I’d read about celebrity doubles. I think I’d even read about the Queen double and how she made a decent living just by wandering around in pearls, dragging a dog and waving gently with one hand, its palm turned towards her face. Up close, she was great. Not exactly like the proper Queen, of course, but near enough to be fun.
She settled into the seat next to me, the dog curled at her feet, and our limo took off into traffic again.
‘I do hope Trixie here has got over her intestinal issues,’ said the Queen. ‘She’s been farting worse than Charles lately.’
You know the kind of laughter where nasty stuff wants to explode from your nostrils? I got that. For nearly a minute. The Queen patted my leg.
‘You are from the Antipodes, I believe,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ I gurgled. ‘Melbourne.’
‘Been there,’ she said. ‘Been everywhere really. Melbourne? Yes, seem to remember it. Everyone crazy about coffee but no one wants to actually drink it because instead they ask for triple-skim venti non-fat caramel macchiato. And you think us Brits are up our own arses! Pardon my French, dear.’
I giggled uncontrollably.
The car ride took about half an hour and the Queen and I chatted. Nearly everything she said made me laugh. Then I wondered what Mum and Sam must have thought when they saw the Queen getting into the back of the limo with me and I laughed some more.
‘You do a lot of laughing, dear,’ said the Queen. ‘It’s starting to give me a headache.’
We finally stopped in a narrow street in a part of London I didn’t recognise. Hampstead was supposed to be posh. This area wasn’t. It was the kind of place full of breakfast bars selling bacon and egg sandwiches and dodgy burgers. The Queen, her corgi and I alighted outside one called Harry’s Nosh Bar.
We entered. A large and sweaty man behind a large and probably sweaty counter slung a soiled and certainly sweaty tea towel over his shoulder and greeted us. Rather, he greeted the Queen.
‘’Ello darlin’,’ he said. ‘Long time no see. ’Ow’s it hanging then?’
‘Hello Harry,’ said the Queen. ‘And I think you mean, “How’s it hanging, Ma’am?”’
‘You’re right and no mistake,’ said Harry. ‘So, Ma’am. Table for two and a saveloy for the Hound of the Baskervilles, yeah?’
We had sausages, bacon, chips, fried eggs, baked beans, black puddings and thick slices of toast. This was a heart attack on a plate and I loved it. The Queen kept up a constant patter, telling me all sorts of scandalous things about the royal family and telling me what she really thought about some of its members.
‘Don’t get me started on the ginger toerag, dear,’ she said, and I spat a piece of sausage across the table and onto the floor. Luckily, the corgi was on full alert for circumstances like this. When we finished the Queen paid with a twenty-pound note. ‘My bloody picture’s everywhere,’ she said as she held the note up to the light. ‘And I don’t even get royalties.’
The limo was waiting for me. I offered the Queen a lift.
‘That’s okay, dear,’ she said. ‘I’ll get an Uber. Or better still, I’ll get that lazy skid mark, William, to come and pick me up. Orf you go.’ And she closed the door on me.
I was still laughing when we turned the corner and she was lost to sight.
What had Dad said? Four experiences. Well, that was one down and three to go. I hoped the others didn’t involve eating. I didn’t think I’d eat for the rest of my life.
Dad’s face appeared on the monitor.
‘How’s the birthday going, Cate? I really hope what I planned so far has come off, but of course I’ll never know. Even if it hasn’t, then I suppose you’ll know what I tried to accomplish. That’s something.’ He scratched his nose. ‘Anyway. On to Hyde Park. You’ve probably been to the most famous park in London a few times. I’m hoping things will be a bit different for you this time. Of course, I also hope that the weather is kind. If it’s belting down with rain, then there will be waterproofs and an umbrella in the car. Maybe for once the London weather will be okay, though the odds are always against it. And it’s four days before Christmas, so it’s bound to be freezing. I hope you’re well bundled up against the cold. Enjoy and see you after Hyde Park.’ And he held up his hand again. ‘Pause.’
