Cat's Cradle, Page 2

  This was a melancholy thought, but at least in Syd’s butcher’s shop I could be confident that he and his parents would be pleased to see me.

  The shop bell rang and a customer came out.

  ‘Mornin’, Cat. I ain’t seen you around for a bit, dearie. ’Ow’ve you been?’ Mrs Peters, the cheese monger from Covent Garden, patted me on the arm. Her full basket smelled of good strong Cheddar and onions. A ham nestled in the folds of a muslin cloth.

  I bobbed a curtsey. Little indeed had changed around here – I even recognized her old basket. ‘Mrs Peters! I’m well, thank you! How are Mr Peters and the boys?’

  ‘All doin’ same as ever, except the youngest. ’E’s joined the Butcher’s Boys.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Don’t like our Jim ’avin’ anythink to do with gangs but I s’pose if ’e ’ad to run with one of ’em, that’s the one I’d choose. Syd’s a good sort – keeps the boys in line. So, you’re back, are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where’ve you been? I ’eard all sorts of wild rumours.’ She leaned nearer and dropped her voice confidentially. ‘Someone said you went all the way to Paris, but I didn’t believe ’em. “Not our Cat” I said.’

  ‘Actually, I have been to Paris – and a bit further too.’

  Mrs Peters opened her eyes wide. ‘Further than Paris! Well I never! I’m pleased to see you’ve come to your senses and are back with your own people.’

  With a nod that combined reproof for my wandering and approval for my return, Mrs Peters bustled off to spread the word in the market that the prodigal daughter was among them once more. I wondered what she would have to say when she learnt the true extent of my travels. Smiling at the thought, I pushed the door open, bell ringing brightly. The shop was empty.

  ‘Be with you in a tick!’ shouted Syd from out the back. I could hear the regular thwack of a cleaver as he diced steak.

  ‘Well, if that’s how you treat your customers, I think I’ll go to the butcher on Long Acre,’ I replied loudly.

  Thump! The cleaver was buried in the chopping block and Syd erupted into the shop, vaulted the counter and lunged for me.

  ‘You’re back!’ he exclaimed gruffly. My bag went flying as he squeezed me tight against his chest. I could hardly move my arms to hug him. Almost as abruptly, I was set apart and big hands began brushing me down.

  ‘Fry my brains with onions – look what I’ve gone and done to your pretty coat!’ Syd gamely tried to remove the sawdust and red smears from my light blue pelisse but only managed to make it worse.

  ‘What’s a little damage between friends, Syd?’ I pushed him away and gave my coat a resigned shake. ‘It’s been on its last legs in any case after several months at sea.’ I smiled up at him, taking in his familiar face, skin still tanned from the voyage, blue eyes shining with pleasure. He’d had a haircut since I last saw him – blond hair now cropped short. ‘It’s so good to see you. Is everyone well?’

  ‘We’re good. And you?’

  ‘Fit as a fiddle – or I will be when I’ve had a cup of tea. Will you put the kettle on for a weary traveller?’

  ‘Tea’s on its way.’ Syd ruffled my hair, then glanced behind me. ‘Where’s Pedro?’

  My gay mood dulled a little. ‘It’s a long story, but he’s fine, really he is.’ I was trying to convince myself as much as Syd.

  ‘Tell me when you’ve ’ad a chance to catch your breath.’ Scooping me up with an arm around my shoulders, Syd led me into the kitchen.

  ‘Ma, Dad, look who it is!’ he announced.

  Seated at the kitchen table in front of a pile of half-peeled potatoes, Mrs Fletcher gave a little exclamation of surprise. Putting her work aside at once, she greeted me warmly and called for her husband to come in from the yard. Mr Fletcher, a giant of a man with a shy manner, strode in, patted my shoulder, then gave Syd a delighted grin.

  ‘Glad to see you back, Cat,’ he said huskily – more words than he usually spoke to me in a week.

  Mrs Fletcher made me feel like a long-lost daughter with her hugs and stream of questions as she bade me make myself at home in her kitchen. She was feared around the market for her temper, but underneath the sharp tongue was a kindhearted woman.

