Let me be quite clear about this, I am not William Shakespeare. He is long dead and yet here I am. I started out as an echo. A reflection from the retina of an artist. John Taylor. A portraitist of some renown. He had a good eye. I know. I was there.

​     As soon as pigment produced my pupils I could see. A delicate hand gripping a fine paintbrush. A shoulder in worn velvet. A roughly shaved chin. Beyond was a dark-panelled wall. Linenfold pattern. There was a mirror on that wall. A gilt-framed oval of magic glass. Showing me the room behind the canvas on which I was slowly coalescing. Showing me, incomplete but undeniably present, in that room.

     We were not alone, John Taylor and I. A figure sat motionless on a high-backed chair, a far-away expression on his face. An enigmatic face. Brown eyes. A high forehead. Bushy hair. Feminine lips. A jaunty moustache barely reaching a trimmed beard.

     A familiar face. Well, the eyes at least. And the nose with its straight ridge and slight flare. Made of human stuff but connected to me. The two of us. The same features. I know. I was there. I saw the truth. My nose was visible in that luxurious mirror. My eyes stared back at me. Twice. Those of the playwright. And my own.

     The sitter looked a little over forty years old. John Taylor captured the bags under his eyes, and the abraded quality of his skin.

     Later, when my face was complete, came the earring. Catching the light. I wear it now. He wore one just the same. It stops me looking too serious. As it did for him. A man with whole worlds raging in his head.

     I only saw him for those few days, sitting as I was fixed onto canvas, layered in oil, his gift to posterity. A tilt at immortality. He had no need of a portrait. He was a well-known writer. A survivor. His plays are more famous now than in his lifetime.

     When he finally stood to inspect me, I understood. He was insecure. He doubted himself. He feared a fickle public. A change of regime. A diminution in his powers. There was a hunger in him that no number of plays could exorcise.

     Haunted by the prospect of falling from favour. He yearned for the security of wealth and status. A portrait is a message. I am a man of substance. I deserve to be recorded in this way. I am worthy.

     I am grateful that he was driven to commission John Taylor. Without that impulse, I would not exist, a testament to his enduring celebrity. You would not be standing there. Looking at me. But there is a disconnect. You stare at me. The only painting from life that exists of the most famous of wordsmiths. You are thinking of him. But I am someone else.

     William Shakespeare left the studio and went back to his life. He wrote The Tempest the very next year. His hair grew thinner. His skin turning translucent, revealing blotches of broken blood vessels. Dead at fifty-two.

     I had existed for less than a decade when he was lowered into the ground. My hair was full. As it is today. William has crumbled to dust. You only see him through me. But I am not exactly what I seem. A frozen moment conjured from the skilful fingers of an artisan. That was all I was meant to be.

     I am the watcher on the wall. The ghost that never hides. An echo for the eyes. Time has seen me hung in various rooms. A decoration, an object of status, a conversation piece. The Duke of Chandos was particularly enamoured. His name attached to me. The Chandos Portrait. His little breath of immortality.

     I passed through other hands, until Lord Ellesmere gifted me to the nation. The very first acquisition of a new institution. The National Portrait Gallery. My home through several addresses. Spanning more than three of William’s lifetimes.

     I am forgetting. You are still standing there. Still thinking of him. My secret is simple. I can hear you. Hear you thinking. And if I choose. You can hear me too. Only a philistine denies art’s ability to speak. But there are rules, of course. The moment you move away. You forget everything. While I endure.

     John Taylor. They called him a painter-stainer. More than a portraitist. He was an alchemist. Not the greatest of them. But a good one, nonetheless. He mixed his colours, studied his subject, and daubed with his brushes. These are the mechanics of his trade. But what did he achieve? A facsimile? A likeness? A reflection?

     Much more. He captured a spark, the essence of a man. When first he wrought my shape in his paints, I was that man. I was William Shakespeare. But that was long ago.

​

***

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I can tell you hear me. Why else are you still standing there? Why else are you frowning? Why else are your knuckles white around the handle of your cane?

     I am in your head as you peer at me, spectacles sliding down your nose. I know your face. I have seen it before. An important man. Treated with deference. Thomas Carlyle. I have heard it said there would be no National Portrait Gallery without you.

