Stratford
| L |
innus, whose gypsy father is an acrobat, visits me these days; with his father in jail he has to wait for his release. Dumpy, leather-skinned and wild-eyed, Linnus is fourteen, and has a four-year-old brother, Peter. Their mother is dead.
My old apple tree is Linnus’ home, when he is here; I sit outside while he performs tricks he has learned from his father, tricks I have never seen. Peter yawns on the grass or stands between my legs or pods my lap, thrilled by his brother’s arm and leg cleverness...the sun warms the three of us.
His tricks done, glad to rest, Linnus stretches on the ground, to incline me a little of his wanderings, the hunger, always the hunger: it’s as if he never had a full meal. They are scourged out of town, thrown into jail, entertained at castles, fed on cakes and ale, left to starve on a farm. Linnus points to Peter, asleep on my lap.
“Why do you like him? He’s ugly.”
“He’s ugly but he may change and grow to be handsome, perhaps become an explorer, like Drake.” And I talk to Linnus about Drake and the Armada and as I talk it seems to me I’m talking to Hamnet, or is this Hamnet on my lap?
It doesn’t matter.
Linnus and Peter matter, and after a while we rig fishing gear and go to the river and fish, dawdle all afternoon, Linnus croaking gypsy songs, Peter in and out of the water, dashing after magpies and crows, gabbling berries, every problem forgotten.