Den of Thieves (7 page)

‘Sorry,' I sniffed, embarrassed to show my weakness. I didn't want anyone to know how scared I was, least of all Syd who had never been afraid of anything.

‘Don't be sorry, Cat, never be sorry.' He reached out to wipe the tear away. There was a
strange look in his blue eyes. Suddenly, he bent forward, gave me a quick kiss on the lips, turned tail and left.

*
A gentleman is born, not made.

The next time I saw Syd was on the morning of his departure. Both of us avoided each other's eye as we mingled with the crowd that had gathered to see him off. My lips felt as if they were still burning – my cheeks certainly were – though I tried to behave as normal. Syd moved among his friends, shaking hands, cracking jokes, but something about the set of his shoulders told me that he was acutely aware of my presence wherever I was standing. We knew each other too well, having been together for as long as I could remember: both of us realized that everything had changed with that kiss. Today was the first time more than a square mile would come between us. His decision to leave London had stripped off the cosy covers of our relationship, leaving me shivering in the cold light of day as I took stock of where we had reached.

‘All right, Cat? Look after yourself,' Syd said, reaching me last.

‘I will.'

‘I hope the move to the new theatre goes well.'

‘Thanks.'

I risked raising my gaze to his face. His eyes were saying much more than his words, but he gave me a perfunctory shake of the hand before climbing up on the carriage beside Mick Bailey, his manager. Part of me ached for a hug; part of me was glad he'd left it at that.

With a flick of the whip, Syd bowled off west in Bailey's high two-wheeler to the cheers of the people of Covent Garden.

‘Punch 'em to kingdom come, lad!' yelled his father as his termagant of a mother wept into a white handkerchief.

I stood among Syd's boys. They gave three cheers as the carriage turned the corner. Their leader rose in his seat, waved his cap to us and was gone. Sad though I was to see him leave, I was in some ways relieved. His brief kiss had forced me to see what I had, I now realized, purposely been
closing my eyes to: Syd loved me. I could never just be one of the boys to him. He didn't want me in his gang because he thought he might have other plans for us when we both came of age.

I found the thought terrifying. I didn't feel old enough to consider marriage and family seriously. Though never exactly sure of the year of my birth, I guessed I was about thirteen or fourteen. Many girls from Covent Garden of my age had paired up by now; some poor souls already had babies hanging on their skirts, despite being barely out of childhood themselves. We all know we don't get long on this earth – death a daily occurrence where I come from. Most of us will be dead by twenty-five, probably in the course of bringing into the world another orphan like me to shift for herself, but even so, I wasn't in a hurry. I knew Syd would want to wait until we could get properly married and do the decent thing, but that wasn't far off now. A couple of years and I could be Mrs Fletcher. Help. I didn't want that. I didn't want a life of babies and washing and shopping and cooking and cleaning. I wanted to
stay in the theatre. I wanted to write. I wanted to be free. I wanted to marry for love.

Don't get me wrong, Reader: I do love Syd. He is the best, the most honourable boy I know. But marry him!

Stop the pen right there. I'm getting carried away, jumping from a kiss to wedding vows. Let us return to business before I get any more foolish ideas.

I arrived back at the theatre to find the place humming with excitement.

‘What's going on, Caleb?' I asked the doorman. He shifted along and patted the bench beside him. ‘It's the list, Cat. Mr Kemble said it'd go up today.'

‘What list?'

‘The master . . .' (he meant Mr Sheridan) ‘asked Mr Kemble to work out who the company could take with them to the new theatre. There's going to be blood spilt later, or my name's not Caleb Braithwaite.'

I felt as if I had just stumbled into a pothole in
the dark. I hadn't known about this, though I should have guessed.

‘What about you, Caleb? Do you know if you're going to be on it?' I felt very afraid for him: the King's Theatre was certain to have a doorman in residence. What would an old sailor like Caleb do? He had no family I'd ever heard of and I had known him all my life.

