There was a hubbub of noise below me as people ran across the stage. Swinging like a pendulum, my skirts billowing in a most undignified manner, I clung on with my fingers, praying rescue would come quickly. Taking a terrifying glance downwards I saw one of the stage crew running on with a big piece of canvas, passing it out to the rest to form a net to catch me. Half the orchestra had also climbed on to the stage and were grabbing hold of the canvas. I felt sick with fear. Surely it was too far for me to fall even if they caught me?
Someone else must have been thinking the same thing for a new voice piped up.
‘She will break her neck if she jumps from there.’ It was the boy violinist. He leapt lightly on to the stage.
‘He’s right,’ chimed in Peter, climbing up beside him. ‘Don’t you have a ladder?’
‘Not long enough,’ said Mr Bishop.
‘No need for a ladder,’ said Pedro.
As I twirled in the air, I watched the boy bound across the stage, nimble as a squirrel, leap on to the rope Long Tom had used to haul the basket into the air and begin shinning up it.
‘Somebody stop the boy. ’E’ll kill ’imself!’ shrieked Signor Angelini, but Pedro was far out of reach before anyone grabbed the rope.
He climbed right up into the roof to the jammed block of the pulley system and leapt across to transfer to the rope leading down to the basket. I gave renewed shrieks as the basket began to sway alarmingly, my grip sliding on the wicker weaving. Calmly, Pedro slithered down the rope to stand on the upturned edge of the basket. Twisting one leg around the rope, he stretched over the side and held out his arm to me.
‘Here, take my hand,’ he said, holding it out inches from mine.
‘I can’t!’ I whispered, now almost paralysed with fright. ‘I can’t let go.’
With an impatient whistle between his teeth, Pedro let himself slide a little further over the edge so that he was now dangling upside down alongside me.
‘Is that better?’ he asked cheerfully, grabbing both my wrists in his hands. ‘Trust me now?’
‘Yes,’ I gasped. I let go.
Like some bizarre circus act, we swung there for a few moments, Pedro upside down, me dangling in his grip, before he heaved me up on to the upright side of the basket.
‘Here, hold on to this,’ he said, placing my hands on the rope. ‘I’ll see if I can unblock it above.’
Now I was no longer hanging by my fingertips, my pride was returning. If Pedro could climb the ropes, then so could I.
‘No, I’ll follow you,’ I said, kicking off my leather shoes for greater grip. They tumbled to the ground, hitting someone in the crowd gathered below. The victim cursed loudly.
Pedro shook his head. ‘English girls don’t climb,’ he said. ‘Sit still.’
‘This one does.’ Not waiting for him, I started to shin up the rope as I had seen him do. It wasn’t easy: I had to fight off the silk canopy of the balloon as it billowed around me. But I’d been playing backstage all my life, climbing over bits of scenery and scaling the odd rope, if never one so high, so I refused to be put to shame by this newcomer. After all, I was the girl who had perfected the one-armed cartwheel during many hours playing alone on the empty stage. I could do it.
Or perhaps not.
I had clambered up to the tackle and seen what was to come next. I bit my lip. The jump that Pedro had made looked a very long way from here. A one-armed cartwheel was one thing; a leap across this chasm another.
‘Stay there, Catkin!’ someone shouted below. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’
But I could now feel Pedro’s breath literally hot on my heels. For the national honour, I had to do it. I held out my arm over the void, preparing to leap.
‘No good like that,’ Pedro panted below. ‘Swing closer.’
The rope began to sway. I glanced down and saw Pedro hanging off it to make it move to and fro, each time bringing us closer to the rope at the side of the stage. Catching on quickly, I began to copy him. The balloon and basket creaked ominously below. I could hear Mr Bishop clearing the stage in case something larger than my slipper fell on a head. But now the rope was almost within reach.
‘Ready?’ asked Pedro. ‘Next time, we go. I count to three . . . one, two, three!’
And we were off, both letting go with one hand to stretch across and hook the rope. Like acrobats, we hung straddled between the two ropes before swinging over to hold on to the one leading to the ground. Pedro slid down as if the rope was greased; I followed gingerly, having no desire to make a mistake at the last moment.
Mr Bishop was waiting to lift me to the floor.
