Cat Among the Pigeons

  I was fortunate that I had been interrupted by one of the densest pupils in my class. It did not occur to him to ask himself what a change of clothes might do for a person.

  ‘If he comes back, tell him he’s wanted by the headmaster.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ I bobbed another curtsey.

  Ingels left quickly. For the first time, I thanked Dr Vincent for his reputation as a flogger: he would not hesitate to blame Ingels for failing to find the Hengraves soon enough so the boy was in a hurry to execute his errand.

  I risked another peek outside. I had to get out of here in case someone more penetrating than Ingels should come looking for me, but the quad was now full of pupils. Everyone knew something serious was up. Footsteps again and I slipped behind the door.

  ‘Cat?’ Frank whispered urgently. I came out of my hiding place and he did a double take. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘That’s uncommonly good.’ He nodded with approval at my plain grey dress, coarse apron, clogs and severe cap: I looked like the most downtrodden maid of all work, thanks to Lizzie’s gifts.

  ‘There’s a letter on the table that should help you both,’ I said, grabbing my bundle and shawl. ‘I’ve got to get out but there’s so many people about I’m afraid someone will spot me.’

  Frank picked up the letter and read it quickly.

  ‘Cat, you’re a marvel. This might just save Charlie from expulsion. He expects a thrashing, of course – we can’t do anything about that. He’s hiding in the library looking studious and innocent.’

  I was rather proud of the letter. The idea for it had come to me while being grilled on my origins in the presence of Mr Sheridan, the Irish actor turned statesman.

  Dear Charlie

  I apologize for working such a deception on you. As you will know by now, I am not in fact your younger brother, Thomas, as I claimed. My parents are actors and they placed me with the same tutor in Dublin as your brother. I knew that he was due to attend Westminster School, that he had been ill and that you his older brother had not seen him for many months. By studying his behaviour carefully and learning all that I could about your family, I thought to try my fortune by passing myself off as him, claiming to be much wasted by disease. To this end, I forged a letter from your gracious mother to the headmaster, having had the pleasure of seeing her hand many times while studying with the real Thomas Hengrave. I admit that I had a wager on the outcome with some friends at the theatre, which explains my motives.

  Please pass on my regrets to Mr Castleton that I will be unable to accept the role of Electra. As a man of great perception, he was the first to sense my theatrical background and I have no doubt that the clever teachers at Westminster School would have soon smoked me out. (There was no harm in laying on the flattery so that they wouldn’t feel so stupid).

  I know that you will feel angry now, but perhaps in time you will forgive me. I hope the guineas you have spent on me will be thought punishment enough and teach you to be more suspicious.

  With the money I have earned on my wager I am bound for India to join my uncle in the Hussars so do not try to trace me – I will be gone.

  Yours in haste,

  Thomas Bennington-Smythe.

  Frank put the letter in his pocket. ‘Well this is another scrape, Cat, and no mistake: the quad is teeming with boys; Dr Vincent is on the warpath; the heir to the throne and your patron are both about the place. How are we going to get away with it this time, even in your woman’s weeds?’ But for all his words of doom, he was grinning – highly delighted by the absurdity of the situation.

  I wasn’t as amused as he: the consequences of being caught out as a girl were too horrible to be imagined.

  ‘I just need a few minutes to slip across the quad and past the porter. We need a diversion . . .’

  Frank tapped his temple. ‘I have the perfect idea – kill two birds with one stone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Revenge, Cat. Charlie and I have been recruiting chaps of the right sort to take our revenge on the planters’ boys for their attack on you. Mouthy Southey and the others are all up for it, just waiting for the opportune moment – and this is it. Give me five minutes and there’ll be a distraction such as you’ve never seen before.’

  ‘Frank, you’re not to get in trouble for my sake.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a fine one to speak, Miss Never-get-into-any-trouble-for-a-friend Royal.’

  I grinned. ‘All right. Be quick.’

  He was about to go but turned back and kissed my hand gallantly, signalling that a certain formality had returned to his treatment of me now I was no longer a schoolboy.

  ‘It’s been a privilege to share rooms with Tom Cat. Don’t disappear so entirely that we don’t know where you are, will you?’

