Lysander straightened, brushing his hands off on his trousers and his hair out of his eyes. He smiled—a normal smile, a friendly gesture.
“You’re married,” he said.
“Yes, I am.” She showed him her wedding band as if he needed proof.
“I didn’t know that yesterday,” he said and blushed, followed by a small laugh. “Sorry.”
Good to know he had standards—of a sort. Pru searched for a suitable reply, but before anything came to her, he had moved to the door and that bit of the devil had crept back into his smile. “Not that I wasn’t tempted.”
* * *
—
Pru hesitated in the yew arch on the opposite end from the stage. The fairies were just inside the lawn, rehearsing a dance to music that wafted from Nina’s phone while Linden Parfitt looked on.
“Hippolyta!” Max called from his seat under the awning.
“Coming!” Linden answered.
She broke away and went over to Pru. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop to introduce myself earlier,” she said, smiling and holding out a hand as they walked toward the stage. “It’s only I’ve discovered it’s best to keep both eyes on the children. I’m Linden Parfitt.”
“Yes, hello. Lovely to meet you. I’m Pru Parke. That’s quite a large group of children to handle.”
“We have three each of Peaseblossom, Mustardseed, Cobweb, and Moth. They’ll rotate performances so everyone gets to speak a line.”
“How exciting for them,” Pru replied. A vision rose up in her mind; she saw herself ten years old and bursting onto the stage in a frothy blue dress and—
“You’re the gardener who’s helping Max out with the set,” Linden said. “It’s so kind of you to step in like this—I’m afraid we frightened off that fellow who was here to begin with.”
“I’m happy to do anything I can,” Pru promised blithely.
“I so admire your skills—I’d dig and plant all day long if I could,” Linden said. “But instead here I am. You’re in a noble profession, you know. Growing, tending, harvesting.” She sighed.
Pru dismissed her earlier impression of Linden—lover of young Lysander—in favor of this warm and friendly woman who liked children and admired gardeners.
Max sat in his chair under the marquee, and Linden leaned over to kiss him on the cheek in greeting.
“Here we are now, Pru,” Penelope said, handing over a list of the scenes to be rehearsed. “The crew’s been at work, you see.” She nodded toward the metal-pipe-and-plywood structure, parts of which were now covered with a rough brown fabric. “They’ve molded it with glue, and next it’ll be painted. We use it rather like you would papier-mâché, only on a large scale.”
“Now, Prunella,” Max greeted her and swept his hand across the large central platform, “here we transform the space into our Athenian court.”
The director rehearsed scenes with Ambrose Grant and Linden Parfitt assuming their other roles, those of Theseus and Hippolyta—those characters were never onstage at the same time as Oberon and Titania. As the scene progressed, Max lobbed ideas at Pru.
“What we need is a set that is even, symmetrical, balanced,” he told her, clasping his hands and tapping a finger against his lips. “It is in great contrast to the fairy woodland.”
Pru scribbled. Five Italian cypresses on each side—perhaps eight feet tall. Could she find enough all the same size?
“The set pieces need to be shifted between scenes, of course. And here’s a question for you. Those leaves on Greek columns, Prunella—could we have plants that look like that? Oh yes, and—we have acquired urns for you.” Max twisted in his chair. “Penny, where did you say you found them?”
“An architectural salvage yard,” Penelope offered, looking up from her three-ring binder. “I’ve got them in the stables.”
“Let’s bring them out.”
Penelope twirled her pencil like a tiny baton. “They’re awfully heavy—we had them delivered, remember?”
“It’s all right,” Pru said. “I’ve got a helper next week. We’ll sort it out.”
* * *
—
The gardener’s cottage couldn’t hold everyone for lunch, and so the cast had spilled out into the yard, and the children were taken off to eat under a green beech. Pru took her chicken-and-dressing sandwich away, first looking in a small stone building across from the cottage. That turned out to be the shed. Jeremy had left it shipshape—tools were cleaned, oiled, and hung from pegs, and the potting tables dusted. A wide, shallow handcart sat in a corner—it would be just the thing for shuttling plants from the gate to a holding area she’d discovered near the stage.
As she moved on to the stables, which formed the side of the graveled yard between cottage and shed, she caught a glimpse of movement in the birch grove beyond. Lysander, she thought—on to another assignation?
The building was airy and dry with windows in the loft, and the stone underfoot washed clean. Each stall had been refitted—some with racks for costumes, others for prop storage. One was stacked with folded burlap—it’s what had been used on the platform to look like rock. A sewing machine was plugged into a power strip and then to an outdoor extension cord that led away into the gardener’s cottage. Sharing the electrics was a kettle, which sat next to tea things on a small table, and a couple of lamps. A few wooden chairs were scattered about, and a sofa had been pushed against one wall, stuffing coming out of the arms. Although clean and repurposed, the space retained a memory of its past—a light scent of hay and horses.
Helena leapt up from the sofa when she saw Pru. “There’s room here.”
“Thanks.” Pru settled with her sandwich.
