Den of Thieves (3 page)

‘Ten minutes!' called the stage manager. ‘Light the stage candles.'

‘I'm glad you like it, Cat,' said Mr Sheridan, caressing the papers, ‘because this evening I'm
going to announce to the cast that the last performance within these walls will be on 4th June. When we close, the demolition crew will move in to knock the old place down.'

‘What!' I felt as if he had just tipped a kettle of scalding water on me.

‘I know that is very soon, but I didn't want to make a premature announcement. I couldn't get a builder for the job until I'd put the money on the table. Apparently, my reputation for not being prompt about settling my account had preceded me.' He chuckled and smoothed his white silk cravat fixed in place with a diamond-headed pin.

This was serious.

‘What, Cat? You don't look pleased.'

‘How long will the theatre be closed?'

‘Oh, I don't know – a couple of seasons perhaps. We're not talking about a refit here – this is a complete rebuild.'

‘A couple of seasons! But that's years!'

He darted a look at me out of the corner of his eye. ‘I know it's going to mean a lot of changes for everyone. We'll have to camp out at the King's
Theatre for a while, but I'm sure the company will all pull together when they understand what we stand to gain.'

‘I see.' I said no more. My home was about to be destroyed: the Sparrow's Nest, my foothold in the world for as long as I could remember was to be turned into rubble; the playground backstage that I'd shared with Pedro was about to be reduced to dust. Where would we go? At least Pedro had his master, the musical director – as an apprentice, he would be looked after. But I, as an orphan under the protection of the theatre, I'd been allowed a corner no one else wanted. In a new theatre, where no one knew me, would I be so fortunate again?

Mr Sheridan must have been following some of my thoughts from the expressions on my face.

‘When this is all over, Cat, I think you'll recognize it was for the best. You can't bed down in the costume store any more like some stray kitten. You're a young lady now. You need to find proper lodgings for yourself – start to make your own way.'

With what? I wondered. I worked in exchange for bed and board. I'd never had any money to call my own.

‘I have every confidence that you'll fall on your feet as normal. You're not called Cat for nothing,' he continued cheerfully, ruffling my ginger hair and dislodging my cap.

I knew that for my own good I had to be practical. I couldn't indulge myself and let out the wail of grief that welled up inside me. ‘Can I move with the company?' I asked. ‘Will you start paying me wages?'

Mr Sheridan began tidying away the plans. ‘We'll see. Money's a bit tight at the moment, what with the cost of the new building and the removal. Have a word with Mrs Reid – she might be able to squeeze something out of the wardrobe budget for you. Though I must admit I rather thought that you were going to make your fortune by your pen. I understood that the Duke of Avon was helping you find a publisher.'

He'd hit upon a sore spot.

‘His grace has tried, but the booksellers find my
stuff too shocking. They've told me to write about love and female duty – not boxing and battles.'

Mr Sheridan laughed. ‘Don't you listen to them, Cat. You have to put up with your fair share of rejection as a writer if you want to succeed. Keep trying – you'll find your audience one day.'

‘Yes, when I'm six feet under and women are equals to men – that means never,' I muttered sullenly.

‘I wouldn't be so sure of that,' said Mr Sheridan, toying with the watch chain that looped across his broad expanse of waistcoat. ‘It may happen sooner than you think. Events in France are transforming things that, when I was your age, were thought to be untouchable. Maybe your sex will be the next to share in the benefits of the wind of change that is sweeping across Europe.'

Mr Sheridan was talking politics now. The theatre was only really a hobby to him: his real career lay in parliament so it didn't take much to jog him on to this track. I'd be getting a full-blown speech about progress and revolution if I didn't watch out.

‘We'll see, sir,' I said humbly, bobbing a curtsey. ‘May I go now?'

‘Yes, yes, off you go, child. And don't worry: we'll make sure you are all right one way or another,' he said, leafing through the plans once more.

I picked up the tray of wigs and retreated from the office, full of doom. I knew my patron better than to trust to his vague promises. Many a shopkeeper had spent hours besieging him for payment only to be fobbed off with hints of money in the future.

‘Cat, where's my wig?' screeched Miss Stageldoir as I pushed my way into the bustling dressing room. Half-clothed dancers clustered around the mirrors, elbowing each other out of the way to plaster their faces with make-up, gossiping to each other in quick-fire French.

Well, if I was going to persuade everyone I was an indispensable part of the backstage crew, I could afford to make no enemies by rudeness – even Miss Stageldoir, a middling order actress of indifferent talent.

‘Sorry, miss. I was delayed by Mr Sheridan,' I
replied meekly, battling through the ballerinas to reach her.

Miss Stageldoir curled her pretty lips sceptically. She had a patch on her cheek like a squashed fly, hiding a pox mark that spoiled her alabaster skin (this too came out of a bottle – she was really as red-faced as a laundry woman when seen in daylight). ‘Put it on me then, girl.'

I lifted the wig from the tray, trying to blow off some of the soot before she noticed, and lowered it on to her head like the Archbishop of Canterbury crowning the king. She stared at her reflection.

‘What have you done, you slattern!' She wheeled round and slapped my face hard. ‘You've ruined it!'

Mrs Reid bustled forward to break up the commotion. ‘What's the matter, Miss Stageldoir?' she said soothingly. I rubbed my cheek, boiling with resentment, but bit my tongue.

‘The dirty little beggar's spoiled my wig! How can I go on stage looking like a chimney sweep?'

‘I can mend that in a trice with some powder. Just sit tight.' Mrs Reid clucked and fussed over
Miss Stageldoir's head. She enveloped the actress in a cloud of white dust as she repaired the damage. ‘Look! As good as new.'

‘Hmm.' Miss Stageldoir turned her face this way and that. ‘I suppose it'll do, but make sure you punish the girl: it could have ruined my performance.'

