The Diary of William Shakespeare, Gentleman by Jackie French Read Free Book Online Page A

can deal in the wool that lines a glove, why not deal in wool without the glove? But the guild of wool merchants said not. Once again my father was fined, and once again he paid it. I stayed a glover’s apprentice, stretching the leather, even as my life shrivelled, rubbing in the oil to make hide shine white, while my life grew duller still. My soul shrank in ‘might have been’.
    They were not bad years. I was well fed, well clothed, even if both cloth and food were drabbed by pinching each penny till it squeaked. The work was simple. I had time to roam with my brothers or Tom the apprentice cooper and Harry with his apprentice potter’s rough clay hands, hunting sparrows or snaring rabbits. The sport was fun. Yet fun skims upon the surface of the waters. You must dive deep for friendship’s truest bonds, or love.
    Often I used the time to read books borrowed from the schoolmaster, the myths of
     Greece and Rome, and tales of travels, and Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales , which
     made my mother blush and say they were not fit to read aloud for a young girl like
     my sister, and caused Mary the servant to purse her lips. Some days I read my family
     my own poems, scratched with a dull quill, mocked by moonlight, but did not tell
     them they were mine. It is not a glover’s place to write poetry, nor did my father
     approve of too much writing lest it impair my memory and make me less able to
     remember glove patterns. I knew he worried much about my lack of skill.
    No, not a bad life. Just a small one. Only my mind could roam in those years. I scribbled my words on scraps of paper — the back of a loading docket or bill of sale,whatever I might find to write on. Fresh paper was too much of a luxury for an apprentice such as I to buy. Even if I’d had the coin, my father would have heard of it and demanded why.
    If you had asked me then, I might have said I was content. And then life changed. The world spun backwards, the clouds turned upside down. Birds flew with their stomachs to the sun.
    Her name was Judyth.
    Dinner: joined this noon by Susanna and her husband, Dr Hall, and Parson Roger and his wife. We ate of pigeons, dressed; hare pie; a turkey, roasted but tough; mutton soup, of which only my wife ate. For the second course: saddle of mutton, roasted; a mess of chicken; a roasted cream with rose water; preserved cherries in a tart; small parsnip cakes with raisins of the sun; quince fritters; and to drink, October beer and ale spiced with cloves and apples.
    Afterwards, at good Dr Hall’s request, I read my poems, but think that only Dr Hall and Susanna enjoyed them, for Judith yawned, the parson and his wife dozed, and my wife fidgeted from her toothache and from setting the serving men to prepare our supper.
    Then Susanna played the harpsichord, to our great enjoyment. We danced like little lambs in May, except for the parson with his gouty foot.
    Bowels: uneasy, though my waters are still clear. I do blame the quince.

Saturday, 17th October 1615
    We dined today at the invitation of Thomas Thomas, Esquire, and his family. A fine new house with glass and many chimneys, though not as fine as New Place. The conversation was the best I have had this month, for Master Thomas is a man of the world and the talk of London reaches him. We spoke of the Shrewsbury case: the Countess of Shrewsbury having been lately released from the Tower of London as reward for her help in discovering the murderer of Sir Thomas Overbury; and how Overbury’s wife did use poison and witchcraft to make her husband incapable so she could take up instead with her lover . . . At which we noticed Judith listening to us at the top of the table and ceased our conversation, for such topics are not suitable for young women.
    â€˜Do you ride, Miss Judith?’ asked young Harold Thomas.
    He is not a handsome youth — indeed, he is a trifle short, and one shoulder sits higher than the other — but