As the play neared its end, I could sense the tension building. We all knew what was to come in the last scene. As the final speech neared, Mr Kemble drew himself up with delighted anticipation. ‘My Ariel,’ he declared so every man, woman and child in the house could hear, ‘to the elements be free, and fare thou well!’
The shout from the crowd was such that I expected the roof to fall in. Heaven knows what those outside thought was happening! Pedro leapt on his swing and was hauled up to the flies, his cloak-wings fluttering behind him.
‘Free him! Free him!’ thundered the audience.
Hawkins and his crew jeered and whistled, but their protest was lost in the hullabaloo of the crowd backing their boy. With Pedro now gone, the audience turned their attention on his former master. A shout of ‘Out! Out! Out!’ was now directed at Hawkins. Miss Miller senior leant over the edge of her box and stabbed her finger in the air in time with the chant. Her gesture was taken up by those around her and Hawkins found himself in the middle of a forest of fingers all pointing at him. He got up, raised two fingers to the audience in reply, and pushed his way out of the auditorium. The cheers that greeted his retreat were the loudest yet. My ears were ringing with them long after the epilogue had been delivered by a beaming Mr Kemble.
After the performance, actors, friends and supporters spilled into the Green Room like foam from champagne.
‘He daren’t touch you now, Pedro!’ bubbled Frank, downing a glass in celebration. ‘You’re the toast of the town.’
‘Yes, you’re far too popular now – no one can enslave such talent,’ said Mr Kemble, raising a glass to his Ariel.
‘You were magnificent!’ declared the duchess, planting one of her kisses on Pedro’s cheeks and another on a startled Mr Kemble.
‘Dost thou know, I think the theatre is quite misunderstood,’ gushed Miss Prudence Miller, gazing at the actor-manager with admiration and tweaking her bonnet strings.
Mr Equiano came to stand beside me as we watched the jubilant crowd swirl around our African Ariel.
‘Well, you may just have saved him,’ he said, nodding at Pedro with a tender expression on his face. ‘You should feel proud of yourself.’
I glowed at his praise. ‘He saved himself, sir. He faced down Hawkins by his superior talent.’
‘True. You both deserve the credit.’ Equiano lowered his voice and turned me to look up at him. ‘You’re closest to him – I can trust you to look out for him, can’t I?’ I nodded. ‘Don’t drop your guard yet. Until I see Hawkins sailing away from England, I won’t be convinced we’ve really won.’
‘Cat! Cat! Wake up!’
I retired late and had only caught a few hours’ sleep when I found myself being shaken awake.
‘W-what?’
‘Get up, you silly girl. You’ve got to go.’
I opened my eyes to find myself staring up at Mr Sheridan, my unofficial guardian and the owner of Drury Lane. Back from his visit to the countryside, he was now in the Sparrow’s Nest, standing over me with a candle. This was all wrong: he never came up here. Something very serious must have happened.
‘Is it Pedro?’ I asked, throwing off my blanket.
‘No, you fool,’ he said tersely. His dark eyes glittered angrily at me. A jolt of fear pushed me to my feet. Mr Sheridan was all that stood between me and destitution: it was by his permission that I found a roof over my head at Drury Lane. If he was furious with me then I was in serious trouble.
‘What have I done?’
‘You tell me, Cat.’ He strode to the window, his back turned. ‘I get to my club and find it in an uproar. Apparently some vandal rampaged through the members’ library shouting obscenities. How shocking, I thought. Then I find out that the same person had nearly severed a finger belonging to a very respected gentleman. Dreadful, thought I.’ He faced me. ‘Finally, I’m told it was a girl from Drury Lane and that an official complaint has been made. A warrant is out for her arrest for assault and destruction of property. You can thank your lucky stars that I’ve arrived before the runners, who, I’m also reliably informed, will be only too delighted to take you into custody. If I didn’t owe you one for looking after Johnny, I would have left you to them. What did you think you were doing?’
I stared at him in horror as he said all this, my mind refusing to take it in.
‘It was Pedro’s old master, Mr Hawkins. He stuck his fingers in my mouth,’ I said in a hollow voice, thinking some kind of explanation was required.
