The Diamond of Drury Lane

by Julia Golding

  Mr Sheridan had not yet arrived, though I expected him to come for the first night of the balloon farce, The Mogul’s Tale, after the main play. This meant I had the delicious luxury of the box to myself. I sat in his chair and played with the opera glasses. I trained them on the Pit, picking out the men on the seats below as they chewed on handfuls of nuts and oranges. Jonas Miller, the clerk from across the road, a pinched-nose youth with straggly fair hair and a poor complexion, was here again, sitting at the end of the bench just under my box. He must spend all his wages on tickets. Jonas was a fanatic about the theatre and was famous for his devotion to Miss Stageldoir, sending her weekly offerings of nosegays and other tokens of his affection. She ignored him, of course, saying that he was only a clerk with ideas above his station. I could have added that he was a louse who never missed an opportunity to insult those below him. As I was somewhere near the bottom of life’s pile, that meant he treated me cruelly when our paths crossed, either directing some foul remark in my direction or pushing me roughly out of his way. Jonas was at present sitting next to a dark-suited young man, both with eyes trained on a pamphlet in their laps. Deciding to have my revenge by abusing my position of power, I focused the glasses to spy on the paper they were looking at. It was only a caricature . . . some crude picture lampooning the government or the Royal Family. I bent closer to the edge of the box to listen to what they were saying.

  ‘Captain Sparkler’s been at it again,’ cried Jonas. ‘Look at what he’s done to the king. He looks like a sack of Norfolk potatoes. What’s this? He’s only gone and drawn him squatting on “the dung heap of history”. Ouch! That’s a bit bold, ain’t it?’

  ‘The French king doesn’t look very happy though,’ said the other. ‘I’m not sure French liberty is to his liking.’

  ‘I’m all for a bit of French revolutionary spirit here, aren’t you, Reuben? Shake up the old orders . . . give us young men a chance. After all, we are the future of this country, not that old German fart, the king.’

  Reuben looked about him nervously. ‘Ssh!’ he hissed. ‘Someone might hear you! They’ve got people out looking for troublemakers. You know you could be carted off to the Tower for insulting the king? Not to mention being hanged, drawn and quartered for treason.’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare,’ bragged Jonas, though I noticed he had dropped his voice despite his bold words. ‘They’re too scared of us . . . afraid we’ll do to them what the Frenchies have done to their king, making him come at their beck and call. And we might.’ Jonas tried to swell impressively, but to my eye he just looked a bullfrog, croaking out empty threats.

  He was wasting his breath. The mob would never treat King George like the French had their Louis. And as for putting him on the dung heap, that was impossible! Britain without a king was as inconceivable as London without its theatres. Hadn’t we tried it with Cromwell and decided we rather liked royalty after all? It was just a shame Jonas’s concern for the underclasses did not stretch to those under him, I thought, turning my attention to the more interesting events on the stage. The orchestra filed in. It had gone six-thirty: the performance was starting at last.

  I had a long wait to see both Pedro and the balloon as I first had to sit through The Haunted Tower, a dark Gothic opera that I did not rate much higher than the productions of Mr Salter’s pen, but at least the audience seemed to like it. Mr Kemble made sure there was plenty of fake blood and screaming to keep them happy.

  A door opened behind me in the fifth act and I had to scramble out of my chair to make way for Mr Sheridan. He was accompanied by a gentleman and two young people, a boy and a girl a few years older than me, both finely dressed. As I ducked out of the way, I caught a glimpse of the sky blue silk of the girl’s lace-edged gown and felt a pang of envy. I had never owned anything so beautiful in my entire life.

  ‘Keeping my seat warm for me, were you, Cat?’ joked Mr Sheridan.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ I bobbed a curtsey, knowing better than to presume upon his kindness in the presence of outsiders. The boy was staring at me with undisguised curiosity as if I was something intriguing in a cage in the zoological garden.

  ‘Run along then,’ Mr Sheridan said, shooing me away. ‘Make room for Lord Francis and Lady Elizabeth.’

