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 come 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.