Cat's Cradle

  New Lanark

  Lanarkshire

  Dear Sir,

  I am writing to you to ask for news of the girl you called Cat Royal but known to me as Maudie Stirling. I have just read a penny tale from London, which from the details it revealed, can only have been written by our Maudie. I pray to God that you will be able to put my mind at rest that she has not fallen into bad company as that scandalous rag suggested.

  You may be wondering why it has taken me all these years to write to you. The truth is I did not know what had become of Maudie. It was only when I read about her origins in the pamphlet that I began to hope that she was one and the same with the child who disappeared in London so long ago.

  If you are able to contact her, there are things she should know about her birth and the events leading to her being entrusted into your care which only I, her kin, can tell her. If you would be so kind as to give me her address and send me word of her circumstances, I would like to apply to her for sufficient money to cover my travel expenses to London. Once this arrives, I will gladly post down to fulfil my obligation to enlighten her. A sum of five pounds should be ample.

  Yours faithfully,

  Mary Stirling Moir

  I let the letter drop to my lap, feeling strangely hollow-chested.

  ‘Can you see why I was suspicious?’ Mr Sheridan probed gently. ‘It was all leading up to the request for money and I doubted that anything I sent would be spent on a journey to London.’

  I nodded. The letter did not ask after my welfare, other than my reputation and fortune. No love, no affection. There wasn’t even a hint of apology, only promise of a delayed explanation as to why I had been cast off in London. She almost made it sound as if it had been my fault – a child – that I had ‘disappeared’. But yet that seemed in conflict with the statement that I had been ‘entrusted’ to Mr Sheridan. How could the act of leaving a child on a doorstep be called that? No one had bothered to look for me; no one had been interested – until now.

  ‘Who do you think she is, this Mrs Moir?’ I asked bleakly.

  ‘I’m not sure, Cat. It could be a cruel hoax. If it hadn’t been for the link to the Stirlings and Scotland, I would have dismissed it out of hand. A relative possibly; your mother maybe.’ He rubbed his throat uncomfortably.

  I wasn’t sure if I believed it to be genuine. I looked down again at the address. ‘Where is New Lanark?’

  ‘That in itself is very interesting: it’s a cotton mill built to the latest specifications – run on water power, large workforce, benevolent owner. It’s quite famous actually – people travel from all over the world to visit. It sounds as if Mrs Moir is employed there as she lives in one of the cottages. She’s fallen on her feet if that is so.’

  I re-read the letter and gave a stilted laugh. ‘It’s kind of her to write despite my scurrilous reputation.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Mr Sheridan smiled cynically. ‘Come, I didn’t bring you to the Temple for no reason. There’s someone I want you to meet.’ He stood up and offered me his arm.

  ‘Who, sir?’

  ‘A friend of mine. When I received this, I could not let it rest so I asked him to look into it for me before I brought it to your attention. He has connections with that part of Scotland.’

  Mr Sheridan led me over to the entrance to one of the staircases leading up to the barristers’ chambers. At the bottom, names of the advocates were listed on the wall.

  ‘Mr Beamish – that’s the man,’ Mr Sheridan said, tapping the nameplate. ‘Top floor.’

  Letting me go first, we climbed the stairs, passing the doors to four sets of rooms. The air smelled of dust and tobacco, a very masculine atmosphere. The law is serious, the reverent hush announced – not for the likes of you, Cat Royal.

  Reaching the little landing at the top lit by an oriel window, Mr Sheridan knocked on an oak-panelled door. It was flung open by a scruffy-looking individual, a middle-aged man with the sharp look of a fellow Londoner. His clothes were slightly foppish, brown hair receding, a magpie alertness about his stance.

  ‘Ah, Bob, is your master in?’ asked Mr Sheridan.

  Bob stood back and gestured for us to enter with a flourish of his arm. ‘’E is, sir.’

  ‘Cat, meet Mr Beamish’s clerk, his right-hand man, Robert Marks. Bob, Miss Royal.’

  I gave him a nod which he returned with a wink.

  ‘I’ve ’eard about you, ain’t I, from them stories?’ Bob said affably, taking Mr Sheridan’s hat and lobbing it on to the coatrack. Catching the topmost hook, it twirled there for a moment. ‘A dasher, that’s what you is.’

