The Diary of William Shakespeare, Gentleman Read Free Page B

Father had told the alderman he would pay the fine by the end of the week. But this was only Monday . . .
    â€˜Will . . . will people point and laugh at us till the fine is paid, sir?’
    We boys had thrown rotten turnips at Master Tumbleton when he was charged with fornication. I did not know what fornication was, except that any guilty man or woman charged with it was excommunicated, as Father had been, and let us dress a man in dross and turnip leaves.
    â€˜Our family will hold our heads up too high for any to dare condemn,’ said Father quietly. He added, with more determination, ‘We will go to the play this afternoon at the tavern, you, your mother and myself, with old Tom to wait upon us. We will show that the house of Shakespeare still has standing in this town.’
    Joy bloomed as doubts rose faded. A play! Players came to Stratford sometimes when the plague closed London’s taverns, so no plays could be shown in their courtyards, but I had never seen one. All thoughts of Father’s crime melted as a dragon’s breath eats snow. Within a week the fine would be paid, just as Father said. He’d be a communicant again, and all would be as it always had been.
    Suddenly I realised our family’s shame might stab Ned too. Blighted wheat seed did not keep over winter. How could Ned’s father farm if he had no seed to sow?
    â€˜Sir . . . how will Ned’s father find the money to buy seed now?’
    â€˜I do not know,’ said Father quietly. ‘Each man must tend his own garden. Your mother is picking pea pods, with Mary and the children. Go tell her we will dine quickly, and then dress for the play.’
    Our dinner that day was pea pottage and brown bread. Today my servant John has just come to say my dinner is ready, when I wish to dine. It will be roast beef withmustard, as my wife is not here to complain about tough meat, a warm dish that will soothe my melancholy. There will be a haunch of venison, a gift from my Lord Sheriff; beef marrow fritters; a lark pie; then shaved cheese with sugar, and late pears and apples whole, for my teeth are good, unlike my wife’s. I have ordered John to bring up the malmsey wine, which will further warm my mood. Forty years and more from that poor dinner in a craftsman’s hall, yet I will taste that pottage, not my beef.
    Chamber pot this morning: I was glad to see my waters clear and bowels steady. It confirms my thought that I am still a man within his prime.

Monday, 12th October 1615
    I have not written in this book for a week, for now the river runs obedient as a baby strapped in its swaddling clothes between its banks again. I have dined out each day, and if the dinners, house and plate were not as fine as that of my own household, I am still too newly made a gentleman to shun the invitations of others.
    This morning my wife, Judith and I, with Jem as our footman, went to the Mop Fair, where on this day each year labourers and maids go to seek work. My wife desired a new milkmaid for our cows in the fields below the house, though I believe she wished even more for the bows and curtseys of the motley.
    We passed the housemaids carrying their mops, the shepherds with their crooks.
    A young man with a crop of black hair well greased with oil and little washing under his hat bowed to us. ‘I hope I see you well, Master Shakespeare.’
    I stared at his effrontery. That he should speak to me, who has the right to wear the livery of His Majesty, without even a cuckoo between us to sound an introduction! It was Thomas Quiney, who keeps atavern, but not one of the kind I do attend — or at least not in Stratford where I am known.
    My wife and Judith in their innocence would have returned his bow. I laid my hands upon their arms to stop their curtseys, and we passed on without a word.
    â€˜Father, who is that man?’ asked Judith. ‘Why shouldn’t we show him courtesy?’
    â€˜A tavern-keeper. I know