The Diamond of Drury Lane (4 page)

Peter looked about him but could only spot the familiar faces of his colleagues.

‘Where is he? What does he play?’ he asked.

Signor Angelini did not answer; he clapped his hands twice again and barked, ‘Pedro, come!’ The main doors to the auditorium swung open and a small figure could be seen silhouetted against the daylight streaming in from outside. The newcomer made his way confidently down the aisle to the orchestra pit and bowed low to Signor Angelini. With lightning swiftness, he then undid the case he held clutched under his arm, took out a violin and bow, and stood, feet apart, ready to play.

The new player was a boy no older than me, but he had the darkest skin of any child I had ever seen. Dressed in yellow and blue livery, his skin gleamed like the ebony notes on the pianoforte. I realised then that he must be from Africa, one of the people taken forcibly from their homes to work as slaves on the plantations of the West Indies. You’ve doubtless read about them since the recent exertions of the Abolitionists to bring their plight
to the public’s attention. But how he had ended up in Drury Lane with a violin under his chin was anyone’s guess.

‘Who’s the boy, maestro?’ asked Peter dubiously, eying the violin as if it might explode at any moment.

‘Is this a joke?’ muttered the horn player, an unpleasant fellow who played his instrument most crudely (Peter has nicknamed him the brass-belcher but I would be grateful if you did not pass this on). ‘It’s bad enough with those bare-legged hoydens flitting about in the ballet; surely you don’t expect us to play with performing monkeys too?’ He scowled at Pedro, but the boy did not flinch. Pedro kept his gaze fixed on the conductor, his posture confident and dignified, though from the tightening of a muscle in his jaw I could tell he was offended.

‘Tcht!’ hissed Signor Angelini, waving an angry finger at the horn player. ‘Enough of your rudeness, barbarian. The boy can play like an angel. Pedro, start at the first movement.’

The horn player snorted scornfully. Now firmly
on the boy’s side, I watched with bated breath as he took a moment to compose himself. He then launched into the piece, making the notes dance and flutter about the strings in a cloud of butterfly melodies, wiping the sneer off the face of the horn player.

‘Enough,’ interrupted Signor Angelini, cutting the stream of music off abruptly with a flick of his baton. ‘The opening of the second, if you please.’

Pedro took a deep breath, eyes closed, and now made his violin sing with such sweet sadness that I felt a sob rise in my throat. After only a few passages, Peter wept unashamedly into his white handkerchief, his shoulders heaving with emotion. Even the noises from the stage crew had stopped as Mr Bishop and his men stood still to listen to the performance.

‘Now the end of the third,’ said the conductor, looking round at the subdued audience with a triumphant smile.

The boy raised his bow and set off at a terrific pace, a virtuoso dash through the music, taking every obstacle in his path like a thoroughbred
horse. Sweat beaded on his brow as he came to the conclusion, making the bow fly so fast that it became a blur. He finished on three victorious notes and was rewarded by the spontaneous applause of the orchestra and stage crew, as well as myself.

‘Very impressive!’ said Peter loudly. ‘That was Mozart as he should be played.’

Pedro, who had been studiously avoiding anyone’s eye but Signor Angelini’s, now shot a grateful look towards the first violin. The two musicians had come to a mutual understanding.

‘Indeed, Mr Dodsley,’ said the signor. ‘But,
tristemente
, Pedro will not be sitting with you to play Mozart. ’E will be playing the part of the Mogul Prince in the farce.’ The signor tapped his music stand with his baton. ‘Attention, gentlemen! Let us start at bar thirty.’

The music rehearsal now properly under way, I drifted off to see how work on the balloon was progressing. The stagehands were groaning in the wings as they tugged like mariners hoisting a sail, making the machine rise and fall slowly. I
approached Mr Bishop with caution.

‘Will it work?’ I asked tentatively. I was never sure of my reception from Mr Bishop. Mostly he tolerated me, but occasionally he would scold me as a useful vent for his anger if he was having a bad day.

Perhaps the music had mellowed him, but he appeared to be in a good humour.

