The Diamond of Drury Lane (7 page)

‘I shouldn’t have told you that. Forget it.’

‘Of course I can’t forget it! You’d better tell me
now . . . or I’ll ask Mr Sheridan himself.’

‘You wouldn’t!’

‘Would!’ His face was determined, ruthless even. I believed him capable of anything at that moment.

‘I’ll tell you if you promise to keep it a secret.’ He nodded, giving me a solemn bow, hand on heart. ‘Well, Mr Sheridan has hidden a treasure in the theatre and I’m looking after it for him.’

‘Where is it?’ he asked eagerly.

I then remembered what Pedro said about running away to France with the jewels from his turban and was therefore thankful to be able to deny all knowledge of its exact location.

‘I don’t know. But I’m to tell him if anyone comes sneaking around to look for it.’

He gave me a queer look, perhaps wondering if I meant him. ‘I’ll help you,’ he said. ‘It sounds exciting. Perhaps we’ll get a reward if we catch someone after it.’

I shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ I looked away to the auditorium and saw that it was almost full. ‘Hadn’t you better get changed? The performance is about to start.’

Pedro brushed the crumbs off his lap and bowed again.

‘Tonight I will play for you, Cat,’ he said gallantly as he left the box.

As I watched him go, I wondered about my new friend, for I supposed that was what he was after all we had been through today. Pedro was the most unusual boy I’d ever met and I wasn’t talking about his skin colour. I couldn’t forget the music that poured from his violin that morning: he seemed to be in touch with something much greater than anything I knew, something almost holy. That was it, I thought with a smile as I realised what image I was feeling my way towards: he was like a priest, a priest of music, superior to the rest of us who had never gone beyond the veil into the Holy of Holies. That was until you mentioned money to him . . . that brought him straight back to earth among the rest of us. I wouldn’t be encouraging him to think any more about the diamond . . . that had been a big mistake.

Mr Sheridan had not yet arrived, though I
expected him to come for the first night of the balloon farce,
The Mogul’s Tale
, after the main play. This meant I had the delicious luxury of the box to myself. I sat in his chair and played with the opera glasses. I trained them on the Pit, picking out the men on the seats below as they chewed on handfuls of nuts and oranges. Jonas Miller, the clerk from across the road, a pinched-nose youth with straggly fair hair and a poor complexion, was here again, sitting at the end of the bench just under my box. He must spend all his wages on tickets. Jonas was a fanatic about the theatre and was famous for his devotion to Miss Stageldoir, sending her weekly offerings of nosegays and other tokens of his affection. She ignored him, of course, saying that he was only a clerk with ideas above his station. I could have added that he was a louse who never missed an opportunity to insult those below him. As I was somewhere near the bottom of life’s pile, that meant he treated me cruelly when our paths crossed, either directing some foul remark in my direction or pushing me roughly out of his way. Jonas was at present sitting
next to a dark-suited young man, both with eyes trained on a pamphlet in their laps. Deciding to have my revenge by abusing my position of power, I focused the glasses to spy on the paper they were looking at. It was only a caricature . . . some crude picture lampooning the government or the Royal Family. I bent closer to the edge of the box to listen to what they were saying.

‘Captain Sparkler’s been at it again,’ cried Jonas. ‘Look at what he’s done to the king. He looks like a sack of Norfolk potatoes. What’s this? He’s only gone and drawn him squatting on “the dung heap of history”. Ouch! That’s a bit bold, ain’t it?’

‘The French king doesn’t look very happy though,’ said the other. ‘I’m not sure French liberty is to his liking.’

‘I’m all for a bit of French revolutionary spirit here, aren’t you, Reuben? Shake up the old orders . . . give us young men a chance. After all,
we
are the future of this country, not that old German fart, the king.’

Reuben looked about him nervously. ‘Ssh!’ he hissed. ‘Someone might hear you! They’ve got
people out looking for troublemakers. You know you could be carted off to the Tower for insulting the king? Not to mention being hanged, drawn and quartered for treason.’

‘They wouldn’t dare,’ bragged Jonas, though I noticed he had dropped his voice despite his bold words. ‘They’re too scared of us . . . afraid we’ll do to them what the Frenchies have done to their king, making him come at their beck and call. And we might.’ Jonas tried to swell impressively, but to my eye he just looked a bullfrog, croaking out empty threats.

