STAGS 2, page 10
Scene xii
Act Four certainly gave me a few headaches as a director – it contained some of the hardest scenes yet in terms of staging.
I had the problem of creating a hunt through a forest, ending with a death. Here the art types really helped me. They made a fantastically chaotic Underwood forest, with trees like tangled antlers and multiple eyeholes cut out of the trunks. When the candles were lit behind the ‘eyes’ it was pretty effective, giving the impression that unseen creatures were watching from the wood.
For the ‘real’ attack dogs, played by the rest of the drama class, we’d gone down the War Horse route of stylised black dog heads with red glowing eyes like little coals, also made by the art types as part of their Probitio. And they had come up with another brilliant idea – they’d rigged up Abbot Ridley with four rolled-up, enormously long red ribbons, the colour of our school stockings. The four ribbons were tucked one at each wrist and one at each ankle of the Abbot’s costume. At the climax of the hunt when the dogs were to attack, they had to pull at the ribbons with their ‘jaws’, and they would unfurl and spill all over the stage like blood.
Poor Abbot Ridley was doing a bit more acting than he’d bargained for. He now had a major part in the production, including a pretty full-on death scene. But to be fair to him he took it really well. And it didn’t hurt that he was good-looking, tall and a reasonable actor. So far, so Henry Cavill.
We tried the death scene in rehearsal and it worked really well – red ribbon pouring out of the Abbot’s wrists and ankles. The effect was striking and surprisingly gory. It would work even better when he was in his costume as the Earl-of-Greenwich-disguised-as-the-peasant-Robert-Horne.
After this bit would come Canis’s reaction to his beloved master’s death. Nel took me aside in the wings. ‘You remember that story Friar Camden told us in history – how Mary, Queen of Scots’ dog stayed with her under her skirts when she was getting her head chopped off, and then wouldn’t leave the body?’
I nodded.
‘Well, do you think I could … well, you know, mourn a bit?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘Fill your boots.’
We played the scene. Canis recognised the dead earl and dropped to his knees, cupping the earl’s cheek in his hand, feeling his lips for the mist of breath. He sat back with horrible acceptance, facing the fact that his master was dead.
Then Nel did a funny thing. She didn’t cry, or wail, or beat her chest, or anything dramatic like I might have expected. She just laid her head on his dead chest, as a dog might lay his head in his master’s lap. Then she did the saddest thing. She took the earl’s lifeless hand and made it stroke her head, once, twice, three times, making the master pet the servant as he had never done in life.
It was absolutely freaking heartbreaking. No one in the cast moved, offstage or on. We were all frozen with Canis’s grief.
Until, from the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow shifting in the upper circle and slipping away. Blinded by the footlight candles, I looked up.
I could’ve sworn it was Shafeen.
Scene xiii
Since that scene marked the end of the day’s rehearsal I packed up as quickly as possible – I wanted to get out of the theatre fast, to see if that really was Shafeen watching.
Nel stayed behind to talk to Abbot Ridley about their scene – her face animated, her eyes shining. I looked at her with a pit of foreboding opening up in my stomach. But I could hardly pull her away from a conversation with, effectively, the headmaster. I left, tucking the precious script carefully in my deer-leather satchel.
Although it was only three o’clock, the weak winter sun was setting and the temperature was dropping. Shafeen, if it had been him, was nowhere to be seen. But a tall figure with cropped blonde hair strode ahead of me, dragon-breath smoking, conjuring up Henry’s ghost once again. As usual, you couldn’t really tell which twin was which from the back. As I drew level, I could see it was Cass. We smiled guardedly at each other and fell into step. We were heading up the Hundred Stairs, an ancient stone stairway between Bede’s Piece and Lightfoot, and we were totally alone. I could ask her, now, about Shafeen. I would never have a better moment. Instead, when I opened my mouth, quite a different question came out.
‘Cass, I don’t suppose you know anything about Gabriel Spenser, do you?’
‘Yes,’ she said simply.
‘You do?’
