A Shetland Christmas Carol

Book 4: From Shetland, With Love

by Erin Green

Genres: Friendship; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Curl up this Christmas with the new feel-good listen for the holiday season from Erin Green!
......................................

Will the gift of friendship save their past, present and future?

Callie has taken multiple jobs to make the money she desperately needs. Her favourite is being the new guide for Lerwick Manor's alpaca walks. But her troublesome past is making it difficult to prove to others that she's learned from her mistakes.

Heather has been content breeding Sheltie sheepdogs and taking care of her grownup daughters. But now she feels that something is missing. Taking the leap into online dating, she makes an unexpected connection to which her daughters react very differently.

Tabitha sells homemade soap at the Stables Gallery, but her true passion is for amateur dramatics. Winning a role in the group's festive production of A Christmas Carol, Tabby is determined to make her mark - but will her growing feelings for fellow actor Rabbie distract her?

As Christmas draws near, can true friendship save the past, present and future of the Lerwick community?

(P) 2022 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: September 29, 2022

Publisher: Review

Print pages: 400

Sample

Chapter One

Saturday 13 August

Ebenezer’s ledger

The Garrison Theatre, Lerwick – 80 years old!!! Bah humbug to you, Dickens, and your 179 years! Hopefully, my past, my present and my future – bound together as one!

Callie

‘Morning!’ calls the postman cheerily, unlatching our garden gate.

I slam the front door. I’m not a morning person, but there are some folks you can’t readily ignore. And I can’t afford to ignore his bulky size, his smiley disposition, but most importantly his regular deliveries of bad news. He’s my guilty conscience, if it ever morphed into a fully fledged human being, capable of walking, talking and constantly popping up in order to irritate me.

Couldn’t I live further along the street so our paths didn’t cross each morning? Or could his postal route be reversed so he delivers mid-morning when I am safely out of the way? Or maybe I should move out from my parents’ home? Sadly, not. Though moving out wouldn’t truly solve my problem, unless I leave Shetland for ever and change my identity – which would be a bit drastic. Instead, I get to eyeball my guilty conscience square in the face on a daily basis and receive a handful of brown and white envelopes, none of which will deliver joy. Ever.

The clutch of envelopes, all slim and neatly franked, contain twisted promises which are guaranteed to ruin my day, should I open them. So, I don’t. Instead, I flick through, seeking anyone’s name other than my own, ‘Ms C. Quinn’ – which rarely happens, as my parents seem to have gone paperless.

It’s fashionable to own an oversized handbag, one that can hold everything plus the kitchen sink, twenty-four hours a day seven days a week. Some women carry their make-up, their hair brushes, a spare pair of shoes, a change of tights . . . me, I carry my overdue statements and demands. All unopened, and not necessarily in the bottom of my bag. Sometimes the pile reaches the top of my bag, with my purse sitting neatly on the summit.

Without missing a step, I frantically stuff the envelopes into my shoulder bag, acting as if I’m late or too busy with my career to care. The reality is, I’m neither. I’m between jobs: waitressing. Not an ideal role, given my qualifications in beauty therapy. But beggars can’t be choosers – especially when wages are vital and opportunities are scarce – so I accepted the role seven months ago. I’ve been kidding myself about its temporary status too; I’ve hugely overrun on the two-week stint I’d originally planned.

‘Thank you, have a nice day!’ I call in a cheery voice as I follow the postie down the pathway, hoping he’s fooled by my apparent delight at receiving my mail.

I’m not delighted. I never am. It’s never news of a lottery win, confirmation of a job interview or a long-lost cousin insisting on depositing a zillion pounds into my bank account before lunchtime. Instead, I receive oodles of charge card and credit card bills, notifications of additional charges, or demands for urgent payments to rectify a missed instalment. In some cases, I accidentally forgot to pay; in others, I strategically deleted the direct debit in a last-ditch attempt to delay an automatic transaction leaving my account on a particular day.

It’s not that I’m trying to deny the lenders the money I owe; I acknowledge my debts. I simply wish they’d organise themselves in an orderly queue and patiently wait their turn, shuffling forward until they reach the front, much like stores make me do when I wish to purchase goods using my array of flexible friends. But oh no! Credit cards and store cards want to be served immediately, requesting automatic bank payments as the clock strikes midnight. There might just be enough funds to go around if they’d allow me to juggle my finances throughout the month. But they don’t, despite me creating a password-protected and colour-coded spreadsheet tracking my payments.