  Not needing to be told twice, I quit the box. The rich masters had come to throw out the servant. With no revolution here to change the old ways in my favour, I would have to find another vantage point from which to watch Pedro.

  Sneaking downstairs, I crept through the door into the Pit. Respectable girls did not usually come down here, so I grabbed a pile of theatre bills from Sally Hubbard, the doorkeeper, and stood by the entrance, pretending to be there to sell them.

  Things were not going well for me if I was to get my wish of seeing Pedro and the balloon. It was now so crowded (standing room only) that I could barely see the stage, being several feet shorter than the men surrounding me. One portly gentleman standing at the very back noticed my predicament as I hopped from foot to foot. He offered his assistance in a most gentlemanlike manner and lifted me up on to a pillar by the entrance where I could hang on by the candle bracket. I now had a superb view over everyone’s heads to the stage. I smiled my thanks to him and he tipped his hat most courteously to me.

  At last the curtain rose. The stage was empty. On realising this, the men in the Pit began to mutter angrily to each other. They had been promised a spectacle such as they had never seen before in the theatre and now it looked as though they had been duped. I smiled to myself, knowing they were about to witness something that would rival the feats of the most daring rope-walkers at Bartholomew Fair.

  The orchestra struck up an oriental tune, evoking the exotic East, the land of moguls and tigers, diamonds and spices. The grumbling died away. Then, from the very roof of the stage, a long rope tumbled down, a small anchor at its end. It fell on the stage with a clatter. Next came a creaking of ropes and shouts of ‘’Ware below!’ and the basket of the balloon appeared suspended above the stage, swaying slightly. The crowd gasped. Slowly, without a hitch, the basket came down, Mr Andrews, its sole passenger, saluting the audience as it inched to the floor. I held my breath: had Mr Bishop really solved the problem with the ropes? I wondered. Now the silken canopy came into sight and the crowd cheered and began to applaud wildly, standing on the benches to whistle their approval.

  ‘Capital!’ bellowed my kind gentleman, mopping his forehead with his handkerchief. The heat of the audience’s enthusiasm was making the Pit quite sultry.

  The basket touched down and Mr Andrews, a tall man famed for his comic roles, leapt out and bowed. Everyone whistled and clapped.

  ‘Encore! Again!’ cried many voices around me.

  Mr Andrews held up his hand for silence. The hubbub was quickly stilled.

  ‘I am one John Smith, a poor English balloonist. I earn an honest living by offering rides in my craft in Green Park in that greatest of cities, London,’ (a cheer from the partisan London audience). ‘But one day, as I mounted in my balloon, I was blown by a sudden wind to the east. I wonder to what fair country I have been carried? I shall explore before I return.’ He gave the last words special emphasis and winked at the front rows, in effect promising them another balloon ride at the end of the piece. Placated, the gentlemen resumed their seats and gave him their attention.

  The farce was absurd and simple: John Smith has landed in the harem of the Great Mogul and is caught by the palace guards. Threatened with death, his only hope is to persuade the Great Mogul himself to spare him. The mogul, played by Mr Kemble, turns out to be not a monstrous tyrant but a man of learning and mercy. He frees John Smith in return for a balloon ride. Straightforward enough stuff, providing plenty of opportunities for the ballet and musicians to show off their prowess at the exotic style now much in vogue. But where was Pedro? I wondered as the minutes ticked by. The play was nearing its end and he had still not done his turn.

  ‘And now,’ declared the mogul, interrupting m
y thoughts, ‘I will show you the greatest wonder of my kingdom. My son and heir will entertain you before you depart.’ He clapped his hands and two pantalooned slaves entered, carrying a chest on poles built to resemble the bulbous towers of an eastern potentate’s palace.

  What an introduction! Pedro had been pitched against the balloon. If he wanted to make his mark, he would have to produce something to rival that silken ball of hot air. I clenched my fingernails into my palm, my heart pounding for him.