‘It might,’ he said, thoughtfully scratching his chin, examining the ropes and pulleys stretching up to the galleries above.

‘Can I be of assistance? I mean, would you like to try it with someone inside?’

Mr Bishop looked down at me, calculating my weight. ‘That’s not a bad idea. You’re a fraction of the weight of Mr Andrews, so it would give the lads something to practise on before we try the full burden. In you go, Cat.’

With a shout to his men, he lifted me into the basket and stood back.

‘Take her away!’ he ordered.

With a jolt, the basket began to move slowly up from the floor, ropes creaking in the blocks above.
This must be what it is like to fly, I thought. I could see the will-o’-the-wisp lights of the orchestra in the Pit below, the gleam of the whites of the African boy’s upturned eyes as he watched me rise above him. Even the vast stage began to look very small. The white cross that marked the trapdoor in the floor looked tiny from up here.

‘One more heave and that should do it!’ bellowed Mr Bishop, standing underneath to monitor my progress. I leant over the side to give him a cheery wave.

‘Aargh!’

It was my scream that echoed around the stage as the rope holding the front of the basket came away from its fastening, tipping its contents . . . me . . . out forwards head over heels. As I fell, I just managed to grab on to a handle on the rim of the basket and ended up dangling twenty feet from the ground.

‘Stop!’ yelled Mr Bishop.

The balloon lurched to a standstill. There was another jolt and the tackle holding a second rope gave way, snaking to the floor like a whip. The
orchestra ground to a dissonant halt.

‘Hang on Cat!’ Mr Bishop shouted quite unnecessarily. As if I was going to do anything else.

‘Can you lower her?’ he shouted into the wings.

‘The block’s jammed,’ Long Tom shouted back.

There was a hubbub of noise below me as people ran across the stage. Swinging like a pendulum, my skirts billowing in a most undignified manner, I clung on with my fingers, praying rescue would come quickly. Taking a terrifying glance downwards I saw one of the stage crew running on with a big piece of canvas, passing it out to the rest to form a net to catch me. Half the orchestra had also climbed on to the stage and were grabbing hold of the canvas. I felt sick with fear. Surely it was too far for me to fall even if they caught me?

Someone else must have been thinking the same thing for a new voice piped up.

‘She will break her neck if she jumps from there.’ It was the boy violinist. He leapt lightly on to the stage.

‘He’s right,’ chimed in Peter, climbing up
beside him. ‘Don’t you have a ladder?’

‘Not long enough,’ said Mr Bishop.

‘No need for a ladder,’ said Pedro.

As I twirled in the air, I watched the boy bound across the stage, nimble as a squirrel, leap on to the rope Long Tom had used to haul the basket into the air and begin shinning up it.

‘Somebody stop the boy. ’E’ll kill ’imself!’ shrieked Signor Angelini, but Pedro was far out of reach before anyone grabbed the rope.

He climbed right up into the roof to the jammed block of the pulley system and leapt across to transfer to the rope leading down to the basket. I gave renewed shrieks as the basket began to sway alarmingly, my grip sliding on the wicker weaving. Calmly, Pedro slithered down the rope to stand on the upturned edge of the basket. Twisting one leg around the rope, he stretched over the side and held out his arm to me.

‘Here, take my hand,’ he said, holding it out inches from mine.

‘I can’t!’ I whispered, now almost paralysed with fright. ‘I can’t let go.’

With an impatient whistle between his teeth, Pedro let himself slide a little further over the edge so that he was now dangling upside down alongside me.

‘Is that better?’ he asked cheerfully, grabbing both my wrists in his hands. ‘Trust me now?’

‘Yes,’ I gasped. I let go.

Like some bizarre circus act, we swung there for a few moments, Pedro upside down, me dangling in his grip, before he heaved me up on to the upright side of the basket.

‘Here, hold on to this,’ he said, placing my hands on the rope. ‘I’ll see if I can unblock it above.’

Now I was no longer hanging by my fingertips, my pride was returning. If Pedro could climb the ropes, then so could I.

‘No, I’ll follow you,’ I said, kicking off my leather shoes for greater grip. They tumbled to the ground, hitting someone in the crowd gathered below. The victim cursed loudly.