  ‘Of course not. Now off you go!’ I pushed him out the door.

  Standing by the window, I watched Frank moving from boy to boy in the Dean’s Yard. It was like watching a ripple pass across a pool as the message spread. Then, so quickly it was hard to see what started it, a scuffle broke out in one corner. Richmond was going hammer and tongs with Frank’s friend, Mouthy Southey. The fight spread like wildfire as planter boys leapt to Richmond’s defence, only to find themselves beset by the pro-abolition boys. I was pleased to see that Richmond was getting a good pasting and Fatty Ingels was buried under several burly bodies. Dr Vincent then strode out of his rooms, swishing his cane at anyone in reach, and shouting for order. Time for me to go.

  I crept down the stairs and out into the quad. The noise of stamping, yelling and punching was impressive – not unlike one of Syd’s boxing matches. Keeping close to the wall, I walked swiftly towards the lodge, carrying the coal scuttle to hide my bundle. I thought I had almost made it to safety when I came face to face with the Prince of Wales, Mr Sheridan and Mr Castleton proceeding at the double towards the disturbance.

  ‘A scrap, eh what?’ chuckled the Prince. ‘Excellent – like to see a bit of boyish high spirits. Makes men of them, doesn’t it, Sherry?’

  Mr Sheridan recognized me instantly; Mr Castleton looked as though he was trying to place me. My patron came to my rescue.

  ‘Very true, your highness. Mr Castleton, is that not a most venerable oak over there? How old is it, would you say?’ He pointed to the other side of the yard with his cane. ‘I bet it’s seen more than its fair share of battles.’

  Mr Castleton tore his gaze from me to reply. The prince had never even noticed the maid in his path. I bobbed a curtsey but the heir to the throne marched straight by, heading for the oak.

  Fortunately, the porter had left his post to help restore order in the yard. I slipped out through the postern and trotted as fast as I could in my clumsy shoes towards Westminster Bridge. It was only when I had crossed the Thames and was heading south-west across the scrubby fields of Lambeth that I felt able to breathe freely. I had done it: I’d escaped and no one at Westminster School would ever know what happened to Thomas Bennington-Smythe. I’d probably become a school legend as the boy who tricked his way to free food and lodging for several weeks, but my true identity would remain a secret.

  The days are very short at this time of year so it was already dusk as I made my escape. Highwaymen are still occasionally to be met with on the roads out of London, particularly in the wilder parts such as the tenter grounds of Lambeth where only laundresses, tanners and huntsmen choose to come. I wouldn’t be able to reach my destination safely on foot at night and I did not have the funds to travel by carriage. My best bet was to find shelter and continue at first light.

  A chilly wind blew over the empty flats along the riverbank. A bird called forlornly from a thicket. Ice crunched underfoot as my clogs sunk through the surface into a foul-smelling rut full of water. Clutching my bundle to me for comfort, I had the weirdest sensation of being watched, but each time I turned, I saw no one on the deserted path I’d taken. My instincts told me to get out of sight quickly.

  Finding an abandoned wash house, I let myself in. Fro
m the scuffling in a corner, I guessed that other creatures had sought this shelter from the cold, but I did not begrudge them as long as they did not disturb me. I was more concerned that other humans might take refuge here. I sat with my back to the old stove and shivered, wishing it would light again to give me some warmth. As the temperatures dropped, I thought longingly of my warm berth in the Sparrow’s Nest and wished I had thought to steal a blanket from Frank.

  I woke up in the middle of the night with a start as something cracked like a pistol shot.

  ‘Donna fret, lassie,’ said a husky voice. ‘I just makin’ up the fire.’

  Light flickered on the ceiling from a small blaze in the centre of the wash house floor, smoke finding its way out through the numerous slipped tiles above. Crouched over it was a wrinkled old woman with one tooth and a pair of bright eyes. She had a tattered shawl over her head and straw wrapped around her feet for warmth. I felt for my bundle, but it lay exactly where I’d left it.

  ‘Nae one’s robbed you,’ she laughed, ‘though they might’ve if I hadna been here. Twae laddies came by, but I told them to gae away.’

