“Do you not think that you should go and greet him?” Shakespeare asked, raising his eyebrows.
“I was hoping to find some excuse to avoid it,” Smythe replied, with a sigh. “However, I suppose ‘twould be the proper thing for a dutiful son to do.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
Smythe moistened his lips as he thought about it for a moment. Finally, he made up his mind. “I am grateful for your offer of support, Will, but methinks that this is something I had best see to myself,” he replied.
“Would you like me to wait for you?” Shakespeare asked.
“Nay, Will, go on. S’trewth, I am not sure what he could want with me, and if there is an argument, I should not wish for you to witness it. I shall see you when I get back.”
“If that is what you wish.”
“I do. Go on. I shall go and speak with him.”
“Will you be all right?”
“Aye, Will.” Smythe clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks. Go on. I will follow before long.”
Most of the others had already left. A few were still lingering, putting things in order or else talking amongst themselves. Smythe watched Shakespeare walk away. He looked back and called out, “I will see you anon, Tuck,” then continued on his way. Tuck’s father glanced at him as Will passed him, and Will gave him a polite nod of greeting, but they did not speak. Tuck stood there watching his father for a few moments. Then he smiled to himself. His father would not come to him. He was expected to make the approach, as always. He took a deep breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. “Very well then,” he said to himself. “On with it.”
He walked across the yard to meet his father. As he approached, he saw that his father looked thinner and there was more white in his hair than before. The dark hair was now liberally streaked. The crow’s feet around his eyes looked more pronounced than he remembered, and his features seemed a bit more gaunt. Clearly, he had not been eating as well as was his wont. But in a curious way, the loss of weight seemed to agree with him. He looked older and leaner, but more fit for it. As his son approached, Symington Smythe II drew himself up to stand erect and proud, his chin high, his gaze aloof. It was his “knight’s demeanor,” as Tuck had always thought of it. Well, the knighthood had eluded him, and though he had somehow managed to cozen his way to an escutcheon, everything else he had now seemed lost to him as well. But the proud “knight’s demeanor” still remained, even though it did not go with the clothes.
“ ‘Allo, Father,” Tuck said, as he came up to him.
“Son,” his father said, curdy. He looked him up and down. “You look well. Seem fit, as always.”
“Did you expect me not to be?”
“Well… with the indolent life these players lead, I scarcely expected you to look as hale and hearty as you did when you were at your uncle’s forge. Hard work always agreed with you.”
“It still does, Father. My life is not quite so indolent as you might imagine it to be. There is much hard work to be done at a playhouse, and I still keep my hand in at a forge. There is a blacksmith here in London who is good enough to give me work anytime I need it.”
His father raised his eyebrows. “So? You are a journeyman blacksmith, then?”
“Nothing quite so respectable, I fear,” Tuck replied. “Liam Bailey lost an apprentice not too long ago, and I fill in for him, after a fashion, every now and then. He pays me. Not a great deal, but ‘tis a fair wage.”
The corners of his father’s mouth turned down slightly. “I see. And this…” he waved his hand in a sort of desultory fashion, taking in the yard and the theatre all around them, “… this is where you… what is the word? Perform?” He said it with distaste.
“Aye, among other things,” said Smythe. “But then, you already knew that, Father, else you would not be here. I take it Uncle Thomas told you that you could find me here.”
His father pursed his lips and nodded as he glanced around with the air of a courtier who had somehow wandered by mistake into a pigsty. “Aye. You saw fit, it seems, to write to your uncle, but not to me.”
“You had made it plain on more than one occasion that I would be disowned if I decided to go to London and become a player,” Tuck replied. “I merely took you at your word.”
His father sniffed. “And you had made it plain when you left home that being disowned meant nothing to you, since I had nothing left to leave you.”
“So… what? That makes us even? Your bankruptcy cancels out my disobedience, is that it?”
“Do not be insolent. I do not need you to throw my ill fortune into my face. I am quite aware of it, thank you.”
“ ‘Twas not my intention to be insolent, Father, or to dwell upon your ill fortune, as you call it. I intended no offense.”
His father merely grunted in reply. “I heard your friend call you by some other name,” he said. “Is my name no longer good enough for you?”
Tuck sighed. “My name is still the same as yours,” he said. “Tuck is merely what my friends call me. ‘Tis a sort of nickname. I rather like it, actually.”
His father sniffed again. “Suit yourself. ‘Tis your life. You may choose to call yourself anything you wish, I suppose.”
“Did you come all the way to London merely to find further fault with me, Father, as you always did, or was there something that you wished of me? I shall not be coming home, if that was what you came to ask of me. I have my own life now.”
“You presume I came to London merely to ask you to return?” his father said. “Do you suppose it makes a difference to me what you choose to do?”
“I would have thought not,” Tuck replied. “But if you did not come for me, why did you come?”
“ ‘Tis possible, is it not, that I came for myself? To make a new beginning? To rebuild my fortune? Or do all things have to be concerned only with you?”
Tuck frowned. “You mean… you have come here to live?” He shook his head, puzzled. “What of your wife?”
His father looked away. “She ran off.”
“All. Well… I am sorry.”
“No need. I do not require your pity. I could have gone after her, I suppose. Taken a cane to her, as she deserved. But then I thought, why bother? What need have I of an ungrateful and disloyal wench? ‘Tis just as well she left. Good riddance to her, I say. Aye, good riddance, indeed.”
“Indeed,” Tuck said.
There was an awkward silent moment that seemed to stretch uncomfortably. It seemed as if neither one of them quite knew what to say next.
“Have you found a place to stay?” asked Tuck, finally. He dreaded hearing the reply. He could not imagine having to share quarters with his father. There was barely enough room for him and Will. And inflicting his father upon Will would be cruel beyond all measure. But, still, he was his father, after all. “It can be difficult finding a place to stay in London these days,” he added, “what with so many people arriving from the country. Rooms are often scarce and-”
“Oh, I have accommodations,” his father replied, with a dismissive wave. “I may have fallen upon hard times, but I am still not without some influence in London, you know. You need not concern yourself on my account. Besides, I have no intention of staying in some hovel of a tavern, sleeping on some flea-infested mattress, next to some unwashed mountebank.” He curled his lip in a sneer. “Nay, you need not worry. I was quite capable of securing my own lodgings.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Tuck replied, meaning every word. He avoided rising to the bait. He would not have wished to have his father stay at the Toad and Badger, in any case. He did not imagine that Symington Smythe II and his airs would go over very well with Courtney Stackpole. “Well, then, if there is anything else that I can do to help, then you will please be sure to let me know.”