‘Yes. Lots. What do you want to know?’
‘Who was he? What was his deal?’
‘He didn’t exist.’
‘Wait, what? Your family’s playhouse is dedicated to Mr Nobody?’
‘No – I mean, yes. I mean –’ She was struggling a little – I imagined because she never got to talk very much. ‘Gabriel Spenser wasn’t real. It was a … what do you call it? A pseudonym.’
‘A stage name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who for?’
‘Nazereth de Warlencourt.’
‘Who he?’ I was so gripped my grammar went out of the window.
‘An ancestor. An Elizabethan one.’
‘And he was called Nazareth? As in “Jesus of –”?’
‘Except with two Es instead of two As.’ We were both getting quite breathless – the Hundred Stairs were tough. ‘He fell in love with the London theatre scene, and was desperate to go on the stage. So he did.’
‘So he came down all the way from Longcross?’
‘Yes. That’s when he bought Cumberland Place. The de Warlencourt London residence.’
‘Oh.’
‘That is, not exactly the same house. Our Cumberland Place is Georgian. But it was built on the site of an older medieval house. That was the Cumberland Place Nazereth lived in. He was the heir to the Longcross estates; he was presented at court to Elizabeth, tutored in classics and fencing and cosmology and all that stuff. But he got the acting bug.’ We kept pace up the stairs, watching our footing as the stone started to frost. ‘The family didn’t approve of his acting. As he was the heir, they thought he should be managing his estates, and not prancing around on the stage. So he took a stage name.’
‘That’s why the name is in inverted commas on the plaque. I see. So why Gabriel?’
‘Grandmama used to tell us that it was because of the Angel Gabriel, who first appeared in Nazareth.’
‘Clever. And Spenser?’
She gave me an odd look with her light eyes. ‘That was the name of his spaniel.’
‘His dog?’
‘Yes.’
Dogs again. So bizarre. But Cass carried on walking calmly up the steps, hands behind her back like Prince Charles, as if there was nothing loop-the-loop weird about the whole thing. I honestly believe she was such an odd one that she would’ve left it there if I hadn’t prodded her again.
‘You said Grandmama –’ I was pretty sure I’d never used that word before – ‘used to tell us. Does Louis know about Nazereth?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why didn’t he tell me when I asked him?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I thought you knew everything about him.’
She looked at me with her strange, impassive expression, then her blue-grey eyes slid away. ‘Not this.’
She seemed to clam up again, but I had one more burning question. ‘Cass, are you Mrs de Warlencourt?’
She frowned a little. ‘I’m Miss de Warlencourt. Actually, I’m the Honorable Lady de Warlencourt. But not Mrs. Why would I be a Mrs? I’m not married.’
‘No reason. Forget it. Thanks for the info.’
I was pretty convinced. I didn’t really think Cass was a good suspect for mrs_de_warlencourt. She was a full-on Medieval, and mrs_de_warlencourt was a full-on Savage. I doubted Cass even knew how to use Instagram. You couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks. She gave me her shy smile and at the top of the steps took the path to Honorius and the science labs. I watched her go, wondering if she would report our conversation to her new crush, Shafeen.
Scene xiv
That Sunday at evensong all I could think about was getting my hands on Act Five of The Isle of Dogs.
The choir scored my thoughts with the same hymn they’d sung at the Requiem Mass for the Old Abbot – the one about misery. But that night it couldn’t touch me. I was impatient for the service to be over.
After Mass the cast had been invited for ‘sherry’ in the Abbot’s rooms. This was another strange drink-related tradition of STAGS, and one I could really have done without that evening. I just wanted to get back to my room and get those pages. Instead, we all stood around in our chapel capes – me, Nel, Ty and the twins – in the Abbot’s study, making small talk and holding teeny-tiny glasses of sweet wine. The only good thing about it was that I could fill the Abbot in about Nazereth de Warlencourt, which I did in a private corner behind his desk.
