All Hallows' Eve by M.J. Trow

All Hallows’ Eve
    â€˜Has anyone seen Kit?’
    Thomas Sledd sometimes thought that if he had a silver piece for every time he had said that, he wouldn’t be slogging his guts out working for Philip Henslowe. He would be living in luxury somewhere downstream, with his own waterman ready to take him wherever he wanted to go, walking in his extensive grounds, his silk and lace-clad wife walking serenely by his side … He shook himself out of his reverie and looked around him. The usual chaos prevailed; wood shavings coated the floor and, it seemed, every horizontal surface they could find. Canvases hung limply from nails driven randomly into the walls. Within their folds were towns, gardens, palaces and rooms which, from the groundlings’ pit, could fool even the discerning. Up here, close and personal, they looked like the daubs they were, painted by anyone who had a minute and could draw a straightish line. They had had one scenery hack who at least had a little talent. What was his name? Gower, that was it, George Gower – but he had come in one day, all nerves and shyness, to say he had another job. Tom wondered sometimes just what had happened to him …
    â€˜I said,’ he bellowed, ‘has
anyone
seen Kit Marlowe?’
    Tom Sledd’s bellowing was just part of the background noise and few took any notice. The sawing continued unabated and the actors in the corner carried on trying to out-shout each other. It was just another typical night at the Rose, with the new production just one day from opening. Tom chewed anxiously at a thumbnail and scurried off in search of someone who always kept a weather eye on what Marlowe was doing, and all for love.
    Up in the attic, tucked under the eaves and even higher than Philip Henslowe’s eyrie, the seamstresses sat in serried rows, stitching for all they were worth. Like the canvas backdrops, their creations wouldn’t pass muster close to, but from a distance they looked like the richest garments a body could be clothed in. So what if the pile on the velvet was painted on? So what if the jewels were glass? In the faint light of the performance, they looked wonderful. As Tom Sledd stuck his nose around the door, ten pale faces turned to him, as though joined together on wires. He was reminded of the puppeteers who entertained the crowds outside the Rose on first nights.
    â€˜Ladies,’ he said, sketching a bow.
    A chorus of giggles met his entrance. He knew what they did in their free time, such as it was, to supplement their meagre pay.
They
knew that he knew. But still, the game continued.
    â€˜Master Sledd,’ they all replied, solemnly.
    â€˜Could I ask, ladies, has anyone seen Kit Marlowe?’
    A storm of giggling met this question, as it always did. The seamstresses all loved Kit Marlowe, albeit from afar. Imagining him in place of their temporary inamoratos was what kept most of them going. One of them, the ringleader in most things, spoke up.
    â€˜Last we saw, he was out talking to Mr Sackerson.’
    â€˜Mr Sackerson?’ Having a conversation with him tended to be a little one sided, so Tom Sledd thought he would check.
    â€˜Yes,’ the girl said. ‘He often goes out to have a little chat with him, when the light starts to go. He says Mr Sackerson doesn’t like the dark, needs someone to talk to him while he goes to sleep.’ She looked along the line of girls, who were all still looking up at Tom, smiling encouragingly. He was too thin, they said among themselves. That wife of his wasn’t looking after him properly. Look at his hose, all pulled threads. It was an accepted fact that, if Kit Marlowe was the man who filled their dreams at night, Tom Sledd would pass muster for a daydream. The girls all twittered their agreement. Yes, you could always find him outside, leaning over the wall, having a chat with Mr Sackerson.
    â€˜A pleasant evening, Master Sackerson, for All Hallows’