Strutting and Fretting: chapter six
“I think that’s great, Porthos. I don’t think women doing Bad Things is anti feminist,” Sylvie says, passing back the new script. Porthos still looks worried. “You can’t make it perfect for everyone, but it’s great for my idea of feminism, it’s fine. I like my part, I like the way you’re directing me to play it, you’re not being misogynistic or whatever it is you think.”
“Okay, okay. You’re right, it’s fine, I’ll leave it alone. I need to finish up the publicity and email it to my mate, anyway. It’ll do,” Porthos says.
They’re lying by a river, just outside a place called Cropredy. Everyone else is still swimming, except Aramis who is asleep on the boat, after shouting and screaming at Porthos and Athos about something. It was hard to make out, he’d been incoherent. Sylvie isn’t asking. Porthos sits up with his tablet, tapping away. Sylvie stays lying there, sprawled, sun shining on her. They had a day and a half of rain, and she’s glad to be out of their little box.
“Can I flop down on top of you?” Athos asks, a bit later.
“Go ahead,” Sylvie says, holding out her arms.
He doesn’t fall completely on top of her, but more or less. He’s wet and laughing and wriggling, and considerably happy. He’d enjoyed the rain, sitting out in it, steering the boat, singing. He had also drunk a lot of wine. To keep warm. She’d told him he was an idiot, but then joined him out there, drinking, and laughed at his singing, then joined in. The rain hadn’t been all bad.
“You’re sun-warm. All yellow gold,” Athos says. “You’re glorious.”
“Yes, I am. Tomorrow, I’m going to walk to Farnborough hall. I think it’ll take about two hours, but it looks fun and I’ve never seen this house,” Sylvie says. “Come with?”
“A two hour walk?”
“With me.”
“Alright. If I must,” Athos says, heaving a great sigh.
“Eighteenth century, landscape done by Sanderson Miller. He did work on Hagley, where we went?”
“Oh yeah, the castle that was built ruined. Stupid.”
“Sanderson redid the landscaping at Farnborough. There’s a temple and an obelisk and it’s beautiful. You’ll like it. It’s a family estate, you’ll feel right at home,” Sylvie says.
“I grew up on an estate, why do you all make fun of me being rich?” Athos grumbles.
“Because you sound like a ponce!” Porthos calls, laughing. “And you went to that posh school.”
“Scholarship boy,” Athos says. “We didn’t actually have money.”
“And Oxford,” Porthos says.
“I didn’t,” Athos says.
“You got in,” Porthos says.
Sylvie tunes out their bickering. Athos and Porthos seem to have some kind of shorthand affection that involves a lot of teasing. She’ll have to get used to it, but she’s in no hurry to. She mostly just ignores it. d’Artagnan must do something, because Porthos roars and yells his name and then there are two splashes and laughter. Athos gets up and there’s another splash, then Constance comes and lies beside Sylvie.
“They’re being twats,” Constance complains. She’s wet and cold, so Sylvie draws her closer. “Athos won’t
mind?”
“Dunno, don’t care, nothing romantic or sexy about cuddling, he cuddles the shite out of that lot he has no legs to stand on,” Sylvie says. Recites. She has her defence all lined up. She sighs. “Men are shits, Constance. I’ve actually practiced that speech, just in case.”
“Mm hmm. As someone who the world started perceiving female only halfway through, the difference is striking. I never did practise those speeches, before, but now I do. I had to have a conversation with d’Artagnan the other day about him taking my feelings into account, because he was cross with me for being upset by something really incredibly reasonable. What is that about? Fuckery, that’s what.”
“I really like Medea. It’s like a huge fuck you to men everywhere. She takes no shit whatsoever, she’s fantastic.”
“I must make a nice change from reading books about houses and bricks and things,” Constance says.
“Architecture,” Sylvie corrects. “Heritage and conservation. It’s fascinating. Shut up.”
“I love all the stuff you know about that, though, seriously. The play you wrote set in Ludlow castle was so incredibly spectacular. I still really want to see it performed there.”
“That was a fun one, wasn’t it? All Shakespeare woven in modernity and stuff. A play of people playing a play without being a play about playing a play. And there were ghosts.”
“Hunchback Richard yelling at Shakespeare and Hollinshead,” Constance says, sighing. “Absolute perfection.”
“I should Medea like that. I want to chat with her. Interview with Medea, in Elephant and Castle market,” Sylvie says, laughing.
“I like that idea. Maybe in a big old falling down house again, though. What about Chalfield? Wolf Hall-esque.”
“Corfe could be fun. Somewhere in Cornwall, maybe. Sea and rain and wind. I know it’s a Greek story, but the wild elements would be good,” Sylvie says. “Or maybe the place we’re going tomorrow. Farnborough.”
“Just don’t get lost and never return to us,” Constance says.