As a result, I receive daily text messages from my equally unsupportive bank, kindly suggesting I might, could or should transfer money into my current account by two o’clock to cover today’s outgoing payments. Or else! Two o’clock, why such a random time of day? Why not spread the debit payments throughout the day? Such a wasted text message, when I planned on depositing my waitressing tips later that afternoon. Yet I receive and ignore the kindly request with the same determination as I’ve just dodged the morning postie.

It makes for an uncomfortable start to my day. The routine of slamming the front door, turning around to utter a greeting, whilst faking a smile, and receiving my envelopes, quickly followed by a stroll towards the gallery, knowing I’ll receive the anticipated daily text message en route. I suspect that our postie and the anonymous bank texter are in cahoots with each other to ruin my life. They might be one and the same person: I bet he delivers the mail before whipping out his phone to send the dreaded text message whilst I’m still in sight. It’s a feasible theory, and one I’ll cling to if it enables me to ignore the discomfort of my bulging shoulder bag, gaining daily in size and weight in equal proportion to my conscience.

I reach the corner of our housing estate, cross the road and look up at the newly erected brown tourist sign: ‘Lerwick Manor Gallery and Hotel 1km’. I begin the trek in my sensible, flat waitressing shoes, hoping that my pristine white blouse isn’t too creased or soiled on arrival. That’s what I loved about my beautician’s attire; a simple black tunic, leggings and ballet pumps were always pristine and smart, unless I splattered a mud mask over myself during a client’s treatment.

I head out, ready to face the world: blonde bob pinned back, my painted smile in place, and a spring in my step. Living with debt, I’ve learnt to compartmentalise my life, which is a skill in itself; my existence is neatly separated into blocks of time or tasks. Firstly, home life alongside my parents, where I’ve perfected the role of solo child for the last thirty-three years. It’s a hefty weight to carry, as I shoulder their kind requests, forced suggestions, hopes and dreams alone, without others to lighten the load. Over the years, I’ve learnt to agree, say ‘mmm’ and ‘ahhh’ in all the right places; there’s no point in arguing, as it’s two against one every time, so I go with the flow and then secretly please myself. The flip side is that no one grasses me up – unlike friends’ siblings who break their necks to spill the beans over the Sunday roast.

I do as I wish, most of the time, which can inadvertently lead to trouble – rather like my ‘shoulder bag secret’ – but deep down, I’m combatting my parents’ constant demands on my time and avoiding the regular chimes of ‘Who else can we ask?’, ‘We’re not getting any younger, you know’ and, the worst of all, ‘We’ve given you everything, Callie!’

Away from home, there’s my current waitressing work in an artisan coffee shop connected to my cousin’s arts and crafts gallery, all set within her husband’s ancestral stately home. Not that I’m jealous of our Jemima, but in recent years she has had all the luck; if she fell over in goat’s muck she’d stand back up wearing a new cashmere jumper. Though I don’t envy her the constant sickness she’s enduring with her first pregnancy. ‘Blooming’ and ‘radiant’ are the comments usually uttered about expectant mothers; most of the time she’s looking pretty sallow, drained and totally fed up. And the baby isn’t due until December. I appreciate that she’s encountered heartache, with the untimely death of her mum and then our grandfather Tommy – but she struck lucky again there, and received a surprise legacy. Unlike me.

Perhaps it’s thoughts such as these that are sullying my karma. Maybe if I took a leaf out of Pippa’s book – my other, younger cousin – and pressed the ‘reset’ button, I could ignite a new beginning alongside a decent guy like Levi. Pippa also works for cousin Jemima, driving her mobile bread delivery van. The downside is that I’m surrounded by cousins and extended family all day at work, and smothered by my parents when I get home – another reason why I compartmentalise my existence and overindulge in retail therapy, courtesy of my credit limit.

I wouldn’t say I’m spoilt exactly – despite my parents ensuring that I never wanted for anything growing up. My dad lives by the old adage ‘buy cheap, buy twice’. So having always had the best, I’ve found it’s a hard habit to break. Be it high-end make-up which promises to stay put for twenty-four hours, or extortionately priced tights which never snag or wrinkle, or my passion for hair and beauty treatments which are a future investment in the fight against visible aging. I appreciate that others can’t tell the difference between my expensive, high-end purchases and their cut-price, own-brand goods, but I know. This’ll make me sound like an utter bitch, but I genuinely like my colleague Aileen’s Superdrug lip gloss – it’s a nice shade and definitely costs less than a tenner, maybe even change from a fiver – but it doesn’t stay put like my lipstick does. This morning’s application of my current favourite lipstick, in the exclusive shade of Clover Dew, won’t need retouching for hours, but then it did cost nearly £130 from New York via the internet! Aileen probably couldn’t tell the difference, but I can.