  ‘You’ll stay with us, won’t you, dear?’ she said, tucking a strand of her fair hair back in her practical bun. A pretty woman with a high colour and Syd’s blue eyes, she had been known as the Butcher’s Belle when she first married her husband. She bustled about the range seeing to our tea, completely at ease in her little kingdom. With a nod to his son, Mr Fletcher excused himself to mind the shop.

  I allowed myself to relax, charmed by the ordinariness of sitting in her kitchen. After months of the exotic and dangerous, it was very comforting to be back somewhere English and tame. ‘I’d like to stay if I may, ma’am.’

  ‘Call me Joanna, dear. You’re as good as family now, aren’t you?’ She cast a significant look at Syd who sat on the opposite side of the table, gazing at me as if he couldn’t quite believe I was really there. Seeing him after months of separation, I’d forgotten just how large he was. He made his mother and me look positively doll-like.

  I met the hint with a non-committal smile. There would be time to address her attempts at matchmaking later.

  ‘Though I s’pose you might want to go and live with those fine friends of yours in Grosvenor Square,’ continued Mrs Fletcher, pouring the boiled water into the pot. She waved the steam away and dabbed at her brow with a drying cloth.

  ‘I’d prefer to stay here, if you don’t mind, er . . . Joanna. I always felt I was rather out of my depth over there – all those rooms and servants watching my every move.’

  ‘Course we don’t mind.’ She set out some freshly baked biscuits, slapping Syd’s wrist as he grabbed two from the plate. ‘Guests first.’

  ‘I thought you said she was family, Ma,’ replied Syd, giving me a wink.

  ‘She’ll think I brought you up a barbarian.’ Mrs Fletcher placed a cup of her finest Indian tea in front of me.

  ‘Perhaps you did, Ma – leastways accordin’ to the men I beat in the boxing ring you did.’ Mrs Fletcher gave him a proud smile and caressed the bruise fading on his cheekbone as she passed behind his chair. Syd batted her hand away gently. ‘Leave off, Ma. Cat’ll think I’ve gone soft.’ He looked at me rather sheepishly. ‘Anyway, Cat, about Frank’s family in Grosvenor Square – he’s gone to Cambridge. You’d be on your own if you stayed there – only the dook and duchess for company.’

  As much as I liked Frank’s parents, it wouldn’t do to impose myself on their household. We wouldn’t know how to behave towards each other without Frank’s presence to ease the way.

  I raised my cup to my lips and blew away the steam. ‘Perhaps it’s best that I stay here then, back where I started.’

  It took a good long while to tell Syd the whole story of what happened to Pedro and me in the Caribbean. Unsurprisingly, he was not happy to hear that I had left our friend in the middle of a war on San Domingo but he accepted that there had been nothing I could have done about it. What most concerned him was the fact that I’d spent so much time with Billy Shepherd, his old rival.

  ‘Don’t worry about him, Syd,’ I laughed. ‘He is relieved to get away from me – I made sure of that. You should have seen him when we got to Bedford Square: he jumped out of the carriage as if a swarm of bees were after him. I was a complete pain, a hair-shirt of a travelling companion.’

  ‘Remind me to keep on your good side, Cat,’ Syd said, his humour restored. ‘But all the same, let’s not take it for granted that ’e’s goin’ to leave you alone now.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’ I knew Billy better than that. And I admit, Reader, part of me rather enjoyed our dangerous game of each trying to get the upper hand in our strange friendship. ‘Did you find Mick Bailey and get back your winnings?’

  Bailey, Syd’s manager, had had him press-ganged rather than share the proceeds of their summer boxing tour.

  Syd f
rowned. ‘Not yet. ’E back-slanged it out of London when ’e ’eard I was ’ome. I’ll track ’im down, never you fear.’

  I shivered and hugged my arms across my chest. With a quick look at me, Syd threw a shovelful of coals on to the kitchen range and rattled the embers with the poker.

  ‘Syd! Syd! Come out ’ere – and bring Cat!’ shouted Mr Fletcher from the shop.

  ‘What now?’ I placed my cup on its saucer.

