Cat Among the Pigeons, Page 2

  Mr Kemble took a step closer. ‘The boy you are talking about is . . . was an apprentice bound to my musical director, Signor Angelini.’

  ‘Your Angelini’s a macaroni-eating fool. He wouldn’t know a genuine agreement if it bit him on the ass. The man who sold Pedro to him had no darn right to do so. The boy’s mine, I tell you, dead or alive, and no jumped-up player can tell me otherwise!’

  Jumped-up player! I kicked hard at his shins in my outrage – he had insulted the most admired actor in the land! But in doing so I only earned myself another shake.

  ‘Well, sir, unfortunately for you,’ Mr Kemble returned icily, ‘you are in the theatre of this “jumped-up player” –’ I heard footsteps: Mr Bishop, the irascible stage-manager, ran up brandishing a hammer, his one good eye fixed on my persecutor, the other hidden by his black eye-patch. Behind him, Long Tom appeared out of the shadows slapping a chain threateningly into his palm. ‘– And you are surrounded by his cast and crew. I suggest you take up your claim with the proper authorities and stop manhandling our Cat as if she were some stray you had a mind to drown.’

  My captor let out a hissing breath. Caliban, otherwise known as Mr Baddeley, now stumped into sight, his mass of wild whiskers and mud-splattered sackcloth making an appalling apparition. He was wielding a log with evident intention to apply it to any offending body he could reach. Six extras dressed as sailors followed and formed a semi-circle behind Mr Kemble, pushing up their sleeves in eager anticipation of a brawl.

  ‘You have ’til the count of three. One . . .’

  Kingston Hawkins looked around him, counting his opposition.

  ‘Two . . .’

  He looked down on my bedraggled head, wondering if I was worth the fuss.

  ‘Three.’

  I was dropped to the floor.

  ‘I will be back!’ he shouted as he leapt down into the Pit. ‘In force. You’d better have my slave or his coffin waiting. And understand this: if he’s dead I own even the maggots eating his corpse. You can’t keep him from me.’

  The door to the Pit slammed. There was complete silence on stage. Mr Kemble extended his hand to help me to my feet.

  ‘Now,’ he said lightly as if nothing untoward had happened, ‘where were we? Ah, yes: our Ariel has flown off. Hadn’t you better bring him back from the dead, Cat?’

  ACT I

  SCENE 1 – PAYING THE PRICE

  I found Pedro hiding in one of the practice rooms in the basement, curled up and trembling on an old carpet that had once seen better service as the dying spot. (As you may have noticed if you’ve been to Drury Lane, actors never die on stage without a rug to stop them spoiling their costumes – this particular one had probably supported the legendary Garrick many years ago.) Pedro scrambled up when he heard my approach. We looked at each other speechless for a moment, the right words difficult to find.

  He spoke first. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Me? Yes, I’m fine.’

  ‘I’m so sorry I ran away.’ He was still in a lather of fear. He began walking to and fro, clenching and unclenching his hands. I’d never seen him like this.

  ‘Don’t apologise. You did the right thing.’

  ‘Is he gone?’ He stopped to look at me. ‘Did he hurt you?’

  ‘No, not me.’ I surreptitiously shifted my neckerchief to hide my throat.

  ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t stay. I should’ve.’ To my horror, Pedro leant against the wall and thumped his head hard, again and again, punishing himself. ‘I’m a coward . . . coward . . . coward.’

  ‘Pedro, stop!’ I rushed forward and caught him in a tight hug. ‘It’s all right. Mr Kemble threw him out.’ I could feel Pedro quivering. ‘That Mr Hawkins thinks you’re dead – well, maybe he’s only half convinced, but it’ll do for now.’

  Pulling himself together, Pedro stood up straight, furious with himself. ‘I’m sorry. You must think I’m a real girl for behaving like this.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with being a girl,’ I said with mock indignation, trying to cheer him up.

  ‘Not a girl like you, anyway,’ he replied, smiling despite himself.

  I sat down and patted the carpet beside me. ‘I think you’d better tell me everything.’

  ‘Where to start?’ He held out his hands helplessly.

  ‘Well, for one, I thought you were apprentice to Signor Angelini?’