  ‘Miss Royal was misrepresented, Bob, as I explained before,’ Mr Sheridan said repressively.

  ‘So you says, sir. So you says.’

  Bob waved us on to the next room. An elderly man, head almost hidden behind a pile of books on the desk, looked up, pen clutched in one plump hand. With his curly white hair, pink cheeks, corpulent belly and innocent blinking stare, he reminded me of an aged cherub tumbled from his cloud. On the desk, a sombre grey wig perched on a stand. I couldn’t imagine what the barrister would look like with it on – the two did not seem to fit together.

  ‘Ah, Sherry, what a pleasant surprise!’ exclaimed Mr Beamish, casting aside his pen with a splatter of ink over his document. Bob tutted and rushed to rescue it. ‘And who is this lovely young lady?’ He waggled his eyebrows at me.

  ‘This is Miss Royal, Beamish.’

  I curtseyed as Mr Beamish waddled out from behind his desk to kiss my hand.

  ‘Sit down, sit down.’ He waved us to chairs either side of his fireplace. ‘Rustle up some tea for the lady, Bob; claret for Mr Sheridan.’ He lowered himself into his armchair and linked his fingers across his expanse of cherry silk waistcoat. ‘What can I do for you today?’

  Mr Sheridan fluffed out the tails of his coat as he took a seat. ‘It’s about that matter in New Lanark I asked you to investigate last year.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Mr Beamish gave a vague look around his study until his eyes fell on a maroon document case teetering on top of a bookshelf. ‘Bob!’

  ‘He’s fetching the tea,’ Mr Sheridan reminded him.

  ‘Oh yes. Mayhap the young lady wouldn’t mind retrieving that red box for me. Not as young as I was, you know.’

  I leaped up to get the documents he wanted, alarmed by the thought of this stout old gentleman climbing the rickety library ladder. I returned with the required case and placed it on the side table within easy reach.

  ‘Thank you, m’dear.’ With a creak of his chair, Mr Beamish rifled through the box until he pulled out the paper he sought. Feeling in his waistcoat he found his reading glasses and pinched them to his nose. ‘Let me see, let me see. Mrs Moir . . . mule-spinner . . . two years service . . . good worker, though a bit of a shrew. That’s your woman, isn’t it?’

  Mr Sheridan nodded. ‘Any idea of her age?’

  ‘Oh yes, the manufactory keeps excellent records. Thirty-five with four surviving children, three of whom are employed alongside her.’

  ‘And Mr Moir?’

  ‘A mixer – prepares the cotton fibres. Got lung problems though. Moved to carding. Been on and off work for a good long while now.’

  ‘And your informant’s impression of the family?’

  ‘Solid working folk. Not well off, but neither are they starving with five wages coming in. No known links to London and no idea why they should claim to be related to your young friend.’ Mr Beamish smiled at me over the top of his glasses. I couldn’t return the gesture. Was this my family I was hearing about or a group of strangers playing an unkind trick on me?

  ‘Did they know you were investigating them, sir?’ I asked quietly.

  ‘No, m’dear, my man is the soul of discretion. I requested that our interest be kept a secret.’

  ‘Is there a description of the woman?’ asked Mr Sheridan.

  ‘Indeed.’ Mr Beamish leafed through the report. ‘Medium height, thin face, a
mass of freckles, red hair. Two of the children redheaded, though Mr Moir is said to be dark. Can’t set much store by that though as half the workforce share Mrs Moir’s colouring. That’s the Celts for you.’

  ‘But it doesn’t rule her out either,’ noted Mr Sheridan.

  Rule her out as my mother, he meant. I shuddered. The coward in me didn’t want to hear any more.

  Bob clattered in with the tea. As he handed me a cup, he murmured, ‘’Ere you go, dasher – drink up. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  I gave him a weak smile.

  ‘And who was your informant, if you don’t mind me asking?’ enquired Mr Sheridan.

  ‘Not a’tall, dear boy, not a’tall. It’s my brother-in-law. He’s gone in with Arkwright on several manufacturing speculations. It was no trouble for him to visit, he said. Came away very impressed by the enterprise.’

  ‘You must convey our thanks to him when you next communicate.’

  ‘Indeed I will. But the key question still remains: what is our young friend going to do about the letter writer? I hope, m’dear, you don’t intend sending the woman any money?’

