykin glare, so I straightened my face.

  ‘Now then,’ said Parrykin. ‘I have a new play for us, by a promising young playwright, whose name is...’ Here he consulted the papers in his hand. ‘Geo. J. Flamsteed.’

  ‘Well, that sounds made up or I’m a nun,’ said Manners.

  I found myself beginning to blush.

  ‘It’s a light sort of comedy – perhaps not as romantical as it could be – it seems to cast the hero in a rather foolish light... but, it is lucky in having parts that seem quite suitable for all of us and so we shall try it, though I will keep my pencil out, for it will need a few amendments here and there.’

  The rehearsal began.

  We had been working on The Sweetheart Charade for almost a week, and it being now certain that it would be put on, I decided that it was time to speak to Parrykin and accept whatever fate had in store for me, for I could no longer contain my glee that he liked my play. I had been dosing myself with China tea and catmint and chamomile against the sickness, and it seemed to heal me, and I was feeling much better; roses now bloomed in my cheeks where there were none before and when I looked in the glass I saw that at last I was becoming plump and almost pretty, and I put this down to the happiness I had from knowing I had writ a play at last.

  PARRYKIN AND I, A CONVERSATION

  The Prop Room, April 1683

  ME: Parry, I must have a word...

  PARRYKIN: Oh no. By the look on your face methinks you are going-a-keeping. Who is it? I’ll warrant it’s Mr Laughton. For he will lurk in the ’Tiring Room tweaking the arse of any wench that passes.

  ME: Nay, you have it all wrong. I am here about the play.

  PARRYKIN: Look, if you want a bigger part you’ll have to earn it, lovey. Maybe next time. For as I told Thruckle—

  ME: Nay, Parry. ’Tis about the author of the play, Mr Flamsteed.

  PARRYKIN: What has he done? If he has made improper advances I can speak to him, though ’tis a shame, for Gad, his work is really not bad. Not bad at all.

  ME: Please do not be angry, Parry, but – [Taking in a great breath] – it was I who wrote it, in truth. I am Mr Geo. J. Flamsteed.

  PARRYKIN: [Guffawing] Good one!

  ME: The play came by the hand of a boy in a bright blue jacket. It had a wax seal atop it in the shape of a star. And it was tied with a sea-green ribbon. I know this, for ’twas me who sent it to you.

  PARRYKIN: Nay, it cannot... why ’tis a play, and... I knew you were pert but I did not...

  ME: Indeed it was I, Parry. For I do so love to write, and thought to be like Mrs Behn, and everyone a-roar at what I have to say. And hearing in a tavern that you sought some fresh material, I set myself to write something that you would like.

  PARRYKIN: [Patting himself with his kerchief] Why, I find I am astounded. Why... [He stares at her for a long while with his mouth hanging open]

  ME: Parry, are you quite well?

  PARRYKIN: ’Tis the shock of it, forgive me... A lady playwright? A lady playwright! How strange even those two words sound together! [Pause] Ah, but who helped you in it? Was it Manners? For he dearly loves to tease me.

  ME: ’Twas all mine, every word.

  PARRYKIN: Ho. I see. [A long pause] Well, I find... I find I am quite cross now I think upon it, Mrs Bearwood. For you have made me look a fool to my company. I ought to have spotted the work of an amateur – and a woman – and now we have wasted a week rehearsing it. You have been audacious, madame.

  ME: I know it and I dearly beg your pardon, sir. P’raps it was foolish. But I truly could not help myself. Forgive me. And pray let us keep the play on. I will not breathe a word of what has passed between us now, and we shall continue as we are. Why, I dearly like the changes you have made to Act Two, for the whole thing is so much improved, and I am ever anxious to see what you will do with it next.

  PARRYKIN: I do not know... It is not orthodox... I will think on it, Mrs Bearwood, that is all I can say. But know that I am greatly displeased!

  Ending: me in a great pet that I will be put out, Mr Parrykin in a black mood the rest of the afternoon.

  I could not stop singing. I trilled every saucy street ballad I had ever heard as I sat before the great looking glass we had in the undressing room, painting my face ready for the day’s performance.

  ‘Tra la la,’ I sang. ‘Tra laaaaaa!’

  ‘Egad, will you stop up your mouth!’ called Careby from the wardrobe. ‘For you cannot carry a tune and your squawking is enough to carry me to Bedlam.’

  I opened my mouth and closed it again.

  ‘Oooh,’ said Thruckle, beside me at the glass. ‘Look at her phyzzog. Methinks our friend Ursula had an intrigue last night.’

  Manners had strolled in, with an apple in his hand.

  ‘What are we talking about?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing,’ said I, and closed my mouth, pretending to concentrate on my rouging. In truth I was bursting with excitement and nervous energy, for it was the first night of the very first play I had written under the name of Geo. Flamsteed, and I in a great pet to see how it would go. There seemed that day to be a magical sort of thrum to the air, for it was one thing waiting to go on to speak someone else’s words, and quite another to say the words you had written in the very scene you had conjured from your own imagination! I found that I felt light and giddy, such as I had not since Samuel’s leaving.

