Den of Thieves

by Julia Golding

  ‘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.

  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.

  SCENE 4 – MR TWEADLE

  ‘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 los
t 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.