The Course of True Love
The theme we were given, was ‘travel,’ but, though international travel does make an appearance by the end, this story majors on the journey of life for two star-crossed lovers from differing social backgrounds who meet (where else?) while performing ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ A happy ending for once? Read on to find out …
Pete Smith found the journey trickier than anticipated. The tracks through the woods, which used to be clear, were now overgrown with brambles and other detritus. Was it really only half-a-dozen years ago he had run along these paths to see her, his excellent A-level results bringing him Oxbridge glory? The last part, where the bank of the stream had given way somewhat, was the trickiest. He didn’t want to fall in, and needed to be as silent as possible.
It had been acting which had brought them together. Her (private) school was the one with the auditorium. Bobbi was one of the student helpers. She was the same age as him, and was there to show the ‘oiks’ the ropes. Quite a few of the posh kids had already made it clear that, with a name like Pete Smith, he couldn’t be anything other than an oik. But she had been friendly enough. Like all the kids from the comp, he had been somewhat overawed at the whole set up in what was, after all, only meant to be a school auditorium.
‘I know this is only a read-through, but surely the text is clear enough? You are allowed to touch each other!’
On stage, Pete and Bobbi had both blushed and, hesitantly, reached out hands to the other.
There was no way he’d get the part. They would keep the smaller parts for the likes of him, the big roles going to the private school students. And why not? Everyone knew if you wanted to succeed in the world of the arts, you had to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth – and it started at school. Only the private sector nowadays gave any time to arts education. ‘Never mind,’ his parents had said, ‘even a small part’ would look good on his application to university. It would ‘show he did more than sit in lessons.’ He had grinned at them when they said that. They knew he had his Saturday job as well, in the town centre.
So, anyway, when he got the role – the Role – he was shocked. And to find she was playing opposite him! Juliet to his Romeo. Now, he could make an educated guess as to the arguments he (and she) were never part of. Now, he knew all the bits of the play that had been cut: including the whole scene with Juliet and the nurse, where the nurse recalls her long dead husband telling the toddler Juliet, she would fall backwards when she was older, ‘and she stinted and said “Aye”!’ There were enough smirks, and scoffing and giggling over what was demanded of the young lovers on stage, without extra lines making their supposed life off-stage even more obvious to adolescent, hormone-filled, angst-ridden, wannabe actors.
Inevitably, given the amount of time they spent in each other’s company, their actual life off-stage grew more intimate. After cycling round to her house a few times, he worked out they lived on the other side of the wood from his estate. All right, there was also a brook gurgling its way through the middle of that wood, which was a bit of an obstacle. However, it was jumpable, and he could appear at the bottom of the garden as if by magic, and be welcomed into the Capulet stronghold.
At first, her mother was all graciousness and charm when he arrived at her house to go through their lines. However, as time went on, their rehearsal space was moved from Bobbi’s bedroom to the family room. With a permanently open door, and her mother, or her siblings, or even, on one memorable occasion, her father, in attendance.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘We’re rehearsing, Dad. Besides, he thinks I’m dead in this scene.’ Bobbi said, from her position lying flat on the carpet. However, she did tug her crop top down.
‘There’s no need for him to be climbing all over you. Get up, both of you!’
‘It’s part of the play!’ But for all her protestations, that particular rehearsal was terminated. He went home early, covered in shame and furious anger at not even being given the chance to explain.
Thankfully – or so he thought at the time – her school dug its heels in. In a series of messages the next day, Bobbi told him all about it. Her father had taken her into school, demanded an interview with the headmaster, and the sacking of the head of drama. If they were going to expect such behaviour and on stage, they needed to be mindful of teenage emotions and have actors who had grown up knowing how to behave: pawing at his daughter’s body! Bobbi had gaped at her father. Pete had been kneeling beside her, that’s all. Before she could speak, however, the headmaster stepped in to make it clear: the school would not replace the male lead this close to opening night. The compromise was that all rehearsals would take place at school. ‘Romeo’ ended up having to cycle from his school to hers every day, and rehearse in an auditorium where anyone and everyone could walk through. There would be the drama staff telling them to relax into their parts, to feel the emotion, while the Big Band rehearsal was being set up in the other corner.
Her father was right on one point: teenage emotions had been aroused. It wasn’t so much were they going to carry on seeing each other, it was how. The obvious answer was the pathway through the wood. The obvious response was A-level revision. There were still clandestine walks, meet-ups in town, and youthful promises to stay together forever.
Plans change. Life interferes. And, when you are young, there is parental interference. She was set for Oxford. He had – completely independently, of course – decided to try for the same place (even if he could not guarantee the same college). There were, of course, those who insisted he only got in because Oxford and Cambridge nowadays have to be careful not to be too dominated by their Public-School intake. She was sent off for a gap year, to the Far East. His gap year was becoming a shop assistant full-time to build up some funds.
