Cat Among the Pigeons, Page 5

  ‘You’ve brought me the tickets?’ Hawkins asked, closing in on me around the table.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ I held them out and was cross to see my hand was trembling.

  ‘Good.’ His eyes were fixed on my face. He reached out to take the tickets but then, at the last moment, changed direction and seized my hand in his fist. His palm felt strong and hot to the touch. He pulled me towards him, the tickets waving between us like a fan. ‘Intriguing, ain’t it, gentlemen? She pretended my boy was dead to stop me getting him back. That’s theft when you think about it. She’s kinda young to be so evil.’

  Me – evil! Well, that was rich coming from him. I looked up into his fierce blue eyes and was stunned to see that he really believed what he was saying.

  A man stepped into the light from my right. He was in clerical dress and wore a white wig square over a face with a bulbous nose. Taking a monocle from his pocket, he peered at me short-sightedly.

  ‘Interesting, Hawkins, very interesting. It’s the riff-raff of her sort that are sapping the very marrow of our empire – attacking property rights like a canker in a once healthy body, undermining our very constitution. Left to run riot, you get the kind of nonsense we see in France – kings humbled, butchers and bakers raised up in their place.’

  ‘Good grief, Dr Juniper!’ said the other man with a cue. ‘You make her sound very dangerous. All I see is a scruffy urchin wondering when she’s going to get her tip for carrying her message. Hardly a portent of the millennium!’

  ‘Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, Ferdinand, quite wrong,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Hawkins with an exultant smile, ‘let’s have a better look at the creature.’ He let go of my wrist and seized me by the waist. Before I knew it, I was standing on the billiard table directly under the candelabra.

  ‘Mind the cloth!’ protested Ferdinand, not at all bothered on my account but staring in concern at my muddy boots.

  ‘Let me down!’ I said, adding reluctantly, ‘Please!’

  ‘No, no, not until we’ve finished, missy,’ said Hawkins gleefully. ‘You see, gentlemen, I’m an expert in judging human specimens. It’s my stock-in-trade – I do it all the time in the slave markets. I knew that my boy Pedro was gifted from the angle of his brow. Now, this gal here –’

  ‘Ah! I see it,’ said Dr Juniper. ‘The red hair and green eyes of an Irishwoman – an inferior race, as I’m sure we all agree, only one step up from the African and Asiatic savage. And observe her thin, stunted stature.’ He took up Mr Hawkins’ billiard cue and pointed to me as if in a lecture hall. ‘Clearly not strong. I’ve no doubt she’ll end in an early grave.’

  ‘And do you see the shape of her skull?’ Mr Hawkins continued. ‘I’ve seen the same on some of my slaves – all of them have been liars with no respect for authority. It’s in the space between the eyes – I can always tell. I make sure they’re assigned to particularly hard labour to keep them down.’

  ‘Very wise,’ nodded the doctor.

  ‘I pity your slaves, you stinking dog turd,’ I hissed at Hawkins, unable to stomach any more of this humiliation. ‘Let me go.’

  Hawkins shook his head and prodded me back into place. ‘And then of course there’s the limited vocabulary and resort to obscenities – another mark of the dull-witted. But the final proof is in the teeth.’ He hooked my upper arm and dragged me towards him. ‘You’ll get some work from even the meanest specimen if their teeth are good.’ The gentlemen laughed and clustered round to take a closer look. One blew a stream of pipe smoke in my face. Hawkins thrust a finger and thumb into my mouth like a horse-dealer inspecting a nag at the fair. I tried to pull away but his other hand was clamped on my neck. ‘Hmm. Not bad – I’d buy her if she came up at a bargain price.’

  That was the final straw. I bit down on Hawkins’ thumb.

  ‘You little witch!’ he shouted, pulling his hand away.

  ‘You can stick your tickets up your bum,’ I shouted, anger coursing through me as I cast the tickets into the air like confetti. ‘And you can shove the receipt where the sun don’t shine.’