I knew Hyde Park was close to Buckingham Palace and wondered whether I’d bump into Her Majesty returning. I didn’t. The limo drove right into the grounds and stopped in some place called the Princess Diana Memorial Fountain car park. The chauffeur got out and opened the door. She pointed out a path to the left of a circular waterway and said that at the end I would find a statue called Serenity, a tribute to the late Princess Diana. I was to wait there and when everything was over to come back here. I nodded and walked off. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mum and Sam’s car pull up. They got out and followed me, a decent distance behind. It was good to see them, but it was also good to still be basically alone. I put my hands into my coat pockets because I’d forgotten my gloves. It was so cold and snowflakes were starting to fall. I got the strong feeling that these ones were going to stick. When I looked at the sky it seemed packed with darkness and the guarantee of more snow. But that hadn’t put people off visiting the park. Joggers, walkers, people sitting on benches probably literally freezing their butts off. It was a busy place.
It wasn’t difficult to find Serenity. It was a huge bronze bird, its beak arched over its back. It was so beautiful and peaceful that it wasn’t hard to understand how it got its name. Beyond the statue was a river. Though my knowledge of London wasn’t the best, I figured this was the Serpentine. At the base of the statue, sitting cross-legged, was a young man playing a flute. I recognised the tune and I smiled. This is why I was here.
Back in Australia, Dad and I had sometimes watched flash mobs on YouTube. Mainly, these amazing videos where a full orchestra appeared from buildings lining an ordinary street, one instrument at a time, in front of amazed and unsuspecting onlookers who were then treated to a beautiful and moving version of a classic. Dad loved those videos. I felt a shiver run up my spine because I guessed what was coming.
The young man was playing a tune based on a children’s song called ‘Kookaburra’, but it was best known as a riff in the song ‘Down Under’ by the Australian band Men At Work. He played gently, the riff repeating. It was a beautiful and haunting tune. Then, out of thin air, it seemed, the flute was joined by a bass guitar. A man appeared out of bushes to my left and he stepped up to the side of the flautist. By this time, a crowd was gathering and phones were being raised. I wished they wouldn’t. I just wanted to enjoy this and, in some strange fashion, maybe the tourists and locals understood because they didn’t block my view, though they screened things enough that I didn’t see the lead guitarist or the keyboard player or the drummer as they appeared one by one. Where the hell had someone hidden a set of drums? I laughed.
And then they started to sing ‘Down Under’. It was brilliant and I found myself once again on the verge of tears. More and more people had gathered now – maybe seventy or eighty – and they formed a semicircle around the five performers. I supposed I should have seen it coming – the fact that the gap in the circle gave me a clear line of sight was a massive clue. But I didn’t. Not until the song was over and I started to applaud. Then the whole crowd turned towards me as the band struck up the opening chords of another song.
I stood as seventy or eighty people sang, ‘Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, Cate Carson. Happy birthday to you.’ I couldn’t help it. The whole scene before me became misted. I blinked and my vision steadied. When the song was done, the crowd mingled together, wandered off, didn’t look at me. Within twenty seconds they were just a bunch of tourists and locals wandering around a park, going about their business and leaving me to mine.
‘Do you remember when we went to that amazing place outside Melbourne, Cate? Where we watched the crowded night sky and UFOs turned up to say hello?’
I smiled. That was an evening I would never forget and I’m pretty sure Dad understood that.
‘I pointed out Betelgeuse to you and said that we were witnessing time travel.’ Dad smiled on the screen. ‘That’s where we’re going now, Cate. Not to another star. God, I would’ve loved to have organised that. No. Something a bit more … ordinary. Back to a time when the light from Betelgeuse had started its journey, but wasn’t very far into it. Think of this limousine as a time machine.’ He smiled. ‘Hey, that rhymes. I’m a poet and I didn’t know it. Enjoy the past, Cate, and become a playing part of it.’ He held up his hand again. ‘Pause.’
