Den of Thieves (8 page)

Saturday 4th June came round all too quickly and I had yet to sort out new lodgings. Lack of funds was some excuse. When I counted the contents of my purse, they were alarmingly light. But I knew what I was doing: part of me was still pretending the day would never come when I'd have to leave. I was like King Canute, stubbornly sitting on his
throne as the waters rose to his neck. The crisis was upon me and yet I still waited.

Pedro couldn't fail to notice that something was seriously wrong. He had commiserated with me when he had learned of my fate, but he had more confidence in me that I did. He thought I would soon be on my feet again.

‘Why don't you write a short story, Cat? Something that'll sell,' he suggested as we watched the audience assembling for the last night. There was a carnival atmosphere in the room. I noticed several people breaking off bits of the decorative rail as souvenirs.

‘Oh, you mean some silly love story where a poor girl wins a rich man with just her wit and vivacity? Ple-ease!'

Pedro shrugged. ‘Why not? It could be good if told well.'

‘Ah, but to sell to a bookseller it'd have to go on about female duty and polite manners – I'd feel sick writing such stuff.'

‘Can you afford to be so squeamish?' he asked wisely.

‘Would you play any old tune on your fiddle for the drunks who chucked you a penny, Pedro, or would you prefer to play Handel and Mozart?'

‘You know the answer to that, Cat. But it's not about what I prefer – I'd play “Black-eyed Susan” all night for any bunch of sailors if it made the difference between a bed under a roof and under the stars. You have to find somewhere to go and you'll need money to pay for it.'

He was right, of course, but that only made me feel angry with him. What did he have to worry about? He'd be off to Italy Monday morning, travelling through France. He would see Johnny and Lizzie in Paris in a couple of days.

‘I'll be fine, Pedro,' I lied, wondering why I was telling everyone this when it so patently untrue. ‘I've got some money to tide me over. I'll manage.'

‘Hmm,' said Pedro sceptically. He dug into his pocket. ‘Look, I don't have much but –'

‘No!' I pushed his hand away, taken aback by the strength of my feelings on this. ‘I don't want anything from anyone – not unless I earn it. I don't want anyone's charity.'

‘But you're my friend, Cat.'

‘Exactly, so I'm not taking from you. I know you need it yourself. Do you think I'm so pathetic that I can't find myself a place to go?'

Put like that, he had to say that of course I was quite capable but I could see he was suspicious that I was hiding something from him.

‘Look, I've got to go now,' said Pedro. The orchestra was taking their seats and it would not do for him to miss the final chance to perform in the old Drury Lane. ‘I'll be busy afterwards as Signor Angelini is giving us all a farewell supper and then we have to pack, but promise me you'll come and tell me your new address? I have to see you before I go to Italy. I really, really don't want to leave you.' He squeezed my hand urgently as I was pretending to inspect the audience.

‘Of course I'll come to say goodbye. I wouldn't miss seeing you off for the world,' I said gaily. ‘It's a new adventure for all of us, isn't it?'

‘Hmm.' My false tone had not fooled him. ‘Come and see me, Cat, understood? Or I'll send the Butcher's Boys to find you.'

I was dismayed at the thought that my incompetence would be exposed to all of Syd's gang. I couldn't bear that. ‘I'll come, don't worry about me. Hadn't you better go?'

Pedro nodded, patted my shoulder and left the box.

Watching the final performance was a bitter pleasure. I mouthed along to every speech, the words ingrained in my memory by long acquaintance. Each move, each song, each laugh: I anticipated them all. I stood apart from the audience that night, watching how it behaved like a beast tamed by the skill of the actors: a witticism thrown to the mob causing a growl of laughter, a poignant deathbed scene provoking it to roll over and sob helplessly. The play ended with a magnificent epilogue by Mr Kemble predicting the phoenix-like rebirth of Drury Lane. The audience cheered, clapped and whistled, before making off with any movables that we had not already thought to pack away. How I envied the crowd's light-heartedness as the auditorium emptied for the last time. They
seemed to be taking my soul with them. I was drained of all feeling except sorrow.

Backstage the atmosphere was subdued. Too many had lost their livelihoods to allow for celebration; if anything it felt more like a wake in progress as Mr Sheridan toasted the demise of the old theatre in champagne in the Green Room. The orchestra left for their supper party, Pedro in their midst. Then, at around eleven-thirty, those of us remaining shuffled off and went our separate ways. I said farewell to Mrs Reid and Sarah Bowers in the now empty Sparrow's Nest. The costumes were boxed and waiting downstairs for the carrier tomorrow. All that remained was my bundle and the old sofa, judged too far gone to be worth anything.

‘You've got somewhere to go, haven't you, Cat?' Mrs Reid asked as she locked the door behind us for the last time.

‘Oh yes,' I lied. The waters were well over my chin by now and still I was not budging.

‘There'll always be a welcome for you wherever I am,' said Sarah. ‘When you've found your feet,
come and 'ave a nice cup of tea and a natter.'

‘I'll do that.' My voice sounded false to my ears – overly cheerful.

‘It's the end of an era,' said Mrs Reid, looking about her as we descended the stairs. ‘Mr Garrick's theatre gone. It's a special place this, full of memories.'

It's the only place, I thought.

We were among the last to leave by the stage door. Mr Sheridan and Mr Kemble were standing there to shake hands with everyone – and to check no one carried off something they shouldn't.

‘See you at the Haymarket, ladies,' Mr Kemble bowed to my companions. ‘You all right, Cat? Got somewhere to go?'

The thought streaked across my mind that I should scream that ‘no, I bleeding well didn't have somewhere to go, for his employer was knocking down my home', but the impulse had fizzled out before I opened my mouth to speak.

‘Yes, sir. Goodnight, sir.'