  I ran across the billiard table, kicking balls in all directions, and jumped off the other side. There was a door – I hoped it was my escape route. I threw it open and found myself in a vast library full of men in leather armchairs. The door banged against the wall. The murmur of quiet talk died, replaced by a horrified silence. They were looking at me as if I was something particularly disgusting that the cat had dragged in. Just at that moment, I hated them and everything they represented. ‘And to hell with you lot too!’ I shouted as I streaked across the polished floor. My heavy boots made an echoing noise as I galloped through, upsetting side tables and decanters in my passage. At the far side, I crashed into a waiter carrying a tray of drinks. Wine glasses exploded all around me as they hit the ground. Past caring, I ran full pelt down the stairs, ducking under arms that reached out to stop me, and burst out of the front door.

  ‘And that,’ I heard one crusty member say loudly as I bolted on to the street, ‘is exactly why we don’t admit females.’

  An hour to curtain up. Pedro’s chief supporters were gathered in the Green Room to plan how to distribute our forces for that evening.

  ‘And what did you do then, Cat?’ asked Syd, rubbing the back of his neck in bewilderment.

  ‘And then I bit him.’

  Pedro whooped and clapped his hands as Joe ‘The Card’ grinned like a basket of chips. Mr Equiano gave a throaty chuckle. Mr Kemble patted me on the shoulder, trying not to appear too pleased. Lizzie was the only one to look worried.

  ‘I hope you bit him good and hard,’ said Frank, leaning over his sister’s shoulder.

  ‘I drew blood,’ I said with satisfaction. ‘He tastes disgusting.’

  ‘That’ll teach him,’ said the duchess approvingly. She sat back in her chair, breathing in the air with relish. Surrounded by actors in costume, she clearly felt at home.

  ‘What happened next?’ asked Lizzie. Her jewelled headdress glowed against her dark hair and I had already noticed a number of admiring glances coming her way from the stage crew. It was rare to see the real thing backstage. Here, we’re all paint and paste that doesn’t bear too close an inspection; Lizzie’s a true beauty in any light.

  ‘I ran for it, telling them . . .’ I remembered to whom I was talking. ‘Well, telling them what they could do with their tickets. Oh, and I may have said something along the same lines to the members in the library.’ My temporary exhilaration drained away as it struck me that I probably hadn’t heard the last of my exhibition of female hysteria in Brook’s.

  ‘You’ve certainly put the cat among the pigeons,’ said Frank.

  The duchess noticed my glum expression. ‘Don’t fret, Miss Royal – those clubs could do with a kick up the –’

  ‘At least,’ interrupted Frank quickly, ‘at least we know for certain that Hawkins is going to be here tonight. We’d better continue with our plan. In view of what’s just happened, Cat, I suggest you keep a low profile. That leaves the rest of us. We need to put our supporters in every part of the house as we don’t know where Hawkins might strike. It’s imperative our side drowns his men out. Syd, you take the gods – Joseph will be there to help. Mama and Lady Elizabeth will be in our box, of course. We’re expecting Father to join them with some allies from the House of Lords. I’ll be in the Pit with Mr Equiano and Mr Sharp. The other members of the Society will be sprinkled about in the gallery.’

  ‘Very good, my lord,’ said Mr Equiano with a bow. ‘All that remains is for us to wish Pedro “good luck”.’

  ‘No, don’t do that,’ I said quickly. ‘Tell him to break a leg.’

  ‘What’s that, sugar?’

  Mr Equiano may have travelled the world, but he was woefully ignorant about life in the theatre. ‘It’s bad luck to wish “good luck” backstage,’ I explained. Mr Equiano raised an eyebrow but the duchess nodded vigorously in agreement. ‘You have to wish someone
to break a leg.’

  ‘How extraordinary! What a barbaric nation you are. Well then, break a leg – both if that’s doubly lucky.’

  ‘I’ll try my best,’ said Pedro. He was beginning to look sick with nerves.

  ‘That’s all Drury Lane asks of you,’ said Mr Kemble with a reassuring smile as he left the room.

  ‘And I’m sure you will make our people proud, Pedro,’ declared Mr Equiano, thumping him on the chest. Pedro looked choked with emotion. For years he’d been starved of a father’s love and I could tell he was beginning to look on Mr Equiano as a surrogate – and no bad choice was it too.

  Pedro now retired to get in costume. Everyone else got up to take their positions. In the confusion, Lizzie came over to me and touched my arm.

  ‘Cat, you won’t get into trouble, will you, for what you did?’

  ‘Probably.’ I shrugged.