And therein lies my problem; I’m used to the best. My spending splurges have simply become a way of life. It’s not as if I’m admitting to a shopping addiction; I only have access to the local stores here in Shetland, though my purchasing prowess does include the internet and TV channels – though, sadly, they deny me the same buzz. Shopping is simply my happy place; my chosen comfort when I’m feeling a bit low, or a tad lonely, or tired, or upset – and sometimes, just occasionally, a little bit woozy after a night out.

I manage to earn a little extra at Lerwick Manor by volunteering to assist in leading the alpaca walking tours. Not your usual run-of-the-mill job, but one I love. I never imagined that alpacas could be adorable and affectionate towards their handlers. We organise a package deal offering twice-weekly treks followed by afternoon tea in The Orangery. I visit ‘my boys’ in their paddock or overnight stable on a daily basis after my waitressing shift has finished. The herd has a mix of fleece colours – cream, fawn, russet and black – that gallop over to greet me as I approach, and it isn’t just the dried food stash in my pocket that they recognise!

My main concern is my debt. I’ve learnt to catalogue my worries and stack them on the bookcase inside my head. I say bookcase, it’s more like a four-storey mainland city library with wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and still each shelf is jam-packed. I battle through each day as required, much as I did when I was a beautician. Whilst performing a deep-tissue massage, I thought only of the massage. Whether delivering a pedicure, a manicure or a facial, the same rules always applied and I only ever focused on the task in hand. Now, as a waitress, I apply exactly the same rule. Latte. Flat white. Wipe tables. Stack cutlery. Hot chocolate. Sprinkles. Mop floor. Make tea. Greet. Serve. Smile. Repeat. And repeat. Again. I’ve taught myself how to switch between tasks, knowing that each completed task earns me wages and allows the hands on the clock to move around a little faster.

I deal with my debt, and how to juggle all the demands for repayment, once I’m alone at the end of my day. I can’t afford for it to ruin my shift, or divert my attention from earning. My tips aren’t great, but at least Isla, The Orangery’s manager, shares out the ‘tips mug’ on a daily basis amongst the waitresses on duty, which is fair.

In no time, I’ve walked the kilometre along the lane, arriving at the entrance to Lerwick Manor. Traipsing along the driveway, passing the recently installed sculpture park and picnic tables, I can’t help but admire the impressive view of the red-stone manor house, its windows glistening in the morning light. Inside, it will be a hive of activity as hotel guests occupy the breakfast room and service staff dash back and forth catering to their every need. In the private quarters on the third floor, my cousin Jemima and her husband, Ned, will be preparing for the day ahead. Meanwhile, I trek doggedly towards the decorative stone archway leading to the gallery’s cobbled courtyard and The Orangery’s artisan café beyond.

At this time of day, all is quiet in the converted stable yard. A couple of artists mill around, getting ready for the first visitors of the day, and Crispy duck – Jemima’s pet – potters around, pecking at the cobblestones. I walk beneath the monumental arch and complete the transition between home and work life; I smarten my attitude, forget about brown envelopes and APR rates, in preparation for the busy shift ahead.

Heather

‘Hello!’ I holler, opening the back door of the farmhouse kitchen.

I wait on the doorstep, ear cocked, listening for the faint reply before entering; it’s manners, and an old habit. They always answer with, ‘Come on in!’ I wouldn’t want folk traipsing through my house willy-nilly, whatever stage of life I’m at. I treat my eldest sister, Iona, and her husband, Clyde, with the same courtesy.

Responding to the silence with a shout of, ‘Only me!’ I actually enter their kitchen. I close the back door behind me, unzip my fleece and kick off my boots, leaving them on the age-old coir doormat, before padding in stockinged feet across the red-tiled floor towards their warm lounge. Which is an understatement; as it’s always roasting-toasting hot, whatever the season. My nephew, Magnus, is working single-handed to provide for his parents the best he can since their retirement from farming. He grafts all day in the fields before returning home to the farmhouse at night.

‘Heather, I was just saying to Clyde, “Heather’s running late!” Are you running late?’ asks my sister, sitting cosily on the sofa with her crochet hook in one hand and a ball of wool nestled at her slippered feet.

