‘Okay, hint received.Hoist with my own petard!’ Rory winks and I quirk my brows in return, as if he is a naughty schoolboy.
‘I take it all the way up to graduate level studies, I signpost to academic works, JSTOR, CORE and so on. I keep them updated every week so it’s always current. Then here…’ I lean in closer. ‘Here are the primary sources we have about the man and the plays, the primary texts he used as his source materials. For example, forThe Winter’s Tale, my favourite, he usedPandostofrom 1588 and forThe Dream, he had lots including Ovid’sMetamorphoseswhich obviously dates back to 8AD.’
‘Obviously.’ He smiles. ‘How long has this taken you?’
We are so close now I can feel his breath upon my face, our dinner surely cold and congealing on the plates to our side. This is too much, too many feelings coming at once. What is going on here? Distance, I need distance. I lean back to make sure my backbone is secure against the back of my chair, and breathe. Look normal. Speak.
‘My whole life.’ I hope my tone doesn’t give away any of the tumult of feeling surging inside me. Feelings I am sure have arisen because no one ever shows this much interest in my work, not since Nana died. Plus good food makes me happy, and a little bit horny, and I’m not sure I trust myself not to try and take his top off. I’ve been intentionally celibate for a long time. Such a long time. I need to get control before I make a complete tit of myself.
‘I can believe it. How have you found time to work as well?’ he says and I screw up my face in response. It may be fair to say I haven’t always prioritised my jobs over this.
‘What do you want to do with it? What now?’ He clicks and scrolls through the files.
‘What do you mean?’ I know what I hope he means but with the exception of Luisa, no one has ever been bothered before. Will he laugh if I say?
‘I mean do you want to become the UK’s premier Shakespeare expert, get a doctorate?’
‘Ha, that would be ace but no, no that’s not the dream. I’m thinking of turning it into an app so its accessible to all and when that’s up and running and I have a reputation because of it, I’d love to take it round schools, maybe do a podcast. Schools are the dream though. I think I’ve got packages that would appeal to each key stage. Like I said, I’ve tailored things into quite detailed levels. I’d like to reach out to communities that currently don’t find it accessible, that get stuck at the language, take one look at the page and think nah, not for me. The majority of people write off Shakespeare before they even try it but the truth is … well, the truth is there is so muchtruthin it. How many of us have not felt like Desdemona, falling overwhelmingly in love with someone who our families are not keen on? I look at Leontes inThe Winter’s Taleand I see my dad. I’m sure kids here in Bristol can relate to the gang culture inRomeo and Juliet, to the death of Mercutio, him paying the ultimate price despite actively trying to avoid the skirmishes between the Capulets and Montagues. It should be on every curriculum because it’s just so … so human … and in that example, so scarily fucking pertinent to life today.’
My words are spilling out on top of each other, tumbling like striped acrobats in a circus from my mouth. ‘It’s helped me to know that every emotion I have possibly experienced has been experienced before, I am not alone, I never have been. All these people have come before me and felt these things too. And that helps me, it helps my mental health, it stops me spiralling when I find things, truth be told, people, a bit difficult. It makes me feel normal. Now I know that as far as normal goes, relating to Perdita or Ophelia or wanting to grow up and be Paulina – she’s proper kick-arse – is not really usual. And I’m not sitting here thinking that everyone’s problems, all the world’s ills, will be solved with one swoop of Shakespeare’s wand…’ I stop and giggle, both at how carried away I have become and at the innuendo. I do like innuendo.
‘Always with the filth, huh, Wilde? Always with the filth.’ Rory laughs as I giggle, and before I know it I am telling him all my dreams, all my fears and all about my passion as the night rolls past.
He that is thy friend indeed, he will help thee in thy need
December Fifth.
Rory.
Ihad fallen into bed after chatting into the wee hours with Belle. She caught me up in her talk of Shakespeare, her passion contagious. My mind was fervid and awake, firing off ideas, links, possibilities, next steps. It was a relief to have something other than my memories filling my head as I hit the pillow but by the time my alarm woke me this morning I was groggy and thick-headed.
It’s 4 p.m. now and I think I’ve found a solution. Belle’s work is too good not to be up and running, she just needs the finance. Luckily companies with deep pockets and a philanthropic desire are something I have an excess of. It’s merely a matter of marrying the right ones. I have a feeling Belle may be particular about where her cash comes from and it would have to be from a place that was happy to be pretty silent about its involvement, a few sentences on their website, but no desire to stick logos everywhere, corporate branding tattooed on her face, that sort of thing. Which meant that my initial idea, the problem I had thought she could solve for me, would not be a good match for her – they wanted lots of brand sponsorship to advertise their do-gooding – but I have managed to pair them with a phonics company, only too glad to have the cash input in return for some corporate advertising. However, after seeing her project for myself, I have the ideal pairing.
‘Hey, how you doing?’
‘Oh, hi, Rory.’ Her tone is pleasant but I hear her surprise as she answers my call.
‘Hey. I don’t wanna freak you out but I think I’ve got something that will make you smile.’ I realise that could sound like I’m being sleazy. Truly, sex is the last thing on my mind these days, the thought of any kind of relationship with anyone other than Jess leaves me all kinds of cold, but Belle doesn’t necessarily know that.
A loud mechanical noise comes down the line at me.
‘Sorry, couldn’t really hear that.’ Thank the Lord! ‘Hang on… Marsha, come away from the chainsaw.’ That sounds terrifying. I don’t know who Marsha is but Belle within spitting distance of a chainsaw is a scary thought.
‘Where are you?’
‘Christmas tree farm, you should see it up here. It’s proper old-school Christmassy. You can’t help but have your heart lifted, your head filled with “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas” and pictures of Bing Crosby, stockings, fireplaces, presents, the smell of cinnamon and orange and pine, the taste of mince pies…’
Oh my God. I thought she was obsessed by Shakespeare. Now it turns out she has a raging passion for Christmas too.
‘Ah, I hate Christmas,’ I say. I’m aware of how Scrooge that sounds, but it’s true. Christmas and I are not friends anymore.
‘You what?’ Incredulity encapsulated.
‘Um, nothing. Are you free later?’
‘No. I’ve got Sankt Nikolaus.’ What fresh hell is this? She says it in a tone that implies everyone knows about Sankt Nikolaus.
‘Eh?’