  Lizzie clenched her fists. ‘I feel so angry that Hawkins gets away with treating you like that while you’re the one who’ll be punished.’

  ‘I know. But that’s life, isn’t it? Never fair.’

  ‘I think you’re very brave. It must have been very humiliating to be treated like that.’

  ‘It was. But I tell you what, Lizzie – afterwards, it made me think about all those thousands of people who are poked and prodded by men like Hawkins in the slave markets each day. At least with me it was only a horrid game. Just think what it must be like to be bought by someone like him – what it was like for Pedro and Mr Equiano.’

  ACT II

  SCENE 1 – A TEMPEST

  ‘Here, Cat, have you seen this?’ Caleb, the old doorkeeper, thrust a piece of paper in my hand. Outside, a crowd of ticketless onlookers had gathered by the stage door, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the stars. So far their luck was out as all they could see was Caleb and me. I held the paper up to the light.

  Kemble the thief!

  Wanted for the theft of one Pedro Hawkins, property of Mr Kingston Hawkins. Britons, your possessions are no longer safe when men like Kemble are allowed to deprive honest businessmen of their servants. Show your displeasure at this despicable act tonight when both the thief and the stolen boy appear on stage together.

  *

  ‘We expected something like this,’ I said, scrunching up the paper and throwing it in the gutter. ‘Did you see our flyer?’

  ‘Aye, that I did. “Don’t let the slaver put Ariel in chains! Let the African Ariel go free!” – that’s poetry, that is. Better than that muck.’ Caleb ground his boot on the discarded paper. ‘Saw the slave trade meself when I was a sailor. A foul business, Cat. I’m proud that Drury Lane is backing our Pedro.’

  Obeying orders to keep out of sight, I waited until the audience had taken its place and crept into the manager’s box, concealing myself behind the curtains. There was a buzz of excitement in the theatre that signalled more than the ordinary interest in a first night. I spotted a number of our friends dotted around the auditorium. Directly opposite me in a box were the three Miss Millers, their hands demurely folded in their laps. I realized that what was normal for me was a big adventure for them. Joe ‘The Card’ came in with a party of loudly dressed apprentices from the market and they took positions at the front of the gallery. They seemed to be responsible for most of the paper darts raining down on the Pit as they took the distribution of our leaflet into their own hands. As I watched, the door below the Miss Millers’ box opened and Kingston Hawkins entered, his thumb bound in a white bandage. He was accompanied by a large group of men in evening dress. They took places on the benches directly below the Miss Millers, pushing those already seated out of their way. I wondered if our Quaker sisters realized the devil himself had just arrived. Hawkins sat down at his ease and gazed around him. His glance fell on Mr Equiano sitting a few benches in front of him. He gave a contemptuous smile and continued his survey. It was then that I had a feeling that he was looking for me. I ducked back into the shadows, determined not to be seen.

  Signor Angelini entered from a side door to take his place in the orchestra pit. After bowing gracefully to acknowledge the applause, he tapped his baton on the stand. The violins sounded a tremulous note like the hum of the wind in a ship’s rigging and the audience settled down for the main business of the evening.

  The play opened with a brilliant sound and light show depicting a shipwreck. Reader, if you have not yet witnessed such spectacular effects at Drury Lane, you must purchase a ticket without delay to see the miracle of our modern technology. Mr Kemble had employed an Italian puppeteer to work his magic with a model of a ship foundering in heavy seas. The backstage crew worked wonders with their thunder machine, cranking it for all they were worth. Revolving mirrors were deployed to make flashes of lightning from lanterns hidden in the wings. For extra realism the actors were doused in water as they staggered on stage to deliver their lines, a few droplets reaching the spectators in the stageside boxes near me, causing ripples of consternation among the smartly dressed occupants. The effect was captivating. The audience temporarily forgot the battle for Pedro and was lost in the storm. I saw the three Miss Millers sitting open-mouthed. Miss Prudence was bouncing with excitement in her seat. Even Mr Hawkins had eyes only for the stage, a grudging look of admiration on his face.

  But after the next scene change – Prospero’s island – the trouble began. Poor Miss Farren, in the character of Miranda, had the first line to deliver. As her stage father, Prospero, played by Mr Kemble, entered from his cave, Hawkins’ set started their hissing and booing.

