“Oh, I’m not sure that’s a good idea…”
“It is. It’s a great idea,” Charley insisted. “I have faith in you, Ana. You can do it.”
Luciana swallowed hard. Standing up in front of a crowd? She’d never performed in front of more than one or two people before, and they were always the same ones – the Magnificent Marko, her grandmother and Charley. The thought of a mass of people she didn’t know, all watching her … her hands shook just thinking about it. And yet what was the alternative? If they were going to go to London, they needed the money, and as far as Luciana could see, there was no other way to get it. She took a deep breath.
“All right,” she said. “Tell me how this is going to work.”
*
At 5 a.m. on Saturday morning, Luciana slipped out of her bedroom and made her way downstairs. In the cloakroom she quickly pulled on her boots and the warmest of her winter coats. Then she crept out of the kitchen door. Luciana was anxious that she was already late. She had tarried too long over the writing of the note that she hoped would stop her grandmother worrying.
Over her shoulder she carried a soft cotton patchwork bag. Inside were two decks of cards – an old pack her grandfather had given her and an unopened one that she had taken from the drawer in his desk. Every time he performed, Marko would open a new deck, and the habit of maintaining a full stock had never left him. Also in the bag was a large piece of fruitcake that Luciana had saved from her supper the night before, two apples, two changes of underclothes and the golden device, secure in its black velvet pouch.
Luciana hurried down the path that cut through the forest above the village, trying to avoid the deepest of the snow. Charley was waiting for her beside the vicarage gate, hidden in the winter pre-dawn darkness, given away only by the puff of his breath. At the sound of her footsteps he peeked out and beckoned her to be quicker. Luciana dashed across the road and ducked under the snowy bower of the holly bush. As she did, the tell-tale double clip-clop of a horse and cart sounded in the distance, drawing rapidly closer.
“All right,” Charley said. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Mr Dewson will be driving, with his boy Will to help him with the goods. They’ll pull up at the gate and take down the sacks of flour and potatoes that Mrs Grouse ordered yesterday – they always drop off our orders on their way to market. They’ll carry them round to the kitchen door. While they’re doing that, you and I must get on the back of the wagon and hide.”
“Won’t they see us as soon as they come back to the cart?” Luciana asked in a whisper, as the clatter of hooves drew ever nearer.
“The goods will be covered by a blanket,” said Charley. “We just need to get under it. I’ll give you a boost up first, and then I’ll follow. All right?”
Luciana took a deep breath as the cart pulled to a halt in the gloom beyond the gate. “All right,” she said.
Rotherton was a small town about twice the size of Midford, five miles away. Whereas Midford had only a post office and Mr Smith the grocer’s shop, Rotherton had a milliner and a dressmaker’s, a saddlery, a restaurant, a bank, two public houses, its own grocery and post office, and Mr Thacker’s dusty bookshop. These were all crowded around the town square, which on Saturdays filled with market stalls and the hustle and bustle of produce and livestock sellers from the surrounding villages.
Luciana and Charley’s journey that cold morning was bumpy and uncomfortable. Crammed between crates and sacks, the stowaways felt every hole in the uneven road.
“When we stop,” Charley whispered, “we need to slip out as quickly as we can, before they pull the blanket back and start unloading. Stay low and follow me. Be ready to run if we need to, all right?”
“I’m ready,” Luciana whispered back, nervous but excited. It certainly beat sitting at home, pricking her fingers with embroidery needles. She was a little worried though, as it seemed a storm was brewing. She wondered if they were about to be confronted by a downpour that would turn the snow to slush.
Then the cart turned a corner and Luciana realized that the sound she had thought was thunder rumbling in the distance was actually the noise of many people. The hubbub grew louder as the cart slowed. Shouts emanated from not far above the blanket: it was Mr Dewson’s voice.
“Out the way! Coming through! Watch yer back, won’t yer?”
“Hold yer horsefeathers!” shouted another voice, “T’aint nobody ’ere’s fault that you’re late but yourn, is it?”
