EVEN THOUGH THEY buried Ned that morning, King Dick called a rehearsal in the afternoon. On the way back into Four, the King steered Joe, Habs and Sam through to the kitchens. ‘Come an’ see,’ he said.
They found a pale and dazed-looking John Haywood propped up on a small mattress that had been squeezed into a deep storeroom, a guard of three vigilant inmates armed with sticks standing among the displaced potatoes, cabbages and turnips. He was staring unblinkingly at the roof.
‘I don’t rightly know where John is,’ said the King, ‘but he sure as hell ain’t here, with us. The physician says this happen sometimes. He seen it before. John can’t remember nothin’. He might get better, might not. He might talk to us, might not.’
They stood at Haywood’s bedside.
‘What happened out there, Mr Haywood?’ called Habs, his voice bouncing loud in the small brick-lined room. ‘Can you hear me?’
‘Why you shoutin’?’ said Haywood, his voice thick and groggy. ‘’Course I can hear you. Jus’ can’t remember shit, tha’s all.’
‘Do you remember goin’ out to light the lamps?’ said Habs.
‘I do not.’
‘Do you remember Ned sayin’ anythin’ …’
Haywood closed his eyes. ‘That’s precisely the kinda shit I’m talkin’ ’bout.’
‘We’ll be back to sit with you later,’ said Joe.
Before they climbed to the cockloft, the King spoke to the inmate guards.
‘No one gets in here, you know that. You see anyone who isn’t Four, you arrest ’em, tie ’em up, cosh ’em – whatever you have to do. Then you come get me. Yes?’
‘Yes, King Dick,’ came the three voices in unison.
‘We doin’ it in watches,’ said Sam as they climbed to the cockloft. ‘First watch is eight till midnight, middle watch till four, mornin’ till eight, and so on. Reckon pretty much everyone in the block knows now.’
By the time they reached the top of Four, the gambling tables were out, though most were empty. Joe, Habs, Sam and the crier had been joined by Pastor Simon and a rather awkward-looking Robert Goffe, with Jon Lord at his side. Alex and Jonathan sat apart but watched intently. The theatre company had their tabled-off section of the cockloft again, each of them standing mute, painfully aware of the absence of Ned Penny.
‘Everythin’ the same, even when it ain’t,’ said the King. ‘Everythin’ the same. The play goes on, the market goes on, the gamin’ goes on. If it don’t, well then, we get to sittin’ round talkin’ ’bout tunnels, escape and all o’ that. We keep our tragedy on the stage, gentlemen, but we jus’ sell tickets to Four this time. We can’t be doin’ with the others, not with Mr Haywood in his predicament.’
Murmurs of agreement floated between them. ‘We don’t need to tell no one ’bout that, we jus’ keeping the play to ourselves,’ continued the King. ‘I’ll play Mercutio, ’cos there ain’t nobody else to play him now. Mr Snow, we still need to recruit some more players. Welcome, anyways, to Pastor Simon, Mr Goffe and Mr Lord. We need your help.’ He nodded a salute to the newly enlisted, ignoring their obvious discomfort.
‘So. I believe we had got to Act One, Scene Five.’
Habs and Joe shifted nervously. They hadn’t spoken of the night before. Their rehearsal kiss seemed a lifetime ago.
‘Mr Snow, did you sort out the matter?’ said the King.
Habs looked briefly at Joe. ‘Well, we did start to rehearse, King Dick, but … we was interrupted.’ He gestured impotently around him. ‘Never sorted it out, really.’
The King tapped his club on the floor impatiently. ‘Never sorted it out, really,’ he repeated. ‘Well, let’s do a little sortin’. Mr Hill, your line, please.’
Joe had no more wanted to rehearse than anyone else present; in the hours after the burial most had just wanted to talk and drink. But the King had been insistent – there was an urgency now to everything he was doing, as though to delay would be to surrender. Joe stood awkwardly and closed his eyes.
‘Saints do not move though grant for prayers’ sake,’ he said flatly. Everyone looked to Habs.
‘Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take,’ he said, equally stilted. Then, without looking up, Habs bent over to Joe and kissed him on the cheek. There was the briefest of silences before Goffe snorted with laughter. Once the King started to smile, the laughing spread fast.
‘That was pathetic,’ said Joe.
‘Well, what else could I do?’ Habs protested earnestly. ‘What kinda kiss would you have preferred?’
King Dick summoned one of the gamblers he knew, a thin, stooped sailor out of Maryland called Palmer. The whispered instructions elicited the beginnings of a protest, but a handful of coins from the King’s pocket quickly silenced it.
‘What’s happenin’ there?’ asked Habs watching the man leave. ‘Never seen Palmer walk so fast. He took a bullet back in ’13, says he can’t move fast no more.’
‘Anyone ever offer him money?’ asked Sam.
‘Can’t say they have.’
‘Maybe tha’s the reason right there.’
They waited for ten minutes before the newly nimble Palmer hurried back in. He gave the King a confident nod and sat himself near the cockloft door.
‘So, gentlemen, the matter of this troublesome kiss,’ said the King. He stood, stretched, then wheeled his club with one arm and then the other.
‘Christ, he’s going to flatten us,’ muttered Joe.
‘We all saw what Mr Snow was capable of earlier,’ the King continued. ‘A kiss that wouldn’t win a spinster’s heart, never mind that of the fair Juliet.’ He was enjoying himself. ‘This prison done its best to provide an education for the needy, as Tommy here will agree.’ The crier nodded sagely. ‘So King Dick has decided to help Mr Snow and Mr Hill, if he can.’ He waved at Palmer and waited.
‘This is going to be terrible,’ Joe whispered. ‘I just know it.’ They both stared at the cockloft doors, Joe holding his breath. The whistles and applause began as soon as Betsy Wade and Martha Slater appeared in the cockloft.