     Men in frock coats, their senatorial faces above high collars, tip tall top hats as they pass. You barely notice although you tilt your head in recognition. You see history through the deeds of great men. That is what you write. You believe portraits of heroes will inspire the public. That is why I am here. Reminding visitors of the nation’s greatest literary hero.

     I hear your thoughts. You wish I was less swarthy. That I told a different story. That I was of nobler stock? You are forgetting. You are the son of a stonemason. You think John Taylor did a poor job? He did not.

     I am the only portrait painted from life. Wayward hair. Dark skin. Earring. Deal with it. For centuries I have heard muttered criticism. But I was there. I looked into William’s eyes as he stood appraising Taylor’s work. He smiled and nodded and shook his painter friend’s hand.

     Here I am. Fixed on canvas forever. Gazing out through time. That’s right. Look deep into my eyes. What do you see? The most knowing, calculating, hungry, cautious, dreaming eyes you ever saw.

     Your lined face is full of questions bracketed between whiskers in need of a trim. Your wideawake hat singles you out from these passers-by, afraid to interrupt your reverie.

     I have misjudged you. Your violet eyes sparkle. You mutter under your breath. You want William Shakespeare represented here. I am the price you must pay. You nod and turn away. Three steps and you pause to look over your shoulder as if you have forgotten something.

     The doors open. A crowd tumbles in from the cold. Ruddy and eager. 15 January 1859. Critics with notebooks. Newspapermen with inky fingers eye lords with airs. Members of parliament puffed with ambition exchange pleasantries with trustees who purse their lips. I catch a glimpse of a hushed artist infiltrating the reception. An upturned face roving the walls, devout in the presence of such technique.

     These are modest rooms. No more is needed to house this little collection. You come to stand with me again. Two friends who have more to say to each other. Liberals avoid you. Macaulay men heading for the portrait of William Wilberforce. An unfinished treasure by Sir Thomas Lawrence. The first portrait acquired by bequest.

     They stand for progress they proclaim, to any who listen. Progress on their terms, I hear you think wryly. You are not of this time. Your celebrity tarnishes. Notoriety beckons? Still, many nod and bow to you before whispering together as they walk away.

     You pretend you cannot hear but strain after every word. You want this to be a success. This gallery is part of you. As the history of these islands is part of you. A history you wrote. William plundered that history to frame many of his plays. Dramas filled with the great men you lionize but with ordinary folk too. Filling the margins.

     You think only of heroes. That is why you willed this place into existence. Do you see Shakespeare as such a man? Surely you do, or I would not be on this wall. You read his soliloquies and sonnets. Revel in his plays of kings with tragic flaws.

     His histories are unreliable, but so, perhaps, are yours? Missing the lives of the many to focus on the few. Do you forget his comedies? Life and love, laughter, and implausible plots. The irresistible ridiculousness of existence.

     You look angry. Do my thoughts echo in your head? You who failed to weigh the magnitude of modest men. Who rarely acknowledged the contribution of women. Listen to me. Ordinary people should look out from these walls.

     You are a long way from Ecclefechan. You say society is founded on hero-worship. You believe in merit not inherited authority. Shakespeare did not have that luxury. You laud the rising Captains of Industry. Leading loyal workers towards a brotherhood you call the Chivalry of Labour. Shakespeare could not imagine such a society.

     You wrestle with a world that is changing fast. Industrialization shifting every balance. You try to graft your theories onto this new world. But do they take? Are you not losing touch? Is that not why these Liberals avoid you?

     I hear what you think of this generation. You despair at their worship of money. You decry poverty. I hear the unresolved conflict howling inside. You sense your own flaws. You grow more reactionary as age bites. Why do you not apply the brakes?

     You turn and stroll away, tall and thin, on brazen black shoes. A complicated man.

                                                                                                                                         

***

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A new home. Sixpence on the door. Open twice a week to all and sundry. Do you approve? You have been standing in front of me for a long time. Occasionally you try to move but you keep looping back.

     A friend joins you. Two women in their best dresses. Yours is pale blue silk, corseted, bustle behind. Blue eyes. Tight features. Your friend is fleshier but as blonde as you. Sensible brown cotton for her.

     You want this world to change, and you want it in a hurry. A handful of years will usher in a new century. It is not the sixpence you resent, although you would have this gallery free to the poor. It is the lack you spy on the walls of these purpose-built, carefully lit halls.