‘Cat, you expect me to believe that a grown man put his fingers in the way of your teeth and you just happened to bite down on them?’
‘He was pretending to buy me,’ I protested, ‘like in the slave market. I felt humiliated.’
Mr Sheridan ran his fingers through his hair and swayed slightly. He’d taken in a lot of wine tonight, I could tell, and was perhaps wondering if he’d heard me properly.
‘Sounds like he was teasing you, Cat. You shouldn’t have let it get so out of hand. But no matter. I can’t hide you from the runners – you’ve got to go, and go now.’
‘But where can I go? This is my home!’ I whispered faintly.
Somewhere down below, there came a banging on the stage door.
‘Open up! Open up!’
‘It’s them!’ hissed Mr Sheridan. ‘You’re going to have to leave through here.’ He gestured to the window. ‘They’ll be watching the doors.’
I nodded, my brain finally recovering from its bewilderment. I was dressed only in my nightgown. Grabbing a few belongings together in an old sewing bag, I threw the window open, then turned round.
‘I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused, sir. Thank you for warning me.’
‘Get along with you, Cat,’ he said, ruffling my hair in his old affectionate manner. ‘You’ll be back, I’ve no doubt. Here!’ He thrust some coins into my hand. ‘Stay away from the obvious places where they’ll look for you – Grosvenor Square, the butcher’s shop, and so on. And keep out of any more trouble.’
I nodded and clambered on to the sill as Mr Sheridan closed the window behind me. Clutching my bag under one arm, I scrambled up on to the ridge of the roof and sat astride it. If you edge along the ridge to the gable overlooking Brydges Street, it’s possible to slide down to the gutter, swing to the broad window ledge of the tavern next door and then, if you are lucky and the catch is open, climb in on the first floor. At least, that was the theory. I’d never done it before.
With a quick glance back at Mr Sheridan, I began my perilous journey across the tiles. Reaching the Brydges Street end, I leant forward on my stomach to look down to the road. Two men were lounging against the wall opposite the theatre. Moonlight glinted on the buckles of their uniform. Mr Sheridan was right: the runners were after me in force. I would have to make my slide down to the gutter that ran between the theatre and the Players’ Tavern as noiselessly as possible. I took a couple of calming breaths. My fingers were frozen – my bare toes also. I had my boots slung by their laces around my neck but dared not pause to put them on. Swinging my leg over the ridge I hung there for a moment, silently counting to three.
‘One . . . two . . . three.’
I let go and slid all the way down to the gutter, leaving the skin of my hands and knees behind me on the leads. Thump! I jolted to a halt and gave a hiss of pain.
‘What was that?’ I heard one of the runners ask on the deserted street below. ‘Did you hear something?’
‘Nah. Probably just a cat.’
Now for the most difficult part. I would have to come into view – albeit two storeys up – to drop on to the window ledge. I crawled to the edge of the gulley and let myself down, legs dangling over the void. I know it was not the most ladylike behaviour, Reader, but I had no choice.
I must be mad, I thought. Well, it was either break my neck this way or let the hangman do it for me. I let go, dropped to the ledge, and nearly missed my footing. To stop myself falling, I threw myself forward against the sash window;
a pane shattered with the impact and glass tinkled to the ground.
A whistle blew on the street below. Not daring to look down, I tugged at the window until it crashed open. I heaved myself in and tumbled to the floor of a bedroom. In the gloom, a man in a nightcap sat up in bed.
‘What the . . .!’ he exclaimed.
‘Sorry!’ I hissed as I darted for the door. ‘Must go!’
I made my way to the stairs, and there bumped into the innkeeper, Mr Mizzle, on his way down to answer the hammering at the door.
‘Mr Mizzle, it’s me, Cat. The traps are after me! Don’t let them in yet.’
Us theatre folks stick together. As chief provider of ale to the thirsty crew from next door, Mr Mizzle knew that now was no time for the whys and wherefores of the matter. Now was the time to help me escape.
‘Out the back, Cat. You know the way,’ he said, thrusting me through the kitchen door into the yard. ‘I’ll keep them busy in here.’