Pedro shook his head. ‘English girls don’t climb,’ he said. ‘Sit still.’

‘This one does.’ Not waiting for him, I started to shin up the rope as I had seen him do. It wasn’t easy: I had to fight off the silk canopy of the balloon as it billowed around me. But I’d been playing backstage all my life, climbing over bits of scenery and scaling the odd rope, if never one so high, so I refused to be put to shame by this newcomer. After all, I was the girl who had perfected the one-armed cartwheel during many hours playing alone on the empty stage. I could do it.

Or perhaps not.

I had clambered up to the tackle and seen what was to come next. I bit my lip. The jump that Pedro had made looked a very long way from here. A one-armed cartwheel was one thing; a leap across this chasm another.

‘Stay there, Catkin!’ someone shouted below. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’

But I could now feel Pedro’s breath literally hot on my heels. For the national honour, I had to do it. I held out my arm over the void, preparing to leap.

‘No good like that,’ Pedro panted below. ‘Swing closer.’

The rope began to sway. I glanced down and saw Pedro hanging off it to make it move to and fro, each time bringing us closer to the rope at the side of the stage. Catching on quickly, I began to copy him. The balloon and basket creaked ominously below. I could hear Mr Bishop clearing the stage in case something larger than my slipper fell on a head. But now the rope was almost within reach.

‘Ready?’ asked Pedro. ‘Next time, we go. I count to three . . . one, two, three!’

And we were off, both letting go with one hand to stretch across and hook the rope. Like acrobats, we hung straddled between the two ropes before swinging over to hold on to the one leading to the ground. Pedro slid down as if the rope was greased; I followed gingerly, having no desire to make a mistake at the last moment.

Mr Bishop was waiting to lift me to the floor.

‘I think you’d better not let Mr Andrews try it just yet,’ I panted with relief as my feet hit firm ground.

Mr Bishop scratched his head, pushing his wig on to the back of his head. ‘No, you’re right there, Cat. Back to the drawing board on the ropes.’

‘I didn’t notice that in the script,’ said Johnny Smith, coming forward to pat Pedro on the back. Johnny handed me my shoes with a rueful grin. I noticed that he had a red heel-shaped mark on his forehead.

Pedro shrugged; his face resumed its disengaged look. It made me think that he was probably used to being treated badly and found it safest to keep himself to himself. He didn’t know yet that he was among friends at Drury Lane. As he turned to leave the stage, I darted forward and caught him by the arm.

‘Thank you,’ I said, trying to coax a smile from him.

He looked at me with his large brown eyes and seemed on the point of saying something when the horn player blurted out:

‘What did I tell you? Performing monkeys . . . and now we’ve got two of them. And one of them wears a skirt!’

‘Hold your tongue, Harding,’ said Peter, his pale eyes flashing angrily at the offender.

I wheeled round, fists balled, ready to lash out at the horn player.

‘I didn’t see you risking your neck to save me,’ I said tartly. ‘At least there was one gentleman brave enough to do so.’

‘Gentleman! Pah!’ mocked Mr Harding, leering at me. ‘I saw no gentleman.’

‘Yes, gentleman,’ I said defiantly.

‘She’s right,’ chipped in Johnny from behind me. ‘It’s the manners that make the man, not the colour of his skin.’

The other musicians murmured their agreement, forcing Mr Harding to back down this time. He retreated to the orchestra pit, grumbling loudly. Satisfied that I had won this bout of verbal sparring, I turned back to speak to Pedro, but he had gone.

‘Where is ’e?’ asked Signor Angelini. ‘We still ’ave much to do!’

‘Perhaps he has gone to have his costume fitted?’ suggested Peter with a languid wave towards the rear of the stage. ‘You did tell him that Mrs Reid wanted to see him.’

‘Shall I go and look for him?’ I asked, eager to find out more about my rescuer.

Signor Angelini nodded. ‘If you would, Caterina. We ’ave wasted enough of time already this morning. If we do not want the music to be a farce as well as the play, we must work very ’ard.’