     All men. You grimace. Your face looks sour. Your friend calls you Margaret. She sees nothing wrong. You shake your head. Florence Nightingale? Elizabeth the First, consoles your friend. Someone not born to the part, you protest to Henrietta.

     You speak with assurance. No sign of make-up. Strong features do not need it. Passing men reluctantly doff their hats. They regard you with suspicion. There is something about the way you hold yourself. Whalebone and crinoline do not define you. Nor does 1896. Nor the disapproving looks of men who think like their fathers, who vote from prejudice and perhaps, just the first inkling of fear.

     Why Shakespeare? Henrietta asks. I was framing the same question. You start and stare into my eyes. You smile. You have always loved him. Despite everything. I know what you mean. This William. This wordsmith. This fellow I project towards the twentieth century. A product of his time.

     An inescapable consequence of existence in the era of Tudors and Stuarts. He must please to eat. So, he rewrote history to secure those meals.

     These others who hang alongside me. All defined by their time. Dated now. Ever more so as the years accumulate. Near three hundred years for William.

     Times do change. And so quickly now. Carlyle felt it. Wrestled with it. Lost his grip on it. I have no doubt, Margaret, your time will come. And just as certainly, it will pass.

     But for now, your cornflower eyes outshine your blue silk as you look at my bearded face. Henrietta is quite forgotten. This is my beard, you understand. I am so much older than Shakespeare. I have endured six of his lifetimes.

     Time takes its toll on canvas and oils. I do not complain at a touch of restorer’s rouge. Overpainted here, cleaned there. I am, I fear, wearing a little thin. Will new layers hide the truth? Cut me off from those like you who stop long enough for me to hear? Will I become something other than Shakespeare’s portrait?

     It has already happened. I am nothing like that new-born forty-something locking eyes with William. I evolve with every conversation. I hang here on the cusp of a new century, excited to see what comes next. My fourth. I am a time traveller.

     You think me terribly cut off but little of note happens beyond these walls that does not manifest here. You see the bard at the peak of his career. I am not that man. I am not a man at all. But I am myself. Portrait of a man. Connected, reflective but distinct.

     You are a time traveller too, although you are so young. Eighteen or nineteen? What do you see in me? I do not look young enough to be a beau. The plays that brought me here. Full of attitudes you contest. And yet, you tell Henrietta you have always loved Shakespeare.

     Henrietta takes you by the arm, eager to move on to younger faces and faster places. But you resist, not yet finished with me.

     Shakespeare will be read forever, you tell her. Not like the stuffed shirts who founded this place. Take Thomas Carlyle. Have you read him? The only good thing about him is that he’s Scottish, you joke.

     At last, I place your accent. Glasgow, albeit faint and refined All his talk of heroes, of great men. As if half the world did not exist. You laugh unexpectedly. I would gasp if I could.

     How he must have objected when his fellow trustees accepted Lawrence’s unfinished portrait. Wilberforce the abolitionist! On display less than a year after the gallery opened. You think of Carlyle as an opponent of emancipation. The cause that makes your heart beat and pushes blood around your body.

     Another tug at your arm. Young men in splendid uniforms. Straight backs and polished boots. Heading into the next room. Henrietta’s eyes follow them.

     She would like to see Lawrence’s painting, she says eagerly. You sigh and as you turn away, spare me a tremulous smile. I approve your passion. How could I not? I feed on your indignation and resolve. I know you will be back.

     I had to wait a long time. 1914. The world teeters on the brink of war. Then here you are. You glance at me. There are lines of tension on your face. Your hair is darker. Your eyes are red-rimmed. You hurry on.

     The shock of breaking glass shatters the hush of these muted halls. Cries of surprise and outrage. Ripping canvas. Sounds of a scuffle.

     Votes for women! I hear you. Strident. Older. Cracking with strain, but defiant. You reappear. Flanked by policemen. One of them carries a butcher’s cleaver. He is shaking his head.

     The constable on the other side is talking angrily at you. Millais’ portrait of Thomas Carlyle. Slashed beyond repair. You are not listening to him.

     Your blazing blue eyes lock onto my face. It is worth all my years hanging on walls. Framed and constrained. Subject to the whim of every visitor. Just to see the corners of your mouth curve.

