Cat Among the Pigeons (4 page)

‘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.'

‘Do you have one where your mother was a beggar and your father could've been anyone?'

‘Pedro!'

‘For that's the truth, isn't it, Cat? Just as my family are probably dead or in chains. And the dead ones are the lucky ones.'

‘Why did you say that? What harm have my stories done to you?' I asked, unable to swallow a sob.

‘Because they've kept you living in a dream, Cat. This place – it's fed you a load of make-believe. Stupid happy-endings.' He grabbed my arm and pulled me close to the window. ‘Take a look around you and see what's out there. I live in the real world and I can't afford daydreams. I'm very likely to go back into the service of a violent, evil man. So perhaps even you can understand why I don't want to hear your ridiculous ideas about my family!'

I wrenched my arm from his grip. ‘I'm sorry, Pedro,' I said with dignity. ‘I was only trying to
help. I'll leave you to your stars.' And I picked up my mending and carried it off to the Green Room.

When I came back after the performance I was already regretting that I had left Pedro so abruptly. I would've liked the chance to make it up with him but the Sparrow's Nest was empty. The stars still shone coldly in the night sky but there was no one to look at them.

It wasn't until I turned back the covers on the old sofa I sleep on that I saw that Pedro had left a sprig of lavender on my pillow and a note.

‘Sorry, Cat. Sweet dreams,' it said.

*
See the first volume of my adventures,
The Diamond of Drury Lane
, published by Mr Egmont and available from all good booksellers and circulating libraries.

SCENE 2 – ABOLITIONISTS

Lady Elizabeth, daughter of the Duke of Avon, poured her guests tea from a silver teapot.

‘I can't offer you sugar,' she said as she handed around the china teacups. ‘We're no longer taking it.'

‘Oh?' I asked, surprised. I knew Lizzie had a liking for sweet things. ‘Has the tooth puller warned you off?'

She shook her mass of shining chestnut curls. It never ceased to amaze me how she could always look so perfect – fine white skin, intelligent blue eyes, neat silk skirts. I'd only been in the parlour for two minutes and I was already aware that my ginger ringlets were tumbling from their pins, my ‘visiting' muslin dress was as rumpled as if I'd been playing in a haystack and my nails, I noticed now, were distinctly grimy. Syd Fletcher, leader of the Butcher's Boys and our escort for the day, seemed strangled by his
collar as he tried to accommodate his six-feet of muscle on a spindly chair that looked in peril of immediate collapse. Only Pedro did the lower classes credit as he sat bolt upright in his spotless blue and yellow livery.