As if it needed me to spoil it – she did that well enough herself.

‘I will, you can be certain of that.' Mrs Reid glared at me.

This was so unfair!

‘But it wasn't me, Mrs Reid. Mr Sheridan dropped the tray when he took me into his office.'

Mrs Reid raised her eyebrows, taking in my crooked cap. ‘What was he doing with you in his office on your own?'

Two of the dancers giggled as they brushed past. I blushed and tugged my cap back into place. ‘He wanted to show me his plans.'

‘Oh yes?'

‘Yes, plans for the new theatre,' I continued loudly, savouring the moment when I would fire
my broadside. ‘He's closing Drury Lane and knocking it down. On 4th June to be precise. We've all got to move.'

You could have heard a pin drop. In fact, several did tumble from Miss Stageldoir's head as she jerked back in her chair to stare at me in disbelief.

‘What did you say?' she hissed.

‘It's the end. Drury Lane is doomed. The curtain falls. Can I put it any clearer for you . . . miss?'

She missed my rudeness in her surprise. ‘But where are we going? Will we lose our positions?' she exclaimed.

An excited babble broke out in all quarters as the cast began to discuss their fate. Sooty wigs forgotten, the news spread as dancers darted off to whisper it to their boyfriends among the stagehands. Soon there was no corner of the theatre that did not know what was afoot, no doubt as Mr Sheridan had intended when he chose to tell me first.

‘Five minutes to curtain up! Beginners, please,' called the stage manager as he tried to hush the hubbub behind the scenes.

Miss Stageldoir swept past me without a word, her velvet train leaving a trail in the powder. With a sigh, I picked up a broom to sweep the floor.

The orchestra began the overture as I made my exit from an empty dressing room. There was no one to see me go as all eyes were now on the stage.

With leaden feet, I climbed the stairs to my lonely corner of the Sparrow's Nest, and huddled on my couch counting the days until I had to fly away.

Only twelve left.

The following morning, Syd Fletcher, leader of Covent Garden's Butcher's Boys gang, spotted me passing the door of his father's shop.

‘Oi, Cat!' he called, striding out on to the sun-drenched pavement and wiping his bloodied hands on his apron like Hercules returning from the slaughter of the lion. His hair shone gold in the dazzling light.

‘Oh, hello, Syd,' I said, pausing to rub my brow with a handkerchief. I was wearing my best clothes and already sweltering in the heat. ‘I can't stop: I've been invited to Frank and Lizzie's this morning. They're expecting me. Why don't you come too?'

‘What, like this?' laughed Syd, spreading his arms wide to display his stained working clothes. ‘Nah, Kitten. You look swell, all togged up in that
white dress of yours; I'd lower the tone if I came with you.'

‘But Frank and Lizzie would love to see you.'

He grinned and rubbed his yellow-bristled chin. ‘Perhaps, but not like this. I'll see Frank happily enough down 'ere any day, but 'e won't want me sippin' tea and eatin' off china plates any more than I'd like to be there. Nah, dook's children 'ave their world and I 'ave mine: that's 'ow it is and 'ow it's meant to be.'

‘So what about me? Are you saying I shouldn't be mixing with the likes of them?' I suddenly felt very inadequate in my cheap muslin dress, knowing that Lizzie would doubtless be beautifully decked out and there might even be other visitors quick to notice my humble origins.

Syd beckoned me to take a seat in the shade, first wiping the top of a barrel with his apron. The whole street had a tired, languid feel, like an old dog stretched out panting in the sun. Carriers' carts rumbled wearily by, raising clouds of choking dust. The gutters smelt foul. ‘Course not, Cat. You're an exception to the rule, you are.'

That made me feel a bit better. I was, after all, going to visit my friends, not take part in a fashion parade. Lizzie and Frank wouldn't care what I turned up in. Their mother had been an opera singer before her marriage to the Duke of Avon so her children had not inherited the usual prejudices of people of their rank. They did not regard me as beneath their notice.

‘So, what did you want me for, Syd? Was it about the theatre?' I wondered how far the rumour about its closure had spread since last night.

‘What about the theatre?'

Not very far yet then.

‘Mr Sheridan's knocking it down to build a bigger one.'

‘What 'e want to go and do that for?' asked Syd in amazement.

‘The march of progress, Syd, the winds of change,' I said ironically.

‘The march of what? What you goin' on about?'

‘Put it another way, some fool's lent him the money and my patron wants to make his mark on London – leave something for him to be
remembered by.' I was feeling ungenerous to Mr Sheridan today. ‘Oh yes, and I s'pose there might be the little matter of making a bigger profit by selling more tickets.'

Syd whistled and shook his head. ‘That's a rum do – spending a fortune to make one.'

‘I couldn't have put it better myself.'

‘But what about you, Cat? Where are you goin' to live now, eh, when they knock your theatre down?'

I shrugged, not wanting him to think I couldn't look after myself. Pedro had asked me the very same question when I'd broken the news to him the night before. But I couldn't bear to confess my worries to two of my best friends. Pedro was in no position to help me and as for Syd, he'd never let me in his gang if I appeared incapable of sorting out even this simple matter. I have my pride.

‘I don't know yet, but I'll find somewhere,' I said more cheerfully than I felt.

Syd nodded. ‘Mr Sheridan won't let you down, not after all you've done for 'im in the past.'

I didn't want to tell him that this was exactly
the kind of matter over which my patron was entirely unreliable. I just gave Syd a non-committal smile and got up to go.

‘'Ere, Cat, wait 'alf a tick. I 'aven't told you my news yet.'

‘What's that?'

A country girl walked past with a tray of strawberries and gave Syd the eye. He winked back then blushed when he remembered who he was with.