The snow was getting thicker outside, and even though it wasn’t quite two in the afternoon, the day was becoming darker and darker. I squinted through the car’s tinted windows and saw Big Ben approaching. We kept turning every few hundred metres – the chauffeur either had The Knowledge or a decent sat nav system – so the building would appear and then disappear. I knew the Houses of Parliament were close to the famous clock tower, the very same parliament that old Guy Fawkes had tried to blow up hundreds of years before. And then we were travelling over a bridge, the River Thames below us, the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben now behind.
South of the Thames. Back in time? I hadn’t a clue.
Until the building appeared – an amazing black and white building with wooden beams and rafters dotted on the outside – and we slowed and stopped in front of it.
The Globe Theatre. Not the original Globe that Shakespeare used to act in – that had burned down, been rebuilt and then destroyed almost four hundred years ago. This replica of the original was constructed maybe twenty-five years ago – and only a few hundred metres from Shakespeare’s original stage. Time travel.
The chauffeur opened the door for me and I stepped out into bitter cold. She took me up a flight of steps to where a young woman was waiting.
‘You must be Caitlyn Carson,’ said the woman. ‘Please follow me. Wardrobe and make-up are ready for you.’
Dad’s words came back to me. Become a playing part of it. He wasn’t expecting me to act in front of an audience. Was he?
I stepped into the theatre and stopped. It was miraculous. The theatre was open to the sky and there was a raised stage made of old interlocked planks. At the back of the playing area were doors, panels and pillars of the most amazing colours. Above them was a second floor with balconies overlooking the stage. But as I raised my head it was the roof above the stage that took my breath away. Glorious panels of the heavens painted in a deep shade of blue with stars, planets and the signs of the zodiac.
I turned one-eighty degrees. Behind me were three tiers of seating.
‘That’s where the people with money would watch the plays,’ said the woman at my side. ‘Where we’re standing now is the Pit. Where the commoners would pay a penny to watch Shakespeare’s plays. They called the commoners ‘groundlings’, partly because they were on the ground but also because a groundling was a type of fish known for lurking at the bottom of rivers.’ She took my arm. ‘Anyway. Come on. Time is moving.’
At least the theatre was empty – apart from the figures of Mum and Sam, who entered just as I was being led backstage.
No one really talked too much in the costume department. One man looked at me, put a finger to his mouth and then plucked an outfit from the rack behind. It was the most glorious, full-length gown, made of some kind of heavy red material. There were lacy things at the cuffs and white embroidery down the front panel. It weighed a ton. After I got changed, someone placed a chunky gold crucifix on a chain around my neck and then I was led to make-up. That didn’t take long either. An unsmiling, fiercely concentrating woman applied some white pan to my face and then painted a red circle on each cheek. There wasn’t much exposed flesh to deal with. The costume covered everything.
A man came in as we were finishing and introduced himself as John, one of the directors at the Globe. At least he was smiling and friendly.
‘I suppose you’re wondering what this is about,’ he said.
‘I’m about to be in a play, but I have no idea what it is or who I’m meant to be,’ I replied.
He smiled.
‘Luckily, you don’t need any of that information. Just answer me one thing. Can you read?’
I cocked my head and gave him a death stare, but that didn’t appear to dampen his good mood.
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ John said. ‘Excellent. I think you’re getting into character already. Follow me.’
And he took me up a flight of stairs. Even though I was slightly disorientated, I had the impression I was above the stage and that the door in front of me would lead to one of the balconies just below the gloriously painted roof. I tried to stay calm and keep my breathing regular.
‘It’s very simple,’ said John. ‘When you go through that door, you step up to the edge of the balcony. Just below the railing, on your side of it, you’ll see a clear perspex panel. Very much like an autocue. Your lines will appear there. Just speak them as best you can. Don’t worry about volume.’ He smiled. ‘This might look like a theatre from four hundred years ago, but it has the best technology beneath its old-fashioned exterior. Any questions?’
Only about a thousand, I thought.
‘There isn’t an audience out there, is there?’ I said.
John smiled.
‘Naturally. An audience of two in the Pit. Your parents, I believe?’ I didn’t correct him. ‘This is just fun, Cate. Enjoy yourself and don’t worry. Good to go?’
Probably not, but I opened the door anyway.