I dashed across the yard, climbed on some empty barrels and over the wall, dropping to the ground in the alleyway. I then breathed a sigh of relief. From here on, I was safe. I knew the back alleys around Drury Lane better than any Bow Street runner. Hopping into my boots, I threaded my way down to the Strand and ran westwards into the night.
SCENE 2 – SWITCHED
I only stopped running when I reached Westminster Bridge. Panting so hard I thought my ribs would crack, I leant against the parapet. It was cold – so cold. As the heat of my dash across town faded, the frosty air began to bite. I was shivering uncontrollably. I couldn’t remember ever being this frozen. But then, I’d never been homeless dressed only in a nightgown, shawl and boots since – well, since I was a baby left on the doorstep of Drury Lane. And there was no going back to the theatre tonight – or for many nights – perhaps forever.
I stared out at the dark water of the Thames rolling below, wisps of mist creeping along the banks. Dawn was breaking and the streets were coming alive. A barge sailed beneath me, coals in a brazier glowing as the bargemen warmed their hands. They laughed gently and took a swig from steaming cans of tea. The contrast between my own situation and their cheerful life made the view the most depressing one I’d ever seen.
That’s enough, Cat, I told myself fiercely. This is no time for self-pity. You’re in a spot of trouble? Well, it’s not the first time. You’re cold? So you need warmth. That means clothes and a fire – possibly breakfast too if you’re lucky.
I pulled open the bundle of clothes I had grabbed in my hurry to escape and found that I’d picked up the breeches, jacket and cap that I’d put by for jaunts out with Syd’s gang when I dressed as a boy. Oh brilliant, I groaned. I didn’t even have a full set of proper clothes.
But then I had an idea . . .
‘You’ve a message for Lord Francis?’ The porter at Westminster School peered at me sceptically from the warmth of his lodge. ‘Bit early isn’t it?’
‘Ain’t it just, gov,’ I said, legs astride and wiping my nose on the back of my hand in my best messenger-boy manner. ‘That’s wot I said when the duchess ’erself sent me ’ere.’
‘Hmm. Hand your note over and I’ll see it delivered when his lordship rises.’
‘Well, that puts me in a fair pickle, gov. I’s ’avin’ the message in my canister if you foller me.’ I tapped my cap to indicate my head.
‘All right, all right,’ said the porter, already tiring of talking. ‘Lord Francis has the top room in that staircase by the clock tower.’
I touched my cap and bolted across the courtyard. First barrier overcome; breakfast a couple of steps nearer. As I entered the staircase, I met a young man with curly black hair on his way down.
‘Here, tiddler, where do you think you are going?’ he said, grabbing me by the arm.
‘Message for Lord Francis, sir,’ I said, keeping my head lowered. I realized with a horrid jolt that I knew him: it was Frank’s friend, the Honorable Charles Hengrave. I’d even read some of my work to him earlier that year at one of Lizzie’s tea parties.
He laughed. ‘He won’t be out of bed until the bell – dead to the world until the last moment. You’d better leave him be.’
‘I can’t do that, sir,’ I said desperately, trying to worm my way past him. ‘It’s urgent. It’s his Great-Aunt Charlotte. She’s on ’er last legs.’
The Honorable Charles pulled me up short by the back of my jacket.
‘What? I know for a fact that he doesn’t have a Great-Aunt Charlotte.’ He turned me roughly to face him – and then let go as if I’d burnt him. ‘Miss Royal! I do apologize, but what on earth . . .!’
I made frantic shushing noises. The porter was peering out of his cabin at the altercation going on across the quad. ‘Please don’t give me away. I’m in enough trouble as it is. I’ve got to see Frank.’
Charles turned on his heel. ‘Come on then. We’d better hurry. Everyone will be up in a moment.’
I followed him up the narrow stone staircase to the very top and he hammered on the door.
‘Frank! Frank! Make yourself decent. You’ve got a visitor.’
Waiting a few moments, my escort opened the door.
‘Lucky for you we share a set of rooms,’ he said. ‘You can’t imagine how much trouble he’d be in if anyone else caught him with a . . . well, with a you-know-what in his room unchaperoned.’
We entered the study to find a bleary-eyed Frank standing in a rumpled shirt.
‘Who is it, Charlie?’
There were footsteps outside. The porter appeared at the door. ‘Everything all right, sir?’
