“That kitten will have my life now,” he said to Oscar. They were sitting on the dome of the roof watching Sylvia and Agnes practising down on the stage. “He even has my name.”
“The kitten cannot take your name from you, Maximilian,” Oscar said firmly, laying extra stress on the Maximilian. “As for your life, well, would you really change what you have now to be in that kitten’s place?” He swept a paw round to take in the theatre below them.
Maximilian thought about this. He thought of the kitten, clutched in the Countess’s hands. It would live its entire life on a comfortable cushion in the window sill of Arlington Grove. It would never chase mice or see a theatre show, or climb over rooftops or have a friend like Oscar.
He thought back to what Oscar had said that first night they sat together on the rooftops – “a cat needs space to feel alive” – and he started to feel sorry for the kitten with the bow.
Maximilian stopped waiting by the door of the theatre to try to spot Countess Arlington. Instead of wishing he was an Arlington Grove cat he threw himself into being a Theatre Royal cat, spending his days on the roof with Oscar, in the costume store with Mrs Garland or high above the stage in the fly gallery with Bill the stage manager.
Maximilian had found the fly gallery one afternoon, after following a particularly plump mouse up a ladder. It was the place where all the wonderful scenery hung above the stage, ready to be flown down in between each scene. Maximilian liked to sit quietly tucked away in a corner watching as Bill tied and untied the complicated knots that kept the scenery from falling down among the chorus girls’ heads. Bill worked amazingly quickly, whistling to himself as the ropes flew from his hands up and down. Maximilian thought that knots looked great fun and after a while he longed to try his paw at them, but however much he miaowed his “may I have a go, please?” miaow, Bill never quite understood and would pat him on the head and offer him another sardine.
One afternoon, when the company was rehearsing a grand ballroom scene, Bill and the apprentice had just finished flying no fewer than six pieces of scenery down to the stage when the company’s lunch break was called. Bill tied off the end of a rope holding a cardboard cut-out statue and hobbled over to his favourite chair. He walked with a limp, the legacy of having had a heavy stage weight fall on his toes as a young lad. He settled back and opened his lunch tin.
“Well, what have we in here today?” he said, pulling out thick slices of bread with a chunk of cheese sandwiched in the middle. He laid this on his knees and dipped into his lunch tin again. Maximilian wanted to let out his “please let there be something nice in there for me” miaow, but his manners prevented him from doing any such thing. A gentleman cat waited to see what he might be offered.
“There we go,” Bill said, drawing out a small package of greaseproof paper. He unwrapped the twine and set the paper in front of Maximilian. In the middle was a slice of haddock, plump and glistening and cooked to perfection. Maximilian miaowed his “thank you so much” miaow and set to work. When he had finished the last morsel, his eye was drawn to the length of twine.
While Bill ate his lunch, leaning back contentedly in his chair and humming a cheery chorus from the theatre’s Christmas show, Maximilian picked the twine up between his teeth and walked to the side of the gallery. Now was the chance to try his paw at all that knottying. A few days before, he had idly tried to tie a knot in his tail, but the grooming needed to make the fur lie neatly afterwards had made him decide not to repeat the experiment.
Maximilian draped the twine over a pipe that ran along the wall and tried to grasp one end with his teeth to tie it. His nose touched the edge of the twine and it fell to the floor. Maximilian sighed and tried again. It took several attempts, but eventually he had one end in his mouth and the other secured with a paw. Trying not to drop it again, he pulled the twine across and wrapped it carefully around itself twice as he had seen Bill do. With a combination of claw tweaks and nose nudges Maximilian managed to create a loop, then, with a firm pull on both ends, the knot was secure.
Maximilian flicked his tail with pride. He nudged at the knot with his nose to undo it and repeated it for practice. It was always good to turn your paw to a new skill.
While he was tying it for the third time in a row he realised that Bill was standing over him, blinking his eyes in disbelief.
“Well I never…” the man muttered. “I think I should go and have a lie-down. I’ve been overdoing things a bit lately.”
Maximilian beamed. He really was a Theatre Royal cat now.