He was wasting his breath. The mob would never treat King George like the French had their Louis. And as for putting him on the dung heap, that was impossible! Britain without a king was as inconceivable as London without its theatres. Hadn’t we tried it with Cromwell and decided we rather liked royalty after all? It was just a shame Jonas’s concern for the underclasses did not stretch to those under him, I thought, turning my attention to the more interesting events on the stage. The orchestra filed in. It had gone six-thirty:
the performance was starting at last.

I had a long wait to see both Pedro and the balloon as I first had to sit through
The Haunted Tower
, a dark Gothic opera that I did not rate much higher than the productions of Mr Salter’s pen, but at least the audience seemed to like it. Mr Kemble made sure there was plenty of fake blood and screaming to keep them happy.

A door opened behind me in the fifth act and I had to scramble out of my chair to make way for Mr Sheridan. He was accompanied by a gentleman and two young people, a boy and a girl a few years older than me, both finely dressed. As I ducked out of the way, I caught a glimpse of the sky blue silk of the girl’s lace-edged gown and felt a pang of envy. I had never owned anything so beautiful in my entire life.

‘Keeping my seat warm for me, were you, Cat?’ joked Mr Sheridan.

‘Yes, sir.’ I bobbed a curtsey, knowing better than to presume upon his kindness in the presence of outsiders. The boy was staring at me with undisguised curiosity as if I was something
intriguing in a cage in the zoological garden.

‘Run along then,’ Mr Sheridan said, shooing me away. ‘Make room for Lord Francis and Lady Elizabeth.’

Not needing to be told twice, I quit the box. The rich masters had come to throw out the servant. With no revolution here to change the old ways in my favour, I would have to find another vantage point from which to watch Pedro.

Sneaking downstairs, I crept through the door into the Pit. Respectable girls did not usually come down here, so I grabbed a pile of theatre bills from Sally Hubbard, the doorkeeper, and stood by the entrance, pretending to be there to sell them.

Things were not going well for me if I was to get my wish of seeing Pedro and the balloon. It was now so crowded (standing room only) that I could barely see the stage, being several feet shorter than the men surrounding me. One portly gentleman standing at the very back noticed my predicament as I hopped from foot to foot. He offered his assistance in a most gentlemanlike manner and lifted me up on to a pillar by the entrance where I
could hang on by the candle bracket. I now had a superb view over everyone’s heads to the stage. I smiled my thanks to him and he tipped his hat most courteously to me.

At last the curtain rose. The stage was empty. On realising this, the men in the Pit began to mutter angrily to each other. They had been promised a spectacle such as they had never seen before in the theatre and now it looked as though they had been duped. I smiled to myself, knowing they were about to witness something that would rival the feats of the most daring rope-walkers at Bartholomew Fair.

The orchestra struck up an oriental tune, evoking the exotic East, the land of moguls and tigers, diamonds and spices. The grumbling died away. Then, from the very roof of the stage, a long rope tumbled down, a small anchor at its end. It fell on the stage with a clatter. Next came a creaking of ropes and shouts of ‘’Ware below!’ and the basket of the balloon appeared suspended above the stage, swaying slightly. The crowd gasped. Slowly, without a hitch, the basket came
down, Mr Andrews, its sole passenger, saluting the audience as it inched to the floor. I held my breath: had Mr Bishop really solved the problem with the ropes? I wondered. Now the silken canopy came into sight and the crowd cheered and began to applaud wildly, standing on the benches to whistle their approval.

‘Capital!’ bellowed my kind gentleman, mopping his forehead with his handkerchief. The heat of the audience’s enthusiasm was making the Pit quite sultry.

The basket touched down and Mr Andrews, a tall man famed for his comic roles, leapt out and bowed. Everyone whistled and clapped.

‘Encore! Again!’ cried many voices around me.

Mr Andrews held up his hand for silence. The hubbub was quickly stilled.

‘I am one John Smith, a poor English balloonist. I earn an honest living by offering rides in my craft in Green Park in that greatest of cities, London,’ (a cheer from the partisan London audience). ‘But one day, as I mounted in my balloon, I was blown by a sudden wind to the east.
I wonder to what fair country I have been carried? I shall explore before
I return
.’ He gave the last words special emphasis and winked at the front rows, in effect promising them another balloon ride at the end of the piece. Placated, the gentlemen resumed their seats and gave him their attention.