‘Yes, Mr Jennings, everything is perfectly in order,’ said Charles, shoving me out of sight behind him. ‘I was just telling his lordship about the messenger.’
‘It’s only that I thought I saw the little urchin giving you cheek down in the quad.’
‘No, no, he’s been very respectful. We were having a joke, that’s all.’
‘Well, in that case, I’ll get on with my work.’
‘Yes, yes, you do that. Very good, very good.’
Charles backed the porter out of the door and shut it behind him with a sigh of relief.
‘What’s going on, Charlie?’ asked Frank, still not fully awake. He yawned, stretched and scratched the back of his head. ‘What’s the messenger here for?’
Charles waited until the footsteps had died away. ‘You’d better ask yourself. I must say I’m also rather intrigued to know the answer.’
Frank took his first proper look at me and swore. ‘Damn and blast, Cat, what are you doing here?’ He grabbed a dressing gown and hastily wrapped himself up in it.
‘I was rather hoping you’d let me warm up and have some breakfast,’ I replied with a longing look at the fire. ‘I’ve just spent the night on the tiles.’
‘Good lord, Cat, you look frozen.’ He grabbed my hands, now noticing that they were blue with cold, and rubbed them briskly in his palms, all trace of sleepiness vanished. ‘Charlie, get the blanket off my bed.’
Bundled up by the fire, warming up at last, I began to tell them the tale of my escape across the rooftops.
‘Miss Royal, you are certainly a most extraordinary young lady!’ exclaimed Charles when I’d finished.
‘You’d better drop the Miss Royal, sir,’ I said. ‘I’m a boy for the moment.’
‘In that case, you’d better call me Charlie. Can’t have you calling me “sir” the whole time.’
‘But what are we going to do about you, Cat?’ said Frank, striding up and down the hearthrug. ‘You can’t stay here, you know.’
I nodded. I had known that I couldn’t hide out at Westminster School for long but the thought of wandering the streets again was terrifying.
‘We’ve got lessons this morning,’ continued Frank. ‘Dame Clough, our house matron, will be coming in and out to clean. And Charlie’s brother is expected any moment.’
‘No need to worry about Tom. I’ve had word that he won’t be here till after Chris
tmas now. Still not got over his bout of measles,’ said Charlie. He then turned to look at me, the flicker of an idea dawning in his eyes. ‘No, it wouldn’t work. I’m being foolish . . .’
Frank caught the tail end of the scheme before it was completely abandoned by Charlie. ‘I don’t know.’ He put the cap back on my head, inspecting me closely. ‘If she’s put in the College Dormitory we’d be stuffed, but we could say your mother wants him to sleep in the same house as you because of his delicate health. He could have your room – we could share mine. No one’s met him yet, I assume?’
‘No. Tom’s been with a tutor in Dublin for the past two years.’
‘Well, it’s possible we’d get away with it then.’
I looked from one to the other, hardly believing they were suggesting what I thought they were suggesting.
‘She – he’d have to arrive properly – in a carriage and with luggage and so on,’ said Charlie.
‘I can fix that,’ said Frank.
‘You’re both mad,’ I said. ‘I’d be found out in one second flat.’
They grinned at each other.
‘Oh, I don’t know. You underestimate your acting powers, Cat,’ said Frank. ‘I’ve seen you with Syd and the boys. It’d be fun to try, wouldn’t it?’
‘But . . .’
‘And I can’t turn you out, can I? Where would you go? You know better than me what can happen to girls on the streets. And you’re far more likely to get picked up by the runners if you’re out there. The worse that would happen to you here is that you’d be expelled.’
‘And you two as well!’
Charlie shrugged. ‘I don’t mind. I don’t like it here that much, to tell you the truth. All they seem to teach is how to bully and be bullied.’
‘And you know I never wanted to come in the first place,’ added Frank. ‘Mama won’t mind if I’m chucked out. Father would shout, but not for too long – not when he knows that I did it to help you. So you see, you’d be doing us a favour.’
‘You are both mad,’ I repeated, shaking my head. ‘Cracked. Addled. Raving. And, anyway, what happens when the real boy arrives?’
Cat Among the Pigeons Page 6