Cat Among the Pigeons

by Julia Golding

  Her curiosity was relentless. She seemed determined to winkle out of me my family connections. It may have been merely the concern of a sister trying to check that her brother was mixing with the right sort; it may have been that she was plain nosy. I could hardly blame her because curiosity was a sin of which I certainly was guilty.

  ‘Indeed, miss, I have two very kind patrons without whom I wouldn’t be here today.’ I gave Frank and Charlie a sly grin.

  ‘That’s better. I’m so pleased to see you smile. I thought I had quite sent you into the doldrums with my foolishness.’

  We all watched her drink her tea with hawkish interest. As soon as she had drained her cup, Charlie leapt to his feet.

  ‘Now that you’ve finished, let me show you to your carriage, Milly.’

  ‘My word, Charlie, you’re in a hurry to get rid of us, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not at all, sis, not at all. It’s just that . . .’ Charlie fished around for a plausible excuse.

  ‘We’ve got fencing practice in a few minutes and we need to change,’ said Frank quickly.

  ‘Well, in that case, we’d better go. You watch my brother, Mr Tom Cat,’ Milly said playfully as she rose. ‘He never showed me any mercy when we were children in the nursery together so I hate to think what he’d do to a boy like you.’

  ‘Sis, you know that’s not true. If I remember, you were the one who was lethal with the hatpin at a very young age,’ protested Charlie.

  ‘Self-defence, Charles, self-defence . . .’

  The voices of the Hengraves faded as Charlie led his sister back to the lodge, leaving me alone with the Avons for a few moments.

  ‘How are you, Cat?’ Lizzie said, her voice trembling slightly. ‘I mean, really?’

  I gave her a brave smile but her kindness made me feel weak. ‘I’m homesick,’ I confessed.

  ‘Are they treating you well? No one suspects anything?’

  ‘She’s doing brilliantly, Lizzie,’ said Frank. ‘Completely convincing.’

  ‘But what are you going to do?’

  ‘Do? I’m aiming to be top in my form for Latin and to become a passable fencer,’ I joked feebly.

  ‘Cat, you know what I mean. You can’t stay here forever.’

  Milly called Lizzie’s name from the bottom of the stairs. She straightened her bonnet in the mirror, and tidied her curls ready to leave. I touched my shorn head self-consciously. It was then that the idea hit me.

  ‘Lizzie, could you help me with something?’

  ‘Of course. Anything.’

  ‘Can you send me some things? I might need them at short notice.’ I moved to Frank’s desk and began a list. ‘I’ll write them down for you.’

  Lizzie read the list quickly and gave a nod.

  ‘I’ll send them round tomorrow. Is that all you need?’

  ‘Yes. And thank you.’

  She hesitated, then gave me a swift kiss. ‘It feels so strange kissing a boy!’ she said with a small laugh and let Frank escort her back to the carriage.

  Milly’s visit turned out to be but the prelude to something far worse. Frank and Charlie took a long time coming back from the lodge and I began to worry what had happened to them. Perhaps they had met another pupil, or worse a teacher, and Milly had been asked about how she found her younger brother? Would there be footsteps thundering up the stairs any moment now, demanding to know who the impostor was? I listened by the door, tensing myself to make a run for it if necessary. Sure enough, I heard pounding footsteps. I hid behind the door, ready to flee as soon my chance came.

  ‘Cat! Cat!’ It wasn’t a teacher or the porter as I had half expected: it was just Frank and Charlie, both of them white as a sheet.

  ‘Is someone after me?’ I asked hastily, craning my head out on to the landing, listening for more footsteps.

  ‘No.’ Frank hauled me back in by the jacket and closed the door with a bang. ‘Look. The boy was just crying the news as we handed Lizzie and Milly into the carriage.’ He thrust a newspaper into my hand. The front page was covered in advertisements, but my eyes lit upon the headline.

  Mysterious disappearance of the African Ariel

  Tonight’s performance of The Tempest at Drury Lane has had to be cancelled due to the mysterious disappearance of the African known as Pedro Hawkins. He went missing some time after four o’clock Tuesday afternoon from the house of his current master, Signor Luigi Angelini. No one saw the African leave the house. Pedro Hawkins’ fate has been an issue of great public concern since it has become known that a former master claims to own the young African. Immediate enquiries were made with the gentleman in question, but he denied all knowledge of the boy’s whereabouts and permitted officers of the law to search his lodgings to prove his innocence.

