Cat Among the Pigeons

  ‘Here we are, sir, miss,’ said Constable Lennox, opening the door of the carriage.

  We filed directly into the courtroom – no night in the holding cell for a gentleman of Mr Hawkins’ standing. I was grateful for that. Sir John Solmes, the magistrate, had roused himself from his bed to meet us, wig askew, his eyes sleepy. I looked around in consternation: my friends had not yet arrived. I didn’t want to face him on my own and I didn’t like the feeling of being the only girl standing among all these great tall gentlemen. In my experience, there was some kind of secret understanding rich men shared. I was not of their sex, nor even of their class: I was therefore beneath their notice.

  ‘What’s all this?’ the magistrate barked at his constable. ‘A Quaker maid in chains and a gentleman – why are they here at this time of night?’

  ‘I brought the gentleman in compliance with this writ, sir,’ said Lennox, handing over the habeas corpus. ‘As for the girl – she’s no Quaker. It’s Cat Royal. You remember her, I think, sir.’

  The magistrate rubbed his eyes and took a closer look at me. ‘Oh yes, I remember her very well. Has a taste for disguise this one. What is the charge? Can I commit her straight to Newgate and be done with it?’

  Newgate! I didn’t fancy my chances of survival beyond a few weeks if I was pitched into that prison. It was an evil place by all accounts – a place of violence, squalor and misery.

  ‘It was assault, sir, against the gentleman here,’ said Lennox.

  ‘Good, good,’ said the magistrate, reaching for his gavel.

  ‘Hold, man!’ cried the duchess, flattening two runners behind the doors as she forced her way into the courtroom. Lizzie, Frank, Syd, Nick, Mr Equiano and Mr Sharp all followed. ‘Tell your flunkies to admit us. This is supposed to be a public hearing.’

  ‘Ah, your grace,’ said the magistrate, looking at her with a fearful expression. I guessed he had already met her earlier that evening and had reason to tremble under the lash of her tongue. ‘Of course you must come in. Do take a seat. We will not be long.’ And he raised his gavel again.

  ‘Wait!’ said the duchess. ‘You’ve not heard the counter-charge against this man on behalf of the girl.’

  ‘Your grace, I am sorry to inform you that you must not speak out of turn. This is a court of law,’ the magistrate said tentatively, the gavel drooping in his hand.

  ‘Then when is it my turn? Surely not after you’ve dispatched the child to prison?’

  ‘Er, of course not. She is entitled to representation in her defence.’

  ‘Then I am her defence. Can I speak now?’

  Frank and Lizzie grinned at me, for once completely unembarrassed by their mother’s forthrightness. If I hadn’t been so worried, I would have enjoyed it too.

  The magistrate coughed awkwardly. ‘It’s most unorthodox,’ (the duchess raised an eyebrow in warning), ‘but, yes, your grace, you may speak.’

  The duchess bustled to the front of the courtroom and laid her ermine muff on his desk. Her be-ringed fingers glittered dazzlingly in the candlelight. It struck me now that the opposite sex probably banded together in their gentlemen’s clubs because they were plain scared of viragos like the duchess. She was like Athena, goddess of wisdom and warfare, come to shake the mere mortal men out of their complacency.

  ‘I believe two charges are laid against Miss Royal – one for damages by the proprietor of Brooks, the other by this man who claims the accused bit him.’

  Sir John nodded.

  ‘The damages to the club will be paid by the Duke of Avon – double if need be. As for the alleged assault, I wish to say in her defence that the man in question was humiliating her and holding her against her will – shameful conduct for a gentleman whose duty it is to protect the weaker sex.’

  Weaker sex? She must be joking. It was Sir John who was trembling before her.

  ‘But that is all as nothing when set alongside the events of this evening when the same man, before many witnesses, including myself, tried to run her through with a sword.’

  The magistrate let go of his gavel. ‘Is this true?’ he asked Hawkins.

  The slave owner gave a shrug. ‘She got in my way,’ he said. ‘Someone should’ve drowned the brat at birth – she’s always in the way.’

  Mr Sharp stepped forward. ‘You may like to offer Mr Hawkins the chance to drop his charge against Miss Royal in return for Miss Royal dropping the charge of attempted murder. Not an entirely fair exchange, but one which should be to the advantage of both parties.’