‘Nay, lass, I won't be on that list. Drury Lane is my home. I ain't going nowhere.'

‘But Caleb, don't you know what's going to happen to this place?'

He gave me a sad smile. ‘Aye, Cat. Don't you fret about me: Mr Kemble and his sister have said they'll see that I'm all right and they've been as good as their word. The old widow who keeps the cookshop in Gerrard Street said she could do with a man to watch the place.' He leant closer and whispered conspiratorially, ‘That means Mr Kemble has paid her to give me a post at the fireside but doesn't want to hurt me pride by telling me so.' Caleb chuckled. ‘Old age is a terrible thing, Cat. I'm proud, but not that proud.
I'll sit and guard Widow King's pastries for her.'

‘I'm pleased to hear it.' I breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Old age is bad, but being a young maid with no family ain't that much fun either, Cat. What will you do with yourself? I don't want our Cat to fall into bad company like so many wenches do.' His cloudy blue eyes were full of concern.

‘Oh, I'll be fine, Caleb,' I said brightly. ‘I'm hoping my name will be on that list – and if not, well, I'll cross that bridge when . . . if it comes.' I was not encouraged to see that he looked doubtful. There was no immediate riposte of ‘Of course you'll be on it, Cat.' He for one thought I was not indispensable to the company.

‘It's here. The list's here!' Long Tom, a stagehand, bellowed from the Green Room. There was a stampede of feet from all directions, screams and cries as actors, dancers, stage crew, labourers, scene painters, carpenters and front of house staff all converged backstage. I sat for a moment – too terrified to look, yet knowing I had to.

‘Do you want me to find out for you?' asked
Caleb gently. He must think me a coward for hesitating so long.

‘No, no, I'll do it, thanks.' I patted his gnarled hand and stood up. Feeling as if time had slowed down to crawling pace, I made my way to the Green Room.

‘I'm in!' shouted Long Tom, slapping me on the back as I passed.

‘What about me?' I asked huskily.

He frowned. ‘Sorry, Cat, I didn't notice,' and he went off to celebrate the good news with the others who had also been chosen.

I couldn't get to see the list at first: the crowd was so thick. Two dancers were weeping on each other's shoulders. Mr Salter, the prompt and box office manager, looked self-righteously pleased with himself. I overheard Mrs Reid talking to her assistant, Sarah Bowers.

‘I'm sorry, Sarah, the only way I could manage it was to make a cut in your wages. We're going to be so hard-pressed. The budget's been slashed; we've got to transport the costumes, put others in store. I did my best.'

Sarah nodded miserably. ‘I understand, Mrs Reid. At least I've still got me job. I appreciate all you've done for me.' Her eyes fell on me and she flushed scarlet. ‘I'm not complainin', really I'm not.'

By now my heart was pounding, my throat dry. Had Mrs Reid cut Sarah's wages so that she could do something for me? Was that what Sarah's look meant? I wormed my way to the front of the crowd and scanned the list pinned to the wall. All the names were familiar, people I'd known since I was a baby. It took a moment to work out who hadn't made it into the lifeboat. Two-thirds of the stagehands were going, most of the set painters, half the front of house staff. No carpenters – they'd been transferred to building the new theatre. No doorman as Caleb had predicted. And no Cat.

It couldn't be! I started at the top again. Catherine Royal. I had to be there. I looked under Wardrobe – just Mrs Reid and Sarah. I searched under Messengers – no one was being taken. I even checked under Actors as I had once appeared briefly on the stage. Nothing. I turned to ask Mrs
Reid if there was some mistake but her expression told me everything.

‘I'm sorry, Cat, but I couldn't squeeze you in. I've already had to reduce Sarah's wages, poor girl, and she's got a sick mother to support.' Mrs Reid led me out of the Green Room and into the corridor. She lowered her voice. ‘I had to choose between you and Sarah – it's been a very difficult decision. But, as I told myself last night, now you've got those fine friends of yours in Grosvenor Square, I feel sure you'll get by. They'll see you all right, won't they?'

