The Apothecary

Chapter 5

Sherwood Forest



At Riverton Studios, in a grey mist, I pushed open the two heavy doors of the soundstage and walked into a green canopy of trees, warm with light. There was a rope swing hanging from one of the trees, and a log bridge. The trees were all made of fabric and papier-mâché and plywood, but the effect was beautiful. There was a hut that was clearly the heroes’ hiding place. I would have loved to play inside it when I was just a tiny bit younger—and in all honesty, I still wanted to. I didn’t see any actors, and thought they must not be filming yet. No one noticed me, and I stood for a moment taking it in.

My parents were across the soundstage, talking to a tall woman with piled-up red hair, and I could tell that my father was acting out a scene. He did that all the time—he couldn’t just suggest a story idea, he had to act it out. My mother stood with her arms crossed and watched him with her full attention, and with an expression that could be adoring one second and sceptical the next, depending on what she thought of his idea. It always made me feel that she knew him perfectly, and loved him, but couldn’t be fooled.

Then my father saw me and threw up his hands. “Ah, but here is Maid Marian!” he cried in a full Robin Hood voice. “To tell us if we should attack the knight!”

I knew, from years of scenes being acted out in our kitchen, that the thing to do was to join in, and try to move the scene forward. “Does he come to fight?” I asked.

My father looked to the others. “Why, no,” he said. “He has no horse, no men-at-arms.”

“Then you may approach,” I said. “But you mustn’t attack.”

“What wisdom,” he said, “in one so young.” Then he broke the Robin Hood character and hugged me. “You found us! Come meet Olivia!”

The redheaded woman, their new boss, didn’t shake my hand but pulled me in and hugged me warmly, too. “Thank you for lending me your parents, Janie,” she said. “They’re saving my life!”

“How was school?” my father asked. “How were the teachers?”

“They’re making me take Latin,” I complained. “But I don’t know any Latin!”

“Wait—you might actually learn something?” my mother said, pretending to be aghast.

I rolled my eyes. “Mom.”

Olivia Wolff led us into her office, pushed coats off a chair for me, and perched on the edge of her cluttered desk. “Sit down,” she said. “How was it, really?”

I made a face. I couldn’t help it. “Not everything is bad.”

“Did you make friends?”

“Maybe one.”

“What’s her name?”

I felt myself blushing. “His name.”

Olivia clapped her hands. “His name! That’s a good start.”

“He invited me to play chess in Hyde Park.”

“Chess means he’s smart!” my father said. “He’s smart, right?”

“Is he nice?” my mother asked.

“Is he cute?” Olivia asked.

“Is this an interrogation?” I asked. “I thought we moved here to get away from those.”

“Touché,” my father said.

Olivia laughed. “No question—she’s your daughter.”

“So what’s your boyfriend’s name?” my mother asked.

“He’s not a boyfriend,” I said.

“That’s what my daughter always says,” Olivia said. “Any time I think she has a boyfriend, she says it’s a figment of my imagination.”

“Ah, he’s a Figment!” my father said, putting on an exaggerated English accent. “Young Master Figment, of the London Figments.”

“Fourteenth cousins to the queen!” Olivia trilled.

“I can never remember,” my mother said, “if the elder Figment son is Andrew or Alistair.”

Normally I loved my parents’ quickness with jokes, and would wish for them a boss like Olivia who was just as quick, but occasionally it could be really annoying. “His name is Benjamin,” I said. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Benjamin Figment!” my father said. “I like him already. Let’s brush up your chess tonight. I don’t want my daughter shown up by a chap called Ben Figment.”

“I have homework.”

“Just let me give you a good opening.”

“Dad,” I said. “Seriously.”

“So what’s so bad about the school?” Olivia asked. “It sounds glorious to me—Latin and chess dates and all.”

“It’s just scary,” I said. “I don’t know anyone. At lunch I sat near a Russian kid, and a girl called me a Bolshevik.”

“Ah,” Olivia said, growing serious. “Well, imagine being the Russian kid.”

“And the food is terrible.”

“Welcome to England.”

Just then, a girl in her twenties with big eyes and a wide, lipsticked smile put her head into Olivia’s office. I knew she was going to be their Maid Marian because I’d seen a photograph, but it was still startling to see her up close. I’d lived in Los Angeles long enough, at fourteen, to know that actress beauty isn’t like ordinary beauty and always seems kind of otherworldly. Her hair was set in soft curls and she had eyelashes that you could sweep the floor with. She wore a black dress with an impossibly tiny waist and a full skirt.

“They took my measurements and I’m off,” she said. “I have a date!”

“To play chess?” Olivia asked.

The girl looked confused. “No . . . we’re going dancing.”

“Of course you are,” Olivia said. “This is Janie, who just moved here from Hollywood.”

“Oh, that’s so tragically sad,” Maid Marian said. “Do you miss it terribly?”

“Yes,” I said. “But it’s just a neighbourhood.”

“Just a neighbourhood! Will you beg your parents to write some good scenes for me so I can go there, and be famous?”

I looked at my parents. “Uh—sure.”

“Thank you!” Maid Marian said. “Now I have to run.”

“Knock him dead,” Olivia said.

Maid Marian beamed, and the skirt disappeared out the door with a flounce. My parents and Olivia looked at one another.

“She’s beautiful,” I said.

“Yes, well, she’s giving me a pain,” Olivia said. “She seems to think the program is about Maid Marian and her Merry Men.”

My father said, “What if we do a story where she has to flirt with the Sheriff of Nottingham, to—I don’t know, steal the keys to the jail or something, to spring Robin. And the sheriff thinks she’s really in love with him.”

Olivia shrugged. “Maybe—then what?”

The three of them started spinning the idea out. They were happy and comfortable with one another, and good at what they did, and they didn’t treat me like a child. They treated me like one of them. I thought about the apothecary’s powder and realised I wasn’t homesick anymore.

I kept thinking, as the adults talked, about Benjamin taking a train to Hammersmith that he didn’t need to take, just because I interested him, and I couldn’t keep a dopey smile off my face. I had a date, I was pretty sure. It wasn’t dancing, and I didn’t have perfect curled hair and a bell-like skirt, but I had a date to play chess.