He was, predictably, properly interested. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘high-born young men wouldn’t have been on the stage – it was not considered a noble profession. So I think Nazereth took the only course available for noblemen who wanted to act in those days: to get yourself a new name, a new identity.’
‘Hmm,’ I said, ‘bit easier for noblemen who want to act these days.’
‘Are there noblemen who want to act these days?’
‘Well, not noblemen, but come on. Posh boys.’
‘For example?
‘Well, Tom Hiddleston. Dominic West. Eddie Redmayne.Benedict Cumberbatch. Even Tom Hardy, though he hides it well.’
‘Yes,’ he said ruefully. ‘You make a fair point.’
I’d barely sat down in the Great Hall for Sunday Commons when Nel was all over me. ‘What were you talking to Nathaniel about?’
‘Who the hell is Nathaniel?’
‘Abbot Ridley. That’s his name.’
I pressed my fingertips into my eye sockets. ‘Oh, Nel.’
‘What? It says it on his MA degree certificate. It was hanging up in his study.’
I took my hands away. I suppose I had wondered what his name was myself. ‘I was just telling him about Nazereth de Warlencourt.’ Of course I’d told her all about my conversation with Cass earlier in the week.
‘Oh.’
I studied her closely. She was carefully, concentratedly forking up her salad leaves, as if a sudden movement would break something.
‘Nel,’ I said. ‘He’s the Abbot.’
‘I know. For now.’
‘But even when he isn’t the Abbot, he’s still your teacher.’
‘Until the summer. We leave in six months’ time.’
‘You actually think you’re going to have a relationship after STAGS?’
She said nothing.
‘Nel?’
‘It happens.’
‘In movies, yes.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘in real life. Some teachers get married to their former pupils. You hear it on the news.’
‘Yes, usually when they’re reporting a court case.’
‘Some of them have kids and everything.’
‘You’re having kids with the Abbot now?’
‘No, of course not. Nothing’s going on. I’m just saying. It does happen.’
‘Does he … do you think he likes you?’
‘Yes,’ she said defiantly. ‘I think he does.’
‘Has he …?’
‘No, of course not. He’s the perfect gentleman. That’s probably why I like him.’
I shook my head. I couldn’t give my attention to Nel’s particular brand of crazy tonight. I was too focused on Act Five. I could barely finish my dinner, I was so impatient to be gone, and I stared at the Abbot as hard as Nel had, willing him to give the Latin blessing that meant Commons was over. Promising Nel that I would come and show her as soon as I had the pages, I practically ran to my room.
Scene xv
When the pages came, I watched them sliding underneath the door and pounced. This time I think, just for an instant, my hand and the messenger’s hand were both on the manuscript at the same time. I slammed my face to the keyhole but could just see black – someone’s Tudor coat, anyone’s Tudor coat. I could feel a slight tug before the unseen hand let go, and for one moment I was worried that the priceless manuscript might rip. But I need not have worried. Something was different this time. There was only one page. It was normal A4 printer paper instead of the usual tea-stain-brown, nibble-edged old manuscript. And it was typewritten.
Something was wrong.
I started to read, heart sinking. I couldn’t understand a single word. Printed on the A4 was about a third of a page of what looked like nonsense.
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet adipiscing elit, risus magnis primis nislquam,
odio imperdiet diam montes in ullamcorper phasellus placerat.
Nunc habitant pretium laoreet mauris nostra facilisi ornare integer, ma-
gna quisque senectus mollis convallis lacinia nec egestas. Porttitor mae-
cenas magna dictumst lacinia auctor ornare, aenean magnis potenti cu-
rsus venenatis libero, egestas molestie metus aptent velit congue. Temp-
or et sodales eu leo aenean pellentesque nunc aptent, urna convallis
sociosqu condimentum magna dis inceptos purus maecenas, risus gravida
sagittis integer duis nisi ultrices odio.
Dispirited, I went to find Nel. Although this clearly wasn’t Act Five, the paragraph might have a meaning and she was studying Latin, which I was sure this was. She wasn’t in bed and opened the door immediately – I got the feeling she’d been pacing the room waiting for me.
