Now Am I In Arden
A story by Ivor Sukwell and Kyle McKenzie. A story about a boy and a man with all that such entails. The setting is modern and based around the theatre. Not your thing? Sorry about that, we're sure you'll find something that is. Whatever your choice, please remember Nifty needs your donations.
Now Am I In Arden
Chapter twenty
I could not escape the toads entirely – they had to hop around as their blockings and movements were incorporated into the whole, and, of course, they had to do some hopping on the main stage itself.
That stage has a more than standard rake to it, and an unwary toad could find itself accelerating with unstoppable momentum towards the apron and the drop, and the undesirability of a bum in the front row of the stalls finding a toad spattering itself in its lap was a universally agreed upon undesirability.
I did, though, confess, jokingly to Brat, that I wondered if the bum on the seat in the front row of the stalls happened to belong to a gentleman of certain persuasions, and the toad in question was the caramel toad, who was, incidentally, growing noticeably less toad-like all the time, the experience may not be altogether distasteful for him.
Brat gave me a somewhat quizzical look, which I may have misinterpreted. "Have you not noticed that particular toad appears to be developing what may only be described as rather nice legs?" I asked him.
Half-way through rehearsals and I could only describe myself as happy, though that happiness was accompanied by a sense of disorientation. Four weeks of rehearsal and not once had I been obliged to suggest to some incompetent that he, or she, should concentrate of their day job of stocking shelves in a supermarket and never venture near a theatre again. Clearly, I had expected to snarl, they were unfit even to be a member of an audience, but not once had I been so obliged.
It was unnerving. Richard Williams had never, to the best of his awareness, dealt with a cast who had not breathed a collective sigh of relief after the first night of a show, safe in the knowledge that they would never have to see him again.
The apparent content of a cast universally determined to give of their best was not, however, the only thing on my mind. The infrequent appearances of the toad show for rehearsal gave rise to other thoughts.
The metamorphosis from caramel toad to caramel boy was clearly underway, and the slowly emerging caramel boy was, though still a mere thirteen, an eye attracting caramel boy.
As a toad, it had possessed legs far better than the ordinary run of toads; as an emerging boy he now had legs to gaze upon. Long and slender, as a thirteen year old boy's legs would have to be slender, they now had definite shape to them, the swell from knee to thigh drawing the eye ever upwards.
A little inward curve just above the knee and then a gradual outward curve; no real muscle yet, too soon for that, but a definite curving swell that was a delight to gaze upon. And, as the caramel boy insisted still on wearing impossibly short white shorts to rehearse in – and the choice of white to highlight the caramel of his skin was, I was certain, a choice made by an emerging boy who knew precisely how delightful his legs were – almost no inch of those thighs was left for the imagination to contemplate.
Was that innocence or intent? And how did my Brat find rehearsing with a now almost boy displaying that amount of leg?
Though my knowledge and understanding of boys was still limited to what I had learned from Brat, I had learned enough about myself to understand that some boys, boys of a particular age, boys of fourteen, were boys who could stir thoughts of a certain kind in my mind. For most of my life I had run and hidden from those thoughts, but Jacob Brat had dragged me from that shadow world and now I saw those thoughts for what they were, and though I did not think I lusted in any way for Caramel Toad, he did have legs to lust over.
Brat was now within touching distance of seventeen, and Time would not stand still, and though he still shared my bed at night we both tried to hide from the reality of time.
Caramel boy, he was beyond being a toad now, was occupying more and more of my thinking time. He had more than a little skill, his sense of movement was way beyond that of any of the toads and I congratulated myself on the impulse to use him differently, use him as almost a familiar for Ariel – the moments when he was just that added a sense of mystery and magic, made Ariel's role as the puppet master on the island seem so much more real, even obvious.
There was something else about the boy as well, several somethings actually. He moved with such a languid, careless grace that it made his almost feminine deportment seem utterly natural. I had once referred to him as being a girl without cock or tits, but now I had to refine that. He was, without doubt, in many ways feminine, but feminine with all the purity of a boy. Except that I felt increasingly certain there was very little that was pure about the caramel Paul. He may be still innocent in flesh, but he was, I was sure, a long way from being innocent in mind.
"You seem to be getting on pretty well with Caramel Paul," I mentioned to Brat over an evening, post rehearsal spliff. I'd earlier spotted the two of them outside Main House in a morning rehearsal break. I had gone out for a cigarette break, and so, it seemed had Brat and Caramel Paul.
I'd found a secluded, or so I thought, spot, out of sight and hearing of the Green Room, and had been surprised to see my Brat and the boy also outside, leaning on the rail over the river, the distance between them being measurable in millimetres. Brat was holding a lighted cigarette, which, in itself was a surprise as Brat now smoked only rolled up cigarettes of a flavoured nature, but the real surprise was that Brat was not the one doing the smoking.