  ‘Mayhap it is first-night nerves,’ said Manners, crunching his apple. ‘For we are under-rehearsed and I do not know how it will go.’

  ‘I hope Mr Flamsteed will make an appearance,’ said Thruckle, in the midst of tying a ribbon around her throat, ‘for I fancy he is a very witty fellow, though Parrykin acted strangely when I asked him and said he did not know if he would come.’

  ‘Mayhap he is bashful,’ said I, ‘and cannot bear to come into society and have people point and whisper.’

  ‘Then why write a play?’ cried Careby. ‘Most playwrights are vain and peacocking fellows, ever wanting to be praised, for most of ’em are both self-doubtful and swollen-headed all at once.’

  ‘Hear hear!’ said Manners.

  A few hours later I was very much chagrined, and did not join in the first-night toasting in the ’Tiring Room, but instead disconsolately pulled off my costume and went quickly away to my lodgings. I had not at first been worried when I saw from the wings that the pit
was only half full up and there were many empty seats besides, for ’twas often so with an unknown author, but as the play went on, my doubts in it had begun to grow. I had noticed parts that did not work as well as I thought they had on paper, and some of the lines sounded stilted and false in the actors’ mouths. The audience’s laughter was not as loud as it might have been, despite Manners’s mugging, and the spatter of applause at the end sounded half-hearted, and no one cried for the author, and we did only one curtain call, for the audience had lost interest, and got up after the first.

  How I fretted away that evening in my rooms, for I could not concentrate on writing, nor reading neither, and ran over the play again and again in my mind instead, wondering all the while what could be done to improve it, and whether I was fit to be a playwright after all.

  To my surprise Parrykin was not much cross with me when I saw him the next morning at rehearsal, but only nodded at me, and aloud said that we would make some changes to the script we had, and see if we could improve things, but his ameliorations were not enough to save the thing, and the takings dwindled every day for two weeks, before we learnt that the play was to be taken off.

  As for me, I was well chastened by the experience, for though I longed to re-live the thrill that I had had while writing the thing, and my excitement at its performance, I had learnt that the craft of playwriting was a much harder thing than I had thought, and resolved to practise at it in private so that one day I might write a true success.

  I had grown much vainer about my looks since I had become an actress, and was pleased to note that I was getting evermore peachy looking as the spring went on. I realized that the other actresses had noticed my recent blooming into beauty, for they once again grew callous in their behaviour towards me, and when I was taking my cloak off before rehearsal in the mornings, Careby had taken to whispering things to Thruckle behind her hand with a malicious light in her eye.

  ‘What say you?’ I would call, to which she would reply, with very wide-opened eyes:

  ‘Oh nothing, Mrs Bearwood. I was just commenting on the coming of the April showers and how today’s downpour had wetted Bunty’s wig.’

  Bunty had become something of a friend to me, for it was she who had told me all the things that I did not know the whole time I was learning my craft, as well as making sure that I was fed, by sending out for my dinner when she got hers, and combing my hair out like a mother does a child.

  It was she who, tugging on the lacings of my bodice (I was to play Clorinda) and puffing out her breath, said:

  ‘It’s no use, duckling. They won’t go no tighter and that’s a fact. Not if I put my foot to your back and yanked it with all my might.’

  ‘Oh, do not tire yourself, Bunty, for I am sure I have got a little stouter since I first arrived. Lor’, I was all eaten up with heartbreak then and could not bear the taste of bread!’ I turned myself before the mirror and admired the body that was no longer all bone. ‘The actor’s life agrees with me, Bunty! And all those fine tavern dinners! I ate two pork pies and a lemon curd yesterday.’ I reached around me and tickled her.

  ‘Is that really it, my darling duck?’

  ‘Pass me that comb would you, Bunty? Aye, I think that’s it.’ I set about teasing the tendrils on my forehead. ‘For I swear I have never been so gay in all my life, not since my father was alive and me merry with my playmate.’

  ‘Jesu bless him,’ said Bunty, crossing herself. ‘Have ye not stopped your courses, then, Ursey?’

  ‘My courses? Nay, I had it... now let me see... the way Parrykin works us I have quite forgotten when it was...’

  Bunty was burrowing in the wig chest.

  ‘Well I cannot recall but...’ I laughed, but even as I did my mind was whirring.

  Bunty came out of the chest, a curled chestnut periwig in her hand.

  ‘So you’re not with child, then?’ she said simply. ‘You was greatly sick and spitting up the flux... and now ye are too broad for your gown. When did ye last lay with a man?’

  Thoughts of Samuel rushed into my mind. I had done my jumping up and down when at first we were together, but there were times when he had said he would protect me. But in the heat of love, had he? I could not now remember. Fear began to rise in me. I opened my mouth and shut it, then opened it again.

  ‘My, er, husband...’ I stuttered, ‘afore he – died was the last... time.’