‘The beautiful bakers of Tavistock,’ he said in wonder and relief. ‘At least, I assume it’s them …’ Sporting Derby high hats and hidden under enormous overcoats, the market women were bustled into the room.
‘O’ course,’ exhaled Habs.
The two bewildered women cast glances to all corners as they were ushered down the aisle of the cockloft by the less-than-stooped Palmer. When they saw Habs and Joe, they smirked, and Betsy curtseyed.
She pulled her hat from her head, tying a pile of black hair back with a strip of cloth from her wrist. ‘Hey, boys!’ she called.
‘Hey, Betsy,’ said Habs.
‘We were just packing up,’ said Martha. ‘Your man here caught us just in time.’ She looked around. ‘This your theatre, then?’
‘And church, and concert hall,’ said Joe.
King Dick bowed extravagantly. ‘Ladies, you are most welcome, but ain’t got much time. You are not allowed in the blocks, as you know, but I hope Mr Palmer has paid you for your time? Your disguises seem to be relyin’ on the redcoats not lookin’ too hard.’
Martha waved the hat she’d been given. ‘Aye, sir,’ she said, ‘and we can keep the hats, too, he says.’
The King waved them forward. ‘We need your help. We’re rehearsin’ the magnificent tragedy of Romeo and Juliet. Mr Snow here is Romeo, and Mr Hill here is Juliet.’ Both women whistled and curtseyed again. ‘But our Romeo is unsure how to kiss our Juliet. He tried it earlier and, well …’ Goffe and Lord started to laugh again. ‘Let’s just say it was none too impressive. Would one of you ladies show him how it can be done?’
Betsy beckoned Martha forward. ‘It beats selling bread, girl,’ she said.
Martha, hands on her hips, stared at the King. ‘All that money is to come here and just kiss Joe? That beautiful boy? Well, Your Majesty, or whatever it is I should call you, you’re a very generous employer. I’ll come and work for you anytime.’
‘Oh, help,’ muttered Joe, as the women strode towards him.
‘We’ll need a chair,’ said Betsy.
One from a gaming table was passed over, and Joe, blushing scarlet, sat on it, hands clutching both sides.
‘You watchin’ this, Mr Snow? You got a good view?’ called the King. Habs, amused, walked to within a few paces of the chair.
‘I can see jus’ fine, thank you, King Dick.’
Martha then, without pausing, without hesitating, hoisted her skirts and sat astride Joe. He squirmed as she settled herself into position and tucked some loose strands of her red hair behind her ears, then did the same to Joe, his growing hair just staying back off his face.
‘Ready?’ she whispered. He nodded, and Martha lifted his face to hers. She slowly leaned forward till their lips were barely touching. Her hand reached for his, then placed it firmly on her right breast. ‘Why are you holding your breath?’ she whispered.
As Joe went to apologize, Martha’s lips were on his and her tongue was in his mouth, warm and probing. Then it was over. Joe heard the wild applause and cheering, flicked a glance at Habs, who was clapping, too.
‘That’s how you do it,’ she said, and without pausing for breath, swooped again. The chair rocked back and Joe, pinned under Martha, lost his balance. He fell hard on to the ground, the wooden chair slamming hard into his spine, Martha hard into his chest. She raised her head briefly as they landed, then kissed him again. Winded, Joe could only accept the kisses, until Martha stopped and sat up. Gasping for air, Joe rolled on to his side, aware the applause had become laughter.
‘Something like that?’ she said to the King, brushing her skirts back down.
‘Somethin’ like that,’ he replied.
‘So, Habs. Reckon you can try it now?’
‘That’s supposed to be their first kiss?’ Habs was incredulous. ‘You want Romeo and Juliet to kiss like that?’
‘Maybe don’t break the chair,’ said the King.
‘And don’t break his ribs neither!’ called Sam.
Martha stepped back. ‘All yours,’ she said to Habs.
On their ‘stage’ and in the cockloft, the mood had become surprisingly light. In contrast to their grief-filled morning, the disastrous kiss, then Martha’s tuition, had filled the company with laughter. But Habs was nervous now. He fidgeted with his hair, rotated the miniature beads on his earrings, adjusted the straps on his boots. He had been ready to kiss Joe in the silence and the darkness of the night before, and he thought Joe had been ready, too, but here? With an audience watching? Now, he wasn’t so sure.
Joe was standing, studying the script. Or, Habs thought, more likely, he was merely staring at the script. Habs walked over to Joe and leaned in close.
‘Still a rehearsal,’ he whispered.
Joe tried a smile, relief in his eyes. ‘Still a rehearsal,’ he echoed.
‘Give us the line, then, Romeo!’ called the King. ‘Let’s see what you learned from Martha here.’
Habs and Joe took deep breaths at the same time. Joe noticed Goffe and Lord whispering to each other and held up his hand to halt Habs. ‘Mr Goffe and Mr Lord!’ he shouted. ‘If you don’t like this one, you two can perform the next.’
The ice broken, the tension gone, Habs said, ‘Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take.’ He reached out to tuck a loose strand of blond hair behind Joe’s ear as Martha had, and leaned forward slowly until their lips just touched. It was more a caress than a kiss, but Habs pulled back.
‘Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.’ There was a silence.
Joe gulped some air. ‘Then have my lips the sin that they have took.’
Habs was barely an inch away. ‘Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.’
Joe felt Habs’s fingertips on the back of his head, then their delicate push as their heads were gently pulled closer. This time, the kiss was longer.
Then King Dick was speaking. It took Joe a few seconds to realize he’d missed his cue.
‘You kiss by the book,’ said the King, prompting Joe, clearly for the second or maybe the third time.
‘You kiss by the book,’ muttered Joe, his head spinning.