  I delayed answering by sipping my tea. Glancing up at Bob, who was lounging on the back of his master’s chair, I saw him shake his head and mouth ‘no’. Sensing my interest was fixed above his head, Mr Beamish swung round.

  ‘You want to say something, Bob?’ he prompted.

  ‘Well, sir, it’s like this. Everyone knows these Scots are mean bu . . .’ he changed word midstream, ‘blighters. I reckon that this Mrs Mop –’

  ‘Moir,’ I corrected.

  ‘That’s ’er. She just wants money. That kind of family ain’t worth finding. I should know, as my three brothers are all useless scroungers. If I could lose ’em, I would. Listen to me, miss: you keep away from ’em. Let sleepin’ dogs lie.’

  Mr Beamish turned back to me. ‘Though I hesitate to award Bob any points for intelligence (that would not bode well for his hat size), it seems to me that his advice is sound.’

  Bob gave a snort.

  ‘But what if Mrs Moir really can tell me about my parents, about how I came to be left?’

  ‘And ’ow will you know if she’s tellin’ you the truth?’ replied Bob. ‘Once she knows what you want to ’ear, she’ll spin you a tale and expect you to pay for the privilege. It’s like when Mr Beamish ’ere gets ’em in the dock: they’ll sing any tune to get what they want.’

  ‘But I can’t just leave it. The uncertainty will torment me like a . . . a tooth that needs pulling.’

  Mr Sheridan sighed. ‘That is exactly why I was reluctant to tell you of the letter, Cat. How could anyone resist the urge to know the truth?’

  ‘What do you suggest I do?’ I looked up at the three men before me. My guardian looked concerned, Mr Beamish was frowning, Bob seemed lost in thought.

  ‘I know what I’d do,’ Bob ventured. ‘I’d try and catch ’er out. Mr Beamish, ’e looks so soft the villains are all lulled into thinkin’ ’e’s easy – that’s when ’e goes in for the kill.’

  Mr Beamish gave me an apologetic smile. I would have to take Bob’s word for it that the barrister had steel beneath the fluff.

  ‘My clerk is right. A direct approach will not reveal the truth.’

  I hugged my arms to my sides. After the happiness of my return, my soap-bubble mood had burst and I was now feeling empty and out of spirits.

  ‘I’ll have to think about it.’

  Mr Sheridan rose, signalling the end of our visit. ‘Indeed, I believe that is the best course of action. Any decision must be weighed very carefully.’

  Mr Beamish patted my hand. ‘And if I can be of service, don’t hesitate to call on me.’

  ‘Nor me,’ chipped in Bob. ‘Anythink for you, dasher.’ With a chuckle, he showed us out.

  On my return to the butcher’s shop I avoided answering Syd’s questions as to where Mr Sheridan had taken me, making some vague excuse about catching up on theatre news. Syd wasn’t fooled but knew me well enough not to force the issue.

  ‘I’ll leave you to settle in then,’ he said, setting my bag on the bed in the little box bedroom.

  ‘Thanks, Syd.’

  ‘I should warn you, Cat: news ’as spread that you’re back. Don’t think of makin’ an early night of it: the boys’ll be round later.’

  I nodded. ‘And I’d love to see them too.’

  ‘All right then. I’ll . . . er . . . I’ll just go.’

  He hovered uncertainly by the door, tugging at the cotton scarf knotted around his neck.

  ‘Yes.’

  He cleared his throat, his gaze loaded with unspoken feelings. ‘I’m really pleased you’re back, Cat.’

  ‘I guessed.’ I gave him a small, regretful smile, aware that my feelings for him did not match his for me.

  With a nod to say that was settled then, he strode off down the stairs.

  Alone at last, I busied myself unpacking my belongings. Guilt about my inability to feel more than sisterly love for Syd ate at me. Perhaps I should have gone to Grosvenor Square after all? That would have been fairer to Syd, and not got his hopes up.

  I pushed open the little window, dislodging the sparrows perched on the ledge. They flew off with startled peeps over the rooftops opposite. Oh, why couldn’t I resolve my place in the world by simply falling in love with Syd and settle down to a blameless, respectable life as a butcher’s wife among the people I knew? Why did I have to make things so difficult for myself? I couldn’t even shake off my foundling past but had now discovered it sticking to me like a burr carried home on the back of my skirts.