The farce was absurd and simple: John Smith has landed in the harem of the Great Mogul and is caught by the palace guards. Threatened with death, his only hope is to persuade the Great Mogul himself to spare him. The mogul, played by Mr Kemble, turns out to be not a monstrous tyrant but a man of learning and mercy. He frees John Smith in return for a balloon ride. Straightforward enough stuff, providing plenty of opportunities for the ballet and musicians to show off their prowess at the exotic style now much in vogue. But where was Pedro? I wondered as the minutes ticked by. The play was nearing its end and he had still not done his turn.

‘And now,’ declared the mogul, interrupting my thoughts, ‘I will show you the greatest wonder of
my kingdom. My son and heir will entertain you before you depart.’ He clapped his hands and two pantalooned slaves entered, carrying a chest on poles built to resemble the bulbous towers of an eastern potentate’s palace.

What an introduction! Pedro had been pitched against the balloon. If he wanted to make his mark, he would have to produce something to rival that silken ball of hot air. I clenched my fingernails into my palm, my heart pounding for him.

The slaves lifted the lid of the casket and there was a blinding flash as two firework fountains burst into flame, spilling glowing white sparks on to the stage. With great agility, Pedro leapt over the trail of hissing embers and landed neatly centre stage. The silks and satins of his robe gleamed richly and the jewels in his turban flashed with fire to match the scintillating sparks of the fireworks. With the same swiftness I had seen him use that morning, he produced his violin as if from thin air and tucked it under his chin. He then began to play, a new piece full of such haunting melodies and strange harmonies that I was at once
transported to the India of my imagination: a land of palaces, unimaginable riches, heavily-laden merchant ships at anchor, a beating sun. I cannot have been the only one so transfixed for the audience was absolutely silent, hanging on every note that issued from his instrument like a stream of liquid gold sound.

Pedro finished and there was a pause. Had I misjudged the audience’s reaction? Then the house erupted into tumultuous applause, stamping, cheering and whistling, crying for an encore. Pedro was ready. He launched himself into a new melody, spinning faster and faster as the tune gathered pace. The audience cheered and clapped in time to the beat until it got too fast for them to keep up. The music and Pedro’s wild spinning came to a stop at the same triumphant moment and applause rang out once more.

It took some minutes before the play was able to resume. When the noise had simmered down, Mr Andrews gave his farewell speech and climbed into the basket.

‘Farewell! See you in Green Park!’ he
shouted, waving cheerfully to the audience. They waved back and then waited. We all waited. It became clear something was wrong with the pulley system once more. The play was about to end with a flop.

Suddenly, Pedro leapt into action. Abandoning his violin in the hands of a startled Mr Kemble, he jumped into the basket and shinned his way up the nearest rope. The audience began to murmur, wondering if this was all part of the act. Mr Kemble seized the moment.

‘Look, my son goes to ask the gods to allow the balloon of the Christian barbarian to return to his damp island,’ the Great Mogul declaimed, waving the violin bow at the ceiling.

The crowd laughed and cheered the Mogul Prince as he climbed up and disappeared under the silken canopy. Then the slack ropes of the grounded balloon began to shake. I guessed that Pedro was adjusting them in the tackle above. Only a minute or so had passed and Pedro re-emerged, sliding rapidly down the rope to spring to the floor.

‘Are the gods content to let this heathenish contraption rise again?’ asked the mogul.

Pedro gave a nod, his ostrich feather agreeing with him vigorously over his head.

‘Then, farewell, stranger!’ cried the mogul. He clapped his hands twice, Mr Andrew gave a slightly nervous wave to the spectators, and the balloon creaked once more into action. As it disappeared up into the roof, the actors and audience all tilted their heads to watch and the curtain fell.

‘Amazing!’ cried my gentleman, clapping and cheering with the best of them despite his advanced years. ‘In all my days, I’ve never seen the like! Did you enjoy it, my dear?’

‘It was wonderful!’ I said sincerely, accepting his hand to jump down from my vantage point. ‘And Pedro was brilliant.’

‘Pedro?’ he asked, his eyebrow cocked with interest.