The young woman remained standing for a moment while she dug in the pocket of her trousers and drew out a limp leaf. “I hope you don’t mind. As you’re a gardener, I thought you might know what this is. It’s growing near my temporary digs. Lovely thing—yellow flowers that smell like fruit. I could only grab a leaf, though, because it’s covered in bees.”
The leaf was creased and bruised. Pru smoothed it out—three leaflets to one leaf and a hint of silver along its edge.
“It’s pineapple broom. A fantastic wall shrub, and the fragrance is heaven. Given the right spot, I’m sure you could grow it. Where do you live?”
“Catford,” Helena said, “southeast London—but in a bedsit, so I’ve no garden at the moment. My boyfriend and I want to find a bigger place, but it’s got to be somewhere easy for me to get into London for auditions, and easy for his office—he works for the council.”
Pru saw Lysander stride past the open stable doors, and Helena noticed, too. She looked away hastily, as pink blotches marred her milk-chocolate skin.
Boyfriend in Catford and lover in Hampshire—Pru had only a moment to consider Helena’s setup before she heard Penelope call time, and everyone got moving. The stage manager stuck her head in the stables and said, “You’re all right for a bit, Pru. Give it thirty minutes or so. Then come out for the fairies.”
Pru returned to the cottage, now empty, and switched on the kettle. She had started collecting stray sandwich containers when Ambrose walked in.
“You shouldn’t be tidying,” he said. “I’m on the rota today.”
“I don’t mind,” Pru said as the kettle switched off. “Tea?”
“Love it,” he replied.
“Are the fairies the children of cast members?” Pru asked as she poured up the tea and set the pot on the table to steep.
“No, they come from a school in Eastleigh.” Ambrose gathered the pitcher of milk and two mugs, and they sat. “The headmaster is the son of Max’s second wife—they’ve stayed close all these years, and he was happy to have his students participate.”
“Are you mostly a stage actor now?” Pru asked. It was an abrupt change of subject, but she ha
d only just remembered she should be gathering tidbits to offer Evelyn, Polly, and Bernadette.
Ambrose shook his head, causing his hair to swoop even lower over his eye. He grinned. “I take what I can get. And I was more than happy to accept this role. Yes, Max has given me a great opportunity here.” With a faraway look in his eyes, he added, “It could be my last chance.”
Pru doubted that. Many male actors continued working well into their sixties and beyond—look at Sean Connery and Liam Neeson. Surely Ambrose Grant could fit into that category.
They finished their tea just as the door opened and Miriam—chaperone and costumer—took a step in and stopped. Her gaze shifted from Pru to Ambrose. She lifted her eyebrows and said, “Ah, well, here you are, Ambrose—Max is looking for you.”
Ambrose jumped up and his chair knocked against the wall. “Miriam—”
But Miriam was gone.
His eyes were green as leeks.
5.1.327
Chapter 7
Max saved tea break to the end of the day, and when he called a halt to the rehearsal, the children raced off to the cottage with most of the adults not far behind. Pru and Penelope stayed back, standing on the stage to discuss details. Pru hoped to start filling plant orders Monday morning.
“The problem is,” Pru explained, “if I lay fifty flats of thyme and such on top of the turf and leave it for three weeks, the grass will turn yellow.” She still had Jeremy the hermit in her head and his accusations of the garden’s mistreatment. She wouldn’t want to be guilty of doing anything untoward.
“Yes,” Penelope murmured as they stared at the site of Titania’s fairy bower—a large area of the grass downstage left—no, wait, right. “I can see that might be a problem.”
But it was Pru’s problem. “We could renovate or resod. I suppose we’ll wait and see how bad it looks.”
“Whatever you think best. But could you give me an estimate of costs before we go much further?”
The garden—always the last thing to be budgeted. Even, apparently, when it’s make-believe.
* * *
—
The gardener’s cottage looked deserted by the time Pru and Penelope approached, but Ambrose emerged, followed by Puck, who held a dripping ice lolly in each hand.
“There now—the last two,” he told them. “I hope you both like black currant.”
The lollies were cold and sweet—the perfect end to the day. As the four of them walked to the gate, Pru slurped hers up quickly, yet still managed to finish with several purple spots on her shirt. Plus sticky fingers.
The minibus was set to depart. Pru could see fairy faces in each window and Nina at the wheel. Miriam stood on the footboard and Lysander behind her, his hand on her bottom. Her head whipped round and her mouth opened as if to say something when she caught sight of Ambrose beside Pru, after which she glanced down at Lysander and gave him a sly smile before the door closed.
Ambrose wasn’t smiling. He swallowed hard, and Pru heard him grind his teeth—or was it a growl?—as he watched the minibus bounce away down the drive. Penelope followed in her Jazz and Puck slipped into the driver’s seat of his Ford Mondeo, and—nearest to Pru—Max got into the Peugeot.
The director lowered a window, reached out, and clasped her hands. “Your contributions to this production, Prunella, are invaluable,” he said, then drew his hands away and rubbed them on his trousers before driving off.
“Don’t worry, his hands were just as sticky,” Ambrose said. He kept his eyes on the retreating minibus until it disappeared, then he pulled the gate closed.