  ‘Well, perhaps the Lor’ Jesu was lookin’ down on ye that night and has given you a piece of his soul to remember him by. That is – if ye want to keep it.’ She looked at me with narrowed eyes.

  ‘I – God’s gizzards. I feel quite strange, all of a sudden.’

  ‘Of course, ye cannot stay at the playhouse with a belly full o’ babe. Ye shall have to go away, until it has come, and then of course there’s no guarantee ye can have your place on return – though I doubt you will be usurped by Mrs Sop; last I heard she was living at White Friars, and whoring herself for a penny, for the demon drink had taken her over and her gentleman cast her aside like a mouldy fruit.’

  ‘I cannot. Nay, I cannot have a babby. ’Tis not possible...’

  ‘Easily remedied,’ said Bunty, with a shrug. ‘Ye must go and see an apothecary I know, by name of Dandywine, and he shall give you a potion that will bring down your course and cure you withal. He does for all my girls, and none of ’em have died from it yet.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, and turned it over in my mind. ‘You are good to me, Bunty,’ I said at last, kissing her on the forehead. ‘I shall go to him directly tomorrow.’

  After the performance I stumbled into the street, my mind a tumble of strange thoughts, for it was a thing so momentous that here I was with child! I found myself peering at women as I went down the road, and wondering if they too might be in the childing way, and looking at wenches with children, or carrying babbies in shawls, in a way I never had afore; I could scarcely see myself as one of them.

  Once at my lodgings, I verily ran up the stairs to unlace my gown and stand before the mirror, quaking all over to see what pregnancy looked like. Now that I viewed myself properly (for I was always in such a rush to get to the playhouse and had not done so for a while), I saw that my belly had become a soft round thing where it once was flat, and my bubbies, before not much to speak of, had a full, womanly look about them, the veins in them glowing pale mauve, the nipples large and dark and pink (which I confess I quite enjoyed, for ’til now I had never been plumptious of bosom). I turned around, regarding myself from all angles. There was a bright, fresh look about me that I had not had since I left my family for Turvey Hall and I looked soft and girlish, as I never had before. I patted my cheeks, and squinted at my bosom. Was getting a babby all it took to be beautiful?

  But even as I enjoyed my appearance, there was a low feeling in my middle. I had spent all these years trying to not get with child, and with my life as an actress keeping me busy and merry besides, I now found that it was hard to set my mind towards the prospect of childing. I lay back on the bed (for I realized my legs had come over quite weak) and let my mind run over the ways I could manage it. I tried to entertain the idea of bringing up a child alone, and think upon a wet-nurse, and the costings thereupon. I found, though I searched my heart, that I did not feel how I knew a mother must – for whether it was the shock of my new condition, or my husband-lack, I could not find a part of me that yearned to hold a babby in my arms, or dandle it on my knee. Who would believe that it was my husband’s child? And how would I clothe and feed it? All my shillings earnt at the playhouse went on paying off my debts, and keeping me fed, and I had nothing left over, even for ribbons – I had taken to borrowing from the wardrobe when I had need of something lavish. Now I was shifting for myself I had to think clearly. I shed a few tears at the hardness of my luck, but after a while, I dried my face, and got out my book, and went again at my writing, hardening my heart to what I knew that I must do, and wondering all the while if this was what the fortune teller had meant whe
n she had said things would get worse for me, and when, oh when they would begin to get better.

  XII

  TONIC

  In which I visit the apothecary

  Having set my mind determinedly to the task ahead of me, I checked my almanac to see if the day was a fortuitous enough one, and finding that it was ‘goodly for new enterprises’, I put on my cloak and vizard and, taking a few deep breaths, for I found my hands shook a little, made my way down a narrow little street that wended its way towards the river, and had an aroma of mud and fishguts in the air.

  I found the shop quite easily, it being marked by the usual swinging wooden sign of a mortar and pestle, and so I pushed open the door, which jangled dully as I stepped into the room. An old man stood behind the counter, with a velvet claret-coloured waistcoat and silvered hair that grew in three tufts from his head. He made a bow.

  DANDYWINE: Good morrow to ye, mistress. How may I be of service to ye?

  ME: Good morrow. I am come... I am come...

  DANDYWINE: Was you wanting the apothecary side or the astrology side? I do both, you see, mistress. Afore you, you see all my phials and bottles and cure-alls, and beyond that curtain are my charts and my tarot and other divers instruments to predict your future. I just laid the cards for a very happy lady who learnt that she will soon be meeting her fourth husband. The first two died of the plague and the last one of earache. And ’pon my soul ’tis true she had a booming voice such as I have never set ears at before.

  ME: I thank you, but ’tis not my horoscope I seek. I am sent here by Mrs Bunty—

  DANDYWINE: Ah! Now I look at you more closely I see the mark of it upon you – ’tis the way you hold yourself – there, most plainly, a follower of Thespis! Tell me, when were you born?

  ME: Why, on the night of the Great Comet.