It was when she came back the blow fell. She would not be going to Oxford. A new application had gone into UCAS. She had taken a day off from her teaching role in Bangkok, and had a Skype interview from Shangri-La Hotel. He wasn’t told.
‘Mum and Dad said it was better this way. If we get together after university then, that’s fine. But we need the time apart to be sure of each other ... We can still keep in touch, can’t we?’
It wasn’t that. It was the feeling he got that she would not, in the end, go against her parents’ wishes. She had to turn down her Oxford place, rather than defer it, if she was going to start again. His dad did try to explain – as if Pete didn’t know all about the British class structure and how some people did all they could to keep it in place. There used to be Grammar Schools, where bright working-class kids could aspire to a middle-class job and associated lifestyle; but not anymore. Comprehensives for the masses and private education for the elite. After all, it was Bobbi’s school that had the auditorium, wasn’t it?
However, Bobbi was stuck with going to her university, and he to his. They went their separate ways, met up in the holidays, assured each other there was no-one else. But, after uni, there’s the big, wide world – and jobs, careers.
This time, he had not told her his plans. He had assumed, given her lack of communication, she had moved on. His time in Oxford over, where he had never met anyone to replace her, he had accepted a job with a supplier in the same trade he already knew due to his previous, pre-uni work experience. There was money to be made, and (he was told) he could make it.
It was no good, meeting up back in the auditorium for a five-year anniversary of that first co-production. This time, the production was a school’s version of ‘In the Heights’ – much more joyful with all the singing, even if it was less highbrow and still had love affairs acted out on stage. It didn’t help that they were recognised, and had to take a bow together as the audience cheered – and remembered.
Afterwards, neither of them knew what to say, or how to say it. They could hardly declare their love within the auditorium, could they? How could either of them be sure the other still felt the same? And if he said anything, would she (even if she felt the same) defy her father, who was standing over there, at the far end of the bar, glaring at him? What about her? If she said anything? How did she know her parents weren’t right in their assumptions? That his sort only believed in ‘having relations with’ upper-class girls like her, and then moving on – once they’d got all her money? Pete and Bobbi said, again, they’d keep in touch.
Which they did. She had gone back to school; taking a role as volunteer coordinator of the schools’ arts program. Over the years, it had expanded from acting into music and other arts. The initial philanthropic impetus faded somewhat, as charges ‘due to the prevailing economic climate’ were introduced – which meant only the most aspirational parents could afford to send their children to the programs. Most aspirational, or most wanting to get their children out of their hair for a few extra evenings, or during the holidays. She learned how to do improvised workshops, especially for the younger children – those who had yet to learn how to be self-conscious. They would fly to exotic places, maybe someone’s family homeland, and explore, have adventures: ‘travel in the mind.’ An escape from her reality: the reality her parents had arranged for her from that first meeting. A dinner organised once it was clear she had returned from Cambridge without even a potential ‘suitable match.’
Pete’s office days started before dawn and ended way after dusk. If there were working lunches, and company dinners (to which he had to take a compliant plus-one), then there also were days off, trips away, time when he could be alone and think. Explore. He had to get used to the fact she had met someone. Inevitably, her new man was the son of her father’s business partner. Pete came home for a week, but could not bring himself to call round to offer his congratulations.
‘Never mind, love. Plenty more fish in the sea,’ his mum said.
His dad took him for a pint at his local: ‘Look, lad, you’ve carried a candle for her, for how long now? And has she ever loved you back? … Now, I’m not saying what you had in that play wasn’t real, but it was some time ago, wasn’t it? You’ve got to accept the situation, and move on.’
What was worse of course, was that his parents were right. How many of his colleagues were still sighing after an ex-girlfriend after all this time? (Not that she ever was his official girlfriend, but try telling his heart that.) And try telling his feet that, when he entered the wood again, found the paths again and, despite them being over-grown, had followed them until he found himself two steps from coming out at the bottom of her garden. There was still no fence and, if he crouched down, he could see without being seen.
When his phone pinged, he hadn’t recognised the number. He nearly deleted the message without reading it; but she’d used their names for each other from the play. Although he’s telling himself it’s probably fake, she didn’t send it: he’s here. Waiting.
Her father was standing over her. As he did so often. She supposed he had tried to understand her hyperemesis gravidarum wasn’t ‘just’ a fancy term for morning sickness. He had suggested to the family that, if the Princess of Wales can suffer from it so badly she had to go to hospital then, surely, Bobbi could have a bit of peace and quiet from her fiancé’s social whirl? And she really could not face the conference.