  ‘I am,’ confirmed Pedro, ‘well, sort of.’ He looked down at his fingernails.

  ‘What do you mean “sort of”?’ I sensed he was not being entirely straight.

  Pedro sighed. ‘I suppose I’m paying the price for it now. You see, my . . . my old master passed me on to a man called Jack Grimes down in Bristol – it was a kind of loan. Grimes dragged me around the provincial theatres and private parties – “the noble savage and his violin”, he called me. Dressed me in the most ridiculous outfits.’ Pedro curled his lip with distaste.

  ‘Not much changed then,’ I said, gesturing to Pedro’s Ariel costume.

  ‘If you think this is stupid, you should’ve seen what I had to wear then. On second thoughts, I’m pleased you didn’t. I feel ashamed just thinking about it.’ Pedro managed a wry smile. ‘Anyway, last year Grimes ran into Signor Angelini during the summer circuit. The maestro was taken with my talent. Grimes thought he’d make a bit of extra money by arranging the apprenticeship. I knew then that it was an odd agreement – Signor Angelini paid him money to sign me up, realizing he’d get it all back through my earnings. I didn’t say anything – the maestro seemed a much better bet than either Grimes or Mr . . . Mr Hawkins. I thought he could teach me things, turn me into a real artist and not just some musical freak show.’

  ‘So Mr Hawkins is right to say that your articles of apprenticeship aren’t worth anything?’ I asked quietly.

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Cat. Is that what he claimed?’

  I nodded.

  Pedro stared at the flickering lantern in misery. There seemed to be nothing more either of us could say.

  ‘I’m not going back to him. I’m not,’ he broke out suddenly. ‘I’ll kill myself before I let him a lay a finger on me again.’ Pedro ground his fist into his palm.

  ‘Of course you’re not. He can’t take you against your will.’

  ‘What? Him a rich man, and me a runaway slave – who’ll protect me?’

  ‘Who’ll protect you?’ I caught his hand in mine. ‘Why, your friends of course.’

  He squeezed my hand in silent thanks.

  ‘Look, we’d better go and explain all this to Mr Kemble while Mr Sheridan is still out of town.’ I rose to shake out my skirts. ‘Then I think we should pay a call on Grosvenor Square. I’ll send word that we’re coming and arrange an escort to keep you safe from that villain Hawkins.’

  Pedro’s face perked up at this suggestion. ‘You think Frank and Lizzie can help?’

  ‘I’m sure of it. It took an earl to get me off a hanging over the diamond*; a lord and lady might just do the trick for you.’

  We were still left with the problem that Pedro was dead.

  It was a greater difficulty than you might first imagine. His name was already on all the playbills printed for the opening night of The Tempest. Mr Kemble had half-confirmed my wild claim to Hawkins that Pedro had succumbed to a fever; he would be in hot water if he was proved to have lied to the man. It didn’t matter what I said – no one took me seriously – but Mr Kemble’s word counted for something in London. As Pedro and I made our way upstairs, I realized that the first thing we had to do was straighten the matter out.

  ‘Pedro, do you prefer to be dead, or should we drop the story?’ I whispered as we waited outside Mr Kemble’s office. The dress rehearsal had been delayed – and, by now, everyone knew why. Two half-dressed ballerinas clucked sympathetically at Pedro as they passed us in the corridor. A stagehand, carrying a model of a sailing ship on the way to the carpenter’s workshop, slapped him on the back wordlessly.

  ‘I can’t see how we
can pretend I’m someone else,’ said Pedro, leaning against the wall dejectedly. ‘I’m too well known.’

  ‘But with the mask, couldn’t we . . .?’

  ‘No,’ he cut in. ‘Maybe I’ll have to make a run for it, but I’d prefer to stand and fight my corner. I feel better now than I did. Like you said, I’ve got Frank and Lizzie on my side. Syd and the gang will help too. That counts for something.’

  ‘And me.’

  ‘Yes. And my most important ally – you.’

  We exchanged a smile.

  ‘Cat! Pedro! Get yourselves in here now!’ bellowed Mr Kemble from within. He didn’t sound happy. And who could blame him? He thought he had a box office draw in Pedro; now it seemed he was harbouring an item that could cost him dear. We trooped into the office and found Mr Kemble seated with Signor Angelini.