  I felt a little ashamed that I’d suspected her so quickly. ‘Thank you. I’m really grateful. It’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘Aye,’ the old woman said, ‘I thought as much. You mun be down on your luck if you end up in auld Jean’s washhouse.’

  ‘This is yours?’

  She nodded. ‘The best laundry in London until I could nae lift the water and heat the stove. Auld age is a cruel thing when a body’s no bairns to look after them.

  ‘In that case, I’m sorry that I’m trespassing, but I was cold and it was getting late.’

  ‘It’s no sin to come here, lassie. If you give me one of them coppers of yours, I’ll even let you come nigh the fire.’

  So she had checked what was in my bundle then.

  ‘Thank you, mother, that’s very kind of you.’ I felt in my bundle and drew out the purse. It was a shilling short.

  ‘I took a wee coin for the night’s lodging,’ Old Jean chuckled.

  A shilling was a lot of money for a hard floor and a patchy roof over my head, but I was in no position to argue.

  ‘I’ll stay where I am,’ I said with regret. ‘I really can’t afford any more.’

  ‘Suit yourself, lassie,’ she said with a disappointed frown. ‘You get some sleep now. I’ll make sure nae one disturbs you – that’s worth a shilling at least.’

  The remainder of the night passed uneasily. I had no doubt that Old Jean saw me as a welcome source of income. She had designs on the rest of the purse, but I could not let her strip me of every penny as my own future was as uncertain as hers. I slept curled round my bundle, and was mighty relieved to see the dawn.

  ‘Breakfast, my chick?’ Old Jean asked as I rose, offering me an oatcake.

  I shook my head – that was bound to be a penny at least. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, mother. I wish you good day.’

  ‘A fine-spoken lassie like you mun be able to spare me another shilling,’ she begged, struggling to her feet and holding out a scrawny hand. ‘I dare say a lassie like you has a few guineas at least sewn into her bodice.’

  If only.

  ‘I swear I don’t, mother.’ Holding the bundle in front of me to protect myself from her groping fingers, I moved rapidly to the door, sensing that her mood was changing. She gave a shrill whistle. Two rough-looking lads bounded into the hut through a hole in the back wall like a pair of eager hounds.

  ‘At her, my lads!’ Old Jean croaked. ‘I’ll wager me tooth that she’s got more about her than in that wee pursie.’

  I was out the front like a rabbit bolting from a hole. Hitching up my skirts, I ran towards the road. The clumsy clogs hampered me. One came off in a rut, the other I abandoned. Unlike my pursuers, I had the advantage of a few weeks of good food courtesy of Westminster School. I sprinted as fast as any boy and spotted a cart. It was driven by a milkman, returning from his deliveries in the city. Vaulting the fence, I jumped up beside the startled dairyman.

  ‘Please protect me!’ I gasped. ‘They’re trying to rob me.’

  The man turned in his seat and saw the two skinny boys scrambling over the fence. He flicked his long whip at them.

  ‘Be off with you, you rascals,’ he said. ‘And tell Old Jean that if she sends you after any more girls, I’ll send the beadle after her.’

  Like dogs called off by their master, the boys wheeled around and bounded back the way they had come, all the while yelling obscenities over their shoulder.

  ‘And you, young miss, should learn not to mix with the likes of Old Jean,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘Don’t go accepting shelter from anyone you don’t know.’

  ‘I didn’t, sir. I found her place empty and needed somewhere to sleep the night,’ I said, still panting, ‘but thank you.’

  ‘That’s all right, miss. Now, where you be going so early?’

  ‘To Clapham.’

  He dug into his apron and pulled out an apple. ‘Well, you stay where you are and break your fast with me. I’m going that way and it’ll save those bare feet of yours to sit up here.’

  ‘How much will it cost, sir?’ I asked tentatively. ‘You see I don’t have much money.’

  ‘Nothing.’ I must have looked surprised for he laughed. ‘It was a rare treat to see you outrun Old Jean’s beagles and leap the fence like a champion in a steeplechase – that’s payment enough for Elias Jones. Now where did a girl like you learn to do that, eh? That’s what I want to know.’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,’ I replied with a shake of my head. I took the apple. ‘Thank you, Mr Jones, I gladly accept your offer.’

