She held a finger up. “Any more language like that and I’ll wash your mouth out with soap. Now let’s get you upstairs, you need to be in bed.”
He tried to shrug off her arm as it slid back round his neck. “Give me the phone,” he gasped, thinking of Jan, the only person in the world he could turn to for help. Not caring if it meant revealing the truth about himself to her.
Ignoring his demand, she pulled him into a sitting position, then draped one of his arms round her shoulders.
“Get your hands off me,” he protested feebly.
“Okay,” she said brusquely. “One, two, three, up!” She hoisted him to his feet and his vision swirled and faded.
“What are you doing?” he mumbled helplessly, unsure if they were actually moving until he felt the edges of the stairs banging against his shins. “I need the toilet.”
“There, there. Everything will be okay,” she grunted, getting him onto the landing.
His vision cleared a little and he realised they’d stopped outside the door marked Nursery. She took a key from her pocket. His head lolled forward as she unlocked the door. The room had the letters of the alphabet running below the picture rail. The jungle-animal blind was drawn and a mobile of toy animals hung over an enormous cot in the corner.
“What… what is this?” he said, trying to focus.
“Don’t you worry, I’m here to take care of you,” she replied, lowering the bars of the cot and laying him down.
“I need the toilet. I have to go to the toilet.” He started to cry.
“That’s fine,” she said, stripping off his pajamas and taking a pair of incontinence pants from a drawer.
He felt her slipping them on and he looked at the photos lined up on the shelf to his side. Framed photos of gaunt-faced men, all lying in the cot he now found himself in.
“Who are they?” he whispered.
“My babies, of course,” she answered brightly, picking up each picture in turn. “All dead now. All dead.” She looked down at him, a smile on her face. “All my babies die. It’s what God wants.”
He stared up at her, remembering the inscription in the cemetery about her babies being with angels, realising there were no actual names listed on the gravestone.
“Now, it’s time for your feed. Mummy will get it.” She raised the bars back up and he heard her go downstairs. While she was gone he tried desperately to summon the strength to move. Sobbing with exertion, he was only able to lift a hand just clear of the blanket.
She returned with a large baby bottle, dripping a bit from the teat onto her upturned wrist. “Just right.”
He tried to shy away from her as she bent over him. But she cupped his cheek and turned his face towards her.
“What’s in that? What is it?” he said through gritted teeth as the teat was forced between his lips.
“Mother’s milk, my sweet one. Mother’s milk.”
THE SHAKESPEARE EXPRESS by Edward Marston
1938
Have you traveled on the Shakespeare Express before?” she asked.
“No,” he answered. “This is our first visit to England. Mary Anne and I are still trying to find our feet.”
“It’s a wonderful train. In the old days, you could only get to Stratford by changing at Leamington Spa-a dreadful nuisance. Ten years ago, they introduced the Shakespeare Express so that we could go direct from Paddington to Stratford-upon-Avon.”
“That will suit us fine.”
Cyrus and Mary Anne Hillier had been standing on the railway platform that morning when they fell into conversation with the attractive young woman in a tailored suit that somehow managed to look both smart and casual. Dipping down towards one eye, her hat concealed much of her close-cropped fair hair. Since their arrival in the country, they had found English people rather reserved, but here was the exception to the general rule. Tall, shapely, and impeccably well bred, she described herself as an unrepentant worshiper at the altar of the Bard.
“Then you and Cyrus are two of a kind,” said Mary Anne, looking fondly at her husband. “He’s written books on Shakespeare.”
“Really?” said the other woman. “How marvellous!”
“Cyrus is a professor of Drama at Penn State University. In fact, he’s the chairman of the department.”
“That means nothing over here, honey,” he said modestly.
“Well, it should do.”
“I’m just an anonymous member of the audience today.”
“You’re an expert,” his wife insisted.
“I agree,” said the younger woman. “If you’ve written books on a subject, you must be an authority.” She offered her hand. “It’s an honour to meet you, Professor.” They shook hands. “My name is Rosalind Walker, by the way. I’m not an authority on anything.”
“Except the Shakespeare Express,” noted Cyrus.
They shared a laugh. The three of them were soon on first-name terms. Rosalind learned that they had saved up for years in order to make the pilgrimage to Stratford-upon-Avon. She warmed to them. They were a delightful middle-aged couple who seemed to complement each other perfectly. Cyrus was a short, stout man with a bushy black beard flecked with silver. He was shrewd, watchful, and bristling with quiet intelligence. Mary Anne, by contrast, a trim, angular woman, was spirited and voluble. It was left to her to boast about her husband’s academic career, to talk about their two children, and to recount the pleasures of their Atlantic crossing.
“How long are you staying in Stratford?” asked Rosalind.
“Three nights,” replied Mary Anne. “At the Shakespeare Hotel.”
“Very appropriate.”
“That’s what we thought.”
“Tony and I usually stay at the Billesley Manor.”
“Tony?”
“My brother. He’s as mad about Shakespeare as I am.” Rosalind glanced at her watch. “He should be here by now. Tony had better get a move on. The train leaves at nine twenty-five on the dot.”
“What time does it reach Stratford?” asked Cyrus.
“At eleven thirty-three precisely.”
“You certainly know your schedule.”
“On the Great Western Railway, punctuality is a watchword.”
“Do we stop on the way?”
“Yes-at High Wycombe, Leamington Spa, and Warwick. There’ll be something of an exodus at Leamington Spa.”
“Will there?” asked Mary Anne in surprise. “Why catch a through train to Stratford then get off before we reach it?”
“The passengers will reach it in time,” explained Rosalind. “Their trip includes a coach trip, you see. They visit Guy’s Cliffe and Kenilworth before having lunch at Warwick Castle. The coach then brings them on to Stratford so that they can see all the sights before catching the train back to London.”
“I bet you can tell us the exact time that it leaves,” said Cyrus.
“Five-thirty.”
He grinned. “Are you employed by the railway company?”
“No-I’m a regular passenger, that’s all.”
“So I gather.”
“Matinée performances start early so that people will have a chance to get back to the station in time to catch the train home. The Memorial Theatre prefers to give a full text.”
“I’m all in favor of that, Rosalind. I want my money’s worth.”
“It does mean that performances can be very long. The last Hamlet went on for well over four hours.”
“Cyrus could sit and watch all day,” said Mary Anne, beaming with approval. “He relishes every single word.”
“So do I, as a rule,” said Rosalind, “but I doubt if I’ll do that this afternoon. Troilus and Cressida is not my favorite play-too dark and brutal for my taste. But it’s so rarely performed that I felt I had to catch it.”
“I love the play,” admitted Cyrus. “I did a production of it with my students last year. In my view, Troilus and Cressida is a neglected masterpiece. And, as it happens,” he went on, “its themes have taken on an unfortunate topicality.”