Echoing on from Alaric.
Shakespeare’s Sources
Barry Aitchison
Bill finished his wild hare and turnips by scraping up the gravy with a
hunk
of stale bread torn from the loaf. “That be grand, that break of fast,
Annie, girl,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
Anne looked up from her basting of the pig. “You’re welcome, Master
Shakespeare, my husband, mine. I suppose you be off to the old fool’s home
for more nonsense scribbling?”
“Now, now, Annie Cranny, do not resent the aged, they serve a purpose on
God’s
earth.”
“Prefer to use old wrapping paper, me-self. It be easier on backside.”
But Bill had left before she finished the line.
The Home for Those That Doth Shake and Froth and Dribble was set on the
banks of the delightfully beautiful Avon, right next to the abattoir. Bill
breathed in the heavy air as he opened the front gate. He reminded himself
to oil the three locks before one of the frail old *****es found her way
out. With theatrical aplomb, he knocked the secret knock on the thick oak
door.
“’Tis all good, Malvolio,” said the deep voice of Matron Verona, “it be
only
Billy Boy. Open door for him, Ophelia.”
In came Bill rubbing his hands. “Well met, Matron, what have the
dribbling
cretins got for us this fine day?”
Matron Verona glared at the wish-to-be-playwright. “This insanity needs
ceasing, William. I got no slumber all night, all because you had these
pissing, ****ing filth makers so excited, they would not go to sleep.”
“But Matron, they have to get up sometimes.”
“Why?”
“Well,” Bill began then let it trail off.
“Anyway, be as that may be, the decrepit unwashed have made another play.
This one is called Spencer and Loose Louise. Go in now, they are
rehearsing.”
Bill opened the door to the barn and quickly shut it as a soft wet turd
came
flying at him. “No more of that, it is not funny.” Gales of laughter
assaulted his ears. “I mean it now. No bath on Tuesday next if you throw
another.”
Nervously he opened the door. The freshly laid turd hit him directly in
the
nose, blocking both nostrils as the hand that mashed it into his face kept
massaging it until it disappeared behind the offending nostrils and lips.
He wanted to run, he wanted to hide, he wanted Juliette Miller, his
neighbour’s sixteen year old daughter. None of these were available. He
also
needed another play for that man who came down from London. He paid good
money for the rubbish he pushed out after a visit to the House of Sagging
Parts. What fools these Londoners were.
“Places everyone,” called Bill. “Will Spencer and Louise come hither?”
“I’ll come anywhere,” said Ophelia, holding up her dress so her nipples
showed at the level of her knees.
“Wonderful, people. I have to say the man loved our last play. He thought
Two Gentle men of Oldham was a riot. He wants another—fast.”
“Why is he starving himself?” asked Kate.
“Starving himself? I never said anything about that?”
“Oh, you did so,” said Malvolio. “Didn’t he, Matron?”
“Yes he bloody did,” said Matron. “You said, Bill, he wanted to fast
again.”
“But that’s not what— Oh, let’s get on with the play. What’s it about?”
Ophelia scratched her fanny as she replied. “It’s about this young geezer
what’s got a stiffy for a young quim. They live in
Sniffhard-above-Foulflow
and these two families—”
“Sniffhard-above-Foulflow? You can’t use that dump. Why can’t we have
somewhere nice? Somewhere exotic. People like exotic places.”
“You mean like Deadpig on Thames?”
“No! I mean like… Oh, why not Italy? La Roma. No, Verona.”
“That’s a good one. It rhymes with ‘boner’.”
“And these names. If they live in Verona, they need Italian names.”
“Oh, I promised me sister and her boyfriend we’d use their names.”
“Too bad. How about Romea and Juliano?”
“Oh, I suppose. Why do you have to change everything?”
“Shut up and give me a sample of the play.”
“Like from where?”
“Do I care? Get on with it.”
“Um! Oh ****, look at that light from that window over there.”
“What?”
“Do I have to repeat it?”
“No thanks, How does this crap end?”
“They both cark it. It’s a great scene.”
“You kill off the two principals? That will never work.”
“Ow, we have to. We done gone and pinched the fake blood already.”
“Nah!” said Bill. “My London contact wants a crowd pleaser. Dump this one
and give me a serious work.”
“Like what?”
“Let’s see. It’s Midsummer’s Day. Do a serious one about Midsummer’s
Night.”
“Can I have a donkey in it. I pinched a fake head from the vicars,” said
Ophelia.
“Surprise me,” said Bill, and off he went.
“Psst!”
“Who’s that?” asked Malvolio. “No hawkers here, me lad.”
The newcomer looked pained. “Me? A pedlar? P’shaw! I hear that plays
abound
here.”
Malvolio looked askance, a difficult pose for a cross eyed halfwit.
“There may be the occasional verse construct. What be your interest,
Master…”
“I be known as Chris Marlowe, good man. I hear Master Shakespeare
acquires
plays here. I’d be willing to invest a ****lling for something spicy.”
“A ****lling? Miserable—”
“A guinea then, A gold guinea. What better offer have you?”
Malvolio’s eyes crossed again. “Be you serious, Master Marlowe? Why at
that
price you can have as many as you want. We do have a play available, but
it
is set in foreign parts.”
“You mean in Sniffhard-above-Foulflow?”
“No, no, no. I mean in Italics.”
“What all of it? It must be a lean play.”
“It’s called Romea and Julio. All the dagos die.”
“Wonderful! Marvellous. I’ll take it.
“Wait a minute, this has Will Shakespeare’s name to it.”
Malvolio glared. “And rightly so. He bought the fish and chips.”
Anopheles
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