Edward Marston - The Bawdy Basket

‘Speak for yourself,’ said Gill with disdain.

‘All of us except Barnaby,’ joked the Welshman.

‘Consistency is the mark of true art.’

‘Is that why you have nothing but poor days?’

Gill’s apoplectic reply was lost beneath the guffaws of his fellows. While they praised his comic skills onstage, they detested his self-glorification whenever he left it. Gill was far too arrogant and condescending. Firethorn and Elias were the only two members of the company who were able to pierce his pomposity with a verbal rapier thrust. Such moments were savoured by the others. A servingman was called and fresh ale was ordered by Quilter for his friends. The taproom was now full. Hot weather was good for business. Spectators who had sweated in the sunshine were zealous customers, their numbers swelled by the arrival of the actors. The atmosphere was convivial, the noise increasingly deafening. Quilter squeezed into a place on the oak settle between Hoode and James Ingram, one of the younger sharers. He felt accepted again. He was one of them. His mind was still preoccupied with the fate of his father but he was grateful that he had elected to join the other actors. They were his family now.

Edmund Hoode did not linger. After finishing his drink, he made his apologies and rose to leave. Elias tried to persuade him to stay.

‘Toast your success, Edmund,’ he urged. ‘ Hannibal was a triumph.’

‘Thanks to my fellows,’ said Hoode modestly. ‘Plays are nothing but words on a blank page. Only actors can breathe life into them.’

‘You are an actor yourself, remember. You took your part.’

‘And I was happy with the result, Owen. But now, I must leave you.’

‘When the carousing has not yet begun?’ asked Ingram.

‘Yes, James. I have an appointment elsewhere.’

‘An assignation, more like,’ said Elias, nudging his companion. ‘Who is she, Edmund? Only a beautiful woman could tear you away from us. What is the divine creature called?’

Hoode smiled. ‘Thalia,’ he confessed.

‘A bewitching name for a mistress.’

‘She occupies my brain rather than my bed, Owen,’ explained the playwright. ‘Thalia is the muse of comedy and idyllic poetry. It is to her that I fly.’

Brushing aside their entreaties to stay, Hoode made his way to the door.

‘Is Edmund at work on a new play?’ wondered Quilter.

‘Yes,’ replied Ingram. ‘He is contracted to write a number of new pieces for us each year, as well as to keep old material in repair. Truly, he is a marvel. No author in London is as prolific. Words seem to flow effortlessly from his pen.’

‘It’s one of the reason I sought to join Westfield’s Men. Your stock of plays outshines all others. Banbury’s Men had no Edmund Hoode to supply fresh work of such a high standard.’

Gill flicked a supercilious hand. ‘It has no Barnaby Gill either.’

‘Then fortune has favoured them,’ said Elias waspishly.

‘I suspect that this latest play of Edmund’s is something of note,’ said Ingram. ‘He has been working on it for weeks and has shunned our fellowship many times.’

‘What can it be that it absorbs him so completely?’ wondered Quilter.

Elias looked up. ‘Here’s the very man to tell us,’ he said, seeing Nicholas Bracewell pushing his way through the crowd. ‘Come, Nick. There’s room on the settle for you, and George can sit on my knee.’

George Dart recoiled at the suggestion, even though it was made in fun. As the smallest, youngest and least experienced member of Westfield’s Men, the assistant stagekeeper had become its familiar whipping boy. He was a willing labourer. While the actors were relaxing in the taproom, Dart had been busy. Under Nicholas’s supervision, he had helped to put away the costumes and properties, and clear the stage of its scenic devices before dismantling it. The oak boards on which Hannibal had trod were put away with the barrels that had supported them. Trotting at the heels of his master, Dart had accompanied Nicholas when he paid the rent to Sybil Marwood and enquired after her husband’s health. Only now could the two of them join their fellows in the taproom.

Nicholas took the place vacated by Hoode and Dart found a corner of a bench on which he could perch. Drink was ordered for the newcomers. After the usual badinage, Elias returned to his theme.

‘What is this new play that Edmund is writing for us?’

‘He will not tell us, Owen,’ said Nicholas.

‘Is it comedy, tragedy or history?’

‘A mixture of all three, from what I can gather.’

‘He said that Thalia was his inspiration,’ recalled Quilter.

‘Then the drama will tilt more towards comedy.’

‘Has he given you no hint of its content, Nick?’ asked Elias.

‘None whatsoever, Owen.’

‘Does he have a title?’

‘Of course,’ said Nicholas, ‘but he has kept it from us.’

‘Lawrence must surely know what piece he has commissioned.’

‘All that Edmund will say is that it is to be his masterpiece.’

‘ Hannibal could lay claim to that description,’ said Quilter with admiration.

Elias cackled. ‘Not when you are in the cast, Frank!’

The taunt produced more mirth. Even the hapless George Dart joined in the laughter. Nicholas was the only person to give Quilter a look of sympathy. He was pleased to see that the actor had joined the others in the taproom, knowing that he would encounter a degree of hostility. It showed that Francis Quilter had courage. He endured the latest sniggers with a philosophical smile. Attention shifted to Dart.

‘Frank was not the only person at fault,’ said Elias, switching his gaze to the diminutive figure. ‘You remembered the few lines you had, George, but you were so clumsy on the stage today. You knocked over a stool, kicked over the camp fire and dropped the sword during the execution of the prisoners.’

‘He committed a graver sin than that,’ insisted Gill.

Dart was trembling. ‘Did I?’

‘Yes, you stood between me and the audience during my jig. You obscured their view of my dancing. That was unforgivable.’

‘George soon corrected his error,’ said Nicholas defensively.

‘It should never have occurred in the first place.’

‘Nor should the jig,’ goaded Elias. ‘It has no place in a drama of that nature.’

Gill was outraged. ‘My dances are appropriate in any play.’

‘Not when they delay the action, Barnaby.’

‘They serve to heighten the suspense.’

‘Tragedy needs no prancing Fool to diminish its power.’

‘I diminish nothing, Owen. I strengthen the force of a drama.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Dart, relieved that the conversation had moved away from him. ‘Master Gill prances so well. It is a delight to see him.’

‘Thank you, George,’ said Gill, partially mollified.

‘I am sorry if I hindered you in any way.’

Elias patted his knee. ‘No apology is needed, George. If you obscured Barnaby’s antics from the audience, you did them all a favour.’

Gill rose to his feet. ‘That’s an unpardonable slur on my genius!’

‘Our only genius carries the name of Lawrence Firethorn.’

‘A floundering apprentice beside me,’ said Gill, then he flounced off.

‘How easy it is to ruffle his fine feathers!’ said Elias.

Hauling himself up, the Welshman sauntered off to relieve himself. James Ingram chatted to George Dart, reassuring him that his mistakes that afternoon had only been minor ones and advising him to ignore complaints from Elias and Gill. Nicholas was free to have a confidential word with Quilter.

‘How do you feel now, Frank?’ he asked.

‘As tormented as ever.’