  ‘Tcha! Tcha!’ tutted the musical director, flapping a silk handkerchief at his apprentice. ‘Why you no tell me, Pedro?’

  Pedro hung his head. ‘Sorry, maestro. I didn’t realize he’d come after me.’

  ‘It worse than that. He now ask for your earnings over this year. He seek that from me!’ Signor Angelini gestured to a letter lying on the desk. ‘Immediate return of property, living or deceased – that means you, Pedro – and full reparation! I feel like deceasing you myself! You know how much that will cost me?’

  I thought it very unfair to blame Pedro for this. It was hardly his fault that he had been a resounding success. Nor did a few pounds seem anything compared with the prospect that Pedro might end up being handed over to Hawkins.

  ‘You’re not going to let him have Pedro back, are you, maestro?’ I interrupted him. ‘It’s not fair. He doesn’t want to go.’

  ‘Quiet, Cat,’ snapped Mr Kemble. ‘Of course we don’t want to deliver Pedro up to that man. Slavery is an evil – but it is legal in the British Empire. I’m not sure if we can stop this Hawkins taking Pedro if he is his as he claims.’

  I couldn’t be silent at this. ‘But he’s not a dog to be passed from owner to owner. He’s a boy – a man like you.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Cat,’ said Pedro sullenly. ‘I’m no more than a dog as far as my old master’s concerned. It seems others think the same.’ He cast a bitter look at Angelini.

  ‘No, no, boy, it is you that is wrong,’ said the Italian, his voice softening. ‘I angry with you, si, but I do not think of you like this. There is no slavery in music. You have a talent that places you among the great. To me it no matter if you be black, red, green or blue: you play like a god. We try to stop this monster Hawkins. We stand with you.’ He patted Pedro on the arm. Pedro made to draw away, but catching sight of the Italian’s sincere expression he checked himself, and accepted Angelini’s gesture without resistance.

  ‘But how to do it – there’s the rub,’ murmured Mr Kemble. ‘I as good as told Hawkins that you were dead.’

  ‘You didn’t, sir,’ I butted in. ‘That was me. You only said he had been the maestro’s apprentice. Now you know he isn’t.’

  ‘An excellent quibble, Cat. The courts lost a formidable barrister with you being born female, but we all know what impression I allowed Hawkins to form. So, the question is: do we admit you are still alive or do we continue to claim you’re mouldering in your grave? I leave the choice to you, Pedro. But I should warn you: if you decide to play dead you’ll have to leave us. I can’t keep the deception going if you’re still here – not even Mr Sheridan can protect you in London, in spite of all his political connections. However, we might be able to do something further afield. I’ve a brother in Scotland – if I asked, I’m sure he would take you on at his theatre. That might be far enough to escape Hawkins’ clutches.’

  Pedro looked down at the floor, weighing his options.

  Some moments passed and then his mind was made up.

  ‘Thank you, sir, but I prefer to take my chance here. I can’t run forever.’

  Mr Kemble sighed.

  ‘Good boy,’ he said approvingly. ‘For what it’s worth, I think you’ve made the right choice. Drury Lane’s behind you.’ He got to his feet to move to his dressing table. ‘You know, I think the best strategy might be to brazen it out in public.’ He picked up his make-up stick and began darkening his eyebrows. ‘You’re a popular performer – the London crowd won’t want one of their favourite stars dragged off to waste his talents on a Jamaican sugar plantation. Mr Hawkins may just find that he’s taken on more than he bargained for when he came to claim you . . . Off you go now.’

  ‘’Ave a care, Pedro,’ called Signor Angelini after us. ‘Stay with your friends. ’E may think to make snatch of you, willing or no.’

  After the rehearsal Pedro and I retired to my home in the Sparrow’s Nest – the vast costume store that occupied the attic on one side of the theatre. It was dark up here: the costumes glimmered half-seen in the shadows, like a headless army waiting for the command to march downstairs and on to the stage. I lit a candle. Pedro wasn’t called for the performance tonight so he had an evening off duty.