  Angrily, I upended my bag and chucked my clothes around. I knew what I was looking for – the scrap of the tartan blanket. I’d been using it as a bookmark for years. I found it keeping my place in a copy of Robinson Crusoe borrowed from Lizzie, Frank’s sister. The fabric lay limp in my palm as I mentally reconstructed the blanket it had once belonged to, the woman who had wrapped it round her child and finally the moment when she had walked away.

  She had walked away.

  And now, twelve years later, she – or some relative – was trying to step back into my life. That was if this wasn’t all a Banbury tale made to fleece me of my supposed riches.

  If only I knew.

  I had to find out.

  Crushing the cloth in my fist, anger surged again, a powerful rush like the tide under the arches of London Bridge. I had been so happy to return to England and now this woman – this Mrs Moir – had spoiled it all. She had opened the Pandora’s box of my past and I could not stuff it all back inside and pretend it hadn’t happened. I was now desperate to know more about my mother: the elusive woman who’d rocked my cradle, fed me, clothed me – cuddled me, perhaps? I couldn’t remember ever being held by a parent. A few hugs from friends and theatre folk over the years, but otherwise I had been starved of simple human warmth. An ache somewhere in the middle of my chest bloomed into a painlike hunger. I was going to find out why I had been dumped, what had been so wrong with me that my mother had decided I’d be better off taking my chances on my own on the London streets one cold night in January.

  I was going to Scotland.

  * For details of this particular episode in my literary career, I refer my readers to Den of Thieves.

  SCENE 2 – CELEBRATING IN STYLE

  Mrs Fletcher’s voice rang through the house, summoning us all to dinner. Having changed into a clean gown of blue-sprigged muslin, I jumped down the stairs, skirts kicking up with every bound, fired by my new resolve. The outline of my plan was already taking shape. All it would need was a little money and a lot of guts. Well, guts I had aplenty. That just left, Reader, my usual state of empty pockets. I was going to need a loan.

  ‘There you are, Cat. Would you take the plates?’ Mrs Fletcher gestured to the rack over the sink.

  I balanced four plates on my arm, pretty white china ones from her best set.

  ‘You’d better make that six!’ she calle
d as I set them on the kitchen table.

  ‘Oh? Are we expecting guests?’

  ‘They’re ’ere already. Nick and Joe are joinin’ us.’ She stirred the pot and tasted it. ‘Call ’em in for me, will you? They’re out back ’avin’ a bit of a wash.’

  I ducked out into the yard to find Mr Fletcher, Syd and his two friends all bent over the pump, doing a fair amount of splashing at each other and not much cleaning as far as I could tell.

  ‘Dinner’s ready!’

  Nick, Syd’s dark-haired second-in-command in the Butcher’s Boys, chucked the towel to Joe and strode over. Lifting me by the waist, he swung me round.

  ‘Cat Royal! I was beginnin’ to think we’d never see you again!’ He set me down and looked me over. Long-limbed and slender, he loomed over me these days. ‘I do believe . . . no, it can’t be true . . .’

  ‘What?’ I looked down at myself, half expecting to see some fault in my clothing. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Nick, eyes shining with mischief, beckoned Joe ‘The Card’ Murray. The street magician sloped over, his raggedly dandified jacket flapping open to display the ribbons he hawked. Nick nudged him, nodding to me.

  ‘What you say, Joe?’

  Joe scratched his chin. A little older than the rest of the gang, he had fine lines around his mouth and eyes; his long, brown hair fell about his face, giving him a gypsy-like appearance. I would’ve found him a little frightening if I hadn’t known him nearly all my life.

  ‘I can’t believe it – but you’re right, Nick. Stone me, but you’re right!’ Joe exclaimed.

  Now I was getting worried. ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve . . . you’ve grown, Cat,’ Nick said with mock-solemnity, as if announcing my demise.

  ‘At least, oh, I’d say . . . ’alf an inch?’ agreed Joe.

  I swatted Joe on the arm. ‘I’ve grown much more than that, I’ll have you know. I’m almost five foot.’ I stood on tiptoe, hoping they wouldn’t notice. My diminutive height was becoming a bit of a burden now that I was old enough to be almost my full size.

  ‘’Ave you been usin’ one of Tailor Meakin’s measurin’ rods, Cat?’ asked Nick. ‘’E always makes ’is stuff too short.’