For once, my sense of direction had worked. I was below the heavens but above the stage. Directly in front of me was a row of seating on the second floor. I stepped up to the railing and looked down. Mum and Sam stood in the very centre of the Pit. Even at a distance I could see their eyes widen as they looked up at me. I glanced down at the screen. Two words appeared. I took a breath.
‘Ay, me,’ I said. My voice rang out across the theatre.
A young man appeared from the bottom row of seating, directly across from me. He darted across the Pit and stood almost by the side of Mum. He had on tights, knee-length boots and a white shirt unbuttoned to his navel.
‘She speaks,’ he said in hushed tones. ‘O, speak again, bright angel, for thou art as glorious to this night, being o’er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven unto the white-upturned wondering eyes of mortals that fall back to gaze on him when he bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds and sails upon the bosom of the air.’
I knew this play. I had studied it. Now I was in it. I looked down at my screen but knew that there were some parts already locked in my head.
‘O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?’ I said. ‘Deny thy father and refuse thy name; or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I’ll no longer be a Capulet.’
The actor took a step towards me.
‘Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?’
I put my hands against my heart.
‘’Tis but thy name that is my enemy.’ I looked over the heads of those below as if talking to the sky itself. ‘Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What’s Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man. O, be some other name. What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet; so Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, and for that name, which is no part of thee, take all myself.’
Romeo stepped forward and called up to me.
‘I take thee at thy word,’ he said. ‘Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptised; henceforth I never will be Romeo.’
I started and recoiled as if words from the darkness had shocked me.
‘What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, so stumblest on my counsel?’
‘By a name,’ he replied, ‘I know not how to tell thee who I am: my name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, because it is an enemy to thee. Had I it written, I would tear the word.’
I stepped forward and looked down into his face.
‘My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words of thy tongue’s uttering, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?’
He held his arms up towards me.
‘Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.’
The director stepped out onto the stage.
‘Cut,’ he said. ‘Bravo, everyone.’ He turned and looked up at me, applauded. Mum and Sam did likewise. Romeo gave me a low bow and blew me a kiss. I curtsied.
On my way out, after I’d changed and got rid of the make-up, the woman who’d ushered me in gave me a flash drive.
‘Your performance,’ she said. ‘Happy birthday.’
When the limousine had been driving for less than a minute, Dad’s face appeared for what I feared was going to be the last time.
‘Oh, Cate,’ he said. ‘I really hope it’s been a fun day for you. And I have just one more thing.’ He laughed. ‘Well, two, but one’s merely a snippet of information. The other is an experience, though not like the others you’ve had today. It’s really a simple gift, but I have a feeling it’s one you’re going to like very much. The driver is taking you to a park very close to your home in Angel. You’ve almost certainly been there. It’s called Islington Green and it’s small.’ I had been there. I knew it. ‘There is a war memorial in that park that’s constructed like a circle twisting in on itself. You will go there and your gift will be behind it. The limousine will leave you when you get to the park, but it will be a short walk home. If the weather’s really bad, I dare say your Mum and Sam will get an Uber or something. Enjoy. I will speak to you one more time when we get to the park. Pause.’
The dark screen once more. At least I’d see him one more time. It occurred to me to ask the chauffeur if there was a recording of this that I could take home with me, but I knew Dad wouldn’t have arranged that. Speaking to me from the grave once was more than enough, he would’ve thought. Anything else … not a chance.
I opened the window – it slid down without any noise – and I held out my hand. The snow was falling heavier now and I could see the streets becoming dusted with white. It was a strange vision, the sky getting darker, the streets getting lighter by the second.
The limousine glided to a stop in a street opposite the park. It hadn’t taken long to get there from the theatre – around fifteen minutes, I guessed. There wasn’t much green – a few trees, a patch of lawn, some benches and the monument. The screen came to life.
