The Playmakers Read Online Free Page B

away.
    The following day, accompanied by the stern,
unyielding Anne Hathaway, and with the giggles and guffaws of the
Stratford public ringing in his ears, a red-faced William
Shakespeare walked sombrely down the street to the church and asked
a startled deacon about issuing a second marriage licence in two
days.
    “But William,” said the deacon, “didn’t we …
er … yesterday?”
    “Just do it, deacon. Just do it,” mumbled
William.
    Later that day, an old farmer, noticing a
usually closed door open in his barn two miles out of town, came
across Anne Whateley.
    The thin strips of leather that were intended
to spearhead Anne and William’s business plans were wound at one
end around her neck, and at the other around a rafter.
    She swung listlessly, her life expunged, her
heart beneath the perfect bosom broken, her joyous laugh silenced
forever.

 
    CHAPTER TWO

    When news of the death of Anne Whateley
reached William Shakespeare, he turned on his new bride-to-be in
blind fury.
    Prior to that, in the intervening hours
between the ignominious declaration of his impending fatherhood at
age eighteen and the news of the suicide, Shakespeare had gone all
but silent. He had answered the queries of his parents - “How could
you let this happen?” and “How could you do this after all we have
done for you?” and “Didn’t we warn you about things like this?” -
with teenage monosyllabic grunts.
    He had greeted the prodding jibes of Anne
Hathaway - “So, you thought you’d get away with it, did you?” and
“She was never your type,” and “No more wild times down the inn for
you, will there father-to-be?” - with snarls.
    His face had turned ashen, his hands clammy,
his eyes dull.
    But inside, his mind had been working
overtime.
    Hold on, he kept
telling himself.
    Hold on, Will. Hold
on.
    Hold on to the dream. The
dream that one day you will be back in the arms of Anne Whateley.
That you’ll hear the tinkle of the bell-like laugh again. That she
will hold you and kiss you and love you. And stay with you forever.
    Hold on to the dream,
Will, that one day this … this mess … will be sorted out; that
maybe this bitch of a woman is having us all on and she is not
really pregnant; that maybe she won’t carry the baby the full
distance. She’s bloody old enough as it is.
    Hold on, Will, hold on.
That maybe we can persuade her to see Mrs Armitage down at the
apothecary to, you know, er, do something. Dad could lend me the
money and I could work hard to pay him back.
    That maybe even after the
baby is born I will somehow get away, run away, fly away, into the
arms, and the laugh, and sensational bosom of Anne
Whateley.
    That’s it. I’ll just fly
away. Like a little bird.
    It might take a week. Or a
month. Or a year. Or two years.
    But I’ll fly away, and
explain it all to Anne, my beautiful Anne, the real Anne, not this
awful Anne, and she’ll listen to me, and understand me, and take me
back, and love me forever.
    Hold on, Will. Hold
on.
    Hold on to the
dream.
    But William Shakespeare’s little bird of
freedom came plummeting earthwards that next day when Anne’s uncle,
Christopher Whateley, appeared at the door, hat scrunched in hand,
staring at his boots, tears rolling down reddened cheeks into his
beard.
    He delivered his gloomy message to the
Shakespeare family, mumbled something about, “Funeral Tuesday, but
don’t think it advisable you attend.” And fled.
    Now there was no reason for Will to hold on
to the dream.
    “You bitch!” Shakespeare screamed at Anne
Hathaway, his quivering, tear-stained face barely two inches from
hers. “You absolute bitch. Listen to me and listen well. You’ll
regret the day you forced me to marry you, because as far as I’m
concerned, from now on, you can expect absolutely nothing of me. Or
nothing from me!”
    But if he thought this would force a back
down, a retreat, or even, God be merciful, that she might just
disappear magically out of his miserable life