Scarlet Rose

Chapter 55

11th of July 1925 (Saturday)

The car that carried the two men was speeding through the idyllic English countryside on its way towards Stratford-upon-Avon. Serene green fields zoomed past the car windows as the vehicle was eating up the miles, one after the other on the tarmacked road. Every now and then, green was alternating with splashes of red, white and yellow, when they reached fields full of red poppies, dandelion suns and wild flowers, all swaying under the summer breeze, making a different sea, one of flowers and colours. The air smelled of lavender and grass.

English summer; Terry had forgotten how beautiful it was, especially having lived through the hot, stifling summers, all those years in New York. There was his mother's summer cottage, but to be honest, he had avoided going there, so he had visited the coastal little town of Martha's Vineyard where the rich New Yorkers escaped the temperatures of high summer, only on a handful of occasions.

They could see the river Avon at a distance, sparkling under the bright sunlight like a silver blue ribbon cutting through the fields. Ancient broadleaf trees were throwing their shadows on the road.

"Shakespeare's trees."

Terry's reverie was interrupted by Sir Flower's comment. He turned to him.

"The mulberry trees you see, us locals call them Shakespeare's trees." He elaborated further. "Legend has it, that Shakespeare planted a mulberry tree, which we will visit, and cuttings from that tree have been planted elsewhere, making them all children in a poetic way of that one tree planted by the poet himself."

Terry smiled. He turned back and gazed with more attention at the old trees they were passing by. "I had forgotten all those English legends and stories."

"Storytelling is within us."

"Indeed it is." Terry agreed.

The two men had spent most journey by Sir Flower asking Terry a multitude of questions regarding his acting career. Terry may not have known how his father had explained his leaving the family, and frankly he did not care. For himself, he had ample time to create the backstory of Terrence Graham. Though he had been born and raised up to his adolescent years in England, and his parents were comfortable financially to send him to a good school, they had decided to move to America, given the adventurous nature of his father. However, unfortunately, he had died young, not that long after they moved there. They were modern folk, and when Terry expressed an interest to theatre and acting, they didn't stop him. Instead they encouraged him.

He didn't shy away from the difficult years. He was honest about them. Yes, he had been weak at the beginning of his career, he had made wrong choices but he had managed to rise above it all. Most of all due to his love for theatre, and the love and support he had received from the people who were most important for him.

Sir Flower was very understanding. After all, an actor wasn't supposed to live a life wrapped in cotton wool. The characters in the plays weren't perfect and someone who had lived a sheltered life... how could they express convincingly all those emotions and weaknesses the characters carried? To that admission, Terry's smile in agreement carried all the knowledge of what the older man was insinuating.

The road was closing by Avon river, the car racing by the silver ribbon, the river flowed close to them now and it was as if Terry was being transported to that same land of the stories and the fairytales, where reality becomes a legend to be carried forward into the centuries.

"Beautiful isn't it?"

The quiet figure of Terry sitting opposite Sir Flower, taking in their surroundings - he looked bewitched. The young man's reaction made him smile. "I knew you'd like this place..." He said with a low voice.