by John Hinge

'WE'RE DOING SHAKESPEARE this year.' My daughter, Kirsty was fourteen and a typical teenager, stubborn, disobedient, noisy, and on rare occasions almost normal.

'How are you tackling the subject?' I asked.

She sighed like someone with too much to do and too little time to do it. 'We're covering the time period in History, acting out the plays in Drama, and studying the texts in Literature.'

'That's fairly comprehensive,' I said. 'Your mother and I just rehearsed selected texts when we were at college.'

Information about school was always grudgingly given and I suspected that if I wanted to know any more I'd probably have to wait for the end of year report.

The first inkling I had that she was taking the subject seriously was when I found a copy of Midsummer Night's Dream on the hall table. I picked it up and thumbed through the pages relishing the nostalgia of familiar passages.

'How are you getting on with Puck and the others,' I asked when we met that evening.

She rolled her eyes. This was a phenomenon that had arrived with teenhood. 'What rubbish,' she said.

I despaired a little at the harsh and uncompromising tone. Shakespeare needed a champion. 'I know it's not easy. You have to look beyond the obvious.'

'If I pranced about in the woods like that, I'd be in front of the head the next day.' She looked at me for a moment. 'And if you did it you'd be arrested.'

A shiver went through me at the thought of being caught prancing anywhere. 'Well yes, but we're talking about the early 17 th century.'

'Do you think they pranced a lot then?'

'Well, I don't know. Why don't you look closer at the story? As I remember it, the main theme is - love triumphs in the end.'

She gave me a hard look. 'Do you really believe that?'

I was floundering in the face of such fierce cross examination. This girl was really made for the law. What an advocate she would make. Witnesses would cow before the barbed tongue and dagger like gaze. I vowed to talk to her tutor about the possibility. 'Just read it with an open mind,' I said lamely.

It was a couple of weeks later when the subject came up again. This time she directed her questions to her mother. Perhaps she thought she would get a more sensible answer. 'This play,' she said, indicating the book open on her lap. 'It highlights the girl's dilemma of being forced to marry a man she doesn't love. That happens now in some parts of the world. Do you think its right?'

Sandra looked at me, probably hoping for some help, but this was one question I was happy to stay away from. What was behind it? Was there some spotty youth waiting in the wings?

'No, I don't believe its right,' her mother said, 'but that's only my opinion. I think you have to take into account the cultural differences and look at the themes as your father said.' She listed them on her fingers. 'Never give up dreaming - appearances are deceptive, and so on. They're universal.'

Kirsty looked puzzled. 'But how can you take the play seriously with fairies in the woods and a weaver with the head of an ass.'

'You don't have to take everything so literally,' my wife said.

Kirsty muttered something unintelligible and went back to the book.

It was during her second term that Shakespeare was mentioned again. She was talking to someone in her bedroom. On further listening I realised she was reciting from a play. I pointed upwards and Sandra gave a nod of confirmation.

Later, she told us. 'I've got to learn the part of Bianca in The Taming of the Shrew.'

We were pleased and supportive. 'That's wonderful,' Sandra said. 'By learning the actual words you'll get a much better feel for the play.'

Kirsty pulled a face.

'What's up,' I asked. 'Don't you like the story?'

'I'm reading about a girl who's told she must marry the man who can produce the most money. I'm beginning to think Shakespeare had a thing about marrying girls off against their will.'

'Tell us more about Bianca,' I urged, changing the subject.

'Well she's the spoiled daughter of Baptista . She has plenty of men interested in her, but her father won't let anyone court her until the elder sister is married. When he thinks that might be happening he comes up with this idea of her marrying the richest suitor.' She grimaced. 'That's awful.'

'You don't have to agree with the story in order to get something from it,' Sandra said. 'Shakespeare stresses we shouldn't believe everything men tell us.' She cast a sideways glance at me as she said it.

Kirsty was not convinced. 'I'll learn it,' she said, 'but I still think its all wrong.' She stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked back at us. 'You wouldn't do that to me would you?' she asked. 'Make me marry someone I didn't like.'

The terrible feeling of dread I'd experienced earlier resurfaced. Was there some young man waiting until she was old enough? 'Have you got anyone in mind? I asked.

'Are you joking? All the boys I know are stupid.' She turned and once more disappeared. I'd come to realise that with teenagers the stairs become a sort of frontier. Most of the conversations happen with them either going up or down, with many of the normal family functions being subverted to their eyrie. Even cereals tasted better when lying full length on a bed.

So much for Shakespeare - or so we thought, but after the holiday, the subject resurfaced.

'Guess what?' Kirsty's cheeks glowed with excitement. 'We're doing Romeo and Juliet as the end of year show.'

'You mean play,' I said.

'No, show. It has music. We're already learning the songs and the dance routines.'

'I don't know of .'

'Leonard Bernstein wrote the music,' she added.

Suddenly I understood. 'You mean West Side Story. That's based on Shakespeare's play.'

'I play one of the girl's from the Bronx ,' she said.' 'I get to wear this frilly blouse and really tiny skirt.'

I had my father head on. 'How tiny?'

She added another non-verbal to the ever growing list. It was the shrug of the shoulders accompanied by a disdainful twist of the lips used to confirm idiocy on the receiver. 'It's - a - show,' she said, as though that explained everything.

Sandra acted as peacemaker. 'I'm sure the skirt will look wonderful.'

'So do I gather that Shakespeare is cool now?' I asked.

'Craig says that Shakespeare's understanding of human relationships can be seen in the parallels he draws with everyday life.'

'Craig says?' Sandra was taking notice now.

'He's in the year above me. We're rehearsing the play together.'

'I see.' In fact many things were becoming clear.

'How are the rehearsals going?' Sandra asked.

'Great. There's a big gang fight between the boys. Knives, blood, the lot. It's wonderful.'

'Gang fight?' we echoed, horror written all over our faces.

'And today, Steven and Christine rehearsed the rape scene.' She giggled. 'You should have seen them. They really went at it. Miss Pettigrew got quite red. We thought she was going to faint. She had to stop them.'

By now, Sandra was doing a little eye-rolling of her own.

'You will come to the show won't you,' Kirsty said as she disappeared up the stairs.

'We wouldn't miss it for the world,' we chorused.

Later we sat nursing mugs of coffee talking through the whole of the Shakespeare thing. 'She's only fourteen,' I said, 'can we really put an old head on such young shoulders?'

Sandra placed a consoling hand on my arm. 'Do you remember when you and I rehearsed that play at college,' she said, giving me a nudge. 'You dispensed with the words on several occasions.'

© John Hinge

John Hinge is a retired lecturer living near Carstairs. Active in the South Lanarkshire writing scene, he is a member of the Biggar Writers' Group. He is the author of numerous short stories and he currently is working on a romantic novel. John was a joint winner of the BBC Radio Scotland Cover Stories competition. His story 'The Spirit of Christmas', was broadcast on the 23rd December 2005.