He held the thing, looked around and, believing himself unobserved, passed it to Caramel Paul, who took a puff and sneaked it back to Brat.
My Brat was aiding and abetting a boy of still thirteen to sneak an illicit smoke!
Was Jacob Brat, the thought sprang unbidden to the front of my mind, developing an interest in a caramel boy with lovely legs?
I was not really watching the toads go through their paces as they danced their attendance for the banquet scene, my attention was entirely on the curving sweep of caramel Paul's thighs. Madame Delgard had done a competent enough job with the choreography and training of the toads and I had no wish to watch toads hopping. Paul's caramel thighs were a different matter altogether, they were very much worth watching!
"What happens to them when they finish with you?" I asked the lesbian harridan, thinking only `what will happen to Caramel Paul?'
"Oh," she shrugged, "They start other schools when the run ends. London, Manchester, possibly Cardiff or Glasgow. All," she sneered, "Except that disgusting boy. No decent school will take him."
"So what will happen to him?"
"Council will put him back in some commonplace ordinary school, I suppose," she sneered again, "Some comprehensive or other where boys like him belong."
Caramel Paul did not belong in some comprehensive school or other, Caramel Paul had talent. Not the same talent as my Brat had, but talent nonetheless.
"You," I said, pointing at him when the toads had finished hopping, "With me. Now."
I took him into one of the backstage dressing rooms, all were deserted in the mornings, and I could feel his eyes on my back as he followed me.
"Can you read?" I asked him, and it was probably my imagination, but I'd have sworn the look he gave me was nothing to do with his reading ability, but was asking if this was when he should remove those tiny shorts!
"Course," he said, puzzled, so I gave him a text and told him to read Iris. I hadn't got round to thinking about the short masque scene yet beyond toad dancing, and, purely on impulse and because of what the harridan Delgard had said, I wondered if it would work with him doing Iris. Ariel portrayed Ceres, after all, so why shouldn't Ariel's familiar acolyte do Iris?
I would need to make some changes, of course; if the idea that had formed in my mind was to work, Caramel Paul, nee Caramel Toad, would have to be in every performance, not just half of them. A visit to Personnel, a phone call by the very sweet and helpful lady who ran that department to Equity, and a little checking with the legal people, and all was sorted.
Provided that the Company were willing to give Caramel Paul a proper contract, and a Green Card to go with it; provided that his working hours during rehearsal did not exceed the legal maximum – the same limit for a boy as they were for toads – I could go ahead and make the change I wanted.
Madame Delgard was less than pleased, but she was a professional and did what had to be done, finding another toad to replace Caramel Paul and reverting to the choreography used by the other toad group for both sets of fairies.
I had anticipated a little resistance from the Designer who now had to come up with an additional costume, one that would designate Caramel Paul as a mini version of Ariel and not simply a run-of-the-mill fairy, but instead of being sulky about things, he simperingly came up with designs almost overnight. He did, quite simply, make, the now definitely a boy, Caramel Paul, into a junior version of Ariel.
Where Ariel had full, white wings, Caramel Paul had only embryo brown stubs to sprout; whilst Ariel could become Ariel on fire, his young acolyte could only spark and sputter; where Ariel flew, baby Ariel never quite managed to take off. Used with care, and I have never done anything on a stage that was not done with care, the resulting comedy, was, I knew in my bones, Sweet Will perfect.
He would have wanted to give his groundlings something to laugh at, and, at the same time, his educated audience something to make them think just a little. Ariel's acolyte would one day be Ariel, the Spirit of the Magic Island would live on. The magic was real; the people who were no more than visitors to the Island were just that – visitors. It was they who were ephemeral, not the Island and not the fairies. The visitors were "such stuff as dreams are made on", the Island was reality.
"Think you could help?" I asked Brat that evening, having explained my precipitous actions to him and showing him the costume sketches, "He's already got some understanding of how to speak. If you could spend a few hours with him, in a spare room at the theatre, or even back here when you don't have a call, I think we could make it work."
"Sure," I looked over the sketches, and while I was impressed with the designs I was wary about helping Paul more.
He was a nice enough kid, actually the nicest and most normal of all the kids who had been taken as dancers, but something about the way Mr Williams looked at him made me not want to help him. Not because of anything Paul himself had done of course, he seemed to have no idea of the feelings he aroused in men, but those feelings were plain on Mr Williams' face when he thought no-one was watching him and he dropped his guard.
I had seen that look before, had used to elicit it from him with my own body, and the idea that he had feelings for another boy was troubling. Part of me wanted to be pleased for him, it wasn't like he was just dumping me after all, and I understood he would want a younger boy as I grew older, but it was still hard to take.