Strutting and Fretting: chapter eight and epilogue
Athos takes them back out of Oxford, after their last canal-side performance. Porthos is full of praise, piling it all on them, directing it all their way when it comes. He’s also very happy about them breaking even. They all get a small payment, which Sylvie hadn’t expected. Porthos promises it’s from money they made on top of cost, and not out of his pocket. The way he stares at the computer screen when he does a spreadsheet convinces her he’s not lying.
She walks with him, up near Yarnton, while the others deal with the two locks close together. He’s quiet, contemplative, but not bad company. He seems comfortable around her, his binder missing. Athos pointed that out to her. She doesn’t really know quite what to make of Porthos. Aramis is easy, Constance she likes. Even d’Artagnan has become easy company, verging on a
friend.
“I’d like to write you into my next play,” Porthos says, when they reach the second lock, sitting on the verge. “If that would be acceptable. It doesn’t promise you the part, I’m rarely involved in casting or directing my own stuff. But I’d make sure you get an audition, and you’re superb, so you won’t have any trouble.”
“I would be flattered,” Sylvie says.
“Good.”
He doesn’t spend much more time with her. When they reach Banbury Aramis and Porthos leave them, getting a train back to London. Something about a TV series Aramis is in that got renewed, and a theatre thing he’s doing. Sylvie hugs Aramis, and clasps Porthos’s arm, and then leaves the others to their goodbyes, going to sit in the bows. Constance joins her, and they talk about other things. Clothes, theatre, literature. Idle things, as they cross their minds. Athos is next back, and d’Artagnan last. They unmoore, and thread their way further up the canal.
Constance and d’Artganan are met at the top of the Oxford Canal, by Constance’s brother who lives close and wanted to meet d’Artagnan. Sylvie hugs Constance hard and Constance hugs her back. There’s a surprisingly wobbly feeling in Sylvie, as if she might cry at this parting.
“Oof. You’re squeezin’ me so hard you might pop my boobs out, Syl,” Constance says, laughing. “Promise I’ll see you soon. I’m in Bath, doing theatre, and then filming for my two Doctor Who episodes in Cardiff. We’ll stay in touch, and visit each other.”
“Yes,” Sylvie agrees.
“What are you doing next?” Constance asks.
“I’m not sure,” Sylvie admits. “Depends on Athos, I think. I want to do more Shakespeare. I love that.”
“Don’t we all?” Constance says. “Let me know when you know. Oh I’ll miss you! Alright. I’m going, now. Bye, bye.”
Sylvie watches her long after she’s out of sight. Athos stands with her, his chin resting gently, carefully, on her shoulder, his arms around her, cradling her. Gently, warmly. She turns at last, into him, and lets him take her back to the boat.
They go slowly and quietly, puttering their way back to Stratford. Athos’s long term mooring is just outside the town. They arrive quietly, late at night, and moor up. Sylvie curls up in the cross bed, held by Athos, and decides she doesn’t mind what happens next. This summer has been so surreal. So happy. Being with other jobbing actors, learning about what they can do when they come together, the canal boat, the quiet. Athos. Yes, she’s quite content letting it come, seeing what happens.
“It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue;
but it is no more unhandsome than to see the lord
the prologue. If it be true that good wine needs
no bush, 'tis true that a good play needs no
epilogue; yet to good wine they do use good bushes,
and good plays prove the better by the help of good
epilogues. What a case am I in then, that am
neither a good epilogue nor cannot insinuate with
you in the behalf of a good play! I am not
furnished like a beggar, therefore to beg will not
become me: my way is to conjure you; and I'll begin
with the women. I charge you, O women, for the love
you bear to men, to like as much of this play as
please you: and I charge you, O men, for the love
you bear to women--as I perceive by your simpering,
none of you hates them--that between you and the
women the play may please. If I were a woman I
would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased
me, complexions that liked me and breaths that I
defied not: and, I am sure, as many as have good
beards or good faces or sweet breaths will, for my
kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell.”
-Shakespeare, As You Like It
~fin~