There was a bit more back and forth as the cart edged its way forward so slowly that it would probably have been quicker to walk. Charley realized this too.
“Come on,” he urged her. “If we can hop off now, all the better!”
Charley shuffled to the edge of the blanket, hitched it up and vanished over the end of the cart. A second later his head reappeared.
“Quick, now!” he hissed, “Before someone sees!”
Luciana crawled towards him, dragging her bag behind her and struggling against the rocking of the cart. Charley grabbed her arms and pulled her to the ground, holding her upright to stop her stumbling. They both looked around – Luciana was sure that someone must have seen them, but no one had taken any notice. The whole place was crowded with people and alive with movement.
Charley grabbed her hand as the roiling crowd swallowed them up. Luciana almost fell over a goose, which squawked angrily at her, snapping at her ankles as she danced hurriedly out of the way. Dogs and children darted through the trodden snow. Several times Luciana had to dodge boxes and crates being passed over her head, laden with everything from fish still gasping for breath to crates of kindling and boxes of tea. The air was full of the smells of roasting chestnuts, horses, fresh bread, crushed dried herbs, burning charcoal and who knew what else. By the time they reached the other side of the square, Luciana’s head was spinning and she was out of breath.
“We’ll be fine now,” said Charley, stopping. “Mr Dewson will be none the wiser. And look, we’ve found the perfect place for you to perform.”
Luciana looked around, nerves bubbling. She’d had no idea there would be so many people here. She wasn’t sure she could stop her hands shaking long enough to get her cards out of her bag, let alone perform sleight of hand.
“Hey,” Charley said, squeezing her shoulder. “You’re going to be fine. You can do this. And after all—”
“I know,” she said, taking a deep breath. “If I want to get to London, this is the only way. I’m fine. I promise.”
“Good. Better get ready: the sooner we get started, the sooner we’ll have earned enough to hop on a train.”
Ignoring the hammering of her heart, Luciana pulled her bag from her shoulder. Looking down at herself she realized she had bits of hay and dust stuck all over her from the cart ride, and her boots were soaked with snowmelt. She brushed off what she could, pulled her coat straight, stamped both her feet once to rid them of snow, and looked Charley in the eye.
“All right then,” she said. “How do we begin?”
Charley raised an eyebrow and grinned, then spun away from her.
“Ladies and gents,” he called loudly into the even louder crowd. “Ladies and gents, come on now – roll up, roll up for the greatest show you’ve ever seen!”
Luciana’s heart turned over. She scrabbled to take out the open deck of cards.
“You what?” said a large and formidable man in a grubby butcher’s tunic, as he towered over Charley. “What are you up to, you dirty little urchin?”
“Ahh, now, sir,” Charley said with an extravagant bow. “You look like the discerning type. For no more than a ha’penny, you can see some of the most astonishing magic around.”
“Oh yeah?” The man said with a deep, booming guffaw. “You going to try to con me with the three-card trick are you? Think I was born yesterday, you young scallywag? I’ll call the law on you, sonny Jim!”
“It’s not the three-card trick, sir, nor anything like it. It’s not fraud, nor theft, nor chea
tery of any kind,” Charley insisted with another flourish. “It’s magic, pure and simple.”
The man snorted, one meaty fist on one meaty hip, the other digging in his pocket from where he pulled a dull copper coin. “Magic, my big bumcheeks. All right then, show me what you’ve got.”
“Oh, I don’t have a magical bone in my body, sir,” Charley said, whipping off his cap for the butcher to drop the ha’penny into. He swept his arm in an arc to indicate Luciana. “It’s the young lady here who will amaze you.”
The butcher’s gaze flicked to where Luciana stood. He took her in with a glance, in much the same way that Thursby had. It was a look of disdain, of disinterest, of disbelief. A second later the man boomed a mocking laugh.
“Pull the other one, you scoundrel!” he exclaimed. “As if some silly little girl could do something to amaze me! A girl! Don’t waste my time. Here, give me back my ha’penny afore I really do call the law on yer.”