‘I think you’d better not let Mr Andrews try it just yet,’ I panted with relief as my feet hit firm ground.
Mr Bishop scratched his head, pushing his wig on to the back of his head. ‘No, you’re right there, Cat. Back to the drawing board on the ropes.’
‘I didn’t notice that in the script,’ said Johnny Smith, coming forward to pat Pedro on the back. Johnny handed me my shoes with a rueful grin. I noticed that he had a red heel-shaped mark on his forehead.
Pedro shrugged; his face resumed its disengaged look. It made me think that he was probably used to being treated badly and found it safest to keep himself to himself. He didn’t know yet that he was among friends at Drury Lane. As he turned to leave the stage, I darted forward and caught him by the arm.
‘Thank you,’ I said, trying to coax a smile from him.
He looked at me with his large brown eyes and seemed on the point of saying something when the horn player blurted out:
‘What did I tell you? Performing monkeys . . . and now we’ve got two of them. And one of them wears a skirt!’
‘Hold your tongue, Harding,’ said Peter, his pale eyes flashing angrily at the offender.
I wheeled round, fists balled, ready to lash out at the horn player.
‘I didn’t see you risking your neck to save me,’ I said tartly. ‘At least there was one gentleman brave enough to do so.’
‘Gentleman! Pah!’ mocked Mr Harding, leering at me. ‘I saw no gentleman.’
‘Yes, gentleman,’ I said defiantly.
‘She’s right,’ chipped in Johnny from behind me. ‘It’s the manners that make the man, not the colour of his skin.’
The other musicians murmured their agreement, forcing Mr Harding to back down this time. He retreated to the orchestra pit, grumbling loudly. Satisfied that I had won this bout of verbal sparring, I turned back to speak to Pedro, but he had gone.
SCENE 2 . . . GANG LEADER
‘Where is ’e?’ asked Signor Angelini. ‘We still ’ave much to do!’
‘Perhaps he has gone to have his costume fitted?’ suggested Peter with a languid wave towards the rear of the stage. ‘You did tell him that Mrs Reid wanted to see him.’
‘Shall I go and look for him?’ I asked, eager to find out more about my rescuer.
Signor Angelini nodded. ‘If you would, Caterina. We ’ave wasted enough of time already this morning. If we do not want the music to be a farce as well as the play, we must work very ’ard.’
‘Wasted!’ protested Peter, putting an arm around my shoulders and giving me a comforting squeeze. ‘Only so we could save our Cat!’
‘Then she can help repair the delays by finding ’im for me,’ Signor Angelini said briskly, ushering the orchestra back to their places. ‘Run, Caterina. Tell the boy ’e won’t be in trouble if ’e gets back in the next quarter of an hour. After that, ’e will regret it.’ He swished his baton, giving me no doubt that he intended to apply it to Pedro if he was still missing after that time.
I ran as fast as I could up the rickety stairs leading to the Sparrow’s Nest. Mrs Reid was sitting with Sarah Bowers, heads bent over a long velvet train that had got ripped in the scuffle to leave the stage last night. A shaft of smoky light fell across their laps from the window above their heads, dust motes dancing in the beam like tiny fairies. Their needles twinkled as they plied them in and out
of the cloth with great skill . . . a skill I had never been able to acquire despite all of Mrs Reid’s lessons.
‘Is Pedro here?’ I asked breathlessly.
Mrs Reid looked up, her mouth full of pins. ‘Who, dear?’
‘Pedro. The Mogul Prince.’
She still looked blank.
‘The black boy.’
‘No, dear. We’ve not seen anyone. But if you do see our prince, tell him his costume is ready for trying.’
‘I will,’ I shouted as I clattered back down the stairs.
What had become of him? He was much in demand but nowhere to be seen backstage. True, Reader; there were plenty of places to hide if you knew your way around, but Pedro had never been here before as far as I knew and in any case, why would he be hiding? He seemed too serious a character to indulge in such childish play, particularly when no one else was in the game. It was a puzzle.
I sat on the bottom step for a moment, thinking. If he wasn’t hiding and he wasn’t backstage or front of house, then he must have gone outside. Yes, that was it. The brass-belcher’s remarks must have upset him more than I had realised. Pedro had deserved praise, not insults for doing what he did. He had probably gone outside to get away from us all.