One evening Maximilian was curled up under a cushion by the side of the stage failing to get a little sleep. Agnes had stayed late for a costume fitting with Mrs Garland. Sylvia was practising one of her dances on the stage, jumping up and down, criss-crossing her feet in front of one another.
“That is looking most impressive, Sylvia,” called Monsieur Lavroche, the manager of the theatre, walking down through the rows of seats towards them. Monsieur Lavroche was a tiny man with a big personality. He had short, rather spindly legs and a neat figure that was always encased in a smart dinner jacket and an array of exquisite silk waistcoats. Today he was wearing an emerald-green one, edged with white piping. A white rosebud nestled in his buttonhole.
Sylvia blushed and stopped jumping. “Thank you, Monsieur Lavroche,” she said.
Monsieur Lavroche perched himself on the edge of the stage and tickled Maximilian behind the ears.
“And, Agnes,” he said, “I hear that you want to be a singer?”
Agnes had a mouth full of pins and could only nod her reply. At sixteen she was a couple of years older than Sylvia, but they were the best of friends. Agnes was as lovely a singer as Sylvia was a dancer.
“She will astound us all one day,” Mrs Garland said.
“Well, you will have a great example to follow this month,” said Monsieur Lavroche, with a twinkle in his eye. “I wonder if you can guess who will be joining us to sing the lead role in our next show?”
He pointed knowingly to his waistcoat, but Agnes and Mrs Garland only looked at each other, puzzled, which made Monsieur Lavroche burst out laughing.
“Mrs Green, perhaps,” he teased, “or Lady Olive? How about Countess Myrtle or even Madame—”
“Madame Emerald!” cried Agnes, spitting her mouthful of pins over the stage. “There was a picture of her in this week’s Society Gossip!” Agnes jumped down from the chair that Mrs Garland had stood her on and dashed over to where she had left her bag, next to Maximilian’s cushion.
“Shift over, puss,” she said. Maximilian frowned. He had lived in the theatre for months and he still did not have a proper name from the humans. The chorus girls called him “puss”, Mrs Garland called him “mon petit chat” and Fred, who looked after the stage door, called him “go away”. Humans were ridiculously stupid sometimes. Surely he looked like a Maximilian!
“Here she is! Isn’t she just beautiful?” Agnes said, holding the paper up for everyone to see. Agnes was always reading the society pages in the newspapers. She liked to cut out photos of her favourite theatre stars at society gatherings and plaster them above her dressing table, pointing out their diamond clips and ruby necklaces.
In the middle of the page was a round young woman wrapped in a voluminous satin robe. She had a sweet face with dark eyes framed by brows plucked into a high arch. There was a beauty spot above her ruby-red mouth and her lips were painted in a perfect cupid’s bow shape, much like Sylvia’s. Her glossy dark hair was piled up on top of her head in an elaborate coil and held in place by a sparkling diadem to match the choker at her throat. Her wrists dripped with jewels.
“Ah, but have you seen what will appear in tomorrow’s edition?” Monsieur Lavroche laughed, handing a folded-up paper to Agnes. The girl snatched it eagerly and read it out to them all.
“Madame Emerald, the great actress and skilled soprano, will spend the rest of the season with the Theatre Royal in London, playing the lead role in The Duchess�
��s Jewels, a concert and ballet commissioned by the theatre for performance in front of none other than the King and Queen. Oh my!”
Monsieur Lavroche nodded. “The King and Queen will be in the house. We have just a month to put on a splendid show for them.”
“Madame Emerald! How wonderful,” Agnes exclaimed. “I heard she made a wine glass shatter with one note. She sang at it till the vibrations in the air made it crack.”
’She can reach a top F, you know,” Sylvia added, pointing to the ceiling to indicate to Maximilian just how high that was.
Agnes pouted. “I’m sure I could sing that high too if I practised,” she said primly.
Sylvia sighed. “Yes, darling, but you don’t, do you,” she said.