  Syd shrugged. ‘Dunno, Kitten, but let’s not keep Dad waitin’.’ Pulling me up, he gestured that I should lead the way down the passage. I entered the shop to find a most unexpected customer waiting by the counter. Dressed in expensive Bond Street clothes and looking like a golden guinea among us common old pennies, Mr Sheridan tipped his hat to me.

  ‘Well now, Cat Royal, and how are you? Far travelled, I hear.’

  ‘Mr Sheridan!’ I belatedly dipped into a curtsey, grinning at him like a fool. He had been my guardian ever since he found me, an infant of two or three years, on the steps of Drury Lane. ‘Wrapped in a blanket and as quiet as a mouse’ was how he had described me.

  ‘How did you know I was back, sir?’ I enquired.

  ‘I’d asked the Avons to send word as soon as they heard from you. When I met the duke outside Carlton House this morning, he told me that you’d written to Frank when you landed. He has sent your letter on to his son by express messenger, so you can expect to hear from Frank very soon.’

  Holding me out at arms length, Mr Sheridan looked me up and down, somewhat like an artist admiring a portrait he’d not seen for some time. ‘My goodness, it is a pleasure to see you again, Cat! I have found the stories of your exploits among the Indians very inspiring – I’m sure there’s a play in there somewhere.’

  Releasing my hands, he stroked a finger along his upper lip in a thoughtful pose, his dark eyes gleaming. Stocky and flush-faced, Mr Sheridan was in appearance a strange mixture – a literary genius with the build of a labourer. No one could make the mistake of thinking him a weakling poet. His uppercut could do as much damage as his wit.

  ‘Indeed, sir, it was kind of you to seek me out here.’ I gestured to the shop, quite a comedown from his fine house in the West End and gentlemen’s clubs in St James’s.

  ‘As to that, let us say that I have my reasons.’ He cleared his throat. I would have said he was nervous if that hadn’t been so out of character. ‘I did not want to risk missing you again. You see, Cat, there is something I need to tell you.’ He glanced round at our audience of eagerly listening Fletchers. ‘I wanted to speak to you when I received the results of my investigation late last year; I never got the chance as you were whisked off to Bath so promptly by the Avons and then you went abroad.’

  ‘What investigation? What did you want to tell me?’

  He replaced his hat and offered his arm. ‘Walk with me, Cat?’

  With a slightly worried look at Syd – this was so strange – I accepted Mr Sheridan’s arm. He tucked my hand in the crook of his elbow.

  ‘Haven’t grown much, have you?’ he said. ‘Except your hair, of course.’

  I smoothed my unruly red curls: they had escaped their ribbon as usual. I knew I must look a sight, not fit to go walking with anyone, let alone a London celebrity. I fumbled for my bonnet, dangling by its strings from my wrist.

  ‘That’s my motto too: hide it under your hat and no one will notice.’ Mr Sheridan tied up the bonnet ribbons for me to hasten our escape.

  A little awkwardly, we exchanged news of mutual friends as we strolled down Bow Street, heading for the more genteel district of the Strand. My unease grew: Mr Sheridan had never done anything like this with me before, always treating me as part pet, part servant. Now he was acting as if I were a grown-up lady with whom a gentleman like him would promenade. It only increased the solemnity of the moment.

  We stopped when we reached the Middle Temple gardens, a little patch of green amidst the lodgings of the barristers. An exclusive world of wigs and writs, I would never have been allowed in by the porter if I hadn’t been with Mr Sheridan. Indeed I wouldn’t have wanted to enter. Like any Londoner with a grain of common sense, I knew better than to get entangled with the courts. The garden was beautiful though. The leaves of the trees were turning golden. With every breath of wind they scattered, tumbling on the grass like the coins poured out on fees by the unfortunate clients. Beyond the garden lay the Thames. A barge with terracotta-coloured sails floated slowly by, heading out to sea. The sun warmed the old stone of the buildings and made the dark waters of the river glow with an oily sheen.

  ‘Sit down for a moment, Cat,’ Mr Sheridan said, handing me carefully to a bench. He remained standing. ‘I’m not sure how to go about this.’ His eyes followed the barge downstream.

  ‘Go about what, sir?’ I was really worried now. It sounded as if he was about to announce a death at the very least.

