Sweet Sorrow(15)

‘So. Here’s the deal—’

‘There’s this play—’

‘It’s about gangs, it’s about violence, it’s about belonging and prejudice and love and …’ Ivor paused before delivering the punch-line: ‘… it’s about sex!’ He waited, head tilted, for the murmur to pass through the hall. ‘It’s a play by William Shakespeare. And it’s called—’

‘Romeo. And. Juliet. If you think you know all about it, trust me, you do not. The FFFTC will be putting it on here, this summer, in an exciting new venue.’

‘And you …’ Ivor stretched out both arms, two fingers of each hand pointed sideways, gangland-style ‘… are going to be the stars! Five weeks’ rehearsal, four shows. We’re going to learn to dance, we’re going to learn to fight—’

‘We are going to learn how to be,’ said Alina, scanning the rows with her dark eyes, and for the first time we were entirely silent and still. ‘How to be, both on stage and off. We are all going to learn a little about how to move through this world, both present and alive.’

‘Remember,’ said Ivor. ‘Full Fathom Five is not us, it’s you.’ He pressed his palms together, interlaced his fingers and rang his hands like a school bell. ‘We need you. We simply can’t do this without you.’

‘Please,’ said Alina. ‘Come. Join us.’

‘I haven’t come to join,’ I said now. I may even have shouted.

‘Okay,’ said Ivor. ‘But you don’t know what—’

‘Whatever this is, I’m not part of it, I was just helping her.’ I looked for the girl, who was standing at the table, spooning food onto a paper plate. ‘I’ve got to go now.’

‘Okay. You’re sure? Because we badly need young men.’

‘Yeah, not me. I’ve got to go. Sorry. Bye Lucy, Colin. Bye Helen,’ and before they could reply I was walking briskly from the courtyard, across the lawn and past the maze— ‘Hold on!’

… leaping down behind the ha-ha for cover, storming onwards …

‘Excuse me! Can you wait a moment! Oh, for crying out loud …’

… and I turned in time to see her hobbling towards me, a buckled paper plate sowing a trail of food. I waited at the gate. ‘Look,’ she said, laughing, ‘you’ve made me drop my couscous.’ She shook the last of the sandy stuff onto the grass. ‘Couscous on the ha-ha. Fucking hell, that’s just about the most bourgeois – anyway, I just wanted to say thank you. For helping me out.’

‘That’s fine.’

‘You’re sure you don’t want to stay?’

‘I’m not an actor.’

‘Trust me, I’ve been here all week, and no one here is an actor, me included. It’s just … fun, you know? To start with it’s just Theatre Sports and improv. I realise that’s not selling it necessarily—’

‘I can’t really—’

‘I mean, “theatre” and “sports”, there’s two words you don’t want to see coupled together.’

‘Sorry, I’ve got to—’

‘But we start on the play next week. It’s Romeo and Juliet.’

‘It’s not for me.’

‘Because it’s Shakespeare?’

‘This whole thing, it’s not my …’

Don’t say ‘thing’ again.

…

…

‘Thing.’

‘Okay. Well. Shame. Nice to meet you.’

‘You too. Maybe I’ll see you around?’

‘You will if you come tomorrow! No? Okay.’ She began brushing at her bare leg. ‘Bloody couscous. I don’t even like couscous. Nine thirty if you change your mind. You won’t regret it. Or you might. What I mean is, you probably will regret it, but at least—’

‘Well, I’d better be—’

‘I didn’t get your name.’

‘Charlie. Lewis. Charlie Lewis.’

‘Nice to meet you, Charlie Lewis.’

‘You too. So.’

…

…

‘Aren’t you going to ask my name?’

‘Sorry, you’re …?’

‘Fran. As in Frances, with an “e”, so Fran Fisher. What can I do, my parents are idiots; well, they’re not, but – anyway. Well, like I said. Thank you. Bye.’

She turned and walked away, and I watched her folding the paper plate into a wedge and then tucking it into the pocket of her denim skirt. Then she turned back, confirming what she must have known, that I would be watching her.

‘Bye, Charlie Lewis!’

I raised my hand and she did too, but I never did go back and that was the last time I ever saw Fran Fisher.

I wonder where she is now?





First Sight


I know where she is now. I did go back, because it was inconceivable that I would not see that face again and if doing so meant half a day of Theatre Sports, then that was the price I’d pay.

But perhaps that’s not quite true either. Perhaps I’d have forgotten her soon enough. When these stories – love stories – are told, it’s hard not to ascribe meaning and inevitability to entirely innocuous chance events. We literally romanticise; one glance and something changed, a flame was ignited, cogs interlocking in some great celestial device. But the ‘love’ in ‘love at first sight’ is, I suspect, only applied in retrospect, laid on like an orchestral score when the outcome of the story is known and the looks and smiles and hands brushing against each other can be allocated a significance that they rarely carry in the moment.