Edward Marston - The Bawdy Basket

The clapping was sustained, the cheers loud. Edmund Hoode heard none of it. His eyes were roving the galleries in search of his mystery correspondent. He was certain that she was there because he could feel her gaze upon him like rays of sunlight. His gaze went swiftly along the rows of smiling faces. Handsome gallants and pretty ladies were there in profusion but he could not pick her out on the crowded benches. The important thing, he told himself, was that she could see him and she had watched him perform on a day when he was head and shoulders above most of his fellows. For the first time in his life, he had even outshone Lawrence Firethorn. Somewhere up there was the lady who made it all possible, the spur to his talent, the beat of his heart. His face glowed with happiness. The impossible had happened. He had fallen in love with someone whom he had never even seen.

As the applause weakened, the actors began to quit the stage. Hoode could not linger. He was about to give up his search and leave when she finally revealed herself. She was seated in the middle of the upper gallery, directly in front of him and with a perfect view of the stage. Rising to her feet, she raised a gloved hand to give him a little wave of congratulation. Hoode trembled involuntarily. She was rather older than he had imagined, and more matronly in appearance, but that did not matter. His admirer was a gorgeous lady with dark hair curling out from beneath her hat and a smile that ignited her whole face. Wearing a dress in the Spanish fashion, she seemed to him the epitome of all that was good in womanhood. He had known younger, daintier, more vivacious ladies in his time but this one had a quality that they had all lacked. She was his.

When he backed his way offstage, Hoode was still in a dream. His mind was filled to bursting with the vision of loveliness he had just seen. It was only when he collided with George Dart that he realised he was in the tiring house.

‘Steady, Master Hoode!’ said Dart in alarm.

‘Oh, forgive me, George. My thoughts were elsewhere.’

‘It was so for most of the company during the play, for their thoughts were neither on mirth nor madness. There were times when I wondered if I was holding the correct book. The actors wandered so.’

Dart was immensely proud that he had been chosen as Nicholas Bracewell’s deputy. While the others mocked him for his misfortunes onstage, the book holder showed tolerance towards him. He knew that the more responsibility Dart was given behind the scenes, the better he discharged it. Aided by Thomas Skillen, the ancient stagekeeper, who stood at his side ready to box his ears in the event of a mistake, Dart had been remarkably efficient in his new role. He knew Mirth and Madness well, and had watched Nicholas in action enough times to pick up hints from him. While many others floundered onstage, Dart held his nerve. It was only when the play was over that he let his anxieties show.

‘I never thought to get through the afternoon,’ he confessed.

‘You did well, George.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes,’ said Hoode. ‘You held the tiller with a steady hand.’

‘It did not feel very steady, Master Hoode.’

‘Nick Bracewell would have been proud of you.’

‘There’s no higher praise than that.’ His face puckered with concern. ‘He is a prince of his craft. Westfield’s Men would be lost without him.’

‘That’s why we will never let him go.’

‘But he’s threatened to leave us. Have you not heard the news?’

Hoode came out of his daze. ‘News?’

‘There is a danger that we may lose Nicholas,’ said Dart, biting his lip. ‘Many people are calling for Master Quilter to be ousted from the company. If he goes, Nicholas has warned, then we will have lost our book holder as well.’

‘Nick Bracewell said that ?’

Hoode was dumbfounded. He had heard the rumours earlier in the day but had been far too preoccupied take them in. If some as lowly as George Dart could report the ultimatum, then it must have a basis in truth. Hoode shuddered. Nicholas Bracewell was much more to him than a crucial member of the company. He was a close friend of the playwright’s, more reliable than Lawrence Firethorn and far less critical than Owen Elias. The one person to whom Hoode could turn in the emergencies that seemed to litter his life was the book holder.

Nicholas was also the only man in whom he confided details of his private life and, since that had taken such a delightful turn, he needed someone to listen to the tale of his good fortune. Hoode would sooner surrender a limb than lose the companionship of Nicholas Bracewell. The consequences for Westfield’s Men were unthinkable. The playwright resolved to raise the matter instantly with Lawrence Firethorn, who was sitting gloomily on a bench, contemplating the defects of his performance that afternoon. Hoode walked towards him. Before he could reach the actor-manager, however, he was intercepted by a shamefaced James Ingram.

‘You came to our rescue out there, Edmund,’ he said.

‘Did I?’

‘We gave a poor account of ourselves this afternoon. But for you and Barnaby, Mirth and Madness could more properly have been called Misery and Badness . We betrayed the play by being too full of self-affairs. Thank you for helping to save our reputation. You were heroic.’

‘I gave of my best, James, that is all.’

‘It was more than the rest of us managed to do.’

‘I felt inspired today.’

‘We were too jaded to follow your example.’

Patting him on the shoulder, Ingram moved away. His place was immediately taken by a servant who worked at the Queen’s Head. The lad blinked at Hoode for a moment then handed him a letter.

‘I was asked to deliver this, sir,’ he said.

‘By whom?’ The question became irrelevant when Hoode glanced at the handwriting. It was from her. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ he mumbled.

While the boy ran off, Hoode retreated to a corner of the room so that he could read the letter. It contained only one sentence but it was enough to make his head spin. He almost swooned with delight. The first missive had been unsigned but this one had the tantalising initial of ‘A’. He speculated on what her name might be. Adele? Araminta? Alice? Arabella? Anne? Audrey? Antonia? Unable to select the correct name, he decided that ‘A’ must stand for ‘angel’, for that is what he felt she was, descending from heaven to bring him unexpected joy. The letter was a gift from God. All else fled from his mind. When the firm hand of Lawrence Firethorn fell on his shoulder, he hardly felt it.

‘We owe you a debt of gratitude, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘Thank you.’

Hoode looked at him. ‘For what?’

‘The services you rendered the company this afternoon.’

‘Barnaby was the real saviour.’

‘He did no more than he always does,’ said Firethorn irritably. ‘Prancing and pulling faces is the height of his art. But you lifted yourself to a higher plain, Edmund. None of us could rival you.’

Ordinarily, Hoode would have lapped up the congratulations. They rarely came from such a source. A vain man, Firethorn spent more time in boasting about his own theatrical triumphs than in praising the work of others. He believed that simply by allowing other actors to appear beside him onstage, he was conferring tacit approval on them. They deserved no more encouragement. To admit that someone actually gave a superior performance to his was a unique concession. Yet Hoode was unable to enjoy it. He was still caught up in the mood of exhilaration. Hoode would listen to praise from only one source. Her letter was warm in his hand.

‘Will you stay to celebrate with us in the taproom, Edmund?’