  ‘Thief!’ shouted Hawkins.

  ‘Blackguard!’ yelled another.

  Miss Farren struggled on, but the noise swelled as more pro-slavery supporters joined the barrage of abuse, some throwing orange peel and rotten fruit on to the stage. Miranda is supposed to be in tears during her first speech, but this night they were real. Miss Farren was on the point of giving up when, suddenly, Mr Kemble abandoned his scripted moves and strode to the front of the stage, oblivious to the rain of vegetables. He began to conduct the whistles and jeers as if raising the storm himself. The rest of the audience soon got the joke and a titter of laughter ran through the gallery. Hawkins flushed with anger as Prospero assumed power over the attack upon him.

  ‘Louder!’ cried Mr Kemble. ‘Blow winds and crack your cheeks!’ he extemporized, borrowing from another play.

  The crowd cheered and many of us began to howl like hurricane winds, drowning out the feeble cries of the protestors. Miss Farren was completely inaudible but came to the end of her speech with dignity.

  ‘Be collected!’ commanded Mr Kemble, returning to script and signalling with a swipe of his hand for the noise to cease. The audience obeyed. Hawkins’ crew dared not strike up again: Mr Kemble had humiliated them by demonstrating his power over the majority of the audience. Hawkins resumed his seat, muttering angrily to his companions.

  I had thoroughly enjoyed this first battle of wills, but now my heart began to thump as Pedro’s entrance approached. What would Hawkins and his gang do then? The moment arrived.

  ‘Approach, my Ariel . . . Come!’ Prospero cried.

  Starting high up on the right-hand side of the roof, a blue-and-white streak flashed across the stage. It was Pedro, standing on a swing contraption dreamt up by Mr Bishop, to give the impression that our Ariel really could fly. He disappeared from view, then swung back. This time, as the swing reached centre stage, Pedro leapt off and somersaulted to the floor, continuing to tumble and flip until he landed in a bow at Prospero’s feet. The audience exploded with excitement at this spectacular entrance. Even Hawkins was driven to give a begrudging round of applause – but then, I suppose he thought all the credit Pedro earned was really his. I could see Pedro crackling with exhilaration as he soaked in the audience’s admiration. He delivered his speech with a force that had been lacking in rehearsals. No hard-of-hearing dwarf in the gods would have missed a word.

  Trouble only began again when Kemble spoke. �
��My brave spirit!’ he declared.

  ‘Not yours, Kemble. He’s mine!’ bellowed Hawkins from the Pit. ‘Give him up!’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ rumbled the pro-slavery faction from the benches around him.

  ‘Shh!’ hissed other members of the audience.

  The actors took no notice. Pedro was quivering with excitement like the very spirit of air he was playing. When he came to describing the shipwreck, he was seized by a sudden inspiration and declaimed, ‘Hell is empty, and all the devils are here!’, pointing with a sweep of his arm at his old master. His wit was greeted with a shout of laughter.

  ‘Too right, Prince!’ yelled Syd from the gods.

  ‘Spat out by old Beelzebub ’imself,’ bellowed Joe ‘The Card’ from the gallery where he sat with his feet up on the rail.

  Other voices now made themselves heard from all sides.

  ‘You tell ’em!’

  ‘Hands off our Ariel!’

  ‘Leave him alone!’

  Things were not going the way Hawkins had anticipated. The crowd loved their Pedro too much. He belonged to them, not to Hawkins. From then on, each speech by Ariel referring to his enslavement to Prospero was met with cheers of support. When Ariel reminded his master of his long-promised liberty, the audience broke into a storm of whistles and catcalls at Prospero’s refusal.

  ‘Let him go, you beast!’ shrieked Miss Fortitude Miller, waving her fist at Hawkins sitting below her.

  ‘Free him! Free him! Free him!’ chanted the young men in the gods. Footman Joseph was conducting the call from the front rail, punching the air with each word.

  I don’t know how we got through the rest of the play. But seasoned professionals, the actors sailed through their scenes well aware that the real drama was taking place between Ariel and the audience that evening. Pedro was buoyed up by the overwhelming support he was receiving. He flitted about the stage as if on fire with magic, tumbling and spinning, acting and singing like a heaven-sent spirit.