I must have sounded so unlike myself that Mr Kemble was suspicious.

‘So where are you going?'

His concern almost did for me. I could have wept there and then, melted away in tears so that nothing was left behind.

‘I'm staying with friends,' I lied, too ashamed to tell the truth. ‘Goodnight.'

‘Goodnight. Come and see us very soon,' said Mr Kemble, waving me off.

‘Let me know where you are,' called Mr Sheridan. ‘Send a note to my house. I want to be sure you have found a good home.'

No thanks to you.

‘Of course, sir.'

And that was that. I watched from the shadows opposite as Mr Kemble turned the key in the lock and handed it to Mr Sheridan. They shook hands and parted to return to their comfortable houses.

As the darkness swallowed them up, I considered my position. I had exactly one shilling and sixpence in my purse. Next to nothing. Just enough for the next day's meal. If I spent it on shelter I'd go hungry. Just a few yards away, the streets were still bustling with people going in and out of the
taverns and gaming houses, but I couldn't afford to join them, nor would it be safe to do so. I slipped back across the road and into the alleyway to the stage door. I knew it was locked but it was the nearest I could get to home. I stowed my bundle against the doorpost and curled down with my back to the comforting solidity of the oak. I wasn't ready to leave – not yet.

‘Cat, you look terrible.'

Pedro was hanging out of the window of the Dover mail coach biding his friends farewell as I slid to the front of the queue. I'd purposely left it to the last moment, mingling with the crowds until the coachman took his seat and picked up the reins. I couldn't cope with answering too many questions from Pedro today. After two nights of sleeping rough, I knew I must look a sight. To tell the truth, I was less worried about my begrimed state than the gnawing hunger. I'd only had a penny roll yesterday and nothing so far this morning. I wasn't managing well and I was too humiliated to let anyone know. They all thought of me as the girl who always landed on her feet, good for a laugh, guaranteed to look on the bright side when others were moaning. I wasn't finding anything funny at the moment.

‘Have a safe trip, Pedro,' I said huskily.

‘Cat! Where have you been? Why didn't you come earlier? I've been frantic with worry. Look, I'll write to you – where shall I send it?'

I was about to say ‘Drury Lane' but pulled up short before I made so obvious a mistake. ‘Um, send it to . . . to Syd's parents. I'm sure they won't mind.'

‘But why can't I send it directly to you? Where are you staying?' Pedro asked shrewdly.

The coachman cracked his whip.

‘Oh, look: you're off.' I gave Signor Angelini, Pedro's master, a smile. ‘
Buon viaggio
!'

‘
Grazie
, Caterina,' the maestro replied. ‘I look after your little friend for you!'

Pedro was not satisfied. ‘But Cat, tell me where . . .' The coach surged forward in a clatter of hooves and jingle of harness. ‘I'll write to Frank if you –' The rest of his words were lost as the mail pulled out of the stable yard. I kept up my smile, and waving, until he was out of sight, then I let it slide off my face like greasepaint under hot lights. I had to do something today. It was Monday. I couldn't spend any longer mourning for the
home that was now barred to me. Even though it was early summer, the nights were chilly. Sleeping rough was exactly how it sounded. If I carried on I'd lose all claim to a respectable appearance and would find it even harder to get serious attention anywhere.

Struggling with my despondency, I sat down on the milestone in the inn yard. Dover 70 miles. All being well, Pedro would be on the high seas by nightfall, off on his grand tour like a proper gentleman. I knew I had another tour to make: a round of the booksellers. With my ducal patron abroad, I would have to see what a direct approach would do for me. It was all I had to offer. Picking up my bundle of stories, I set off towards St Paul's.

Noon passed. The sun beat down on the stones, bleaching them a blinding grey-white like an expert washerwoman. My eyes were watering – but that was only the glare, of course. I assure you, Reader, I was becoming hardened to rejection. First the ingratiating, though slightly doubting, smile from the assistant as I stepped into the shop. Then the sneer that began as soon as I opened my
bundle. A hurried ‘No, thank you, miss' and ejection on to the pavement with the door snapped shut behind me. One or two were gentler with their refusals, making a pretence at glancing over my work, even offering a word or two of advice, but it still ended up at the same point with me outside, shut out from the world of books within.

I had started with the larger premises, the shops owned by names I recognized. By late afternoon, I had started to explore the little stores in the sidestreets, producers of radical pamphlets and scandal sheets. After my twentieth rejection, I was on the point of giving up.

‘Just one more,' I promised myself.

Chance had brought me outside a dingy shop in a passageway off St Paul's Churchyard, belonging to one Mr Tweadle,
purveyor of fine literature to the respectable classes
, according to the sign on the door. I wasn't convinced by this, nor by the creepy-looking customer who sloped out as I entered, but then again, beggars can't be choosers.

The shop was dark by contrast to the sunny street and it took my eyes several moments to
adjust. It appeared deserted: rows of dusty books lined the walls as though untouched for many years.

‘Yes, miss?' A thin man with a limp cravat and lank white hair popped up from behind the counter, making me start.

‘Um, sorry to bother you, Mr . . .?' I began.

‘Tweadle, miss,
the
Mr Tweadle.' He rubbed his hands together and smiled at me without showing his teeth.

‘Mr Tweadle, I have some stories that I wondered if you might be interested in publishing.' I pushed them over the counter towards him, anticipating his ‘no' before it came. He pawed at the manuscripts with his broken nails but said nothing, looking at me curiously from under his sparse white eyebrows.

‘They're not the usual thing one expects from the female pen, I know, but they have been read and enjoyed by some of this country's noblest families. I have a character reference here.'

I placed my final card on the table: a letter from Mr Sheridan vouching for my years of faithful service at Drury Lane.