In the estate huge, old, gnarled trees grew low across the grass, weighed down near to the earth by their own age. Molly, walking, ran her hand over the ancient bark. Tourists always touched the trees she remembered, they always hoped William Shakespeare had walked here and touched them too. Molly had recently heard a theory being expounded that William Shakespeare was actually the pen name for Elizabeth I, but she patted one old tree again anyway, for luck. She had a drink and a sandwich in the old pub she’d known so well, read the Evening Standard she’d brought with her from London. Terence Blue, they said on the front page, was still very seriously ill. Poor Terence, such appalling things happening to him all of a sudden, what could all this be, about Nicky? Molly had sent flowers, rung the hospital every day. At the bottom of the page there was a noncommittal Home Office statement saying Nicola Abbott was on remand, had not pressed a rape charge and was undergoing psychiatric tests; nothing more, no blurred photographs of someone turning away from the camera. Molly sighed, turned to her horoscope: you will travel, it said, and indeed, here she was.

Othello was on in the new Swan Theatre. Molly actually gasped aloud when she saw the auditorium. Perhaps it was only during Victorian times that the proscenium arch and the rows and rows of seats had given theatres such a claustrophobic feeling. For the Swan stage reached deceptively simply up and back into the audience which surrounded the acting area on three sides, each seat comfortable, spacious even. She presumed the theatre could never make a profit, was amazed in these troubled times that it even existed. It wasn’t that actors earned vast sums here, they came here for the kudos not the money and earned much more money elsewhere, the minor actors got peanuts. But the production costs must be huge – there were about twenty actors in this production, God knows how many theatre staff were involved, and even if most of them were working in the other Stratford theatre as well, a full theatre every day of the week surely could not pay for them. What a sign of the times it is she thought that I’m sitting here worrying about the finances of the Royal Shakespeare Company.

The play astonished her. It was a thrilling production of the kind she seldom saw. Molly sat forward in her seat. Times had changed from when she was young and Laurence Olivier had painted himself dark brown, including, so it was said, his penis, and carried a rose between his teeth. A tall, immensely dignified African actor with a deep resounding voice played Othello; Anthony’s Iago, darkly evil, displayed sick envy mixed with a kind of physical fascination that so exotic a being moved amongst them. It was stunning.

Molly was surprised the interval came so quickly.