  Mr Sheridan crossed his arms, paused, and then turned to me. ‘To go about telling you news of your family.’

  * For further details of these exploits, please see my tale, Black Heart of Jamaica.

  ACT I

  SCENE 1 – YOURS FAITHFULLY

  Reader, I felt as if I had just been doused in iced water.

  ‘My . . . my family? But you have always said I was abandoned – that I had no one apart from the theatre.’

  He looked away. ‘That’s all true, I’m afraid. But something has turned up.’

  My heart was pounding, palms sweating. How many times had I dreamed that someone would some day reveal the mystery of my origins! It seemed as if that was about to come true.

  ‘You can’t stop there, sir. You’ve got to tell me all of it.’ My voice sounded strangled. Breathe, Cat, breathe, I reminded myself.

  ‘You are right. I must delay no longer.’ He sat beside me and took my hand. ‘You see, Cat, when I found you, there were a few clues as to your identity, as you probably know.’

  I wasn’t sure what he meant. ‘Clues?’

  ‘Well, yes. First your appearance, carrot-topped even then – a distinctive feature. You must have wondered about that. Then there was your accent.’

  ‘My accent?’

  ‘You were only a little – or should I say, wee – thing, but the few words you spoke had a Scottish accent. I remember how you called for your mither. You were heartbroken at being left, and who can blame you? It took many weeks for you to settle in with us.’

  My mind was reeling. None of these bits of information fitted with the image I had of myself. ‘No one told me that.’

  ‘You soon lost the accent – I doubt many remember now. I would not have recalled it if not for . . . well, never mind that now.’

  ‘You think I’m Scottish?’

  ‘Your mother must have been. You, my dear, are a Londoner through and through.’ He gave me a bow. ‘Any trace of that accent has long since disappeared.’

  ‘And did you try and find my mother?’ I clenched my free fist in the folds of my skirt, my knuckles white.

  ‘Of course I did. Some remembered the . . . er . . . woman with the red-headed child but no one around Covent Garden knew what had happened to her – the trail petered out. There was one more piece of evidence, however. The blanket.’

  I remembered it well – I had used it on my bed in the Sparrow’s Nest, the old costume store in the theatre, until it fell into holes and had been thrown out. I’d always been told that it had been found with me so I’d kept a scrap of it tucked away among my belongings.

  ‘It was the Stirling tartan,’ Mr Sheridan continued. ‘I thought I’d told you that.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Perhaps just coincidence, perhaps not.’ Mr Sheridan frowned, lost in his memories of the past.

  ‘And is that it?’ I asked, feeling a gust of anger at the carelessness of great men. How like my guardian to be so casual about the few details con cern ing my identity, so vital to me, so unimportant to him!

  ‘No, my dear. One more thing –
and this is where I want you to think very carefully before you do anything. Remember those pamphlets of your adventures that Mr Tweadle published last year?’

  I gave a curt nod – it was still a sore point.*

  ‘A few weeks later, while you were in France, I received a letter from a woman near Glasgow asking for more information about you. It wasn’t very subtle: she wanted your address, and to find out how rich you were. I almost dismissed it as a begging letter but the writer let drop a few things that made me wonder. I’ll leave you to decide what to make of it.’ He passed me a fold of cheap paper. ‘Even if she does have some connection to you, Cat, you must remember that she emerged from obscurity when there was a hint of money. That speaks volumes about her motives, I think. You must not delude yourself as to what lies at the end of this particular road.’

  A mother only after my supposed riches: was that what he was warning me against? But could any of this be true? Could she still be alive? In my less fanciful imaginings, I’d decided that my mother must have died soon after she left me, of cold or disease. I’d created an image of a heroic unfortunate whose last act had been to ensure that her child survived. But what if my mother had just left me because she didn’t want me? If she was still alive and only now making contact, that surely must be the conclusion to be drawn.

  The paper shook in my fingers. I felt like I held a thunderbolt. If I opened the letter, it would probably scorch a painful track through all I knew about myself.

  But I could not avoid it: I had to know the truth.

  I unfolded the letter.

  29th July 1791

  5 Long Row