  The slaves lifted the lid of the casket and there was a blinding flash as two firework fountains burst into flame, spilling glowing white sparks on to the stage. With great agility, Pedro leapt over the trail of hissing embers and landed neatly centre stage. The silks and satins of his robe gleamed richly and the jewels in his turban flashed with fire to match the scintillating sparks of the fireworks. With the same swiftness I had seen him use that morning, he produced his violin as if from thin air and tucked it under his chin. He then began to play, a new piece full of such haunting melodies and strange harmonies that I was at once transported to the India of my imagination: a land of palaces, unimaginable riches, heavily-laden merchant ships at anchor, a beating sun. I cannot have been the only one so transfixed for the audience was absolutely silent, hanging on every note that issued from his instrument like a stream of liquid gold sound.

  Pedro finished and there was a pause. Had I misjudged the audience’s reaction? Then the house erupted into tumultuous applause, stamping, cheering and whistling, crying for an encore. Pedro was ready. He launched himself into a new melody, spinning faster and faster as the tune gathered pace. The audience cheered and clapped in time to the beat until it got too fast for them to keep up. The music and Pedro’s wild spinning came to a stop at the same triumphant moment and applause rang out once more.

  It took some minutes before the play was able to resume. When the noise had simmered down, Mr Andrews gave his farewell speech and climbed into the basket.

  ‘Farewell! See you in Green Park!’ he shouted, waving cheerfully to the audience. They waved back and then waited. We all waited. It became clear something was wrong with the pulley system once more. The play was about to end with a flop.

  Suddenly, Pedro leapt into action. Abandoning his violin in the hands of a startled Mr Kemble, he jumped into the basket and shinned his way up the nearest rope. The audience began to murmur, wondering if this was all part of the act. Mr Kemble seized the moment.

  ‘Look, my son goes to ask the gods to allow the balloon of the Christian barbarian to return to his damp island,’ the Great Mogul declaimed, waving the violin bow at the ceiling.

  The crowd laughed and cheered the Mogul Prince as he climbed up and disappeared under the silken canopy. Then the slack ropes of the grounded balloon began to shake. I guessed that Pedro was adjusting them in the tackle above. Only a minute or so had passed and Pedro re-emerged, sliding rapidly down the rope to spring to the floor.

  ‘Are the gods content to let this heathenish contraption rise again?’ asked the mogul.

  Pedro gave a nod, his ostrich feather agreeing with him vigorously over his head.

  ‘Then, farewell, stranger!’ cried the mogul. He clapped his hands twice, Mr Andrew gave a slightly nervous wave to the spectators, and the balloon creaked once more into action. As it disappeared up into the roof, the actors and audience all tilted their heads to watch and the curtain fell.

  ‘Amazing!’ cried my gentleman, clapping and cheering with the best of them despite his advanced years. ‘In all my days, I’ve never seen the like! Did you enjoy it, my dear?’

  ‘It was wonderful!’ I said sincerely, accepting his hand to jump down from my vantage point. ‘And Pedro was brilliant.’

  ‘Pedro?’ he asked, his eyebrow cocked with interest.

  ‘The little prince . . . Pedro Hawkins.’

  The man straightened up and started to chant, ‘Bravo Pedro! Bravo the prince!’

  Those near us took up his call and soon the whole theatre was ringing with Pedro’s name. As the curtain rose again, he was ushered forward by Mr Kemble to take his own bow.

  Pedro Hawkins had made a name for himself.

  ACT II

  SCENE 1 . . . THE DUKE’S CHILDREN

  Iran as quickly as I could to the Green Room so I would be the first to congratulate Pedro on his London début. In the end, I need not have hurried because I had a long wait . . . the crowd must have demanded a further encore. Finally, the performers piled into the room, talking loudly in their exhilaration at being in a hit. Mr Andrews and Mr Kemble had their arms around each other’s shoulder, faces glowing with high spirits. Mr Andrews was mimicking his companion’s extemporised lines about calling on the gods for permission, making the actor-manager roar with laughter.