“Mm,” Sylvie says. “I’ve bought a map, that should get us there easily.”
It doesn’t, in the end, get them there easily. They get lost within twenty minutes, trying to avoid a biggish road. Athos is bad tempered about that, but Sylvie doesn’t mind.
“It’s a quest,” she says, spreading the map entirely open on a picnic table that’s randomly there, and trying to work out their position.
“Can I have a sandwich?” Athos asks, slumping at the table, looking sweaty and dejected and very hot.
“No. Drink some water, then we’ll get off again, I think I’ve worked it out.”
They walk for a further ten minutes before she’s sure they’re back on the right track. It’s only three roads, three slight direction changes. She manages not to get lost again, but she does take them off-route, wandering around for a while exploring. Athos catches on and grumbles, though, so she gets them to Farnborough.
“It only took us just over an hour,” Athos says, pleased.
“Yep. I told you the wrong time to make you happy when we got here,” Sylvie admits. “Shall we have a wander around the village?”
They find a pretty little church, and a sixteenth century gastro-pub which is a lot gastro, not a lot sixteenth century, and only a little pub. The food’s okay, though, and they sit outside, which is nice, and Athos likes it. He smokes, sprawled in his chair, a pint in hand, and sighs happily.
“You’re such a twat,” Sylvie says, fondly, shaking her head at him. “Do you even smoke?”
“Sometimes. Never got the habit. I’ve done it a fair bit, I’m pretty sure I’m not going to get addicted. It’s just nice once in awhile,” Athos says.
“I’m not judging. Unless you do something that has an impact on me, then I reserve the right to tell you about it.”
“Okay. Um, I’ll attempt to do the same.”
She laughs at him more than is perhaps kind for that. He seems so earnest about it all. He glares at her, but then he grins and melts further into his chair, chuckling. She does get to see the hall. She goes through it room by room, with a guidebook, telling Athos in great detail all the things she knows about it, and lecturing him on the architecture. It’s a hobby of hers, that few people have the patience for. She likes bricks and mortar and history of structures. Athos listens carefully, as if storing it all away, but doesn’t light up until the gardens.
“You’re an outside body, really, aren’t you?” Sylvie asks, taking his arm and tucking it into her own as they stroll around the lakes.
“That or a big open fireplace. Or a library.”
“I don’t see you applying yourself to books much.”
“Good places to nap, libraries.”
Sylvie snorts. Athos is academic, sort of. The ‘sort of’ seems to be moreso than the ‘academic’, most of the time. Sometimes he’ll get onto a thing and research it into submission, and he does read. Some of it, he’s told her, is the depression. Sometimes he just doesn’t have the focus or motivation for it. Some of it, she’s pretty sure, is just him being much more interested in other things. Porthos, on the other hand. Porthos, she’s seen, reads everything and anything.
“This is beautiful,” Athos says, looking at the temple, leaning into her. “Sylvie, thank you for bringing me.”
“Of course. I will drag you to every beautiful crumbling heap in the UK,” Sylvie says. “We should go on a tour of Welsh castles. They’re magnificent. You can bring Porthos and d’Artagnan, if you like, and pretend you’re defending them or something. Swords and gunpowder and cannons. That sort of thing.”
“Aramis too?”
“I assumed Aramis goes wherever Porthos does. He’s…”
“He was upset about something, yesterday, and lost control of his temper. He’s quite hot headed. Don’t think of him like that, please? From that outburst.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that,” Sylvie says, though she had been. Athos squeezes her arm, and they move on.”I like him, I’m just learning new things about him here.”
By the time they get back to the boat, evening is giving way to night, though the sun is still out and high. d’Artagnan is sat on the roof, and waves to them when he spots them, scrambling down and coming to greet them, bouncing at Athos’s side and talking a mile a minute about his day.
“And you? Did you have fun at your house?” d’Artagnan asks, peering around Athos to smile at Sylvie.
“I’m starving,” Sylvie says, instead of answering.
“I’ll cook for you,” Athos says.
“I’ll cook,” Sylvie says. “I like cooking, I’m good at it. If I do it, it might not be fried-something-with-ketchup.”
“Hey, I make toast. That’s not fried,” Athos says.
Sylvie ignores that. She sets herself up in the galley, and thirty minutes later she’s got food and a glass of wine and is sitting with the others, Athos on one side of her, Constance on the other. When she’s done eating, she curls up against Athos, Constance’s hand resting on her ankle. She can feel Athos’s eyes on her. He touches her cheek now and then, her hair. Holds her. Kisses her. It’s nice.
“I’ve been wondering about costumes, Porthos,” Constance says.
“Bugger,” Porthos says.
He’s sat on the floor, his legs out in a ‘v’ in front of him, and he’s quite drunk. Aramis is sat cross legged in front of him seeming very pleased and amused by Porthos. Sylvie watches the two of them for a moment.