At the man’s word’s, Luciana was suddenly angry, filled with an indignant fury. How dare he? she thought. How DARE he? I’ll show him.
Luciana began to move the cards. She fanned them and shuffled them, she passed them from one hand to another in a long continuous line that seemed to move of its own accord. A hush fell over the crowd.
“’Ere,” said the butcher. “That ain’t natural. That ain’t proper. Time was she’d be burned as a witch, doing things like that.”
“Aha,” said Charley, quick as a flash. “So you’re already prepared to admit that what you’re seeing is magic, sir, as performed by the young lady? You’re ready to forfeit your ha’penny?”
“No, ain’t saying that,” blustered the man. “I ain’t saying that at all.”
“Well then,” said Charley, holding out his cap. “Let’s see if anyone else agrees. Or perhaps you’ve all seen enough already? A ha’penny, that’s all we’re asking. Can’t say fairer than that, can we, ladies and gents?”
Charley’s cap began to fill. He glanced over at Luciana with a flick of his eyebrow and she took that as her cue to begin.
“So how much money have we got after buying the tickets?” Luciana asked later, once they were settled on the train.
“Six shillings, threepence ha’penny,” Charley said, beginning to collect the coins he’d been counting out on to the seat beside him. “I don’t know if that’s enough for somewhere to stay.”
“Let’s worry about that if we have to,” said Luciana, reaching into her bag and pulling out the apples, one of which she passed to Charley. “We might be able to get back home tonight anyway.”
Charley nodded, and for a time there was no sound in the carriage apart from the crunch as they ate and the rittle-rattle, rittle-rattle of the train’s wheels over the tracks. Outside, the winter sun was still rising in the sky. The whole day stretched ahead of them and Luciana felt nothing but excitement.
The train pulled into Charing Cross station just after 1 p.m. They pushed open the door of their carriage and stumbled down on to a platform wreathed in chaos and saturated by steam and soot – Luciana was immediately engulfed by memory. It was a few years since she’d last arrived in the station, but it was such a familiar scene that a lump formed in her throat. Travellers wrestled with luggage amid the greasy air, porters scurried this way and that, trains came and went with their conductors hollering to one another as the piercing whistles of their engines did the same. Luciana loved the noise and bustle, even though this time her grandfather would not be waiting at the end of the journey to scoop her up into a hug.
They began to make their way along the platform, and Luciana was relieved that neither she nor Charley had brought more with them. She held her bag tight, continually checking through the fabric to make sure that the device inside the little velvet pouch was still there.
“I think the exit is that way,” Luciana said, pointing towards the great exodus of people pushing towards two wide corridors either side of the ticket booths.
“Wait,” Charley said. “Perhaps we should ask someone for directions.”
“Carry yer luggage, ladies and gents?” came a thin, high voice somewhere just south of Charley’s shoulder. “Reasonable prices! Carry yer luggage to yer hotel. No dropping guaranteed!”
The owner of the voice was a small scrawny boy in a tweed cap several degrees more battered than Charley’s own. He was threading through the crowds and every now and then he’d peer upwards and his sly fingers would slip towards a gaping pocket before vanishing again, quick as you like.
“Oi,” called Charley. “You, boy – c’mere.”
The boy gave Charley a quick look up and down. “All right, guv’nor?” he said. “What can I do you for? Carry yer luggage, shall I?”
“No,” said Charley. “We need you to take us to an address. Can you do that?”
The boy sniffed and wiped the back of his grubby hand across his nose. “Depends,” he said.
“Depends on what?” Luciana asked.
“On where it is and what yer planning to give me in readies,” he said. “I ain’t keen on going sarf o’ the river, fer a start.”
“The Peacock Theatre is where we need to go,” Luciana told him. “Can you help us? We can spare a shilling.”
The boy perked up. “Oh, aye,” he said. “I can take you to the Peacock, no probs.” He held out one dirty hand. “A shilling’s fair enough – long as I get it up front, like.”
