The Marigold
Rachel Beckett
Author Bio
Author and illustrator Rachel Beckett grew up in Devon and graduated from St John’s College, Cambridge, in History of Art. She pursued a career in publishing, first with Shire Publications and then with other reference publishers and commercial organisations. She currently works for the Quality Assurance Agency for Higher Education.
Rachel has a long-standing interest in the combination of text and image, and feels strongly that adults should be able to enjoy illustrated books just as children do. During her MA in printmaking and illustration at Buckinghamshire New University in 2005, she developed an interest in the medium of wood engraving. She believes that each piece of text requires its own illustration style, and for this reason she doesn’t always work in the same medium – she also paints, in watercolour, gouache, acrylics and mixed media.
Rachel believes that small is beautiful, and this is reflected in her short stories and illustrations. She lives with her two children in Rodborough, near Stroud, Gloucestershire – an area that she finds very creative and inspiring.
Description
This book contains a single short story for adults, illustrated with 14 wood engravings by the author, Rachel Beckett. The story is about a faded, shabby little theatre, called the Marigold, situated in a quiet backwater of a small French town. The theatre is imbued with the memories of performances that once took place there. No one remembers the days when ladies and gentlemen, clad in baroque finery, paraded outside in the Place des Beaux Gens before a performance at the Marigold.
The theatre is derelict and on the point of being closed down, but the story of the Marigold is not yet complete. There are two people whose lives are still played out there, and they have one important thing in common. They both care about the Marigold, and everything it stands for.
The inspiration for this story was Rachel’s sister Joanna, who is a singer with a great interest in the theatre. Rachel has also drawn on her own experiences and reflections about the essence of life and love.
This is a rare sixteen-page soft-bound limited edition book (100 numbered copies) set in Garamond type and printed on heavyweight ivory paper by the Clarendon Press. Although printed using modern technology, it captures the spirit of traditional hand-printed books. The soft binding in orange card is supplemented by a matching orange dust jacket. The book was published by Stuchbury Editions in 2011.
Stuchbury Editions are named after Stuchbury Close, Aylesbury, where the author and publisher Rachel Beckett set up an antique Albion printing press in 2005. She now works in Stroud, Gloucestershire, where the Albion press can be seen at Gloucestershire Printmaking Cooperative (situtated at Griffin Mill, Thrupp near Stroud), where it is on permanent loan and continues to be used for hand-printed illustrations.
The special feature of Stuchbury Editions is that they are succinct, packing the maximum amount of storytelling into the minimum amount of space, so the stipulation of this website to write a description of at least 350 words is hard to achieve, not least because the story itself is only about 1100 words (very carefully chosen ones). The author also writes other stories of 100 words (‘drabbles’), and Twitter fiction (nanofiction) in 140 characters, under the username @LilliputTales.
Book excerpt
At the bottom of Lafayette Street is a little square dotted with magnolias and lime trees. It is called the Place des Beaux Gens because in former days ladies and gentlemen in silk and calico would promenade here on fine evenings before the performance at The Marigold.
This was a famous little theatre in its heyday — the best place in town to hear ballads or watch a dance troupe. But now its limestone facing has begun to crumble. Stonecrop grows between the paving slabs of the Place des Beaux Gens. Only the litter man comes here, zigzagging after brown paper bags, or a page of Le Monde drifting in the warm breeze.
Music is still heard at the little theatre on sunny spring days — when swallows build nests in the pediment. The warmth brings out woodlice from the crevices of a wooden handcart at the foot of the steps. A few tenacious marigolds grow out of it, cheek-by-jowl with the shepherd’s purse and sow thistles. Maybe it’s just small-town legend, but the tale is told of a charming young marigold seller who once captured the attentions of the king — with rueful consequences. No more feasible explanation has been given for why, a generation ago, the Théâtre du Roi became The Marigold.
In the shade under the portico a weather-worn poster bill announces M. La Trobe’s Amazing Family Variety Show. M. La Trobe still comes every August — the only one who does — while the mildew marks the months in between.
Inside, the gilded scrolls and volutes of the proscenium arch still glow richly in the half light. The curtains of peony-coloured velvet hang stiffly, in readiness for who knows when? Their graciously formed folds are statuesque, and time itself seems to stand still.
Three small chandeliers emit a soft glimmer from their cut glass, as strange as glow worms at dusk. There is no real sadness, only a great intensity of something lost or hidden. The fabric of the place, the motionless air, seem to hold on by sheer will to everything that was ever felt here, whether merry or grave.
Once ballets and operettas were performed here in season, and there were musicals, farces and pantomime. Jolly people came in droves. Girls with fans in smart frocks, and men in white ties with grand moustachios and fob watches were among the changing faces. Many were the jokes and most merry was the laughter. Often the little theatre was so full of love, happiness and hope that its walls seemed fit to burst. But The Marigold was steadfast and kept counsel. Nothing shared here would be lost, even if forgotten by the human players.
Ballads were sung, and operatic laments. Beautiful people came and listened with sad faces. The little theatre reverberated with emotion, her wooden panels trembling like the sonorous body of a violin. All that was expressed on her stage, even tragedy, sorrow and unrequited love, was stored up and cherished in the heart of The Marigold.
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