‘Did you get it?’
‘Yes and no.’
I sat down on the bed dejectedly and handed her the sheet of paper. She took it and turned it over.
‘Where’s the rest of it?
‘That’s it. That’s all there was. But it’s Latin, right? I thought you might know what it says. It might be one speech, you know, a soliloquy, which unlocks the last act.’ I was reaching, but I couldn’t bear the alternative – that it was all over and we’d never know what happened.
She studied the printout, angling her bedside light so it fell directly on the page. ‘Well, for a start, it’s not a speech; it’s placeholder text.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘OK, well, you remember in the Savage days of PCs in our old schools? Remember having to use Word and Powerpoint for schoolwork and homework?’
It seemed like a world away, but I did. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, when the software is trying to show you what different templates or fonts look like, they always use the same chunk of text. This one. Lorem ipsum.’
‘God,’ I said, vaguely remembering those first two words, ‘you’re absolutely right. But what does it mean? Would it have any connection to The Isle of Dogs?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it – never thought it had any meaning, that is. I thought it was just nonsense – sample text. But I didn’t know any Latin then, of course.’
‘Could you read it, d’you think?’
‘I’ll try. But remember, I’ve only been doing Latin for a year. You’d be better off asking Friar Overbury.’
Friar Overbury was the classics friar. ‘No. No friars.’
‘Why? You don’t think the friars are still mixed up in weird Order of the Stag stuff, do you? Especially not when you think of Nath— … Abbot Ridley. You sound like Shafeen.’
‘I don’t know what to think. But I do know that I want to keep this between us. Will you try?’
She sighed. ‘OK. It might take me a while though.’
‘Fine. Shall I copy it out for you?’
She patted me on the head. ‘Bless you. You’re such a Medieval.’ She whipped out her phone, expertly snapped a picture and slipped the Saros back in her pyjama pocket. ‘I’ll get back to you in the morning.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, a little late. I supposed there was not much more we could do tonight, but I was reluctant to leave the mystery unsolved. ‘Can you see anything odd about it?’
‘Hmmm,’ she studied the text. ‘The word endings are a bit strange. Look. There’s plenty of room to carry on the sentence but they split it across two lines, see? They do it four times. There’s a ma—, mae—, cu— and a temp— just sort of … hanging.’
Sure enough, the words were divided in weird places, with the use of a hyphen where they could just have started the word on the next line. I had a brainwave. ‘Friar Camden said that in ciphers they shove the plaintext altogether in one block and then split up the words oddly to fool the people trying to decode them, so they don’t know how many letters are in the words they are looking for. Do you think this might be a code?’
‘No,’ said Nel, always straight to the point. ‘These are bits of actual words, in an actual language, albeit a dead one. It may not mean much, but it is Latin.’
‘Well, whatever it is, it ain’t Act Five of The Isle of Dogs.’
‘So what do we do now?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I really don’t know.’
I went back to my room bitterly disappointed. Had this whole thing been a trick, an elaborate practical joke to make me fail my drama Probitio? But why? To ruin my chances of Oxford? Who would do such a thing? Was this some kind of elaborate revenge for my part in Henry de Warlencourt’s literal downfall, off Conrad’s Force?
As well as that pretty unsettling thought, I had a more practical problem. What the hell was I going to do about The Isle of Dogs? Doing one act would have been fine, it would have made some kind of sense, just an extract. But to do four acts of a five-act play was nonsensical. The audience would be invested; they would need to know what happened. My mind raced. Maybe we could end on the death of the earl – that might satisfy the audience, but it wouldn’t satisfy me. I needed to know what happened.
I checked in with mrs_de_warlencourt on Instagram. Nothing. This was the first Sunday in a while she’d been silent. I chucked the page onto my desk. Without even getting undressed I lay down on the bed, pissed off, twitchy and wakeful. I couldn’t read, and didn’t want to go on my phone. I stared up at the ceiling for what seemed like hours. Then I must’ve gone to sleep eventually.
