Sweet Sorrow(44)

Some time passed.

‘So hard to choose.’

‘Cherry Orchard, isn’t it?’ said Helen.

‘Orchard’s good.’

‘Ha! Orchard,’ barked Helen. ‘Yeah, that’s what they call it, Charlie and the boys: Orchard. Who wants to come to London with me Saturday? I’ve got matinee tickets for Orchard—’

‘Maybe we should go and eat,’ I said, and walked quickly away.





Beginnings


This was the first occasion the four of us spent time together – Alex, Helen, Fran and me – and given what we became, it’s strange that I don’t remember more. I know that rather than eat the chickpea casserole we played a formless game of badminton with no teams or net and discarded, moulting shuttlecocks and half-strung rackets – hoops, really – that we found on the lawn, and I remember, too, my surprise at taking part rather than watching with the others. It’s with these small moments of inclusion that immense friendships start, which is not to say that there was anything spontaneous or relaxed about it. If I’d failed to speak Shakespeare then it seemed doubly important that I excel at badminton. ‘Charlie, you look so serious,’ Fran said as I cursed myself, swiping at air with a string-less racket.

In the afternoon, we returned to our circle of bentwood chairs to turn our attention to the text – always ‘the text’ rather than ‘the play’.

‘Before we start, remember,’ said Ivor, ‘that although the text is called Romeo and Juliet, it’s really about everyone in this world. For Romeo, sure, of course it’s Romeo’s story, and for Juliet it’s her story, but for Paris – well, it’s a play about Paris! We’ve all got these great passions, these amazing private stories, secret loves and hates. So for the Nurse, it’s about the Nurse, for the Servant, it’s the Servant’s story, and for Benvolio?’

Ivor looked to me, expectantly.

‘It’s a play about … Benvolio?’

‘Yes! That’s right! Because just as in life, there is no such thing as a minor character!’

At my side, Miles made a sceptical sound. This socialistic ensemble-talk was all well and good, but everyone knew it was a play about Romeo. Who’d give up an August night to see a play called Benvolio and the Apothecary? I wasn’t sure I would, and I was Benvolio. As a character, he seemed entirely blank. With no good jokes, no family, no love life, he seemed to bore or irritate everyone he spoke to. Everything he said concerned the actions of others, and when he wasn’t informing, he was pleading with people to stop fighting or giving information that the audience already knew. He was Romeo’s best friend, but you could tell that Romeo preferred Mercutio, and when Benvolio abruptly stopped talking halfway through the play, it was hard to believe that anyone would mind. At least Sampson had the stuff about thumbs. Benvolio was a sidekick, a conformist and observer; characters confided in him but felt no need to listen in return. Amazing, really, that people I barely knew had cast me so well.

The afternoon wore on with a classroom air, the same overwhelming torpor at two forty-five. In Verona they’d have had a siesta, but we forged on and when my head lolled, I’d snap straight and rack my brains for something smart and incisive that would impress Fran and show an insight I didn’t possess. But I didn’t have the knack of talking about characters as if they were real, as if we were the same person. ‘The thing about me,’ insisted Lucy, ‘is that I live to fight,’ and I tried to square this with the silent girl I’d sat behind in double Biology, while all the time the glass roof warmed the still air, and the conversation turned in circles and perhaps if I just closed my eyes …

I snapped awake again. I’d resolved that I would not look at Fran unless she was speaking, but it was those with the least to say who spoke the most and so she sat with her chin on her raised knee and listened.

Eventually the conversation turned to the themes of prejudice and division, and Ivor adopted a hushed and sincere manner, leaning forward, hands clasped like a young cleric.

‘So – what keeps us apart? As communities? Not in the play, but in general, in real life, now. What are the grievances and prejudices that divide us, not just as lovers, but as friends? And remember there are no wrong answers.’

‘No wrong answers’ was another thing people said without meaning it. We all knew that there were wrong answers, except perhaps for Miles, who took on Ivor’s concerned tone and leant forward in his chair.

‘Yeah, well, there’s racism,’ said Miles and, by way of clarification, ‘judging someone by the colour of their skin.’

‘Ha!’ laughed Alex. ‘I think it’s a little late for that, casting-wise. Look around.’

‘Not in this production – there’s you, there’s Lucy …’

‘So all the white people versus two non-white people,’ said Lucy.

‘White versus all the other races,’ said Alex.

‘With white as the default—’ said Lucy.

‘I’m just saying, it’s there as a theme.’

‘—unless some of you black up,’ said Alex.

‘No one’s blacking up!’ said Ivor.

‘I know!’ said Miles. ‘But a different production with a different cast.’