“Don’t encourage him,” Monk said. “It’s taken him months to write that.”
“You wrote it?” Jack said.
“But…” Jack was confused. He had heard the song before, in fact he was sure it was from Shakespeare. It was from another play they had done — they had even watched a film of it in class —
“You say you wrote it? This is part of your ‘work’… and you say you have more?” Jack asked.
“You’ve done it now,” Monk groaned.
But Fanshawe seemed to be delighted by the question.
“Of course, come, I must show you.”
Fanshawe led Jack towards the wagon.
“This will interest you, my boy.”
Jack jumped to his feet to follow Fanshawe. He briefly looked back at Angus, who shrugged his shoulders. Fanshawe climbed into the back of the wagon and Jack climbed in after him. It was stuffed full of clothes, bedding and other paraphernalia. It looked like it had been the Fanshawe Players’ home, costume wardrobe and kitchen for months. It smelt bad.
“Over here.”
They crawled towards the front of the wagon where Fanshawe unearthed a small wooden chest from under a pile of clothes.
“Here we are.”
He took a large brass key that hung round his neck and inserted it into a lock in the front of the chest.
“Very precious.”
Jack looked on, intrigued. Maybe Fanshawe was about to open a chest full of jewels or something — perhaps the lifetime takings of the Fanshawe Players.
Fanshawe opened the lid and Jack looked down on a pile of dusty old papers and parchment. Frankly he was disappointed.
Fanshawe beamed at Jack triumphantly. “There! What do you think?”
Jack did not quite know what to say. The reams of ink-stained paper were covered in a scrawly handwriting that was difficult to read.
“It’s very nice… but I don’t…”
Fanshawe interrupted. “Look, here is the first page.”
Jack looked down at the piece of paper that Fanshawe held in his hands.
It read:
Below this was a contents page entitled ‘A Catalogue’ and beneath this was a series of titles divided into three sections: Comedies, Histories and Tragedies.
Jack’s brow creased in concentration. The titles on the contents page were familiar. Then his heart missed a beat when he realised what he was looking at. In amazement, he whispered to himself, “It’s Shakespeare.”
Fanshawe was still beaming, “I’m sorry my friend, it’s what?”
Jack couldn’t believe it. Fanshawe seemed to be in possession of an entire volume of Shakespeare’s work. But… several years before Shakespeare had written them and over thirty years before they were compiled into a single printed edition of his work: the famous First Folio. Beattie had told them all about it. Back in the twenty-first century, there were only two hundred or so First Folios in existence. They were extremely valuable and sold for three million pounds or more. How could this possibly be in the hands of Fanshawe in the back of a mouldy old cart in the middle of a forest?
“Did you write all this?”
Fanshawe beamed proudly. “Every last word — that is my hand.”
“But…”
Jack could not understand it. Was it possible that the failed actor — Harry Fanshawe, leader of a failed troupe of players — now on his last throw of the dice to somehow link up with the great Christopher Marlowe in Cambridge and save his career, could be the author of Shakespeare’s works?
Jack scanned the titles on the page. He had the benefit of a quick mind, but he was certainly no expert on Shakespeare. He knew
He recognised the titles as Shakespeare’s… but not quite. It was as if they were not right, somehow. There were titles like:
It was apparent from the titles, that even if Fanshawe had spent a lifetime creating the work now ascribed to Shakespeare, he had perhaps not done it very well. It needed work — a lot of work.
“Incredible,” Jack murmured.
“You’re too kind.” Fanshawe basked in what he took to be Jack’s admiration. There was precious little of that coming from either Trinculo or Monk — whose patience with the whole Fanshawe enterprise was wearing thin.
“Do you think I could have a look at one of the plays?”
“Certainly, sir. Which one would you like to see?”
“What about that one —
“Certainly, my latest and proudest achievement.” Fanshawe rummaged through the papers and drew out a sheath of ink-blotted papers. “Here we are.”
Jack thumbed through the pages to find what he was looking for — Act III, Scene I — early on. Jack scanned the page. He knew the words he was looking for off by heart, so even in Fanshawe’s unfortunate scrawl he should be able to spot them.
He muttered to himself, reading down the list of names, “Polonious, then the king, then Polonious… this should be it… and then… Dave?”
Jack looked up at Fanshawe. “Dave?”
“Yes — David — one of the main characters in this tragedy.”
“Hold on, you’ve called him David…?”
“That is his name.”
“Not Hamlet.”
Fanshawe nodded thoughtfully. “Well, Jack, certainly ‘Hamlet’ has a certain ring to it… Yes — you’re right… Hamlet… I like it! In fact now you mention it ‘Dave’ does not sound right at all! Let’s make it Hamlet. Much more, er,
Jack began reading the great soliloquy — one of the most famous passages in the English language. But they weren’t the words he remembered or expected:
Jack could hardly bear to read on. It was complete rubbish. “It’s gobbledegook.”
“Yes — I agree,” Fanshawe said. “I don’t know what that word means, Jack, but I certainly agree with you — it is certainly one of my favourite passages… certainly gobbledegook.”
Jack murmured, “It’s Shakespeare, but not quite as we know it.”
“Harry — can I suggest a couple of changes… for example, why not try the following?”
Jack closed his eyes and recited the words that he knew so well:
