Cat Among the Pigeons (8 page)

‘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.'

‘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.

As the play neared its end, I could sense the tension building. We all knew what was to come in the last scene. As the final speech neared, Mr Kemble drew himself up with delighted anticipation. ‘My Ariel,' he declared so every man, woman and child in the house could hear, ‘to the elements be free, and fare thou well!'

The shout from the crowd was such that I expected the roof to fall in. Heaven knows what those outside thought was happening! Pedro leapt on his swing and was hauled up to the flies,
his cloak-wings fluttering behind him.

‘Free him! Free him!' thundered the audience.

Hawkins and his crew jeered and whistled, but their protest was lost in the hullabaloo of the crowd backing their boy. With Pedro now gone, the audience turned their attention on his former master. A shout of ‘Out! Out! Out!' was now directed at Hawkins. Miss Miller senior leant over the edge of her box and stabbed her finger in the air in time with the chant. Her gesture was taken up by those around her and Hawkins found himself in the middle of a forest of fingers all pointing at him. He got up, raised two fingers to the audience in reply, and pushed his way out of the auditorium. The cheers that greeted his retreat were the loudest yet. My ears were ringing with them long after the epilogue had been delivered by a beaming Mr Kemble.

After the performance, actors, friends and supporters spilled into the Green Room like foam from champagne.

‘He daren't touch you now, Pedro!' bubbled
Frank, downing a glass in celebration. ‘You're the toast of the town.'

‘Yes, you're far too popular now – no one can enslave such talent,' said Mr Kemble, raising a glass to his Ariel.

‘You were magnificent!' declared the duchess, planting one of her kisses on Pedro's cheeks and another on a startled Mr Kemble.

‘Dost thou know, I think the theatre is quite misunderstood,' gushed Miss Prudence Miller, gazing at the actor-manager with admiration and tweaking her bonnet strings.

Mr Equiano came to stand beside me as we watched the jubilant crowd swirl around our African Ariel.

‘Well, you may just have saved him,' he said, nodding at Pedro with a tender expression on his face. ‘You should feel proud of yourself.'

I glowed at his praise. ‘He saved himself, sir. He faced down Hawkins by his superior talent.'