‘You know me too well. Our Pepper got herself wedged behind the sofa. I’ve had to shift half the lounge furniture in order to retrieve her safely. She’d chewed a section of hessian before I realised she needed help. The little sod. Our Ellie said to leave her – “She got herself stuck so she can get herself out” – but I had visions of returning home to find the insides of my couch scattered around the lounge in her attempt to struggle free.’

‘Has she still not had those pups?’ asks Clyde, clad in his usual russet corduroys, addressing me from his fireside chair. Remote control in hand, he’s staring at the oversized plasma TV showing a rerun of a classic snooker final from decades ago.

‘Not yet. She’s not far off, judging by this morning’s antics. I reckon she was trying to nest despite me preparing her usual whelping spot under the stairs.’

‘She’ll do as she pleases . . . where she pleases,’ adds Clyde, not averting his gaze from the drama of who will succeed in potting the black ball.

I stare at Iona, her hands working ten to the dozen, as she gazes up at me. Her wiry fringe could do with a trim and tidy. I look at the silver-grey strands sweeping the bridge of her glasses and remember when it was a vibrant auburn colour like mine – though even mine has the odd silver strand peeping through nowadays. Evidence of my so-called wisdom, as I tell my daughters.

‘Did he not hear me mention under the stairs?’ I ask.

‘Aye, lass, he heard you alright!’ says Iona, pulling a length of lemon yarn from her ball of wool before resuming her crocheting. Her hands are a rhythmical blur as the hook pokes, twists, turns and works each stitch to create the delicate garment spread across her lap. I can’t knit, let alone master a crochet hook, despite the numerous demonstrations Iona’s given me over the years.

‘Anyway, I’ve brought these groceries, as your Magnus sent me a text earlier.’ I retrieve several items from my shopping bag – milk, bread and fresh haddock – placing each on the coffee table, before continuing. ‘And I thought you might like something a bit special for Sunday, so I dropped by the butcher’s for a beef joint.’

They both abruptly turn and stare as I hold the joint aloft, wrapped in paper – which is a novel occurrence, as Clyde’s gaze rarely diverts from his snooker.

‘Tomorrow. Verity is coming for tea . . . you said you wanted it to be a bit special,’ I gently remind them. I knew they’d forget, so I made a note on my phone last week. Magnus hadn’t mentioned it in his earlier message, but he wouldn’t, would he? That’s our Magnus for you. My nephew doesn’t expect people to chase around after him, despite the effort he shows towards others. Iona’s thrilled that he’s finally met someone who makes him happy; she’d given up on that happening years ago.

Tomorrow’s special tea will be the highlight of my sister’s week. Neither of them leaves the farmhouse much these days; I suppose that’s balancing out the decades when they were rarely at home, out in all weathers, tending to sheep and lambs across their many fields. With twenty years between us, I feel like her daughter rather than her youngest sister, but that’s the case when family age gaps, ailments and tragedies take hold in life. Bless them, they’ve been through the mill since the loss of their own daughter, Marina, as a child. Not that I’m suggesting I’m some sort of replacement, but given the four-year age gap between Marina and me, you can understand how grief altered our relationship.

Being the youngest, I wasn’t old enough to care for our parents in their twilight years, so I’m repaying my eldest sister and her husband for doing the necessary back then. When you belong to a large family like mine, the generations might be blurred, with sisters acting as parents, and nephews acting like brothers, but the love and devotion shine through. I try to explain this to my daughters, Ellie and Isla. But as young adults they don’t care to see – not yet, anyway.

‘Is that this week?’ asks Iona, exchanging a fleeting glance with her husband, who has just missed seeing who potted the black ball and clinched the deciding frame.

‘Yeah. Which is why I thought we could have a little spruce-up while I’m here . . . a quick whizz round with the Hoover and a wipe down of the kitchen worktops.’ It might sound tactical, but Iona won’t be wanting Verity to see the true them. I’m the same when my eldest, Ellie, brings a new beau home. I want to portray the real us – us as a family of three – but without portraying the real us. The craziness of our family can wait until their seventh, or tenth date . . . or even their wedding day until it truly shines through.

‘I thought we could make a start on the dining room; I expect you’ll be eating in there?’

‘Am I cooking?’ asks Iona, putting aside her crochet hook, prising herself out of the armchair where she will have been sitting since breakfast. She doesn’t suffer from ill health but she doesn’t move as well as she ought. I reckon her joints are paying the price for all those early mornings, damp weather, and long tiring hours as sheep farmers.