I ran to the stage door. It stood open, but there was no sign of Caleb. This was unusual, for if Caleb were called away for any reason, he would not leave the door like that. This confirmed my theory. I emerged into the little courtyard that led on to Russell Street. It too was deserted. Where would he have gone? Left towards Covent Garden, or right towards Drury Lane? I stood indecisively, trying to see the place as he would have seen it. He probably had not meant to go far. Perhaps he just wanted some air? Well, if he wanted open spaces, he would have headed for the market which, despite the constant din of the fruit and vegetable sellers crying out the latest bargains, the wagons passing to and fro, not to mention the clucking of the poultry on the butcher’s block, offered the only uninterrupted view of the sky in this part of town. I felt a sudden stab of concern for him. A boy in fine livery would stick out like a sore thumb amongst the tough apprentices of the market . . . I should know, for most of them were my friends.
I had a bad time negotiating the busy crossing on Bow Street. It was packed with people going about their business. A bailiff hurried by with his men, loaded down with goods they must have just seized from some poor debtor. A hawker of ballads stood on the corner crying out his latest wares.
‘You ’eard it ’ere first, ladies and gents: the dying speech of John Jeffreys, traitor, thief and murderer. ’Ot off the press! ’Ear ’ow ’e laments ’is wicked crimes afore ’e took the drop at Newgate last week.’
I gave the ballad maker a wide berth, having no taste for such grisly songs. In any case, they were all pure invention: the unfortunate Jeffreys would have had no time for long versified speeches before the trap opened and certainly no time afterwards unless he revived on the table before the anatomy men dissected his body.
My attempt to steer a path through the crowd gathered around the ballad seller had the unfortunate consequence of bringing my feet plum into the middle of some freshly dropped horse manure. I cursed. To add insult to injury, a black coach and four with a ducal crest rattled by, spraying me with the icy water from a puddle outside the Magistrates’ Court. I hopped back too late, colliding with one of the Bow Street runners, our local law enforcers. He pushed me roughly away.
‘Watch where you’re going, you idiot!’ he bellowed, brushing down his uniform.
‘Same to you with knobs on, you old fogrum!’ I replied, and dashed across the road before he could box my ears.
(I should perhaps explain here for the more delicate among my readers that a different deportment is required on the streets of London than is usually taught to young ladies and gentlemen. Believe me when I assure you that I would not have survived long in my present situation if I had not learned this early on. I hope you are not unduly shocked for there is much more of the like to come.)
I ran as fast as I could out on to the piazza and dodged under one of the arches of the houses flanking the market place. I shook out my skirt and scraped my shoes on a piece of old sacking lying in the corner. Thankfully, the cold weather had quelled some of the riper odours of the street: the refuse, piss and dung that gave our streets their distinctive odour were noticeably less overwhelming this morning. This was just as well as I was now carrying most of it on my shoes and skirt. But the cold had another consequence: having neglected to put on a shawl over my woollen dress, I was already shivering. Time to find the violinist and get back into the warm.
I looked around the piazza. It was a crisp winter’s day . . . the painted houses stood out gaily against the bright blue sky, each roof ridge, each chimney pot sharp and distinct. At first I saw nothing unusual; just the normal collection of servants making purchases, stallholders waylaying the naïve with rotten fruits hidden under their most gleaming articles for sale, apprentice boys lounging outside the inns finishing a late breakfast, gentlemen passing in and out of the coffee houses.
Then I spotted him. I had not seen him at first because he was, as I had feared, surrounded by a crowd of some of the roughest boys of the market, pushed up against the stone monument in the centre of the square. Foremost amongst them was a tall, thin youth of about seventeen with a close-cropped head of dark hair. It was Billy Shepherd, the leader of one of the gangs that vies for control of the market underworld. I’ve known Billy ever since I first played on the streets: he was a bully then and shows no signs of improvement as he gets older. Of course, he is by no means the only tyrant in Covent Garden. The thing that makes Billy different, that has thrust him to the head of his gang, is that he is clever. He links a total absence of moral scruples with the cunning of a fox. Let me put it this way: if the Devil challenged him to a sinning match, and they were taking bets, I’d put my money on Billy to win. You don’t believe me? Well, here’s my shilling, Reader: put yours down on the table and we’ll see who’s the richer at the end of the adventure.