It looked as though there was going to be a quarrel, but Sylvia distracted Agnes by pointing at a circle of gems around Madame Emerald’s wrist. “Look at that, Agnes,” she said. “The Golden Stones. I’ve heard that all twelve diamonds in the bracelet were cut from a single stone and that they glow with a red and golden flame at the centre when you hold them to the setting sun. Do you think she’ll wear them when she comes here?”
Agnes’s eyes misted over at the thought. “The Golden Stones!” she said. “Can you think of anything more beautiful?”
She gazed again at the pretty woman in the paper and squeezed Sylvia’s arm. “The great Madame Emerald, singing on stage with us!” she said. “Just imagine!”
They did not have to imagine for long. Madame Emerald arrived the very next day, accompanied by twenty-six hatboxes, nine trunks, four suitcases, five vanity cases, one large chest and a terrified maid.
Madame swept out of a carriage and up the steps to the lobby followed by harassed-looking porters staggering under the weight of her phenomenal luggage. She ignored the bow of the doorman and the nervous curtseys of Agnes and Sylvia, who had been waiting in the foyer all morning hoping for a glimpse of her, and blazed past them, her velvet cloak flying out behind her. Madame Emerald was wreathed in velvets and furs from head to foot. Her cloak was trimmed with silver tassels and a white fur hat perched on her head. Round her throat was a mink stole.
Madame Emerald stood in the middle of the lobby while Monsieur Lavroche went through an elaborate welcome speech. She waved all his compliments aside, smiling and nodding, but not saying a word. The wide, deep red mouth that had smiled from out of the newspaper remained firmly closed.
There was something rather cartoon-like about Madame in real life, Maximilian thought. All her features seemed to have been drawn on with greasepaint, from her high arched eyebrows to the beauty spot above her lips. Maximilian stared at the beauty spot extra hard. He was sure that, in the picture in the newspaper, it had been on the opposite side. Madame’s hair was not piled up on her head in the rich coils that she had worn in the paper. Instead she wore it cascading across her shoulders, hiding her full cheeks and rounded chin.
“…and so we are most delighted to be able to welcome you to our little theatre. Your presence will, I am sure, make the The Duchess’s Jewels our most spectacular show yet,” finished Monsieur Lavroche. He stood upright and took Madame’s hand to kiss it.
Sylvia and Agnes leaned forwards. Agnes’s eyes were wide and bright as she tried to catch a glimpse of Madame’s wrist to see if she was wearing the famous Golden Stones.
Madame Emerald stroked her mink stole, making its tail shake as though it were alive, and gave the tiniest of bows with her head, but she said nothing.
Monsieur Lavroche assured her that she would have the most luxurious apartment they could offer her, with a suite of rooms for her exclusive use, and that absolutely nothing would be too much trouble; she only had to ask. Still Madame Emerald stayed silent.
After a while there was so much silence filling up the foyer that everyone was beginning to feel a little crowded, so Maximilian decided to do the “purr test” on Madame Emerald. He sprang to the floor, landing lightly at her feet, leaned his head against her ankle and let out a loud, rumbling purrrrrrr.
The great actress looked down. She opened her mouth in a great “oh” of surprise and then, throwing her arms wide so that her cloak billowed behind her, she swooped on Maximilian and gathered him to her bosom.
“Oh, I adore cats!” she cried. “He will be my special friend!”
Monsieur Lavroche stared at Madame Emerald.
Agnes’s hand went to her mouth.
Sylvia’s eyes widened in astonishment.
Madame Emerald had finally spoken, but instead of the dulcet tones that had charmed many an audience and society ballroom came a harsh, ratchety croak.
Was this the famous, the lovely, the celebrated Madame Emerald?
Monsieur Lavroche hesitated. “Your voice, Madame…” he began.
The woman froze. Maximilian thought she had the look that Bill’s apprentice had when he had been caught dozing during a show or not tying off a rope properly.
“What about my voice?” she said coldly.
Monsieur Lavroche blushed. “It … it sounds a little … well … sore…” he finished.
A strange smile stole across Madame’s face. “Always I am surrounded by amateurs!” she snapped. “Must a singer always be on show? Can I not be permitted to rest my voice?”