  Mr Jones dropped me at the edge of Clapham Common and I headed into the village. Clapham was a strange place these days, its rural centre surrounded by the stylish villas of rich incomers who were building all around the edge of the Common. Now farmers mixed with sea captains and members of parliament. I wasn’t sure exactly where I was going, but I knew how I would tell if I had found the right place. I walked past the church – a lively matins was in progress with bells ringing – no good. I went up to the door of a chapel and found the Methodists singing hymns with gusto. That wasn’t it. Finally I found what I was looking for: a small, simple building set back from the road. It was completely silent – only the open door indicated that the worshippers were present for their early morning meeting. I slipped in at the back and took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. There were only a few people present so I moved to an empty chair in the circle and waited.

  The hush was so complete that I began to notice even the smallest movements. For example, I knew the exact moment that Miss Miller senior noticed my presence from the sharp intake of breath. Miss Prudence gave away her consternation by the clasping and unclasping of her hands. In a flutter, Miss Fortitude dropped her handkerchief. I knew what they were thinking: Drury Lane had invaded the Quaker Meeting House and they were desperate that no one else should notice.

  An elderly man stood up. ‘I feel moved by the Spirit to speak,’ he said in a sonorous voice. ‘I sense that some of my sisters are oppressed in spirit and need to be reminded to cast their cares on the Lord.’

  ‘Amen,’ intoned all present, except me. I was intending to cast my cares on the Miss Millers.

  The meeting relapsed into silence. To be honest with you, Reader, it was torture for me. I am not in the habit of sitting five seconds in company without speaking, let alone half an hour. My mind was racing with so many things – my anxiety for Pedro, my fear that the Miss Millers would turn me away, my narrow escape from Old Jean. I couldn’t wait for the meeting to end. The minutes crawled by. To this day, I still do not know what signalled the end of the worship, but suddenly everyone was on their feet, greeting each other with good wishes for the morning ahead. As a stranger, I was surrounded by people warmly welcoming me to the congregation. Only the Miss Millers did not approach. They were stan
ding in a huddle, conferring as to what they should do. I decided to grab the bull by the horns.

  ‘Miss Miller,’ I said loudly, curtseying to the sisters, ‘I’m so pleased to see you again.’

  ‘Child, dost thou know our dear sisters in Christ?’ asked the elderly man who had spoken in the meeting.

  ‘Indeed, I do, Mr –?’

  ‘Brother Andrew, child.’

  ‘I came all this way to see them, Brother Andrew,’ I confided.

  Miss Miller senior, seeing me talking to one of the meeting house elders, bustled over.

  ‘Sister Patience, dost thou know this child?’ he asked, laying a fatherly hand on my shoulders. He glanced down at my bare, muddy feet. ‘She seems in some need.’

  ‘Indeed, I do, Brother Andrew. My sisters and I were just going to invite her to our house to refresh herself. Wilt thou come, Sister Catherine?’

  ‘Thank you.’ I felt a great sense of relief – my guess that the Miss Millers would not fail to help someone in distress had been right.

  ‘Ah, then thou shalt be blessed,’ Brother Andrew declared, raising his eyes to heaven, ‘for some of us have entertained angels unawares, thou knows it well.’

  ‘I’m sorry but I’m not an angel,’ I said quickly, not wanting him to get the wrong impression. I was probably the least angelic girl he’d ever meet.

  ‘Angels come in all guises, Sister Catherine,’ he said with a smile that felt like summer sunshine on that cold day. ‘Go with the sisters and take your rest.’

  SCENE 3 – SILENCE IS GOLDEN

  I followed the Miss Millers outside and trailed after them as they made their way back to their cottage. This was a pretty, rustic building with a thatched roof, whitewashed walls and lattice windows. A hedge of holly arched over the gate, looking very festive with its bright berries. Miss Miller opened the front door and waited as we all filed past her. She looked around to check no neighbours were watching, shut the door and turned to me, hands on her hips.