Charley reached into his pocket and scooped out a handful of ha’pennies before counting twenty-four into the boy’s cupped palm. The boy wrinkled his nose at the heap of copper. Then he gave a quick shrug and shoved the coins into his pockets.
“Ah well,” he said. “Money’s money, ain’t it? Come on then.”
He took off through the crowds, leaving Luciana and Charley struggling to keep up.
*
It turned out that the Peacock Theatre was just fifteen minutes’ walk from Charing Cross station. Their guide took them out into the smoggy city air, through the wrought-iron enclosure of the station’s forecourt, and immediately turned right on to the Strand. From there it was no more than a stroll up the straight, wide thoroughfare, with a left turn into a crescent of tall buildings.
“’Ere we is,” the boy said smartly, drawing to a stop outside the splendid façade that Luciana remembered so well. “The Peacock, safe and sound. Now I got to trot, quick as – don’t want to miss the two o’clock comin’ in from Tunbridge Wells. All right?”
“Thank you,” Luciana called out after his retreating back, but he had already vanished into the throngs of people that lined the street. She turned back to the theatre, lost once again in memories of previous visits.
“It doesn’t look very open,” Charley said, noting the locked doors and darkened windows.
“It isn’t,” Luciana agreed. “The box office for this evening’s show won’t open until at least five o’clock.”
“You mean we have to wait until then?” Charley asked, dismayed.
“Definitely not,” Luciana reassured him. “Come on, it’s this way.”
She led him towards a dim alleyway that snaked around the side of the theatre. Set in the wall halfway down was a wide black door that was beginning to peel. Above it was a stained-glass panel. It was constructed from shards of yellow glass, but at its centre, picked out in dull red hues, were the words ‘Stage Door’. To one side of the door hung a rope with a loop of frayed fabric at the end. Luciana reached out and pulled it, hard. From inside the still and silent building came the distant jangle of a ringing bell.
Luciana and Charley stood there waiting. Nothing happened. The ringing bell settled itself. Frowning a little, Luciana pulled at the rope again.
“Perhaps there’s no one here?” Charley asked.
“There must be,” Luciana told him. “There’s always someone at a theatre.”
Still no one came. In fact it took four rings of the ancient bell before the sound of footsteps echoed from within. As they neared, so too d
id a voice uttering a stream of curses that grew ever louder.
Luciana stepped away as several bolts were thrust back, her confidence slipping a little as the muffled tirade continued. Finally the door was thrown open to reveal a small rotund man with a dishevelled handlebar moustache and thinning hair that had been combed across a bare dome of a forehead.
“What in the blazes are you doing, ring-ring-ringing at that bell in broad daylight?” he roared. “Why can’t it wait until we are actually open? Since I am not advertising any vacant positions, I have no need of a shoeshine and I most definitely do not want to find God, it is beyond my powers of imagination!”
For a moment there was utter silence. This was not the welcome Luciana had anticipated. Every other visit to her grandfather’s theatre had been a whirlwind of wonder and laughter. True, she had not expected that everyone would recognize her after so many years away, but the vehemence of this greeting pushed all the words Luciana had prepared straight out of her head.
“Right,” huffed the man. “Well then, I’ll thank you to clear off and leave a man to his well-earned lunchtime rest!”
He went to close the door. In a flash of desperation, Luciana cried out.
“Oh, but Mr Hibberd! It’s me! It’s Luciana Cattaneo! I just want to talk to you for a moment, that’s all!”
But the door was already in motion. It slammed in their faces.
“Come on,” Charley said after another moment, sounding as deflated as Luciana felt. “Let’s not just stand here. Let’s—”
The door was flung open again. Once again, Mr Hibberd filled the doorway, but this time the look on his face was of utter astonishment.
“Cattaneo?” He enquired loudly. “Luciana Cattaneo? Is it truly you? But it cannot be! I used to bounce you on my knee when you were nothing but a dot!”
Luciana’s heart had yet to regain its normal pace, but she managed to nod. “Yes, Mr Hibberd. I remember. You used to save me bits of the cake your wife made you for lunch.”
The Golden Butterfly Page 4