  In place of the advertised programme, Drury Lane will be performing Macbeth.

  I sat down heavily in the armchair. ‘We didn’t save him after all.’

  Frank slammed his hand down on the mantelpiece in frustration. ‘I thought he was safe! He was being guarded on the streets and staying indoors, but he’s been snatched anyway!’

  Charlie squeezed my shoulder. ‘Lizzie and Milly have gone straight to Mr Sharp’s. The abolitionists will do all they can.’

  ‘What can they do?’ I asked.

  ‘Mr Sharp can apply in the courts for habeas corpus – it’s a court order that means that Hawkins will have to produce Pedro if he has him. Mr Sharp’s used it before to stop men being taken out of England against their will.’

  ‘But Hawkins claims he doesn’t have him. What good will this habeas thing do if he can get away with pretending he knows nothing about it?’

  Charlie fell silent. They both knew I was right. It had to be Hawkins – of course it did – but clearly he had hidden Pedro somewhere with the intent of bypassing the legal channels to get him out of the country. After his humiliation at Drury Lane, Hawkins had probably decided the public pressure to keep Pedro here was too strong for him to fight overtly. He was trying to smuggle Pedro away.

  ‘We need to act fast,’ I said, my mind clicking into action. ‘We’ve got to get our friends to check the port. It’s the obvious place. If he’s not sent Pedro there yet, he will.’ I closed my eyes, leaning back in the chair, fighting my panic and fear. I was useless. I couldn’t even go to Covent Garden to get a message to Syd and the gang. In Pedro’s hour of need, I was stuck learning Latin and pretending to be an Irish landowner’s younger son.

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Frank, getting up. ‘Make my excuses at Prep for me, Charlie. I’ve suddenly developed a bad toothache and gone home to see the family tooth puller.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Charlie.

  ‘And, Cat, stay put! Charlie, make sure she does!’ Frank said, realizing exactly what I was thinking as I sat there with my eyes tight shut. ‘You won’t help Pedro by getting caught yourself, Cat. The gang’ll look after him – you’ll see.’

  I nodded, but something told me that it would need more than the Butcher’s Boys to find him. As Pedro had warned, Hawkins never forgot and never forgave – he was not a man to let revenge on his slave be denied him.

  ACT III

  SCENE 1 – WOLFSBANE FOR BRUISES

  Frank did not come back that night. I suspected that he had returned to the streets of London to help search for Pedro. I wished I could join him. Charlie was straining at the leash too; only his sense of duty to me stopped him from going. By common consent, neither of us talked about it as we sat by the fire. My mind was too vividly imagining what might be happening to Pedro. I felt sick with anxiety.

  ‘Well, little brother, I think you’d better turn in for the night,’ Charlie said with an attempt at light-heartedness. ‘I’ll wake you if Frank returns with any news.’

  Glumly, I did as I was told. It made no sense to sit up staring at the coals. I eventually fell asleep sometime after the Abbey bells tolled midnight. Immediately, Pedro appeared in my dreams – or should I say my nightmares. He was flying up to the s
ky on his harness, wings fluttering behind him, waving to me. I waved back. Then a sword appeared out of nowhere and sliced through the rope that held him. Pedro plummeted to the floor, screaming.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Charlie was standing beside me in his nightshirt, holding a candle.

  ‘Y-yes. What’s the matter?’ I couldn’t remember where I was for a moment, thinking myself back in the Sparrow’s Nest. Memory returned. ‘Is Frank here yet?’

  ‘No. It’s just that you screamed.’

  I slumped back on my pillow. ‘Sorry. I was having a nightmare – about Pedro.’

  Charlie nodded. ‘I’m not surprised. I couldn’t sleep for thinking of him. I’ll get you a glass of water. Try and get some rest.’

  He came back with the glass and placed it on the bedside table.