“I’ve thought of it,” Sylvie says. “I was going to put it to you, Porthos. I think I should wear just jeans and a shirt, and Constance should wear a slightly more formal version that visually matches. Aegeus should wear something expensive. Do you have any smart clothes, d’Artagnan?”
“Athos bought me a suit,” d’Artagnan says, blushing faintly. He’s sat on his own, on the opposite bunk, currently made up as a sofa. “I have it with me.”
“Why on earth?” Athos says. “Never mind. That’s great, d’Art.”
“Brilliant. What about, um, the other one. Aramis,” Porthos says. “What about Aramis?”
“Jason,” Aramis supplies, smiling widely.
“No,” Porthos says, frowning. “I meant you, ‘mis. Your part. I don’t know a Jason. What are you on about?”
“Exercise clothes,” Sylvie says. “And we cut everyone else, didn’t we?”
“d’Artagnan makes a brief appearance as the messenger. I gave Constance the nurse’s part, though,” Porthos says. “No Nurse, alack the day! O woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day! Most lamentable day, most woeful day!”
Porthos falls backwards, lies on the floor, and is silent. Aramis lays himself on top of Porthos, laughing, and they start whispering. Sylvie stops watching them, instead turning to Constance. She’s beautiful, in the setting sun, hair burning gold-red. Sylvie reaches out to play with it, and Constance smiles at her. They’ve talked, since Athos said he wasn’t comfortable with them kissing. They’re only friends, now. Sometimes there’s still that little leaping spark between them. That can be between friends, too. Sylvie’s felt it for both romantic and platonic friends. She’s just fond of people. It’s different than with Athos, that’s enough for her to keep them separate, to keep Constance as a friend even in her mind. Constance rubs the arch of her foot, distracting her, and Sylvie leans into Athos, moaning.
“That’s so good,” she says, wriggling her toes.
“Hedonist,” Athos says. “We’ll take the crossbed, bagsies.”
“We’ll be fine on the floor,” Aramis says. “Porthos isn’t going anywhere. Great drunken lumpen darling of mine.”
“I guess we’ll take the bunks,” d’Artagnan says. “It’ll be better anyway, Connie, I always just want to-”
“d’Artagnan! Keep them thoughts on the inside of your skull!” Constance says. “He’s so bloody young, Athos! Always rarin’ to go!”
Sylvie laughs, nudging her friend’s thigh, knowing Constance has absolutely no complaints about d’Artagnan in that respect. They wind their ways to bed, after that. Sylvie gets to be the little spoon, Athos curled around her. She’s warm and safe, and it’s been a wholly happy day. She falls asleep with visions of great halls, beautiful architecture, and mad ionic temples and obelisks.
*
“When we get to Oxford, we’re going shopping,” Sylvie says, plonking down next
to Constance in the grass, next day.
They’ve just gone all the way through their play, twice, and Porthos has given them screeds of notes before buggering off to do administration. He’s a very demanding, exacting director, which Sylvie isn’t keen on, even with his gentleness. He’s good, and he compromises with her, working more the way she prefers, but he’s still demanding and exacting and it’s not her prefered style. She likes it when her directors are more focussed on the overall piece and less on her every single syllable.
“I hate shopping,” Constance grumbles. “Plus Oxford’s rubbish for it.”
“We can go look for shoes, too,” Sylvie weedles. “They must have some shops. I want to try on pretty dresses and flounce around, and I need sunglasses, and I want a better shade of lipstick. This one is useless with my skin, it’s entirely the wrong shade of purple. I want to get my hair done, too.”
“Hair, shoes... done. I like hair and shoes,” Constance says. “We’re such girls.”
“You’re such a dork.”
“I tried really hard to like shopping, I thought it was needed, to be a woman,” Constance says. “But, nah, I’m happy disliking it. Met plenty of women who dislike it. Plus I don’t give a fuck. Aramis’ll want to come, he adores shopping. Say no, though. He’s a terrible shopper.”
“I confiscated his cards,” Porthos says, coming off the boat with a plate of sandwiches. “He’s not getting them back till after Oxford. He’s got a temp card, with a limit.”
“Aw,” Sylvie says, laughing.
“Last time he went shopping he spent six hundred quid on shoes,” Porthos says.
“They were good shoes,” Aramis calls, from the bows. “He made me give them back! My lovely boots.”
“It’s not exorbitant for good boots,” Sylvie says.
“See, Porthos? It was a good buy!” Aramis cries, popping up. “One foot in sea and one on shore, To one thing constant never. But I am constant to shoes, and a good buy. And you, darling.”
Porthos goes to join him in the bows, to bicker about shoes and money probably. Sylvie ignores them, shutting her eyes, soaking up the sun. It’s the last she gets for a while - the next three days it rains and thunders. They moor in Banbury and stay put, and spend time in the Café Nero to escape the box of a boat. Athos, again, sits happily in the rain, though. At least one of them enjoys it.