  ‘What a day!’ I exclaimed, throwing myself on the old sofa that served as my bed. I saw with a groan that Mrs Reid had left a pile of mending for me with a note complaining about my prolonged absence from her side. Resigned to the inevitable, I picked up my needle and began to work. Pedro barely seemed to notice what I was doing, but stood at the window listening to the hubbub of the audience gathering below as it waited for the doors to open. He stared out over the smoking rooftops at the stars.

  ‘These are the same,’ he said, finally breaking the hush that had fallen between us.

  I put aside a badly darned stocking and came to stand beside him. The night sky was untouched by the glitter of lights spilling out from the gin palaces and taverns on the streets below. Up here, at the top of one of the tallest buildings in town, Pedro and I occupied a strange borderland. Look down and you saw Drury Lane spreading her tricks out before you with all the flash showmanship of a pavement magician. London’s a city of false prophecies and illusions where the streets are only paved with gold on a wet night with the lamps lit. Look up and all that tawdriness is left behind, for above the rooftops is where the true-silver magic of the starlight takes over.

  ‘What’s the same?’ I asked softly, caught in the spell with him.

  ‘The stars. They’ve stayed with me, though everything else has changed. I remember them shining over my village. My father used to tell me stories about them.’

  ‘What stories?’

  ‘I can’t remember. I was too young.’ Pedro rarely spoke of his family. He’d lost so much: his home, his family – even his memories.

  ‘You miss them, don’t you? Your family, I mean.’

  ‘Every day. My mother’s smile. My sisters’ bickering – you would’ve liked them. My grandmother – she wasn’t taken – too old, they said. My father – proud and strong. Did I ever tell you he was a king among our people?’ I shook my head. ‘Funny that Syd’s gang call me “Prince” now, isn’t it?’

  It was a very sad kind of funny, I thought.

  ‘I can also remember the stars at sea. When I got out of the hold of the ship they crammed us aboard, I can remember thinking that the stars were the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen – so high, so free.’

  ‘Was it so very bad in the ship?’ I ventured. Pedro had hinted as much before but the events of the day seemed to have unlocked a door to those memories.

  ‘I can’t tell you how bad it was, Cat. Not in my own words.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You know that bit in The Tempest where Prospero talks about Ariel being shut in a cloven pine by a witch?’ I nodded. ‘Every time I hear those words I think of the ship. That’s what it was like – a horrible spell. Bodies flung together with no hope of release except death or slavery. We were packed so tight, there was no room to move. The air stank. For months we suffered beyond anything I thought possible. Our people died in their chains, only to be chucked over the side like rubbish. Sometimes the slavers didn’t
even wait until they were dead.’ He leaned his forehead against the glass, shaken by the memory.

  I felt sick. ‘Pedro, I’m so sorry. It’s an outrage that this still happens! I thought we were supposed to be a Christian nation. How can people do this to others?’

  Pedro picked up a rich-red velvet robe from the chest under the window and crushed it in his hands. ‘I’ve asked myself that so many times, Cat. I don’t have an answer. I thought white people were all like that until I met you.’ He looked at me briefly as if to reassure himself that I was still there. ‘Now all I can think is that those slave traders are a particularly savage tribe. They don’t think of us as human at all. It’s as if a skin colour blinds them to everything else.’ He turned back to the window. ‘You know something? I hope my family is dead.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Better dead than with a master who can beat you within an inch of your life – demand your every moment be spent dancing attendance on him – kill you if the fancy takes him. Better dead than that.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ I had a trembling feeling inside; the depth of Pedro’s despair terrified me. I wanted to pull him out of it. ‘But perhaps your family escaped? Or perhaps they found a kind master who set them free?’

  ‘You really think so?’ Pedro asked in a hollow voice.

  ‘Well, you don’t know for sure, do you?’ I continued, despite suspecting that he thought me a fool. ‘But you have to imagine something so why not something good?’

  ‘Hah!’

  ‘That’s what I do.’

  ‘What you do?’

  ‘Yes. In my mind my mother was a beautiful lady and her husband handsome and rich.’ As I spoke, the words seemed to make the tale true. I warmed to my theme. ‘A wicked nurse stole me in a fit of jealousy and left me on the steps of the theatre, but my parents have never given up hope of finding me again.’ My imaginary mother and father hovered in my mind’s eye for a moment, smiling.

  ‘You think that, do you?’

  ‘Some of the time. I have other stories too.’