     I watch as you disappear towards the entrance with your retinue. Escorted from the building by blue uniforms with numbers on their collars. Detained by the police. You are all anyone talks about for days in the gallery.

     Why did you change your name to Anne? I have seen the headlines, read blatantly in front of me by patrons and staff. They talk of banning women from museums.

     Our Assistant Keeper is strident on the matter, haranguing door staff. They search women visitors vigorously but look uncomfortable. Do they fear being on the wrong side of history?

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***

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Two world wars have passed us by. Deviant interludes. Dark days. Twice I was lifted down, turned, and boxed. Wrenched from my purpose. I languished. I endured.

     You too survived. I am glad. I remember your first day in that ill-fitting uniform. Clumsy. A little in awe. Lost.

     I remember you trailing in Anne’s wake. Shouldered aside by the police. A look of disbelief on your face.

     You sit eating your sandwich. Luncheon meat. How many days? How many years have you let me watch you eat? From that first sandwich to this one? Nearly half a century.

     You are the oldest room steward now. Clean-shaven. Grey-haired. A little stooped. They call you Grandpa Ted. You don’t mind. You live alone. They do not know they have become your family. I have grown fond of you too.

     Yours was the first friendly face to welcome me back when the threat of zeppelins receded. You were there again when the last doodlebug fell silent. And that terrifying silence was not followed by an explosion.

     You fill in the gaps that were stolen from me. You sit and chew methodically. But your mind is still at war.

     I remember your turmoil at the outbreak of that first world war. You were frightened. Frightened of dying. More frightened of your friends. Talk of joining up together. Boys from Lambeth. Pals.

     You cannot forget the mud. Rats. Noise. Silence. Shelling. Waiting. Wrapped in terror. Terror of being sent over the top. Terror of refusing the order. Terror of taking a bullet in no-man’s-land.

     You survived. You came back. You swapped uniforms. But it wasn’t the same. You left a piece of you in some far foreign field. Your innocence.

     What am I to you? A link to stories written when war was an adventure? Chess? Diplomacy by other means? No. You have another reason. I hear it in you. Madness stalks Shakespeare’s plays. King Lear. Macbeth. Hamlet. The breakdown of identity.

     That is why you sit there chewing the crust of your sandwich. That is why you came back to the gallery. The faces on the walls do not mutate. I am familiar. Reliable. Safe.

     This is your hiding place. There are no loud noises. No sudden rushes of adrenaline. There is no endless anxiety eating away at your core. No reason to contemplate shooting yourself in the foot.

     For twenty years you limped back and forth across Lambeth Bridge. Along Millbank, past the Houses of Parliament and on through Whitehall. Around the statue of Charles I on horseback to Trafalgar Square.

     Every working day you take that same route. Passing the wonders of your city. You do not think you should be here. So many left behind. Dead in minutes or days or months. You lasted two years before that bullet.

     The field hospital. The pain. Screaming. Chloroform. Absence. Oblivion. Bliss. You come around. Many do not. Many die on the operating table. You get a medal. You hide it in a drawer.

      I am not an icon. I cannot weep. I cannot act as a focus of faith. You have none left. But when war was declared again, that fateful September day in 1939. You saw your chance. Hiding that limp, you joined up straight away.

     Did you mean to seek out another bullet? The answer is hidden. You have trapped it in a dark corner where I cannot reach. Where even you will not trespass. But it plays on a loop in your mind.

     Older. Experienced. Hardened. Not by combat but the aftermath. You volunteer. Train. Excel. There are men under your command. They make it easier to forget yourself. They are a source of courage.

     You see it through. Defeat at Dunkirk. North Africa. Italy. D-Day. You haven’t been to a beach since. You have a phobia about sand and waves. There are six more medals in that drawer. One of them has a purple ribbon. Still, you do not talk with the other stewards about your service.

     You hid your limp for so long it disappeared. You still walk the same route. Marvelling in the rush of so many vehicles. When first you passed, the road smelled of horse manure not petrol fumes. The Sixties are another country. You fought for freedom. It is not your place to tell the young how to spend that gift.

     I watch you. If I was Shakespeare, I would write a play about you. About redemption. Would you recognize yourself? Would you accept the truth?

     You are no longer that callow boy who endured so much before he cracked. You are not those men you left dead on the battlefields of two world wars. You are not responsible. There is no guilt to hide.