  ‘Drink this. You can’t do any more than you’ve already done for Pedro.’ He sat on the bed beside me. ‘Try not to fret, little brother. I’ll stay here until you’re asleep. Don’t worry: you’re safe with us.’

  The water helped – more because of Charlie’s kindness thinking of it than because I was thirsty – but it couldn’t dull the acute ache of homesickness for Drury Lane and my fear for Pedro. Where was he now?

  The following day, Charlie went out early to see if the newspapers carried any more stories about Pedro. There was a short piece on the front page – an appeal by Mr Sharp and Mr Equiano for any information leading to the discovery of the African Ariel – but nothing else.

  ‘I’m going to send a message to Milly,’ Charlie told me over breakfast in the great dining room. ‘I want to find out what the Movement’s decided to do.’

  As he left, I smoothed the page out and stared at the bald words before me – ‘the African’, ‘former slave’, ‘missing’ – Pedro had been reduced to a paragraph. It said nothing about my friend, his talents, his quick laugh. The real boy had disappeared too as far as the public were concerned, becoming just an interesting story about a runaway slave. I took out the pottery medallion and looked at the man depicted on its face. It struck me then that, despite Mr Wedgwood’s best efforts, this African also seemed a caricature – a clumsy representative of thousands of suffering individuals whose stories would probably never be known.

  ‘Morning, Hengrave.’ Richmond plumped himself down on the bench beside me, slopping porridge on my newspaper. ‘Oops! So sorry about that. What’s that you’re fondling?’

  ‘None of your business,’ I said sharply, hiding the medallion under the table.

  ‘Something you’re not supposed to have, I don’t doubt. A picture of your girlfriend – or your boyfriend perhaps?’ Fatty Ingels pushed his way on to the bench on the other side of me, squeezing me between them.

  ‘Very funny, I don’t think,’ I said, trying to get up.

  Four or five other boys came to sit around us, all grinning at me. I didn’t know them, but I recognized Richmond’s set – all sons of plantation owners who knew each other from the West Indies. It seemed that Richmond had succeeded in finding himself a place in the school pecking order: at the head of a group of fellow bullies who liked persecuting runty shadows from rival boarding houses, namely yours truly.

  ‘I hear you and your brother are upset over the disappearance of a certain negro,’ said Richmond loudly, spraying me with porridge from his mouth.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ I asked as calmly as I could muster.

  ‘Oh, Ingels here heard the commotion in the lodge yesterday when the news broke. Had your sister in a fit of the vapours, he said, screaming and crying like a baby. Now I know where you get it from.’

  ‘You leave my sister out of this,’ I said, standing and making to leave. Richmond gave a nod to his friends and they rose as one to follow me. If life in Covent Garden has taught me one thing, it is to recognize a gang when I see it. I started to stride quickly, heading towards the Lower Form classroom where I hoped they dare not pursue me.

  ‘You know, Hengrave, I really am interested in seeing what you were looking at,’ said Richmond, catching me up and taking my arm. I shook him off and broke into a run. I could hear the thunder of feet behind me. I took a sharp left, then a right, trying to lose them, but they were on my scent like a pack of hounds. What should I do? At home, I would’ve known every alleyway, every house, and would’ve given them the slip easily; here I was on foreign territory. I ducked round the corner of a building and saw a door immediately ahead of me at the end of a narrow passage. I ran straight for it, but it was locked. I turned back. My enemies were massed in front of me, blocking my exit. I was trapped.

  ‘Nowhere to go, eh, Hengrave?’ said Richmond, sauntering up to me, his face alight with malice. Away from his plantation, he must have missed having someone to persecute and was making up for lost time. ‘Now hand over whatever it was you were looking at.’

  Blank windows looked down on the blind alley I had turned into. No friendly face from Clough’s appeared above to come to my rescue. There seemed no point in resisting. It was only a piece of pottery after all. I unclenched my fist and held it out on my palm. Richmond bent down to take a closer look and let out a howl of laughter.

  ‘“Am I not a man and a brother?” – well, not you, Hengrave, you nan boy.’ He slapped my hand away and turned to his followers. ‘Gentlemen, we have an abolitionist in our midst. And what do we think of that crew?’

