The Playmakers Read Online Free

head.
    The perfect figure and the perfect teeth
complemented Anne Whateley’s perfectly shaped nose, clear blue
eyes, and creamy skin. By contrast, the skin of the dark-haired
young man accompanying her was more sallow, a series of ugly
pimples battling to find their way through the surface of a flimsy
field of herbage purporting to be a beard. The eyes were doleful,
almost heavy-lidded, but with a spark of a villain about them. The
mouth was full-lipped, curving sensuously at its apex.
    “And what are you two laughing about?” said
Mrs Shakespeare as they entered.
    “We have been talking of the future,” Anne
replied.
    “Oh, and I take it, it will be a happy
one?”
    “William says he is going to revolutionise
the leather business,” said Anne, cuddling up closer to him and
looking into his eyes.
    “Ah,” said Mr Shakespeare, tearing himself
away from the perfect teeth and the perfect bosom, at the mention
of business, “and how does Will propose to do that?”
    “I thought we should design some new
products,” said William, “like making better use of these strips of
leather we make to tie men’s breeches below the knee.” He held up a
piece of finely crafted leather a yard long.
    ‘They’re wondrous, so strong,” he said,
grabbing more, and tying several together into one long piece, and
adding triumphantly, “I reckon there is a market for these in
skipping ropes!”
    John Shakespeare gave an icy smile, and was
about to chastise his son for coming up with yet another idea he
felt was frivolous and of little potential. But out of the corner
of his eye he caught the face of his wife signalling him to be
positive. “Why, William, that is brilliant,” he said
unconvincingly.
    Anne Whateley linked her arms with both
William’s and that of her future father-in-law and laughed her
engaging girlish laugh. “Life with William is going to be
wonderful.”
    As if to put an exclamation mark onto her
statement, there came a loud knock on the front door.
    “Must be someone to wish you well,” said John
Shakespeare, as he disentangled himself from her arm, turned,
walked to the door and swept it open with a swish.
    There stood a woman wrapped in a huge brown
woollen shawl, covering her from head to foot.
    Despite the camouflage provided by the
clothing, John knew only too well it was the figure of Anne
Hathaway, daughter of a farmer and family friend from nearby
Shottery.
    She was tall, robust, of farming stock, with
a sharply angled face.
    The face, peering out from under the brown
shawl, was now twisted with anger.
    “Why, Anne,” said John, diplomatically, “how
good to see you. Are your parents well? Come in, we’re having a
small celebration for William’s impending marriage.”
    “I heard on the grapevine the Shakespeare
family was planning a wedding,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “But
I suggest there needs to be a variation to the list of personnel
involved.”
    “What? I don’t understand.”
    “You will,” she said, shoving past and
entering the main room. “Now, where is the spineless little
rat?”
    A hint, just a shadow, of a spineless little
rat could be seen pulling away from the arm of Anne Whateley and
making a hasty exit through to the kitchen.
    Anne Hathaway let out a yell with a voice
reinforced by years of calling in cattle from faraway hills.
“William Shakespeare!” the voice boomed, “you come back here this
minute.”
    There was silence.
    “William,” boomed Anne Hathaway again towards
the doorway of the kitchen. “Here! Now.”
    Silence.
    “William! You evil little n’er-do-well, we
can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”
    Finally, a shuffling of feet could be heard
from the kitchen, and ultimately a sad, whiskery face, its eyes
bulging in terror, peeked around the corner.
    “Here! Here, here,” said the voice, a little
less strident. “C’mon. That’s the boy.”
    Astonished, Anne Whateley stared as the
cowering William edged in sideways with his hands