‘Sorry, miss. I was delayed by Mr Sheridan,’ I replied meekly, battling through the ballerinas to reach her.
Miss Stageldoir curled her pretty lips sceptically. She had a patch on her cheek like a squashed fly, hiding a pox mark that spoiled her alabaster skin (this too came out of a bottle – she was really as red-faced as a laundry woman when seen in daylight). ‘Put it on me then, girl.’
I lifted the wig from the tray, trying to blow off some of the soot before she noticed, and lowered it on to her head like the Archbishop of Canterbury crowning the king. She stared at her reflection.
‘What have you done, you slattern!’ She wheeled round and slapped my face hard. ‘You’ve ruined it!’
Mrs Reid bustled forward to break up the commotion. ‘What’s the matter, Miss Stageldoir?’ she said soothingly. I rubbed my cheek, boiling with resentment, but bit my tongue.
‘The dirty little beggar’s spoiled my wig! How can I go on stage looking like a chimney sweep?’
‘I can mend that in a trice with some powder. Just sit tight.’ Mrs Reid clucked and fussed over Miss Stageldoir’s head. She enveloped the actress in a cloud of white dust as she repaired the damage. ‘Look! As good as new.’
‘Hmm.’ Miss Stageldoir turned her face this way and that. ‘I suppose it’ll do, but make sure you punish the girl: it could have ruined my performance.’
As if it needed me to spoil it – she did that well enough herself.
‘I will, you can be certain of that.’ Mrs Reid glared at me.
This was so unfair!
‘But it wasn’t me, Mrs Reid. Mr Sheridan dropped the tray when he took me into his office.’
Mrs Reid raised her eyebrows, taking in my crooked cap. ‘What was he doing with you in his office on your own?’
Two of the dancers giggled as they brushed past. I blushed and tugged my cap back into place. ‘He wanted to show me his plans.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes, plans for the new theatre,’ I continued loudly, savouring the moment when I would fire my broadside. ‘He’s closing Drury Lane and knocking it down. On 4th June to be precise. We’ve all got to move.’
You could have heard a pin drop. In fact, several did tumble from Miss Stageldoir’s head as she jerked back in her chair to stare at me in disbelief.
‘What did you say?’ she hissed.
‘It’s the end. Drury Lane is doomed. The curtain falls. Can I put it any clearer for you . . . miss?’
She missed my rudeness in her surprise. ‘But where are we going? Will we lose our positions?’ she exclaimed.
An excited babble broke out in all quarters as the cast began to discuss their fate. Sooty wigs forgotten, the news spread as dancers darted off to whisper it to their boyfriends among the stage-hands. Soon there was no corner of the theatre that did not know what was afoot, no doubt as Mr Sheridan had intended when he chose to tell me first.
‘Five minutes to curtain up! Beginners, please,’ called the stage manager as he tried to hush the hubbub behind the scenes.
Miss Stageldoir swept past me without a word, her velvet train leaving a trail in the powder. With a sigh, I picked up a broom to sweep the floor.
The orchestra began the overture as I made my exit from an empty dressing room. There was no one to see me go as all eyes were now on the stage.
With leaden feet, I climbed the stairs to my lonely corner of the Sparrow’s Nest, and huddled on my couch counting the days until I had to fly away.
Only twelve left.
Reader,
Over time we have shared enough confidences for me to feel quite safe entrusting you with the story of how I came to be published. You may remember that I had an awful experience with a certain Mr Tweadle who stole my manuscripts and sensationalised them*.
From that day on I determined that my literary career was not going to be ruined by another such scandal, and fortune later favoured me when my stories were discovered by a lady scholar, Dr Julia Golding.
Julia (she has given me permission to be on first name terms) was once a diplomat in Poland and I feel that she is a kindred spirit, as I was once an envoy to a foreign country - France - myself. You cannot imagine how delighted I was when Julia, acting on my behalf, accepted awards for my first book, THE DIAMOND OF DRURY LANE. It won both the Waterstone’s Children’s Book Prize and the Nestlé Children’s Book Prize. Julia, being something of a bluestocking, has also penned her own prose:
RINGMASTER, THE COMPANIONS QUARTET, THE SHIP BETWEEN THE WORLDS and DRAGONFLY.
If ever perchance I visit Oxford, she has assured me that she, her husband and children will always welcome me into their home.
* For full details of his wicked exploits see DEN OF THIEVES