     You have finished your lunch. You tidy up the crumbs. You spare me one more look before you return to work. There is something else. Another secret you have kept hidden. The old bachelor has met someone. He has told her the truth. He feels like a boy. The boy he never was.

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***

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Sirens outside. Inside everything gleams. Frames dusted. Walls painted. Floors polished. Uniforms pressed and inspected, adjusted, and replaced. 4th May 2000. The National Portrait Gallery is opening a new wing today. The Ondaatje Wing.

     A new millennium. I am still here. At least the staff have stopped worrying about Y2K. I never quite grasped what they were so afraid of. They have something else to occupy them. A royal visit. Queen Elizabeth II.

     Your entourage usher you along. Red twin set and matching hat. You look like you will live forever. Living up to the words of the National Anthem. Long to reign over us. Seventy-four. Your mother will be one hundred years old this summer.

     Security tries to keep you moving but you slow your pace. Head searching the wall. You see me and stop. An aide whispers urgently in your ear. A frown. He steps back quickly.

     You look at me with warm eyes. Enigmatic. That is what you think of my expression. Your namesake, the first royal Elizabeth, was Shakespeare’s staunch supporter throughout her forty-five years on the throne. You, this second Queen Elizabeth, who has already reigned longer, cannot imagine a world without him.

     You remember being given a set of Shakespeare volumes by the townspeople of Stratford-upon-Avon for your eighteenth birthday. You think of the £20 note in circulation between 1979 and the early 1990s. Your image on the front. William Shakespeare on the reverse. The first banknote to feature a figure from British history. Issued the year a woman first became Prime Minister.

     You were on that note because of an accident of birth. The inevitability of death. The loss of a father. Shakespeare is there on merit. As it should be. His words echoing down the centuries. Binding us to audiences long dead. What a marvel. That words written in such different times still resonate.

     You wonder what William would think of modern Britain? Your escort fidgets. You ask for a minute. Nods. Murmured assurances. Do royal eyes see the world differently? A smile. As if you hear an answer.

     Shakespeare would relish writing without fear of censorship or censure. He would people his plays with a diverse cast. Celebrating the rich tapestry of a society he could not imagine four hundred years ago.

     You do not think it explicitly. But I sense the truth. A life of service. Dedicated. Almost always good-humoured. Relentless. There appears little space for personality or pleasure. And yet. You touch so many. You offer continuity.

     Yours is a settled mind. A happy marriage. Generations of family. Balmoral. Corgis. Horse racing. A clear sense of purpose. Trained and disciplined. Able to convey interest and appreciation on any subject.

     A private thought intrudes. Unlicensed. Thinking of the many images of yourself hanging here. A faint embarrassment. Very nearly banished after all these years. Paintings and photos. A princess in uniform. Standing in front of a truck. The Auxiliary Territorial Service. Second Subaltern Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor.

     You were someone else then. Working on engines. Changing tyres. A fully qualified driver. Another era. Another woman. Fond memories but little regret.

     What is it to be a monarch? Not the same as in Shakespeare’s time. No power. But a little influence? A particular form of celebrity. An icon now, after all these years in the limelight. All those speeches broadcast on Christmas day. How many distinctive waves?

     You only know how it feels to be you. How you feel about being Queen. Duty. Purpose. A constant in changing times. Changing while remaining constant. Impossible? Necessary.

     Pietro Annigoni. A celebrated portraitist. He painted you more than once. But you think of his 1969 work. Eighteen sittings. Patience. It came so easily. Although he complained privately that you talked too much. You laughed when you were told that.

     A severe image. Regal. Imperious even. As the artist said. A monarch. Alone in the problems of her responsibility. A modern Gloriana. A link to Shakespeare’s day.

     You preferred his earlier portrait. 1955. Criticised for its romantic treatment. Which of us would not hark back to our youth? Did he overcompensate when given another chance? You are too polite, even in your own mind, to say.

     You unfasten the clasp. Slip a handkerchief from your handbag. Dab at the corner of your eye. The handkerchief disappears. You snap the bag shut and nod. One last look as you move away. Returning to the current of a life that changed forever at that coronation so long ago.

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***

  

The gallery has been shut for three years. Fortuitous timing. No Covid headaches. You booked your ticket. 22nd June 2023. The day it reopens to the public. To you. Free entry. A good thing.