I nodded dumbly. I didn't know what else to do. My strongest desire just then was to be on my own.

‘Cheer up, Cat. When we get back here, I'm sure I'll find something for you to do if you still need the work.'

In two years' time she meant.

‘But you'll have to do something about that sewing of yours,' she said with a smile. ‘I couldn't really afford you, you know, at the moment as I'd have to do the work twice over, wouldn't I?'

She was right. I was useless at sewing. Sarah
had the makings of a fine seamstress. There had been no competition.

‘Excuse me, Mrs Reid, I'd better go and . . .' And what, I wondered? ‘And pack.'

She patted me on the shoulder. ‘No need to leave until Saturday, child. That gives you plenty of time.'

I bobbed a curtsey and left, not wanting to see or be seen by anyone, particularly not by those lucky ones who were moving with the company.

The Sparrow's Nest is a good place to hide. I tucked myself between a trunk of Roman robes and a pile of musty furs, pulling my favourite moth-eaten bearskin over me. I wasn't sure what I was feeling. Empty was the closest I could come to describing it. I couldn't believe that they could do this to me after all these years – and yet I perfectly understood the decision. They had called me their cat, Mr Sheridan had once dubbed me his diamond, but all that counted for nothing in the cold light of day. I was nothing to them. I had no skills to speak of; I'd outgrown my time as theatre pet; as of Saturday night, I was on the street.
Through pride, I'd turned down offers of help and now had to survive on my own. I couldn't even tell the Avons I'd changed my mind; Lizzie and Frank were gone – Lizzie on the boat to Paris, Frank in his carriage to Bath. He'd be learning irregular verbs and she sampling the latest fashions while I was left to sample the irregular life of the homeless.

Anger welled up inside me. Didn't I mean more to everyone than this? Hadn't I rescued Johnny for Mr Sheridan? Didn't I save Drury Lane's favourite boy star when I'd thrown myself between Pedro and Mr Hawkins' blade? Despite all this, everyone thought someone else was looking after me and all were quite happy to be shot of the responsibility.

Even in my foul mood, I knew I was being unjust. I had many friends. The problem was that those with the means to help had gone away; those that remained were in as precarious a position as me.

‘Pull yourself together, Cat,' I hissed at myself. ‘You're not the first girl to be expected to earn her own living. Look at it this way: you've been
incredibly lucky for ten or more years: now that luck has run out.'

‘All the same,' a miserable voice piped up, ‘at least the management had the decency to let Caleb know in advance and arranged a soft landing for him with Widow King. After all these years, no one thought to let me know; they made me go through the humiliation of seeing the list.'

‘They're treating you just like everyone else.'

‘But I thought I was special. I thought I was Drury Lane's Cat.'

‘Well, if that's your attitude, go and curl up at Billy Shepherd's fireside. Become his Cat. He'd have you quick enough.'

‘Never.'

‘Well then, pull yourself together. Pack and make the best of it.'

This bitter dialogue with myself ended, I started to gather up my possessions. It didn't take long. Apart from a few hand-me-down clothes, I had little I could call my own. My notebooks and papers – all gifts from Mr Sheridan – were my most treasured belongings. I stowed
them in a canvas bag. Frank had passed on to me his old Latin primer – this also was given a respectful burial in the sack. Lizzie's gifts were mostly of the practical sort: silk stockings and gloves, much finer than the stuff I usually wore. I kept them for special occasions but right now there seemed no call for them. Folding them into a ball, I tucked them away, mentally noting that I could sell them if the worst came to the worst. Then there were a few mementoes that only had value for me: the playbill for Pedro's first appearance as Ariel, a cartoon by Captain Sparkler, a note from Mr Kemble, a pressed flower once worn by the great actress Mrs Siddons. My entire life fitted into that bag – and still it was far from full.