  The magistrate scratched his chin. ‘What say you, Mr Hawkins?’

  ‘I’ll drop the charge,’ Hawkins conceded in a resentful tone.

  ‘Well, that seems to settle that then. Case dismiss–’

  ‘No!’ I interrupted. ‘You haven’t asked me yet. And I’m not dropping my charge against him.’

  ‘Cat!’ hissed Pedro. ‘It’s the only way!’

  I steeled myself. ‘No, it isn’t. I accuse Mr Kingston Hawkins of attempted murder,’ I repeated loudly.

  My friends murmured among themselves, alarmed at my rashness. A sardonic smile curved Hawkins’ lips like the slash of a knife.

  ‘The bantling wants to fight it out, does she?’ he sneered.

  ‘I do. What’s the maximum penalty for a bite? Gaol with hard labour?’ The magistrate nodded. Neither of us added that this was tantamount to a death sentence for puny mortals like me. I had to pretend I thought I’d survive for this to work. ‘But for attempted murder – I’d say that’s worth the gallows or transportation at the very least. No slaves to make your life comfortable in Botany Bay from what I hear. You’d be under a harsh master there yourself on the chain-gang. It’ll do you good.’

  Hawkins flicked his gaze from my face to the stern expression of the magistrate. The law officer said nothing to contradict my words.

  ‘What do you want?’ Hawkins snarled at me.

  ‘Pedro’s freedom – here and now, before all these witnesses.’

  My friends gasped. Pedro stared at me in amazement.

  ‘No!’ Hawkins was white with fury. ‘You’re not getting that from me.’

  ‘That’s what I want. If you won’t give it to me, I’ll happily do my stint in gaol just to know you’ll be out of Pedro’s way for many long years and perhaps forever.’

  There was silence as we all waited for Hawkins’ decision. My heart was thumping. Pedro’s knuckles were white on the bar beside me.

  ‘All right!’ Hawkins said at last. ‘You can have his freedom. He’s worthless to me now in any case.’

  I felt a huge wave of relief. Pedro was free of him. I looked Hawkins in the eye and grinned. ‘But not to me. To me, he’s priceless. I drop my charge.’

  The magistrate’s gavel fell. ‘Case dismissed.’ Sir John leaned forward and surprised me by giving Pedro an avuncular smile. ‘Oh, and if our Ariel so wishes, I would be honoured to stand godfather to his freedom. I have a nice big seal that no one will dispute.’

  It was the last place I’d expected it, but clearly we had found another fan.

  Cheers erupted from all quarters of the courtroom. Even Constable Lennox was seen to throw his hat in the air. Though disappointed in failing to nail me again, he still had the decency to enjoy the rescue of one of Covent Garden’s favourite sons. Papers duly witnessed, Syd and Nick hoisted Pedro on their shoulders and led the procession back to Drury Lane. We had the good fortune to arrive just as the audience were leaving the performance. When the word spread as to what was afoot, scores joined the celebration, returning to the theatre for the impromptu party. Pedro was carried into the Pit, passed over the heads of the orchestra and placed centre stage next to Mr Kemble. The roof rang with whistles, cheers and applause. Pedro bowed and bowed – he’d never received such a standing ovation despite his previous triumphs. The crowd refused to give up.

  Jostled aside by some eager spectators, I stood by one of the exits. Tears of joy streamed down my face as I saw Pedro had finally com
e home.

  PIGEONS

  Christmas Eve. Pedro and I were standing in the centre of Covent Garden, watching the snowflakes fall. The stalls were busy with shoppers buying their festive meal. Wreaths of holly and mistletoe decorated the doorways; candles brightened the windows. Across the square, the stained glass of St Paul’s Church shone like jewels; the organist was playing out a jubilant carol.

  ‘Cat, I want you to be the first to know,’ Pedro announced.

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘My new name. You didn’t expect me to stay Pedro Hawkins, did you?’

  ‘I suppose not. So what have you chosen?’

