‘Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.’
Caesar was dead. Mark Antony, dressed in regulation toga, addressed the crowd. I was amongst them, a willing listener; not in ancient Rome, but at the Opera House Playhouse. T’was heaven for me, or close enough: luxe seating, lush carpet, spacious foot room, hubby beside me… Quotations I’d memorised years ago had resounded, commanding my attention. I was enthralled, thrilled, almost agog; he to a much lesser extent. At high school we’d both studied’ Julius Caesar’ for our Junior Public Examination. Only one of us had the good fortune to be time-tabled with the rarest gem of English teachers, Miss Mary Trembath. His memory of most lessons, at a different school, are a blur of wishing and hoping for the bell to ring.
‘Au contraire pour moi,’ my French teacher might have said.
‘Julius Caesar’–my first exposure to Shakespearean tragedy. Miss Trembath, ever resourceful, arranged for her ‘greenhorns’ to view a black and white version of the play. A projector whirred. Reels spooled. Progressive equipment at the time—beyond vintage now. I recall my determination not to miss any dialogue; disappointment that the play dragged on, interminably.
In Sydney that night, in contrast, my adult self was being stirred to the core by experts in stagecraft. No dull moments to abide, a totally engrossing production. Pinch-me time…
I idolized Mary during her four years as my teacher. Raised on a cane farm near Bellenden Kerr, she relished acting in amateur productions. How I’d sighed when I saw the lovers kiss in the final scene in Jane Eyre at the Hibernian Hall. She sparkled in the lead role.
Anathema to her was silent reading of plays by her students. Her love of theatre forbade it. ‘Shakespeare is for listening and imagining each scene.’ Her words, on repeat. The expectation was that we’d scribble notes in margins; then, when directed, articulate lines clearly, with expression. Her eagle eye sought out recalcitrants, prime candidates for speaking parts. Mary would coach us in pronunciation—pesky words lurked amongst the iambic pentameters.
We’d repeat in unison till she nodded, satisfied. No acting as such, yet lively lessons—language evoking strong emotions not yet familiar to teenagers. ‘Universal themes,’ according to our guru.
Disregarded now were minor irritations eg my wet dress and shoes. The familiar words of the Bard permitted me no distractions from the play in progress. We’d borrowed an umbrella from the hotel, a decisive move. Sharing its limited protection, we were assaulted by sharp, slanting rain when alighting our taxi and dashing across the concourse. Not an auspicious start… We hadn’t expected such a throng in the foyer. Elegantly we sipped bland sav blanc in plastic ‘glasses’—$39.00 thank you. Standing, we soaked in the rising air of anticipation. Doors opened, decorous swarming and swishing ensued, seats were located.
The forbearance of the person beside me would be tested in subsequent days. Perhaps my lavish praise of Mary was excessive, but he’d had no exposure to her magic. Minor martyrdom was called for and he responded. Decades back-pedalled as quotes I’d first heard from her lips rang out from the talented troupe of the Bell Shakespeare Company.
Mostly, I remembered: mostly he forgot:
There is a tide in the affairs of men which taken at the flood leads on to fortune.
Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look; he thinks too much; such men are dangerous.
Politics is a cut-throat business, conveyed with sledge-hammer effect in this 600-year-old drama. I delighted in recognising direct parallels with current power-brokers: self-delusion, deceit, dishonour, skullduggery, betrayal. Miss Trembath’s voice, her precise diction, echoed through my memory cells.
‘Mischief though art afoot,’ and ‘Beware the Ides of March’, presaging dastardly deeds.
Knives were raised. Eyes were riveted. Breaths were held. The conspirators milled around their pompous leader. Immortal words highlighted the assassination scene.
‘Et tu, Brute, then fall Caesar.
What next? Nothing. Lights were cut. Utter darkness. Not a sound.
Interval. Brilliant.
Afterwards, a corpse lay centre stage, tomato sauce gore distinct against pristine white togas.
It was revelatory to me that, after a long hibernation, my memory was jolted that night. From a high-ladder podium, Mark Anthony incited the crowd and foiled the assassins. His electric delivery of, ‘Cry havoc and unleash the dogs of war!’ accelerated my pulse rate.
Strolling to the taxi rank later under clear skies, we admired the mighty bridge, savouring sounds of night life by the Harbour. My motor was purring. The showcasing of ‘Julius Caesar’ had conjured echoes of my youth. Grateful was I to lodge this experience in my memory bank.
A+ rating from me–a minor deduction for the casting of Brutus, that noble conspirator. He was a she… A pity I’ll never discuss that with Miss Trembath.
© Tropical Writers Inc 2026