I, Hamlet
by John McGroarty
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: Will the real Hamlet please stand up?
_____________________________________________________________________
Lorna Hart was fed up. Twenty years as a Shakespearian actress was enough to kill any ordinary person. And Lorna was by no means what you would call an ordinary person. She had played every leading part in Will Shakespeare’s repertoire, she had partied and orgied with the best, she had insulted some of the most powerful people in the world, she had formed part of Captain Bill Blythe’s revolutionary theatre group on his tour around Amazonian Indian villages doing the Scottish play, and she had even been offered and turned down an OBE.
Fed up. She looked at the clock in the theatre bar. She had two hours to kill before curtain up on her twentieth Hamlet, just bread and butter stuff for her now. She knocked back her whisky and stood up.
“Did you know that Orson Welles could reason intelligently when he was only two?” said Magnus without looking up from his book. “A true genius, when you’re at the bar, I’ll have another G&T.”
“Yeh,” said Lorna, “he was a smart guy that Orson Welles.”
She put on her coat.
Magnus looked up. “Where are you going?” he said a little alarmed. “Please, don’t leave me alone, I can’t bear being alone before first night.”
“I need some air, Orson will keep you company,” said Lorna moving away from the table.
She left the bar and headed west along Argyll Street. She looked in some shop windows for a while and decided to go to George Square. It was quite mild for late October. An evening like this wasn’t for being in a theatre. Maybe nobody would come and she’d have a free evening. Catch the train down the coast and spend the night in a B&B. She laughed. Like when the pipes burst at school and all the children were sent home.
George Square was packed. She looked around for somewhere to sit down and have a fag. All the benches were taken except for one where an old tramp was snoozing at one extreme. Lorna planked herself down. She lit a cigarette and closed her eyes. A wee trip down the water would be great.
“Come, come and sit you down. You shall not budge,” said a voice.
Lorna opened her eyes and looked round. The tramp was looking at her.
“Sorry?” was all she managed to say.
“You go not till I set you up a glass where you may see the inmost part of you,” said the tramp.
Lorna smiled. She drew on her fag. “What wilt thou do? Thou wilt not murder me?”
“Nay, madam,” said the tramp, a little sadly Lorna thought.
“Do you know me?” she said, “I mean, have you seen me in a play?”
The tramp said nothing more. Lorna looked at him closely trying to see behind the garb and the grime that he wore for a mask. She couldn’t see anybody she knew.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Why madam,” he said looking off into the distance, “it is I, Hamlet.”
Lorna lit another cigarette. She had an idea.
She jumped up and hauled the tramp onto his feet.
“Come, we make for Denmark!” she said.
She ran him down Glassford Street, onto the Trongate, and into the theatre. The theatre was starting to fill up. Lorna pushed her way through the crowd crying, “make way for the sweet prince of the Dane, make way for the sweet prince of the Dane!”
Troy Phelps, the director, emerged from the ticket office.
“Lorna, darling, where have you been? Half an hour to curtain and you’re not even dressed,” he said.
“Ach, I could do Gertrude with my knickers over my head. Make way for the Dane!” she shouted making her way down the central aisle. She dragged the tramp along a row of seats and dumped him down in the middle of a group of old biddies in evening dress.
“This seat is reserved,” she said eyeing down a wave of raised noses.
She wheezed and lit a fag. “Okay, Hamlet, be ready when I give you the call. Here take this,” she said handing him a book.
Hamlet was red faced and breathing heavily. Unable to speak, he nodded weakly. Lorna whizzed off backstage.
The curtain went up on time and the dastardly doings in old Denmark unfolded.
Magnus was fantastic, his best Hamlet to date the reviews would have said if something strange hadn’t happened just as his moment of glory was about to arrive. For, in answer to the famous question, that night was not to be for Magnus. Ten minutes before he was due to be on stage to deliver the soliloquy Lorna Hart locked him in the toilet.
Up on stage old Robert Ashton’s cynical voice as the King trouped out “see where comes Hamlet poring on a book”. Hamlet was locked in the bathroom. Lorna moved to the edge of the stage and beckoned to the tramp. “See where comes Hamlet poring on a book!” she called.
An old biddy gave the Hamlet in the stalls a dig in the ribs. He slowly rose and moved out of his row. He shuffled down the aisle and up the stairs onto the stage. Lorna turned him to face the audience. The lights were bright and he began to sweat a little.
“Tell your tale,” said Lorna in his ear and withdrew.
The tramp slipped off his big coat and began,
“To be or not to be – that is the question
Whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep –
No more – and by sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. `Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep –
To sleep – perchance to dream. Ay, there’s the rub.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil
Must give us pause.”
He stopped speaking. A tear ran down his cheek. The audience broke into a long round of applause.
Sammy Tyler, the prompter, called loudly so that everyone could hear from his bunker “there’s the respect that makes calamity of so long life!”
The public repeated the prompt.
Hamlet took the cue and the show went on. The Danish court destroyed itself and the lights dimmed, the curtain fell. Lorna took a wet towel to Hamlet’s face and washed off the years of ingrained dirt. It came off in layers, and when she was finished there was the face of a still young man in front of her.
“What’s your name?” Lorna asked him.
“Paul,” he said, and smiled.
Lorna smiled back and took his hand to take the audience’s applause. They bowed.
“It seems to me,” she said into his ear, “that this is the first time that Hamlet has ever really been played.”
“Seems?” said Paul Hamlet, “Nay madam, is!”
Swearwords: None.
Description: Will the real Hamlet please stand up?