Mum, on the other hand, didn’t try. Marriage was the only option. She’d ‘led him on,’ it would be his word against hers, and how would her father feel, having to see her in court against his own partner’s son – given her father had worked with his business partner for decades? If she didn’t realise going back to his flat for ‘coffee’ meant he would expect something more than a chaste kiss, then she needed to grow up. Of course, the candlelit dinner for two was a set up. Roberta – Mum never called her Bobbi – must have known her parents expected her to settle down and have children. Gavin was an excellent prospect. Him being a few years older than her (actually, Bobbi thought, he’s a whole decade older), meant his life experience would be helpful to her. A pity Roberta got pregnant at that first try, but these days, it mattered less. However, she was getting married so the grandchild (or children: Catherine Middleton had three, so this ‘disease’ can’t be that bad) could be legitimate – and heir to the business fortune. What Roberta needed to forget about, was that comprehensive schoolboy. He’s gone. Forever.
With all the fuss over Gavin and the up-coming wedding, Bobbi’s phone had gone missing. After a while, she got a new one, but, by then, her morning sickness, her all day sickness, had kicked in – with a vengeance. The engagement party was awful.
‘Jus- just a kiss. Come on! What’s wrong with you?’ Then Gavin had tripped over his own feet and collapsed across her, his head and shoulders crashing across her stomach. She’d just made to the bathroom before those few bits of food she had managed to choke down reappeared. So, this was a public-school educated, Oxbridge man, who knew how to behave, was it?
For a whole week, he was to be away at this conference. Gavin had taken his secretary instead of her, and Bobbi was back at her parents’, being told she should have tried harder.
‘Well, Dad, did you want to say anything?’ she shielded her eyes from the sun. She was lying on a sun-lounger on the top lawn. Even making it outside had been an effort. If she didn’t know better, she could have sworn there was movement in the bushes at the far end of the garden, but she was too exhausted to draw attention to it, and she wasn’t going to go down to investigate the disturbance herself. Not now.
Her dad shrugged: ‘I’m sure, once you’ve got a nice healthy child, Gavin will prove to be an excellent father.’ He spoke loudly, as if shouting the lie made it truth.
Like you were? she thought, but didn’t say, to his departing back; as Dad retreated into the house. The bushes moved again, but whoever it was, stayed out of sight.
Upstairs, her mother stood at her open bedroom window, the binoculars round her neck. The only window in the house that had a decent view of the bottom corner of the garden, and the path to the former council estate. She knew all about it. Her own lover had come from there many years ago, when she had her Lady Chatterley moment. Rough sex in the woodland. She ended up having to have an abortion on the quiet, which had not been so great. Which was why she was making sure Roberta did not go down the same path. She glanced down at the phones on the window sill. Her daughter’s new phone (she’d left it in her room, and the foolish girl hadn’t even changed her password) still had Pete’s messages: she would delete them soon enough. The old phone? She’d cleared it of everything: photos, messages, the lot.
Maybe Gavin had been a bit forceful when he wanted sex – better than a wife having to try and work out all the time if her husband wanted it, or if he would actually prefer another ‘headache’ excuse – and Roberta really should have grown out of her naivety by now. If she hadn’t wanted a child, she should have been on the pill. Mum shook her head, and picked up the binoculars. She, too, had heard what her husband said about Gavin. As for this Pete Smith, she would ensure there would be no interference from that quarter. He’d go back to his little life, with its narrow horizons. She could relax. Hang on: what was that? She had concentrated so much on the bottom of the garden through the binoculars, she hadn’t realised – Roberta was too ill to move, surely? But there she was, coming into view, and she’s holding yet another phone in her hand. How dare her daughter trick her! He was there. Bobbi collapsed into his arms: ‘Take me away. Just take me away.’
An ambulance was called as soon as Pete’s mum saw her. Possibly, given the circumstances, a miscarriage was the best, if unlooked for, solution. And that little dynamo of a nurse! Well, what a star. Who’d have thought some four-foot-nothing Philippine nurse could man-handle (woman-handle?) Gavin’s angry bulk out of Bobbi’s room – and call the police into the bargain.
It wasn’t the cancelling of the engagement. Surely most fiancés would turn up as soon as he heard his intended was in hospital? It wasn’t even the accusation of rape – ‘my word against yours, darling. The CPS won’t even bother’ – but Pete’s vile supposition that the ring, which had adorned Bobbi’s finger until she got to hospital, was cubic zirconium. Not diamonds. Pete was meant to ‘take that back.’ Bobbi had pressed the call button as her former fiancé struck out at her friend.
Pete was right. They teach you a lot when you go into the diamond trade, but even in the jewellery shop, he’d known what to look out for. Perfect, absolutely flawless diamonds? No, the ring’s a fake. As fake as Gavin’s affection. Pete has delayed his departure until Bobbi is fit again, but she will be travelling with him when he goes to his new job in Botswana.