“Have you and Miriam worked together often?”
It was a lame question and far from what she really wanted to know, but Pru had never been brash. Didn’t stop her from being curious—or from feeling guilty when Ambrose offered a sad smile.
“Not for a very long time. Now, Pru, how about today—can I give you a lift?”
“No, really, I’m so close that—” Wait, what was she thinking? “Yes, of course, how kind of you.”
* * *
—
Pru gave Ambrose directions, all the while itching to take out her phone and alert Polly, Bernadette, and Evelyn their idol was headed to Greenoak. But that would be rude, and did she really want the women waiting at the kitchen door as if the Beatles were about to arrive? Pru snickered.
When they pulled up into the gravel yard beside the kitchen, the only car—besides her own Mini—was Christopher’s.
“Oh good, my husband’s here,” Pru said. “Won’t you come in? I’d love for you to meet him.”
Ambrose obliged, and they found Christopher at the kitchen table with a mug of tea and the newspaper. He stood, and after introductions, Pru asked, “How was the fishing?”
“We managed to get all eight lines wrapped round the same willow,” he replied, and turned to Ambrose. “Our local Scout troop. I took them to the river today for an introduction to casting.”
“What do you catch here?”
“Trout, in theory.”
“I always bring my fishing gear with me on location—I spend most evenings tying flies in my digs. It clears my mind.”
Pru preferred her fish sautéed in butter and bread crumbs as opposed to dangling from a hook, but she saw an opportunity here.
“Ah, two fishermen. Can you stay for a drink?” she asked Ambrose. “Do you have far to go?”
“I’d love to stay,” Ambrose replied. “I’m not far—several of us are put up in an old warehouse converted to posh flats in Southampton. Max is on the top floor—the owner was his stage manager for a season of restoration comedies in Bath about twenty years ago.”
Christopher suggested the library and Pru agreed, shooing them on their way with, “And pour me one, too—I’ll be right there.” When the kitchen door swung closed, she got busy.
A text to Polly: Where are you? Can you drop by?
A text to Bernadette: Busy? Need a cuppa?
And a phone call to Evelyn, which went to her voicemail. “Ev, I know it’s Saturday, but could you stop in? Just for a moment. Soon. Thanks.”
She kept back the reason and imagined their faces when they walked in on Ambrose. This was perfect—if only they would arrive in the next hour or so.
Polly replied first: Lunch w Miranda in Salisbury. See you in a bit.
Bernadette replied next: Workshop in Winchester. Back soon.
Nothing from Evelyn.
* * *
—
Pru joined the men, who had settled on the terrace with their whiskeys. She collected her own from the drinks trolley inside the library and took a chair as the fishing talk died out.
Ambrose looked up from his drink. “You’re all right with your work on the production, Pru? Max isn’t asking too much of you?”
Pru had started to think he was asking a great deal, but now that she had Hal to help, it seemed almost manageable.
“I have to keep telling myself I’m not creating a real garden. It’s exciting to be involved, and I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“He hasn’t directed anything for a while, has he?” Christopher asked.
“No. And that’s why this production is important to him—to all of us—to see him on his feet again.” Ambrose swirled the whiskey round in his glass. “For decades, the name Max Stirling caused both fear and delight in the theater world in Britain—he was that powerful. Then, seven years ago, his wife became ill. Antonia—she was his fourth wife and his greatest love. Doctors couldn’t say for sure how long she would live, but the day she was diagnosed, Max walked away from the theater so they could spend every minute left together. With treatments, she did well for a while, but eventually the disease took its toll. He nursed her through those last eighteen months. She died two years ago, and for a time, we thought he’d soon follow.”
“Eventually, he did feel the urge to work again,” Ambrose continued, “but by then, the theater world had moved on. Mention his name and more often than not, the reaction was, ‘Max Stirling—is he still alive?’ ”
“And that’s why you formed Shakespeare au Naturel?” Christopher asked. “To get him working again?”
Pru broke in. “Wait—you mean, it’s your company?”
“No, it is not,” Ambrose stated emphatically. “Well, not only me. Miriam, Linden, Les Buchan—that is, Puck. A few others. But we made sure our names aren’t listed as trustees of the company.” Ambrose nodded to Christopher. “You had to dig a bit for that information.”
“I like to know what happens on my patch,” he replied with a smile.
“The offer was made to Max through a producer friend of my agent’s up in London,” Ambrose explained. “We had a solicitor write it up—a legitimate offer to direct the Shakespeare play of Max’s choice. You see, if we had approached him directly, he would’ve thought we were feeling sorry for him. He would never have agreed—he’s too proud for that.”
“And he knows nothing about it?” Christopher asked.
Ambrose grinned. “Not a clue. And once persuaded, Max took to the theater again with the same confidence and style he always had. He can be demanding but generous, and anyone who has worked with him remembers that. Max gave most of us our starts, you see. Not the young actors, of course—the lovers. They’re still looking for that first rung on the ladder, and they’re hoping that’s what he’ll give them.” Ambrose frowned. “Look now, you won’t mention the arrangement to Max, will you?”
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