_____________________________________________________________________
Lorna Hart was fed up. Twenty years as a Shakespearian actress was enough to kill any ordinary person. And Lorna was by no means what you would call an ordinary person. She had played every leading part in Will Shakespeare’s repertoire, she had partied and orgied with the best, she had insulted some of the most powerful people in the world, she had formed part of Captain Bill Blythe’s revolutionary theatre group on his tour around Amazonian Indian villages doing the Scottish play, and she had even been offered and turned down an OBE.
Fed up. She looked at the clock in the theatre bar. She had two hours to kill before curtain up on her twentieth Hamlet, just bread and butter stuff for her now. She knocked back her whisky and stood up.
“Did you know that Orson Welles could reason intelligently when he was only two?” said Magnus without looking up from his book. “A true genius, when you’re at the bar, I’ll have another G&T.”
“Yeh,” said Lorna, “he was a smart guy that Orson Welles.”
She put on her coat.
Magnus looked up. “Where are you going?” he said a little alarmed. “Please, don’t leave me alone, I can’t bear being alone before first night.”
“I need some air, Orson will keep you company,” said Lorna moving away from the table.
She left the bar and headed west along Argyll Street. She looked in some shop windows for a while and decided to go to George Square. It was quite mild for late October. An evening like this wasn’t for being in a theatre. Maybe nobody would come and she’d have a free evening. Catch the train down the coast and spend the night in a B&B. She laughed. Like when the pipes burst at school and all the children were sent home.
George Square was packed. She looked around for somewhere to sit down and have a fag. All the benches were taken except for one where an old tramp was snoozing at one extreme. Lorna planked herself down. She lit a cigarette and closed her eyes. A wee trip down the water would be great.
“Come, come and sit you down. You shall not budge,” said a voice.
Lorna opened her eyes and looked round. The tramp was looking at her.
“Sorry?” was all she managed to say.
“You go not till I set you up a glass where you may see the inmost part of you,” said the tramp.
Lorna smiled. She drew on her fag. “What wilt thou do? Thou wilt not murder me?”
“Nay, madam,” said the tramp, a little sadly Lorna thought.
“Do you know me?” she said, “I mean, have you seen me in a play?”
The tramp said nothing more. Lorna looked at him closely trying to see behind the garb and the grime that he wore for a mask. She couldn’t see anybody she knew.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Why madam,” he said looking off into the distance, “it is I, Hamlet.”
Lorna lit another cigarette. She had an idea.
She jumped up and hauled the tramp onto his feet.
“Come, we make for Denmark!” she said.
She ran him down Glassford Street, onto the Trongate, and into the theatre. The theatre was starting to fill up. Lorna pushed her way through the crowd crying, “make way for the sweet prince of the Dane, make way for the sweet prince of the Dane!”
Troy Phelps, the director, emerged from the ticket office.
“Lorna, darling, where have you been? Half an hour to curtain and you’re not even dressed,” he said.
“Ach, I could do Gertrude with my knickers over my head. Make way for the Dane!” she shouted making her way down the central aisle. She dragged the tramp along a row of seats and dumped him down in the middle of a group of old biddies in evening dress.
“This seat is reserved,” she said eyeing down a wave of raised noses.
She wheezed and lit a fag. “Okay, Hamlet, be ready when I give you the call. Here take this,” she said handing him a book.
Hamlet was red faced and breathing heavily. Unable to speak, he nodded weakly. Lorna whizzed off backstage.
The curtain went up on time and the dastardly doings in old Denmark unfolded.
Magnus was fantastic, his best Hamlet to date the reviews would have said if something strange hadn’t happened just as his moment of glory was about to arrive. For, in answer to the famous question, that night was not to be for Magnus. Ten minutes before he was due to be on stage to deliver the soliloquy Lorna Hart locked him in the toilet.
Up on stage old Robert Ashton’s cynical voice as the King trouped out “see where comes Hamlet poring on a book”. Hamlet was locked in the bathroom. Lorna moved to the edge of the stage and beckoned to the tramp. “See where comes Hamlet poring on a book!” she called.
An old biddy gave the Hamlet in the stalls a dig in the ribs. He slowly rose and moved out of his row. He shuffled down the aisle and up the stairs onto the stage. Lorna turned him to face the audience. The lights were bright and he began to sweat a little.
“Tell your tale,” said Lorna in his ear and withdrew.
The tramp slipped off his big coat and began,
“To be or not to be – that is the question
Whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep –
No more – and by sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. `Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep –
To sleep – perchance to dream. Ay, there’s the rub.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil
Must give us pause.”
He stopped speaking. A tear ran down his cheek. The audience broke into a long round of applause.
Sammy Tyler, the prompter, called loudly so that everyone could hear from his bunker “there’s the respect that makes calamity of so long life!”
The public repeated the prompt.
Hamlet took the cue and the show went on. The Danish court destroyed itself and the lights dimmed, the curtain fell. Lorna took a wet towel to Hamlet’s face and washed off the years of ingrained dirt. It came off in layers, and when she was finished there was the face of a still young man in front of her.
“What’s your name?” Lorna asked him.
“Paul,” he said, and smiled.
Lorna smiled back and took his hand to take the audience’s applause. They bowed.
“It seems to me,” she said into his ear, “that this is the first time that Hamlet has ever really been played.”
“Seems?” said Paul Hamlet, “Nay madam, is!”
About the Author
John McGroarty was born in Glasgow and now lives in Barcelona, where he works as an English teacher. Although he has been writing short stories for many years, I, Hamlet is his first to been seen publicly.