Checking his paper, he wrote a list of names up on the board. I heaved a sigh of relief – mine was not among the principal characters. I’d been worried that Mr Castleton’s admiration of my reading skills would propel me into the limelight at the biggest social event of the school calendar. ‘That’s it for the men,’ he said, stepping back. ‘But this play is really about the women of Greece, about the loyalty of a sister to her fallen brother, so those of you chosen for these parts should not be ashamed.’ My heart sank. I knew what was coming. And I was right. I was to play the lead, Electra.
‘And I have some more news for you all,’ Mr Castleton continued. ‘We have a very special guest attending our first rehearsal this afternoon: His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales. As old boys will know, he takes a keen interest in the play and has seen several of our productions. He’s sent word that he’s bringing Mr Sheridan, the great playwright himself, to give our young actors some tips.’ A murmur of enthusiasm swept across the room. But my heart was in my boots. ‘So we want to have an “electra-fying” performance, don’t we, to impress our guests?’ Mr Castleton’s eyes rested on me.
‘Yes, sir,’ we intoned.
Electrifying it would be. I couldn’t imagine what Mr Sheridan would think seeing me cavorting on the stage at Westminster School, pretending to be a boy cast as a girl. It would certainly send a few sparks through his system.
‘You’ll spend the lesson looking over your parts. Any questions?’
How quickly can I make a run for it? was the thought uppermost in my mind, but I had to sit it out till the end of the lesson. My attempt to leave on the bell was ruined by Mr Castleton.
‘Hengrave, a word.’
I walked reluctantly to the front of the class. Fatty Ingels pushed roughly past me but Mr Castleton steadied me before I toppled over.
‘About last week,’ he began. ‘You don’t think what happened will mar your performance, do you? Are you quite recovered?’
He was just worried about his damned play. Where had I seen that obsession about the stage before? Oh yes, I remembered: backstage at Drury Lane. I smiled.
‘I’m fine, sir.’
‘Good, good. Then come with me now. I want to present you to our guests before the rehearsal so they can meet our new young star.’
‘No!’ I gave a strangled cry.
‘Don’t be silly, boy. They won’t eat you.’ Mr Castleton seized my arm, ignoring all the excuses I stammered out, and towed me over to the headmaster’s office. He knocked respectfully on the door.
‘Come!’ bellowed Dr Vincent.
Mr Castleton, still gripping me firmly by the elbow, entered the room and gave a low bow to the assembled company. I bowed too, keeping myself hidden by the door. The Prince of Wales stood in the centre of the room, dressed in a holly berry red jacket, shiny black boots and snowy white shirt loaded with so much lace that his small head looked like a raisin floating on whipped cream.
‘So is this the promising young actor you mentioned, Castleton?’ said Prince George. ‘We were telling Sherry here –’ he waved to his left ‘that you could certainly do with an injection of talent. Last year’s female lead had a broken voice that squeaked like a battered old organ and he looked like the organ grinder’s monkey too.’
Everyone but me laughed. I could not see Mr Sheridan yet – the door still shielded me – but I could hear his rich chuckle blending with the other gentlemen. It wouldn’t be long now.
‘Yes, this is he, your highness.’ Mr Castleton gave me a firm shove in the back and I was propelled further into the room. I gave a low bow. What else could I do? Mr Sheridan gasped, then went into a violent coughing fit.
‘You all right, Sherry?’ asked the prince with concern.
‘A glass of wine, Mr Sheridan?’ offered Dr Vincent, hastily filling one of his best glasses with his finest vintage.
‘I’ll say “yes” for him, headmaster,’ said the prince. ‘After all, he never says “no”.’
Mr Sheridan’s coughing fit subsiding, the prince turned back to me. ‘The boy will certainly look the part, but can he act?’ he asked Mr Castleton.
‘Oh yes, sir. He’s only been with us for a short time but he reads with such passion and sense – it’s a joy to hear.’
My eyes slid to Mr Sheridan. It was some relief to know that he hadn’t shouted out my true identity the moment he saw me. His eyes were on me, an expression of – what was it? – of pride in them? I risked a quizzical look. He gave me a slight nod.
‘So, boy, how did you learn to act so well?’ the prince asked me.
‘I had some very good teachers, your highness,’ I said, glancing back at Mr Sheridan. He now gave me a broad smile.
‘Where are you from, boy?’
‘From Dru –, from Dublin,’ I amended.
‘He’s one of the Hengraves from Leinster, your highness,’ said Dr Vincent, picking up a letter from the top of the pile on his desk and waving it. ‘You may remember his mother – Lady Ann Hengrave. She was a lady-in-waiting to your mother before her marriage.’
The Prince of Wales nodded vaguely. Clearly he did not spend much time thinking about his mother’s household. My thoughts were far from vague, however, as my eyes fixed on the envelope in Dr Vincent’s hand: the letter had arrived, but the seal was not yet broken. Time for Tom Cat to hop the twig.
But I had not reckoned on Mr Sheridan having a bit of fun with me now he had recovered from his surprise.
‘So, young Hengrave,’ he said the name with relish, ‘what kind of roles do see yourself most suited to?’
‘Feste, sir – the fool,’ I replied quickly.
‘What about Viola? Or Rosalind? Or Portia?’ He’d named all the most famous breeches roles in Shakespeare.
‘Oh no. Perhaps Brutus in Julius Caesar.’
‘Whatever for?’ asked Mr Sheridan, grinning at me as he sensed what was coming.
‘He gets to stab his patron in the back when the patron proves too annoying.’
‘Very good,’ chuckled Sheridan. ‘I’ll remember that when we next meet, young Hengrave.’
‘Poppycock, Sherry,’ said the prince, snapping his fingers. ‘The child can’t play Brutus. You stick to the women’s parts while you’re young, boy. You won’t be able to play them when you sprout a beard, you know.’