While the rain pounds down, Porthos writes, Aramis curls up wherever Porthos is and is miserable, d’Artagnan and Constance take advantage of them all abandoning ship and probably have sex. Athos sits in it and enjoys himself, taking walks up and down the canal, wandering town. Sylvie’s at a bit of a loose end, so she goes shopping. There’s a shopping centre, with a New Look and an H&M among other things. She tries on heaps of dresses and heeled shoes. There’s even an HMV left, so she buys Athos a CD of John Martyn on a whim.
“It’ll take us two days to get to Oxford. We could do it in a single day, but it’ll be nicer not to. Where are we doing this, Porthos? Did you think about that, yet?” Athos asks.
“Yeah. there’s an old boatyard, in Jericho. It’s shut down, but a canal boat rental still works out of there and they owe my mate a favour. We’re going to use the yard for the audience. There are visitor moorings a bit further down, so we can hitch up there and do it for passers by. There’s just not a lot of space towards town, on the path, and the bank isn’t great. We’ll have to change it a bit, so you’re all always on the boat. I think we can do that?”
“Yes, you made us do a runthrough entirely on the boat,” Sylvie says. They’re midships, sat around the table, considering their next move. They’re all fed up with Banbury, that at least is agreed. “Athos and me are going to do some tourist things, and Connie and me are going shopping, so I vote for leaving tomorrow morning and getting there a bit early, mooring up in town.”
“Two day slots, up there,” Porthos says. “If we can get
one. If we go further than halfway tomorrow, and set out really really early, we can get the mooring as people leave, before the next arrive.”
“Sorted,” d’Artagnan says.
Sylvie makes them some pasta for dinner, and Aramis even comes out of his cocoon of jumpers and hoods and, currently, blankets, to join them. Porthos feeds him, teases him, gets a laugh out of him, then goes to bed looking almost as dejected as Aramis. Aramis trails after him making grouchy noises until he’s snuggled up against Porthos again. Athos snorts in their general direction.
“Just because the rain cheers you up,” d’Artagnan says. “I’m with Aramis. I’m hoping for sunshine, tomorrow. Did they take the cross bed?”
“No, they’re jammed onto a bunk,” Athos says. “I want the cross. Please?”
“My turn,” d’Artagnan says.
“I’m having it,” Sylvie says. “I got my period this morning, and want to be comfortable.”
Athos gives her a sideways look, then nods along. She’s pretty sure her period might happen at some point, so. It sort of counts. Plus, she deserves the bed, she had a hard day’s shop today. And she wants Athos. He’s been wet and distant, with the rain. d’Artagnan and Constance end up nesting on the floor. Porthos’s snoring is noisy and annoying, but Sylvie’s almost used to it by now. She sleeps just fine.
They make it to Oxford by about eight am, a day and a night later, and Sylvie drags Athos off into town to examine the historic heart of the city. She finds him an uninterested audience, until they find someone who writes down all the Harry Potter filming locations. He goes off on an excited rant about Alan Rickman and how awesome he is, and how he actually met him once.
“He was so nice, and so polite, and really really nice about this little ten year old bugging him. He told me I would make a great actor,” Athos says, sighing happily over a tree in New College grounds.
Sylvie hums in agreement and wanders off to look at the city wall, leaving him to his jubilation. He also enjoys the historic pubs, and the tower they climb. They end up at Merton college. They find Porthos and Aramis looking around the real tennis court. They’ve talked someone into letting them have a go. Athos cheers as Porthos wins what might be a point.
“I take it back. I don’t mind sightseeing afteral” Aramis says. “This is great.”
“His present and your pains we thank you for: when we have march'd our rackets to these balls,
we will, in France, by God's grace, play a set shall strike his father's crown into the hazard,” Porthos roars, flinging a ball cheerfully at the wall and cantering over to them, throwing his arms around both Athos and Aramis in an enthusiastic squeeze that might be called a hug.
When he lets them go, he turns on Sylvie, and submits her to a gentler though no less enthusiastic embrace. She allows it, then enjoys it. He’s big and soft and good at hugging. When he lets her go she tucks herself into Athos’s side, a little shy.
“Let’s go to that bear pub,” Porthos says. “Apparently a pint is over four quid, so it must be good.”
“It’s a chain,” Aramis says, dismissing it.
“So? So’s everything. I am not walking all the way up to the Eagle and Child just because Tolkien used to camp out there. That’s a chain, too, I’ll bet you anything,” Porthos says.
They leave arm in arm, probably to go to neither of those pubs. Athos and Sylvie cross the road and look at Oriel, then sit on the grass in Christ Church meadows and Athos talks some more about Alan Rickman.
Chapter Seven