Free East Fortune by James Runcie

felt the language of the play recede as the memory of him returned. She had not expected tears but now she could not speak without her voice fragmenting.
    â€˜Very good, Krystyna,’ Ian shouted at the end of the scene. ‘Very moving.’
    Jack continued with Emma:
Good madonna, why mournest thou?
Good fool, for my brother’s death.
I think his soul is in hell, madonna.
I know his soul is in heaven, fool.
    He could see Krystyna lighting a cigarette as soon as her scene was over, hoping that no one would notice. Her hands were shaking. Jack had forgotten that the play contained such sadness. This was supposed to be a comedy, he thought, a festive celebration to while away the darkness of winter.
    The two Maclean girls began to imitate the pompous way in which Ian Henderson walked, marching up and down with their heads high and their arms swinging, muttering in posh gruff English, ‘Carry on,’ ‘Do keep up,’ ‘For goodness’ sake,’ their mouths full of marbles. Jack and Angus began to laugh as their father strove valiantly to hold on to his audience.
    I will be proud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will put off gross acquaintance, I will be point-device the very man
… ‘Will you stop arsing about over there…’
    The children giggled in a frightened way. They turned to see where their mother was standing.
    â€˜Come on, darlings,’ said Mrs Maclean. ‘Let’s go and play where he can’t see you.’
    â€˜Thank you …’ Ian resumed his performance:
I do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade me; for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me.
    Mrs Maclean took her daughters round to the side of the house, where they could run around without disrupting the play. Then she returned to continue her performance.
    Ian called out instructions in between scenes, determined that there should be no letting up, but the rest of his family had begun to flag. Elizabeth had fallen asleep under a parasol, Stewart Maclean was reading the Saturday papers, and Douglas was drinking his way through the part of Toby Belch. Only Emma and Tessa were taking the play seriously.
    I prithee tell me what thou thinkst of me.

That you do think you are not what you are.
If I think so, I think the same of you.
Then think you right: I am not what I am.
I would you were as I would have you be
…
    Jack watched his father walking up and down backstage. He was going over his lines, anxious for his cue, determined not to make a mistake.
    He wondered if he was the only one who had noticed him forgetting more than in previous years: his slow delivery and decline in energy. He had begun to take on the look of a man who was frightened of being caught out.
    They reached the part where Feste had to drive Malvolio mad. Shakespearean comedy was crueller than Jack had remembered.
    They have here propertied me, keep me in darkness, send ministers unto me, asses, and do all they can to face me out of my wits.
    Krystyna lit another cigarette and walked across the lawn to see the view of the fields beyond the house. The heat had brought out the aroma of garlic in the country lanes and the air was heavy with summer. She watched the bees gather nectar and return to the hives. She remembered eating honey as a child, direct from an old teaspoon, and drinking ice-cold water from a metal cup. How old had she been at the time? Five? Seven?
    She tried to think where the two little girls had gone. No one was paying them any attention.
    She walked round to the side of the house to see the Macleans’ younger daughter reaching into the swimming pool. She had dropped an object into the water, something shiny like a mirror or a brooch, and Krystyna saw her topple forwards into the deep end.
    It happened so quietly, with the light bright on the surface, that for a few seconds Krystyna thought that she was dreaming.
    â€˜Oh,’ the other girl said. Then