Maximilian frowned. This was rather peculiar. All of the wonderful singers that had come to the theatre before had had beautiful speaking voices as well.
“I’ll show you,” she croaked. “You wait! I will show you all! Now, my dressing room!”
Monsieur Lavroche nodded and motioned towards the great stairwell, looking very miserable. The visit of the great Madame Emerald had not started well.
It was a downcast troupe that showed Madame Emerald to her dressing room. Clasped in her arms, Maximilian felt himself jolted along, his head lolling against Madame’s ample bosom. She was a very lumpy lady, he thought. It was not a gentlemanly thing to admit, but really she was! Being carried by her was not at all a comfortable experience and by the second staircase Maximilian had had enough. Giving his “I must get back to my duties” miaow, he tried to wriggle out of Madame’s grasp.
“No, no, my little cat,” Madame Emerald rasped. Her voice sounded like she had been gargling with sandpaper. Maximilian wrinkled his nose and frowned at her.
“Here is your room, Madame,” Monsieur Lavroche said, opening the door to the most luxurious dressing room in the theatre.
Madame Emerald nodded and smiled at him. “I am sure it will be charming,” she croaked, and waved a hand at her maid.
The other woman bobbed a quick curtsey and tottered into the room. Nine hatboxes of varying sizes teetered in a great leaning tower in her hands. The porters followed her in, dropped the trunks and cases on the floor and then backed out of the room, rubbing their backs and grumbling.
“Agnes and Sylvia will help you settle in,” Monsieur Lavroche began, Emerald waved him away.
“That will not be necessary,” she croaked. Maximilian felt her grip on him tighten and gave a little miaow of complaint. “I have Jeanette to help me,” Madame continued, stepping quickly into the room.
“Well, if you are sure, Mada—”
Jeanette, the maid, quickly closed the door on Monsieur Lavroche.
Once inside, the maid turned to Madame. The terrified expression had gone from her face and in its place was a look of triumph.
“I think that went very well, miss,” she said, turning the key in the door so that no one could enter.
Madame gave a ratchety little laugh and crushed Maximilian to her.
“We’re in!” she cried, her voice breaking as it rose. “What fun we are going to have!”
Madame set Maximilian down on a big armchair in the corner of the room and began to unpack her things. Maximilian thought this was very odd. Usually when a grand star visited the theatre she would laze on the velveteen chaise longue by the window or slip away across the street to the luxurious apartment reserved for the theatre’s most important visitors wh
ile her maid organised the dressing room and ran errands. Maximilian had never met an actress who dealt with her own luggage.
Madame bustled around the room, unpacking box after box and exclaiming with delight over the contents, almost as though she had never seen them before. Out of Madame’s trunks came dresses of such a voluminous nature that Maximilian wondered how they managed to fit into the cases at all. “We must look our best, no?” Madame tickled Maximilian on the top of his head and laughed. “Perhaps if you are good I will get a little bow tie for you too.” Maximilian shuddered. Three months ago the daughter of one of the visiting ballerinas had thought it fun to dress him up and Maximilian had spent two long weeks hiding in the furniture store, terrified that she would find him and deck him with her mother’s jewels and feather boas till he looked like a furry Christmas bauble.
“Oh, just look at this!” Madame cried as she drew each garment from the box.
Maximilian did not understand why she was so delighted. “Surely you’ve seen them all before. They are your dresses,” he miaowed, but Madame kept taking clothes out of the boxes and squealing as if they were all new.
After the dresses came endless shoeboxes that Jeanette stacked neatly by Madame’s dressing table. Then, with some difficulty, Jeanette hauled a mysterious-looking wooden box out of a trunk and heaved it on to a table by the window.
“Do you want me to put this somewhere a bit more private?” she asked Madame.
Madame glanced over at the box.
“No, that might only draw attention to it. Open it up. If anyone asks, we can say it’s for parties. After all, we’ll soon have lots to celebrate.”
Jeanette smiled. It was not a nice smile, Maximilian thought. It did not reach her eyes and make them twinkle like Mrs Garland’s.
The Disappearing Diva Page 3