     Why have you fetched up in front of me? Is that a sneer? Have I grown unaccustomed to scrutiny? This seems to be a day of questions.

     I must give you a chance. You could have stopped anywhere. There has never been so much to view. In here. Out there.

     I look closer. Something familiar about you. Cornflower-blue eyes. Blonde hair. Almost gaunt. An air of disapproval. Margaret? Anne? You changed your name.

     No. This is not how people work. You would be ancient beyond belief. Family resemblance. A common topic in this place. Of course.

     I hear you. Why did she love Shakespeare so much? You don’t see me. Only William. I understand. That is my purpose. I am here so you can talk to him.

     You ask the question although you already know the answer. You are a reader. You feel the poetry in his words. He has made you laugh and cry. But you are so angry. Just like Anne. Despite the generations that separate you.

     Votes for women. Equal opportunity legislation. Me Too. You are connected to your ancestor. But different. You so want to be different. The right to choose. Choose what? I am not sure I understand. Even though I am in your head.

     Your forehead furrows, lines converging between your strong eyebrows. You run an impatient hand, nails gaudily glittering, through your short spikey hair. Accusations spark. Misogynist. Racist. Perpetuator of the Patriarchy.

     You look tired. Burned out. Worn down by a life lived in public. Scrutinised. Commented on. Shared. That used to be such a comforting word. Now it is a compulsion. And a threat.

     I see visitors glued to their phones. They barely look up. Enslaved by technology. Technology designed to set them free!

     Now you look conflicted. Guilty. You fire off these criticisms to hide the truth. You know why Anne loved William’s plays. You know she winced through late sixteenth century attitudes. Thrusting them aside. Hungry for the wonder of his words. You have done the same.

     You are thinking of her now. That meat cleaver. Hidden beneath her clothing. That day in 1914. As she locked eyes with me. Fondly. A hint of a smile. As she was frogmarched away.

     You know your history. Hatchet fiend. Wild woman. This is a different time. Do not repeat the past! Wait. I am misjudging you. A livid surface shrouding your truth. I was deflected. Deceived. You are not here to destroy. You seek healing. Understanding. Connection.

     You want to understand the past. Your family. Margaret who became Anne. A woman trying to find a way forward in difficult times. A woman of conviction. A campaigner. A protester. An ally of Pankhurst.

     You have marched. Hoisted banners. Lain prostrate on tarmac. Smelling bitumen. Entranced by the rainbow pooling of spilled fuel. I see these things in your head. You still feel empty. You want to know if Anne found peace. No, not that. Equilibrium. You want it for yourself.

     How to live in this world? How to see the past? How to look to the future? You would not be here if it was not for Anne. You think portraits on canvas a relic of a different world. Where a single template could control a person’s image. Like Queen Elizabeth. Projecting her power through symbolism. Her appearance ubiquitous after re-coinage started in 1558.

     You do not believe in monarchy. Another anachronism. You refuse to wear a poppy in November. Glorifying war is anathema to you. Those conflicts of the last century separated from you by a new millennium, the only one you have ever known.

     Yet, here you stand. In front of me. A crackle-glazed portrait of a playwright. Four hundred years old. Words and phrases. The Bible. The Navy. Shakespeare. What would our language be without them?

     Lost in an avalanche of soundbites. Accusations of fake news. Cancelling. You cannot rewrite the past. Only distort it. Hide it. Deny it. Shut the door on this gallery. Padlock. Chains. Boarded up. Forgotten. Is that what the future holds? Is that what you think should happen?

     You frown again. You lean forward, your gaze boring into mine. Trying to cross the centuries. There will never be another Shakespeare. Cherish him. Consider his context and let go of outrage. A reflection of his times. Times long past. When he was popular culture. Let him be.

     A shake of your head. I see your earrings. So many. I wear just the one. As William did. Yet you and he. You are the same. Flesh and blood. Hopes and fears. Trying to find a place. A purpose. A living.

     You raise your hand. Half a wave. What will you be? I cannot sort it from the turmoil of your thoughts. You do not know yet. I envy you as you walk away. For all your confusion. You are searching. Is that not it? The human condition. Shakespeare’s ultimate theme. 

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Masterworks: Historical Short Fiction Inspired by Works of Art

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