  ‘Dirty thieves!’ grunted one.

  ‘And do you know what this thief called me on Sunday? A name so foul I’d blush to repeat it.’ Richmond raised his eyes heavenwards in mock piety. ‘What do we do to foul-mouthed little boys in our school, just as we do to runaway slaves at home?’

  ‘Teach them a lesson. Make them eat dirt!’ said a freckle-faced boy twice my height.

  ‘That’s right.’ ‘Let him have what’s coming to him!’ The chorus of voices swelled around me.

  My heart was racing. I couldn’t take them all on. Even Syd’s emergency manoeuvre would not help me.

  ‘Kneel, Hengrave,’ commanded Richmond.

  ‘W-what?’ I stammered, fearing my legs would give way at any moment in any case.

  ‘Like the negro on this piece of rubbish. Kneel to your masters.’

  That stiffened my sinews if nothing else could.

  ‘I’d rather kiss a monkey’s bum than kneel to you.’

  ‘My, my, you do have a colourful turn of phrase, don’t you, Hengrave? I think we should make an example of you, just as will be done to that negro boy when his rightful master gets him back home. It’ll teach others of your persuasion that spreading the poison of the abolition will not go unpunished.’

  ‘No, don’t . . . please.’ I held out my hands in front of me to ward him off. It cost me to beg anything from him but I had no choice.

  ‘Then kneel.’

  Deciding discretion was the better part of valour, I sank to my knees, hoping this would satisfy him. But he hadn’t finished with me: he’d only just started. Fixing his eyes on mine, he grabbed a handful of mud and rubbed it into my mouth, gripping the back of my neck as I struggled against him. The other boys cheered.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said, wiping his hands on my jacket. ‘Now you know who’s master here.’ Trembling with fury, I spat at his feet. ‘Not yet learned your lesson? Take this, you dog!’ He aimed a kick, catching me in the stomach. I instinctively curled up into a ball, my hands protecting my head, as the others joined in, treating me like – well, like one of their slaves. Pain flashed through me again and again. I probably screamed but I can’t remember much more – except that the kicks stopped as suddenly as they had started when a voice thundered overhead:

  ‘Stop that this instant! Leave that boy alone!’ My persecutors fled as the locked door was flung open from inside and I saw a pair of boots inches from my face. Mr Castleton bent down.

  ‘Good God, is that you, Hengrave?’ The thought fluttered in my mind that this was a stupid question really in the circumstances and it was one that I did not answe
r as I blacked out.

  I awoke and found myself lying on an unfamiliar bed in a room with a high ceiling. The air was cold and fresh. Someone was taking my boots off.

  ‘Back with us? That’s good.’ A woman in an apron and cap was smiling at me from the far end of the bed: it was Mrs Clough, dame of my house and the person I had been trying to avoid since my first day.

  ‘What happened? What am I doing here?’ I asked groggily.

  ‘I’d say you were set upon by some bullies. I see it all the time. Little chaps like you always seem to bear the brunt of it. Mr Castleton found you and carried you in here. He told me you weigh no more than a feather. Looks as though you’ve not been eating well, young man.’ She wagged a finger at me.

  ‘I’ve been ill,’ I said, remembering my family history.

  ‘That explains it, poor lamb. Now tell me, do you think anything’s broken? Your nose looks undamaged – that’s usually the first thing to go on these occasions.’

  In a fog of pain, I moved my arms and legs on her instructions. They hurt like fury but were in working order.

  ‘You’ll live, Hengrave,’ she said with a nod that set the ribbons on her cap dancing. ‘Now, let’s see to those bruises. I’ve got some wolfsbane which will sort them out in no time. It’ll draw out the bruises. Take off your shirt.’

  I sat up in more of a hurry than was wise, almost blacking out again with the pain. ‘No, I don’t need it,’ I said hastily.

  ‘Come, come, boy, no need to be shy. I’ve seen hundreds of boys in the flesh.’

  Not like me, she hadn’t.

  ‘No, really, if you’ll just let me get back to my rooms, I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Hengrave. You’re not going anywhere for the rest of the day. Now take off your shirt.’

  A door banged open at the far end of the room and Charlie galloped into sight.