‘Yessss,’ I reply dubiously, before adding, ‘you said you wanted to make her your famous Cullen skink followed by Shetland beef.’

‘Oh no, don’t tell me I said that!’ wails Iona, almost begrudgingly.

Has she really forgotten, or is she just acting daft, pretending certain changes to the family dynamic might not be happening in the foreseeable future? I’ll play along, just for now, and see what happens.

‘You did . . . so you must. This lady means a lot to our Magnus. You said you wanted to make her feel welcome as part of the family,’ I declare, knowing she’ll want to do her best by her lad. ‘There’s only half the work to do if I help out.’

‘Are you not coming tomorrow?’

‘No. I’ve got my own brood to sort and feed! And that’s without a litter of new arrivals, if Pepper decides to whelp,’ I retort. Honestly, enough is never enough for some folk.

‘Is the haddock from the fishmonger’s?’ asks my sister, eyeing the supermarket packaging.

I quickly shake my head.

‘And that bread’s certainly not from your Isla or the baker’s.’

‘Nah, I’m splitting my shopping trips between the local shops and the supermarket,’ I say, not wanting to explain why. ‘So what’s it to be – dining room or the kitchen first?’

‘Kitchen. I can start making Cullen skink once you’re done,’ says Iona, straightening her hand-knitted cardigan and heading for the kitchen.

Relieved that the decisions have been made, Clyde returns his attention to the snooker.

As I wander around my sister’s home, I envisage our Magnus laughing when I recall this conversation. The poor bloke can’t win. When he was a long-term singleton, they took a keen interest in his future prospects, but now that he’s courting someone special, they appear to show no interest. The man has very little support – which probably goes some way to explaining why I always try my best!

Chapter Two

Tabitha

‘Thank you . . . excuse me . . . sorry,’ I utter, dashing between the shoppers and tourists in Lerwick’s Market Street on a busy Saturday afternoon. I hate hot-footing it towards an event, knowing I should be manning my soapery pitch at the manor’s gallery instead. I’ve had to beg, borrow and steal favours to ensure that my business isn’t affected, and all for what? A five-minute stunt, an embarrassment which many of us don’t wish to participate in but feel coerced into doing. If I could get away with not attending then I’d feign forgetfulness and go AWOL. Though I’d kick myself if Ebenezer – our aged, but newly acquired, creative director – pencils a black mark in his battered ledger against my name. Why anyone would swap the bright lights of London’s West End for a theatre in Shetland, at his time of life, is beyond me. But I’d best keep him sweet if I’m to be considered for future starring roles.

Why he thinks apparently spontaneous events such as these are still ‘a thing’ is beyond me; I’m sure they went out of fashion years ago. Our performance will hardly go viral and attract new blood to join us, given our remote location. Right now, I’d happily swap places with Aileen in The Orangery, wiping tables and serving coffee – her involvement with our little troupe purely as an enthusiastic hobbyist obviously has its advantages! I’m not knocking Aileen’s lack of ambition but her participation usually peaks with the seasonal performances, regardless of whatever role she’s awarded.

As I near the bastions of Fort Charlotte, I spy Kenzie lingering on the ancient rampart alongside a sturdy but silent cannon. Her thick chestnut mane is secured into coiled plaits, and her arms are heavily laden with swathes of cloth as she stands looking out across the water of Bressay Sound. She looks a picture of serenity. Maybe I should have tied back my natural flame-red locks with a hair scrunchie, but as my dad says, ‘You can’t tame your crowning glory, so flaunt it!’

I scamper up the grassy slope to join her elevated position. Who in their right mind would pitch me there? I need a high vantage point compared to the other actor, but has Ebenezer not thought this through? It’ll be a brave soul who questions his authority.

I’m grateful for Kenzie’s support, so I won’t complain to her, but I’m still miffed at having to participate in another potential fiasco – yet another spectacular fail. Like last time, and the time before. After which we all vowed never to attempt such a stunt again. But here we are, with everyone having apparently forgotten the sheer embarrassment Ebenezer’s enthusiasm caused us.

‘Hi,’ I say quietly, sauntering alongside Kenzie.

She answers without turning to look at me, as if we’re on a covert mission, watching for some long-forgotten Dutch invaders appearing on the horizon. ‘Hi, Tabby. Are you ready?’