  Pedro hugged his arms to his side. ‘It’s better than that. I think I’ve rediscovered my true name.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Mr Equiano. When I told him about my family – about my father being a king – he asked around among the African brothers and they came up with the answer. He thinks I’m probably an Amakye. I’m keeping Pedro – Mr Equiano told me it means “rock” and I was the rock that Mr Hawkins hit so that seems fitting. So Pedro Amakye it is.’

  ‘Pedro Amakye. I like it.’

  ‘So do I.’

  Looking at my friend, free of the burden of slavery for the first time in his life, standing in the centre of London, his adopted home, I felt an exuberant joy bubble up inside me. We had to mark the moment. ‘Well, we’ll need to baptise you then,’ I said pulling him towards the church.

  Pedro frowned. ‘I’ve been done once. I don’t think they’ll do it again.’

  I began to laugh. ‘Then it will have to be in snowflakes. See if you can catch one on your tongue.’

  Pedro snuggled down inside his fur-lined cloak – his Christmas gift from Signor Angelini who understood what it was like to come from a warmer climate. ‘That’s a strange baptism. My tongue’ll freeze.’

  ‘Chicken!’ I stuck my tongue out and caught a fat flake on its tip. ‘Mmm, angel food!’

  ‘Not very satisfying – I prefer hot meat and puddings,’ he said, thinking of the feast that was being prepared for us in Grosvenor Square after his last performance as Ariel tonight.

  ‘Try it!’ I urged him. ‘You might like it.’

  ‘If you ask me, anything.’ Pedro grinned and stuck out his tongue. ‘De-licious!’

  ‘What does it taste like?’

  He linked arms with me. ‘It tastes of . . . of friendship, of freedom – it’s iced Bach, melting Mozart – and all things wonderful!’ He began to whirl me round until it seemed that we were the only still things in the spinning world. ‘It tastes of a new start, of dazzling success – it’s Pedro Amakye.’ He let go and I pirouetted on the ice before collapsing in a dizzy, laughing heap.

  Giving me a tug to my feet, he began to run towards a flock of cold pigeons huddled together in the centre of the piazza. ‘Come on, Cat! Now the baptism’s over, let’s see how far we can slide!’

  With a shriek, we hurtled into the flock, arms flailing, shoes skidding. Startled, the pigeons flapped into the air and circled out to the boundless skies.

  To the elements be free, and fare thou well.

  Curtain falls.

  ARTICLES OF APPRENTICESHIP – agreement drawn up with a master to teach a boy a trade

  BACK SLANG IT OUT OF SOMEWHERE – to make a rapid exit

  BALDERDASH – a load of rubbish

  BAMBOOZLE – to outfox, pull the wool over someone’s eyes

  BANTLING – a brat, an illegitimate child

  BARNABY DANCE – an odd shuffle, like a couple of dancing jesters

  BASKET OF CHIPS – a broad grin

  BEAK – magistrate (to be avoided at all costs)

  BILLINGSGATE – fishmarket on the north bank of the Thames

  BLACK-BALLED – excluded, cut out – the members in gentlemen’s clubs use a system where a white ball means you’re voted in, black out. Dr Juniper is certainly a candidate for black.

  BOW STREET RUNNERS – the magistrate’s men who police the streets around Westminster (not my favourite people)

  BREECHES ROLE – girls playing boys on stage

  BROOK’S – an exclusive gentlemen’s (though I have my doubts about some of its members) club known for its gambling

  CANISTER – head (and some of us have a lot more in our canisters than others)

  CANTING CREW – informal society of thieves with its own code of honour

  CAPITAL TOPPER – top-rate drinker

  CARD SHARP – someone who’s handy with the pack, a professional trickster

  CLAPHAM – village on outskirts of London, home to many abolitionists

  CLOUGH’S – my boarding house at Westminster School

  TO CUT A CAPER ON NOTHING – dance of death on the scaffold

  TO DIE DAMNED HARD AND BOLD AS BRASS – praise often given to a condemned person’s brazen attitude on the scaffold

  FAG – a kind of schoolboy skivvy

  FLASH – showy, rich

  TO FLING ONE’S CAP AFTER – to make a hopeless appeal for something

  GADSO – ah yes, oh dear, sorry about that . . . see within for Frank’s explanation

  GOOD PASTING – to be well and truly beaten (and don’t I know how it feels!)

