The next time I saw Syd was on the morning of his departure. Both of us avoided each other’s eye as we mingled with the crowd that had gathered to see him off. My lips felt as if they were still burning – my cheeks certainly were – though I tried to behave as normal. Syd moved among his friends, shaking hands, cracking jokes, but something about the set of his shoulders told me that he was acutely aware of my presence wherever I was standing. We knew each other too well, having been together for as long as I could remember: both of us realized that everything had changed with that kiss. Today was the first time more than a square mile would come between us. His decision to leave London had stripped off the cosy covers of our relationship, leaving me shivering in the cold light of day as I took stock of where we had reached.
‘All right, Cat? Look after yourself,’ Syd said, reaching me last.
‘I will.’
‘I hope the move to the new theatre goes well.’
‘Thanks.’
I risked raising my gaze to his face. His eyes were saying much more than his words, but he gave me a perfunctory shake of the hand before climbing up on the carriage beside Mick Bailey, his manager. Part of me ached for a hug; part of me was glad he’d left it at that.
With a flick of the whip, Syd bowled off west in Bailey’s high two-wheeler to the cheers of the people of Covent Garden.
‘Punch ’em to kingdom come, lad!’ yelled his father as his termagant of a mother wept into a white handkerchief.
I stood among Syd’s boys. They gave three cheers as the carriage turned the corner. Their leader rose in his seat, waved his cap to us and was gone. Sad though I was to see him leave, I was in some ways relieved. His brief kiss had forced me to see what I had, I now realized, purposely been closing my eyes to: Syd loved me. I could never just be one of the boys to him. He didn’t want me in his gang because he thought he might have other plans for us when we both came of age.
I found the thought terrifying. I didn’t feel old enough to consider marriage and family seriously. Though never exactly sure of the year of my birth, I guessed I was about thirteen or fourteen. Many girls from Covent Garden of my age had paired up by now; some poor souls already had babies hanging on their skirts, despite being barely out of childhood themselves. We all know we don’t get long on this earth – death a daily occurrence where I come from. Most of us will be dead by twenty-five, probably in the course of bringing into the world another orphan like me to shift for herself, but even so, I wasn’t in a hurry. I knew Syd would want to wait until we could get properly married and do the decent thing, but that wasn’t far off now. A couple of years and I could be Mrs Fletcher. Help. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want a life of babies and washing and shopping and cooking and cleaning. I wanted to stay in the theatre. I wanted to write. I wanted to be free. I wanted to marry for love.
Don’t get me wrong, Reader: I do love Syd. He is the best, the most honourable boy I know. But marry him!
Stop the pen right there. I’m getting carried away, jumping from a kiss to wedding vows. Let us return to business before I get any more foolish ideas.
I arrived back at the theatre to find the place humming with excitement.
‘What’s going on, Caleb?’ I asked the doorman. He shifted along and patted the bench beside him. ‘It’s the list, Cat. Mr Kemble said it’d go up today.’
‘What list?’
‘The master . . .’ (he meant Mr Sheridan) ‘asked Mr Kemble to work out who the company could take with them to the new theatre. There’s going to be blood spilt later, or my name’s not Caleb Braithwaite.’
I felt as if I had just stumbled into a pothole in the dark. I hadn’t known about this, though I should have guessed.
‘What about you, Caleb? Do you know if you’re going to be on it?’ I felt very afraid for him: the King’s Theatre was certain to have a doorman in residence. What would an old sailor like Caleb do? He had no family I’d ever heard of and I had known him all my life.
‘Nay, lass, I won’t be on that list. Drury Lane is my home. I ain’t going nowhere.’
‘But Caleb, don’t you know what’s going to happen to this place?’
He gave me a sad smile. ‘Aye, Cat. Don’t you fret about me: Mr Kemble and his sister have said they’ll see that I’m all right and they’ve been as good as their word. The old widow who keeps the cookshop in Gerrard Street said she could do with a man to watch the place.’ He leant closer and whispered conspiratorially, ‘That means Mr Kemble has paid her to give me a post at the fireside but doesn’t want to hurt me pride by telling me so.’ Caleb chuckled. ‘Old age is a terrible thing, Cat. I’m proud, but not that proud. I’ll sit and guard Widow King’s pastries for her.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ I breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Old age is bad, but being a young maid with no family ain’t that much fun either, Cat. What will you do with yourself? I don’t want our Cat to fall into bad company like so many wenches do.’ His cloudy blue eyes were full of concern.
‘Oh, I’ll be fine, Caleb,’ I said brightly. ‘I’m hoping my name will be on that list – and if not, well, I’ll cross that bridge when . . . if it comes.’ I was not encouraged to see that he looked doubtful. There was no immediate riposte of ‘Of course you’ll be on it, Cat.’ He for one thought I was not indispensable to the company.
‘It’s here. The list’s here!’ Long Tom, a stagehand, bellowed from the Green Room. There was a stampede of feet from all directions, screams and cries as actors, dancers, stage crew, labourers, scene painters, carpenters and front of house staff all converged backstage. I sat for a moment – too terrified to look, yet knowing I had to.