Pedro froze. Sprawled in the dust, his dark eyes looked up at me through the slits of his mask, wide with terror. It was his expression that made me feel afraid. I moved to the edge of the forestage and shaded my eyes from the guttering footlights, my heart beating unsteadily in my chest. Few things could stop Pedro in his tracks but this person had succeeded with no more than the sound of his voice.
‘And my, little gal, you ain’t bad neither – not that Kemble need worry for his position any time yet.’
A broad-shouldered man in a brown jacket and black breeches was making his way down the central aisle, an iron-tipped cane in his hand. As he approached, he seemed at first glance a handsome man, bronzed by the sun. But when he stepped into the pool of light by the orchestra, I saw his eyes were hard, the lines around his mouth cruel. Black hair shot with grey straggled from beneath his hat. He walked as if he owned the place – it annoyed me intensely.
I bobbed a curtsey. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but the theatre’s closed until six,’ I said tartly, clearly signalling that he was not wanted here, whoever he was.
He waved me away with his cane like a bothersome fly.
‘I ain’t here for no play. I’m here to reclaim my property.’
Thinking he had probably dropped something in the scrum to get out the night before, I asked more politely than he deserved: ‘What have you lost, sir? Perhaps I can fetch it for you?’
He gave a belly laugh. ‘Maybe you can, missy. I’ve come for my slave – Pedro Hawkins.’
I heard a whimper as Pedro scrambled to his feet. Clasping my hands behind me I made rapid ‘get going’ gestures, giving him the chance to back slang it out of the theatre.
‘Your slave? I think you must’ve made a mistake.’
‘I don’t make mistakes,’ said Hawkins, moving closer. ‘He’s my boy and I’m coming to get him.’
‘Is that so, sir? Well, I’m sorry, but you can’t have him,’ I replied airily.
‘Oh, can’t I?’ With unexpected agility for one so large, the man bounded across the orchestra pit and clambered on to the stage. I retreated a step to prevent him following Pedro into the wings. ‘A bantling like you won’t stop me getting what’s mine,’ he added, swiping the cane at me. I tried not to flinch.
‘Of course not, sir,’ I replied, my tone studiously polite. ‘What I’m trying to tell you, sir, is that the Ariel you just saw isn’t your boy Pedro.’
‘No?’ the man said sarcastically. We were now doing a strange sort of Barnaby dance: shuffling to and fro as I blocked his attempts to set off in pursuit.
‘No. Sadly, Pedro Hawkins died of a fever last Monday. That was the understudy you saw.’
‘Balderdash!’
‘It’s God’s honest truth, sir,’ (said with fingers crossed behind back). ‘I can understand your confusion – what with the costume and the mask. But black boys are ten a penny round here. We keep a few in stock in case they up and die in this cold climate as they so often do.’
He wasn’t fooled. ‘Let me at him then – I’ll soon tell you if it’s him or no.’
‘I can’t, sir. I’m not allowed to let anyone backstage. I’ll be fined five shillings if I do.’
He felt in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. ‘Here, this’ll more than make up for any fine. Now let me by, or I’ll stop being so reasonable.’
I ignored the coins. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘Out of my way!’ His bloodshot eyes glaring, he raised the cane.
‘No!’ I stared back at him, my chin thrust forward. I wasn’t going to let a big bully like him lay hands on Pedro! The man then lunged, grabbing me by the scruff of the neck. His sudden resort to violence caught me unprepared. I was dangling in his grip like a puppet with broken strings and could do nothing but curse him. How dare he lay hands on me!
‘You know what we do with pert gals like you back where I come from?’ he hissed, thrusting his cane under my chin. ‘We teach ’em a lesson with this.’ He jabbed me hard on the jaw. ‘That’ll stop your mouth.’
‘What, sir, are you doing to that child?’ a voice roared from off-stage. Mr Kemble strode on to the boards decked out in the crimson robe of the magician, his face made up a startling white with dark eyebrows over flashing black eyes. Power seemed to radiate from him.
‘Teaching her some manners,’ said the man. He shook me like a terrier with a rat in its mouth.
‘He’s trying to get backstage, sir! He’s trying to steal Ariel!’ I squeaked.
‘Put her down this instant!’ boomed the actor-manager.
‘Bring me the boy first.’
‘You’re talking rubbish, man. Put her down.’
‘I told him Pedro died last week but he won’t believe me,’ I added, half-suffocating under his grip on my neck.
Mr Kemble raised an eyebrow but said nothing to refute the lie.
‘Hold your tongue,’ snarled the man. ‘Don’t think for one moment that you can bamboozle Kingston Hawkins, you little witch. The boy is mine by law. You’re keeping him here against my will.’
Mr Kemble took a step closer. ‘The boy you are talking about is . . . was an apprentice bound to my musical director, Signor Angelini.’
‘Your Angelini’s a macaroni-eating fool. He wouldn’t know a genuine agreement if it bit him on the ass. The man who sold Pedro to him had no darn right to do so. The boy’s mine, I tell you, dead or alive, and no jumped-up player can tell me otherwise!’
Jumped-up player! I kicked hard at his shins in my outrage – he had insulted the most admired actor in the land! But in doing so I only earned myself another shake.