Cat's Cradle (2 page)

C
AT
'
S
G
LOSSARY

A S
UPPLEMENT TO
D
R
J
OHNSON
'
S
D
ICTIONARY BY
C
AT AND
J
AMIE

N
OTE TO THE
R
EADER

Reader
,

In my previous tales, I have journeyed far from my origins on the streets of London to the wilds of America and across the turquoise seas of the Caribbean. I have been adopted by Indians, climbed the rigging, and briefly dabbled with piracy. But I had to come home to learn that you do not need to travel great distances to come face-to-face with unfamiliar cultures and new experiences. Such things are on your doorstep if you but look.

So come with me on an adventure to a land famous for pushing forward the frontier of human ingenuity, leading us into the new age of manufactories. Can you guess where we are going yet? What if I tell you that it is also a place of rough manners and banditry; Highlands and lochs; pibroch and poets? A strange mixture indeed.

Do you know where we are bound?
To find out, turn the page and follow me.

Cat Royal

P
RINCIPAL
C
HARACTERS

Many people are fortunate to have a family tree that stretches back hundreds of years. My friend Frank, for example, can point to a sprig and say, ‘That was Great Uncle Timothy who died at the Battle of Blenheim,' or, ‘That's Great Great Great Grandma Eustacia who smoked a pipe and bred rare pigs.' For him, history is a hop from stepping-stone to stepping-stone of notable or eccentric relatives all leading up to the present time – to him.

By contrast, I had always thought of myself as a lone shoot. Abandoned as an infant on the doorstep of Drury Lane theatre twelve years ago, I was the acorn dropped carelessly far from the parent plant. I had been left to grow (or not) as fate
decided, with no knowledge of the tree that produced me. That was, Reader, until I arrived back in London after my adventures in the Caribbean. Out of the blue, my past caught up with me and sprouted in a most unexpected way.

The post-chaise rattled down Oxford Street, but I was in heaven. Finally, after a year of exile, I could see, hear and smell my city in all its grimy glory. I was home.

‘Gawd almighty, girl, can't you sit still for a moment?' Billy Shepherd, my friendly enemy and travelling companion, gave a tug to the back of my skirt. ‘You're like a jack-in-the-box.'

I ignored him. ‘Look – there's the turn to Grosvenor Square! And that's the way to St Martin-in-the-Fields! And look – there's Scratch Harry.'

Billy rolled his eyes at my enthusiasm. Rumpled by months of travel, everything about him, from his limp cravat to his scuffed boots, looked weary, more than ready to exchange continual motion for a seat by a comfortable fireside.

‘You know who I mean, Billy – the fake legless
beggar, the one who has his legs concealed in that cart – he's still sitting on the corner!' I called the tramp a cheery greeting and flipped him an expertly aimed penny. It plopped into his bowl with a satisfying plink. Catching sight of the donor, Scratch Harry gave a bark of laughter and doffed his cap.

‘Course 'e is, you idiot,' grumbled Billy, tugging fretfully at the frayed end of a cuff. ‘Works for me, doesn't 'e? 'E knows 'e 'as to put in the hours.'

I'd momentarily forgotten Billy had this part of London well and truly under the control of his gang.

‘If you're going to get a cut, I want my money back.' I held out my hand and wiggled my fingers.

With a pained sigh, Billy dug in his waistcoat pocket and slapped a shilling into my palm. ‘Don't carry small change,' he muttered.

‘Your loss is my gain.' I smiled sweetly and turned back to my examination of the streets. After a short pause, I began drumming my fingers restlessly on the sill, beating a tattoo guaranteed to annoy Billy. ‘Do you think everyone else got
home safely? Frank and Syd, I mean?'

Having waved off my friends in Philadelphia, I expected them to have returned some months ago. Unless my letter to Frank had arrived before me, they would not be anticipating me landing on their doorstep so soon. They'd left me pursuing a career as an actress with a troupe touring the Caribbean. That enterprise cut short by brief spells as enslaved servant, pirate and rebel soldier,
*
I had finally taken passage back across the Atlantic with Billy. Our ship had carried the taint of the slave trade, having just unloaded its cargo of human captives from Africa. Mercifully, on this eastbound leg, it had only transported cotton and sugar to the manufactories of northern England and Scotland. There had been no other ship willing to take us, so we had had to make do. After a swift sailing, Billy and I disembarked with the cargo at the port of Liverpool and had spent the last few days jolting down the turnpike to make our grand entry into the capital.

Billy's temper was hanging by a thread; my spirits were high. He had given me to under stand that I made an infuriating fellow passenger in the close confines of cabin and carriage. Excellent news all round.

My drumming reached a crescendo.

‘'Ow many times do I 'ave to tell you? Stop tappin'!' Billy ran his fingers through his brown hair, making it stick up like a bristling hedgehog. Smoky grey eyes flashed a warning – he was about to lose his composure. ‘And 'ow the 'ell do I know if your friends are 'ere, Cat Royal? What you think I am? A bleedin' gypsy or somethink? With a bloomin' crystal ball?'