‘Time for me to say goodbye, Cate,’ said Dad. ‘At least we got the chance to do that, hey? Go find your present. Enjoy your day. Enjoy your life. And don’t forget to play, Cate. Every day. If you do, you’ll never grow old.’ He smiled. ‘Didn’t George Bernard Shaw say that? Oh, and speaking of old GBS, keep on writing. Do not waste your gift. That would be tragic.’ He held up his hand as if to cut the recording, then stopped. ‘Oh, yes. The snippet of information I promised. The UFOs we saw that day outside Melbourne. I didn’t arrange that, Cate. I swear. You probably thought you’d solved their mystery, but you hadn’t. Isn’t that cool?’ And this time when he held up his hand, the screen went dark.
The chauffeur was very nice. She didn’t make me get out of the car until I’d stopped crying. They weren’t horrible tears. They were part pain, part joy. Dad was right. At least we’d said goodbye. There was something … miraculous in that. And writing. Yes. If Dad taught me anything, it was that stories are all around us, that they are precious and must be honoured. There were stories in me. And I’d write them. For him and for me. It would be a present to both of us.
I got out of the car. The chauffeur smiled, wished me a happy birthday, got into the front and drove away. Off to my left I saw Mum and Sam standing at the side of the road, looking at me. I had no idea what kind of a day they’d had, following me around London, being a part of Dad’s gift but also apart from it. We’d talk about it. When the time was right, we’d talk about it.
I stepped into the park and walked towards the memorial. It was a strange construction, but curiously pleasant, kind of doughnut shaped with the outer rim curving over itself. There was a dark shape in the centre of the doughnut’s hole. As I got to within a metre or two, the shape stepped forward.
Elise.
My friend Elise, smiling and crying and holding out her arms to me. The next moment I was in them. We hugged for what seemed like hours, then we hugged some more. Finally I took a step back and wiped at my eyes.
‘My father,’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ said Elise. ‘First-class plane tickets for me and Mum. Five-star hotel not far from here. Not going back until the middle of January. How good’s that?’
‘Wondered why you hadn’t wished me a happy birthday.’
‘Sorry. Thirty-five thousand feet and all that stuff.’
‘Who’s looking after the dog?’
Elise smiled.
‘Dad. He’s moved back in. Just till we get home, nothing permanent, thank God. But I reckon he’s fallen in love with her. Not surprising really. They have a lot in common, him and CC.’
‘CC?’
‘Told you. I had to have a CC in my life.’ She looked around and shivered. ‘I never knew anywhere could be this freaking cold,’ she said. ‘But the snow is beyond cool.’ She grabbed my arm. ‘See what I did there? Beyond cool.’
‘You’re a stand-up comedian.’
Elsie took a step back.
‘What’s happened to your accent?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Like hell, nothing. You’re talking weird, CC. Stop it.’
I put on my best cockney accent.
‘You’re ’aving a laugh at my expense,’ I said. ‘Do leave it out, know wha’ I mean?’
We started walking towards Mum and Sam, who were still holding off. Even in the dark, though, I could see they were beaming. There was a woman next to them. Elise’s mum. She was beaming, too.
‘We are going to go out for a big birthday meal tonight,’ I said. ‘And then I’m going to tell you all about the amazing day I’ve had. You won’t believe it.’
‘You’ll show me on your phone,’ said El.
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Bit of a problem there.’
Elise smacked herself on the side of the head.
‘You didn’t take pictures? Videos? You know, like any freaking normal person would’ve done?’ The last five words built in volume, so that the final syllable was a blast in my ear.
‘I know. I’m an idiot.’
‘True that, CC.’
‘But I didn’t think. At the time I was too busy experiencing it all, you know?’
‘You didn’t think? True that, CC.’
‘I love you, El.’
‘Course you do,’ said Elise. ‘You might be stupid, but you’re not crazy.’
My hand closed on the flash drive of my performance at the Globe. At least someone had preserved some part of my day. I thought Elise would enjoy it.
I stopped just as we were getting close to the road where everyone was waiting.
‘Lie down, El,’ I said.
‘What’s that now?’
So I lay down where I knew the grass had been, but which was now a layer of snow a couple of centimetres deep. Elise smiled and lay down next to me. We held hands.
And we made snow angels in a park in Angel.