Knowing Billy as I do, I looked anxiously around, wondering if Syd’s gang was anywhere in sight. Syd was Billy’s rival for mastery of the square. Though a gentle giant, Syd had a mean pair of fists when roused to defend his territory. If I could persuade him to take Pedro under his wing, he would look after him. Unfortunately, I could see neither hide nor hair of my friend. I was on my own if I wanted to return Pedro to the theatre in one piece. And I had better act quickly for Billy now advanced on Pedro and grabbed him by the jacket. Pedro stared back at him in disbelief, confused by the attack he had done nothing to provoke. He didn’t understand that Billy needed no excuse.
‘Oi! Billy!’ I shouted, running over the cobbles to reach them. ‘Leave him! He’s with me!’
Billy leant coolly against the pillar, pinning Pedro by the throat. A couple of his burly mates chuckled as I came sliding to a stop at the bottom of the steps to the monument.
‘Found yourself a beau, ’ave you, Cat?’ he sneered. ‘Scraping the barrel with this one, ain’t you? What’s wrong with one of us?’ His eyes, pieces of ice in his pasty face, sparkled maliciously as he looked down at me.
‘Oh, hold your tongue!’ I snapped back, annoyed to feel that I was blushing. ‘He’s not my beau. I only met him this morning but he saved my neck at the theatre just now.’
‘Saved your pretty white neck, did he?’ said Billy. ‘Well, ain’t that nice to ’ear. I tell you what, if you give me a kiss, I’ll let him go.’ He puckered up his ugly fat lips and waited. His gang all laughed as if Billy was the sharpest wit in London.
‘Kiss my a**e, you toad! I’ll smack you in the face if you don’t let him go this instant!’
‘Ooo! I am scared!’ Billy said in a mock whine. ‘The little cat will get out her claws, will she? ’Elp, boys, I’m terrified.’
His cronies sniggered again. One with a sharp nose like the snout of a ferret made a meowing sound behind me, plunging them into fresh paroxy
sms of mirth.
‘I’m warning you!’ I said, taking a step towards Billy. I did not know what I was going to do, but anger was driving me recklessly on, like a runaway horse pulling a carriage downhill.
But at least my rage produced one good effect: Billy released his hold on Pedro and swaggered towards me as if he owned the whole market and everything in it . . . including me. ‘Or what? Are you askin’ for a beatin’? ’Cause I’ll give you one, even though you are a girl. Mind you, you’re no lady, so it don’t count.’ He gave me an evil grin, displaying his row of blackened teeth. ‘You’re just a daggle-tail ’oo can speak like a duchess when it suits but can’t wash off the stink of the gutter no matter ’ow you pretend to your fine friends in the theatre.’
‘A daggle-tail cat!’ repeated Ferret-features with an appreciative chuckle.
I was searching for a suitably tart response when Pedro scrambled to stand between me and Billy, his fists raised.
‘Don’t you dare touch her!’ he challenged.
Even I had to admit, my champion’s threat was not very impressive. He looked as if one stout blow would knock him to kingdom come. But I appreciated his courage all the same.
‘Or what, Blackie?’ jeered Billy. ‘You want a gob-full of claret too, eh?’
‘Leave him out of this!’ I said angrily.
Billy flicked a contemptuous look at Pedro. ‘Wot ya think, boys? Our Cat ’ere ’as fallen for ’is dusky charms.’ Billy pushed Pedro aside and tucked me under his sweaty armpit. ‘We can’t ’ave our English girls messin’ with no African slave boys, can we now?’
I struggled to free myself from his arm but he continued to tow me away. If I didn’t do something quickly, he would bring his boys in against Pedro in a lynch mob. There was nothing the London youth liked better than a bit of foreigner-bashing. I had to think of something to draw their fire away from him.
But the African wasn’t helping. ‘I’m no slave!’ declared Pedro proudly, standing up erect.
‘Let me go, you fathead!’ I protested, punching Billy ineffectually in the ribs to get him to release me. ‘Back off, Billy Boil!’