  TO HOP THE TWIG – to get going

  HOYDEN – boisterous girl (a term that’s been applied to me – I can’t think why . . .)

  JARVEY – hackney cab driver

  LIGHTER – flat-bottomed boat used to ferry cargo to and from ships

  MIDDLE PASSAGE – second leg of three-part trading voyage that takes slaves from Africa to the West Indies

  MONIKER – name, title

  NAN BOY – a boy about whom you entertain doubts as to his manliness

  NOUS – intelligence, knowledge

  OTTLEY’S – a second-rate boarding house at Westminster School

  PANTHEON – a ballroom, now on the slide (especially since Billy bought into it)

  PISSPOT BULLY – small-scale, vulgar bully (an accurate description of Richmond, don’t you think?)

  THE PIT – lowest level in the theatre, frequented by gentlemen and those aspiring to be counted in that class

  THE POOL – moorings in the Thames

  POPPYCOCK – rubbish, nonsense

  QUEER COVE – strange gent

  RATS’ CASTLE – decrepit building in middle of the Rookeries

  ROOKERIES – also known as St Giles, a desperate and dangerous place

  RUM ’UN – odd person

  SHADOW – new boy looked after by a ‘substance’ or older boy at school

  SKIVVY – me most of the time – downtrodden maid of all work

  STOCK-IN-TRADE – what one does for a living

  SUBSTANCE – older boy sponsor at school

  THEATRE ROYAL, DRURY LANE – the best theatre in the world. And my home, just off Covent Garden

  TENTER GROUND – place for stretching out cloth

  TRAP – magistrate’s man (NB also to be avoided)

  VAPOURS – fainting fit, to be overcome, hysterical (NB only for rich girls)

  WESTMINSTER SCHOOL – supposedly a place of learning for young gentlemen; in truth a den of floggers and bullies

  WIPE – handkerchief

  London and Paris, 1791

  Curtain rises.

  MOVING ON

  In the theatre, there comes a moment when we bid goodbye to a play. The scripts are put back on the shelf, the scenery dismantled, the actors move on to new roles. Yesterday, my life at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, came to the end of its run.

  What can I say to you, Reader? For me, everything is over.

  I admit that I’m scared. I don’t know what I shall do. I wasn’t prepared for such a sudden termination to the life I thought I was going to lead. And so strange to think that the curtain was brought down with such a simple question.

  Mr Sheridan caught me in the corridor backstage as I carried the actresses’ wigs out of the powder room. ‘Cat, come here. Tell me what you think.’
>
  From the stage came the sounds of the orchestra tuning up. My friend Pedro would already be in his place, sitting with the other violinists. Counting the audience we were expecting a full house. Backstage was abuzz with excitement as the moment of performance approached. I really didn’t have time to linger but my patron, Mr Sheridan, could not be denied. He hauled me into his office, snatched the tray, and dumped it unceremoniously on the floor.

  ‘Watch it, sir! I’ll get skinned if anything happens to those!’ I protested as I tried to prevent many guineas’ worth of powdered curls tumbling on to the hearth.

  ‘No, no, forget about those,’ he said, heedless in his enthusiasm. ‘I want you to be one of the first to see the plans,’ and he hooked me by the elbow and propelled me to the desk.

  ‘Fifteen minutes!’ called the stage manager outside. Three actors rushed by, not yet in costume. They’d obviously lingered too long in the Players’ Tavern.

  On the scuffed leather surface of the desk lay a sheaf of crackling white parchment scored with lines and tiny numbers.

  ‘So?’ Mr Sheridan asked, rubbing his hands eagerly, looking across at me, his brown eyes sparkling.

  He evidently wanted my opinion – a fact that I would have found flattering if I hadn’t been in such a rush to deliver the wigs; the actresses would not thank me if I made them late for their first entrance. I had better get this over with. I turned my mind to the papers in front of me. It was clearly a design for a grand building of some sort – a palace perhaps. Maybe Mr Sheridan’s extravagant friend the Prince of Wales had yet another construction project in his sights?

  ‘Er . . . what is it?’ I asked.