  I looked in vain for Pedro. He had not come in with the others. The Green Room was already stifling with the heat of so many bodies crushed together, the clink of wine glasses being raised to toast the success, the odours of greasepaint and perspiration. I wormed my way to the door, ducking through the crowd of Eastern beauties and slaves in curling slippers. There, on the threshold, was Pedro. He was having his hand shaken by each of the stage crew in turn. Long Tom thrust a mug of foaming beer into his hand and Mr Bishop slapped him on the back as he made to drink it, slopping beer everywhere. The stage crew howled with exuberant laughter. Pedro smiled uncertainly, wondering if they were mocking him or merely having a lark. But the friendly smiles on their faces told him that they now considered him initiated as one of the boys, so he grinned and downed the rest in a gulp.

  I hovered shyly to one side, waiting for my opportunity to congratulate him, but before I could get a word in, Mr Kemble had come forward and steered Pedro into the thick of things, shouting out to the crowd, ‘Here is the man of the moment! What a performance!’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Mr Andrews. ‘Without your quick thinking the crowd might have hanged us all from that damned balloon.’

  Pedro accepted the adulation with dignity, bowing to those who came up to compliment him. I still could not reach him . . . so thick was the press . . . but I noticed that he was looking around, perhaps trying to spot me in the forest of grown-ups.

  ‘Pedro!’ I shouted from the corner I had been backed into. Peter Dodsley was embracing Pedro with great emotion. ‘Pedro, over here!’

  My voice must have carried to his sharp ears for he turned and waved. He broke away from the first violinist and began to duck and weave his way through the crowd until finally we were together again.

  ‘Did you watch?’ he asked eagerly. ‘I played to your box but I couldn’t spot you.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t’ve. Mr Sheridan arrived with guests and threw me out.’ Pedro’s face fell. ‘But I watched from the Pit. I had a splendid view. And you were magnificent!’

  Pedro’s face cracked into a wide smile. ‘So no one noticed my black eye then?’

  I laughed and shook my head. ‘Absolutely not.’

  There was a loud call for silence at the door. We turned to look and saw Mr Sheridan standing framed in the doorway, flanked by his three smart guests who had ousted me from the box.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Mr Sheridan called. A hush spread from the front of the room to the back like a wave rippling over the Serpentine. ‘I have the great honour of presenting a very special visitor to you. The Duke of Avon expressed the desire of personally conveying his appreciation of tonight’s performance to you all.’

  The Duke of Avon, a stately gentleman with white locks brushed forward from a receding hairline, stepped into the room and cleared his throat.

  ‘As my honourable friend here says, I thought you excelled yourselves tonight . . . none more so than our little African. Where is he? My children in particular would like to meet him.’

  ‘Go on,’ I hissed, pushing Pedro forward.

  Arriving before the duke, he gave an elegant bow.

  ‘An unforgettable debut!’ declared the peer. ‘Well done!’


  Mr Sheridan then steered Pedro to one side to meet Lady Elizabeth and Lord Francis.

  Conversation in the Green Room picked up again as the private interview commenced, but I stayed close to the door, watching the fictitious prince meet some our country’s highest nobility. Lord Francis looked younger than his sister; I guessed he was probably only a few years older than me. He had a head of unruly dark brown curls and vivid blue eyes. I noticed that he could not stand still; he fidgeted from foot to foot with barely suppressed excitement, looking at everyone and everything that passed. By contrast, his sister stood serenely and listened to Pedro as he recounted what he had done to save the balloon flight. I liked her expression: at once intelligent and gentle. She did not seem to think it beneath her to spend time giving her attention to a mere player.

  Lord Francis then spotted me. He nudged Lady Elizabeth.

  ‘Look, it’s Sheridan’s Cat, Lizzie,’ he said, grinning over at me. ‘I wondered what had become of her.’

  I would have slipped away but Pedro strode over and hooked me by the arm. ‘Allow me to introduce you to her.’

  He dragged me over. ‘You say, my lord, that you want to know about the theatre; well, here is our resident expert.’ He waved his hand towards me in a flourish like a conjuror producing a white rabbit from a hat.

  I blushed at the introduction and curtsied.

  ‘So, Miss . . .?’ began Lady Elizabeth tentatively.

  ‘Miss Catherine Royal,’ I supplied, thinking it the moment to use my full title.