‘Yep. You?’ Not that I doubt her preparation, but it seems polite to ask.

She gives a curt nod.

We stand pretending to admire the glistening sunlight on the choppy waves. We’re not, we’re simply waiting for ‘the signal’; I daren’t imagine the consequences if we miss it. A trillion black marks pencilled against my name in one fell swoop, I expect.

Several people are milling about the artillery fort; it’s a popular tourist attraction throughout the year. I’m not into Shetland’s historical heritage, though many a school trip was spent identifying features of the pentagonal-shaped construction.

I daren’t look at Kenzie. I fear my nerves kicking in beforehand, and there’s a good chance of me being literally sick with stage fright; I can do without buckling at the knees and hurling chunks over the tourists. I’m much better when I’m performing, when my brain can focus, and that sudden rush of adrenaline instantly dispels any last-minute panic.

I’m sure the other participants assume I haven’t spotted them, but I have. Ebenezer and Freddie are below the nearest bastion, pretending to photograph each other, though their guise of revered grandfather and doting youth isn’t quite believable. Ebenezer’s usual combination of brocade frock coat and contrasting wild white hair, coupled with Freddie’s skinny jeans and bright trainers, sets them apart by more than a few generations. I spy Rabbie lounging on the grassy bank, sunbathing without his shirt, revealing a lean and muscular frame. How I wish he were playing today’s other lead role. I give him a quick glance, not wishing to be caught admiring his naked torso. Further along the approach to the fort, Deacon and Old Reg are struggling to manhandle a long cardboard box. This isn’t an everyday occurrence on the fort’s grassy banks, so I’m surprised Ebenezer has allowed it.

‘Come on! What’s the delay?’ mutters Kenzie.

I’m about to answer her when a young couple, hand in hand and looking very much in love, dawdle in our direction as if intending to join us at the artillery cannon. Not what we need or practised; it’ll only heighten the embarrassment for all concerned if they linger to inspect the replica relic.

‘Go away, go away!’ whispers Kenzie, in a harsh but audible tone.

‘Shush,’ I mouth, fearing the couple might overhear and disrupt the proceedings by asking what her problem is. I can do without being dragged into a fraught situation because of feisty Kenzie. Love her and all that, but sometimes she’s a little firecracker. I breathe a sigh of relief as the couple drift by; their curiosity regarding the cannon quickly wanes after giving us pair the once-over. Their jaded glances make me feel like a social freak, when really what I’m about to do will secure that gold medal in an instant. No competition.

I hate what I’m about to do. And yet, I do it. I do it because I have dreams. Big dreams I’ve held dear for nineteen years, ever since I was five years of age and played an angel in the school nativity. My halo was a twisted wire coat hanger covered in a strand of cheap gold tinsel, held in place with a pack of hairgrips. I do it because . . . I believe the others will judge me as flaky or worse . . . talentless, if I don’t. I hate myself for even participating when I should really be working at the gallery, taking care of my day job instead of chasing my dream job. Which others say will never happen. But I hope against hope that it does, and that one day . . .

Oh shit!

Ebenezer is frantically waving at us in his ‘Go, go, go!’ manner. He’s attempting to mute his flamboyant semi-dance in order to avoid attracting the attention of passing tourists before I’m ready to begin.

‘Go!’ screeches Kenzie, as if I could miss the director’s crazy waving-not-waving action.

I take a deep breath, stand close against the parapet, and project my voice towards the blond youth in snazzy trainers who has appeared directly beneath me on the grassy bank.

‘O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father, and refuse thy name. Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I’ll no longer be a Capulet.’ I focus upon my lines as Kenzie swiftly throws her armful of fabric over my head to dress me in a mock-Elizabethan style, complete with white ruff, plunging neckline and corset ties. I’ll give her credit, I’m transformed in one swift move, and she becomes my nursemaid seconds later with a flowing cape. Freddie is transformed too, thanks to a wide ruff and oversized feathered hat, deftly delivered by a half-naked Rabbie.

I’m not a fan of these flash-mob acting stunts – which are meant to take the public by surprise, intriguing and entertaining them with our artistic expression, caught between their mid-morning latte and a gentle stroll – but Ebenezer appears to delight in them.

There’s a momentary pause before Freddie gets his act together to stare doe-eyed up at me, reciting, ‘Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?’

I cringe, as he turns around on the grassy bank to mutter an aside to a non-existent audience. My theatrical outburst and costume change, high up on the rampart, should ensure they appear soon. Well, they u