Watching the final performance was a bitter pleasure. I mouthed along to every speech, the words ingrained in my memory by long acquaintance. Each move, each song, each laugh: I anticipated them all. I stood apart from the audience that night, watching how it behaved like a beast tamed by the skill of the actors: a witticism thrown to the mob causing a growl of laughter, a poignant deathbed scene provoking it to roll over and sob helplessly. The play ended with a magnificent epilogue by Mr Kemble predicting the phoenix-like rebirth of Drury Lane. The audience cheered, clapped and whistled, before making off with any movables that we had not already thought to pack away. How I envied the crowd’s light-heartedness as the auditorium emptied for the last time. They seemed to be taking my soul with them. I was drained of all feeling except sorrow.
Backstage the atmosphere was subdued. Too many had lost their livelihoods to allow for celebration; if anything it felt more like a wake in progress as Mr Sheridan toasted the demise of the old theatre in champagne in the Green Room. The orchestra left for their supper party, Pedro in their midst. Then, at around eleven-thirty, those of us remaining shuffled off and went our separate ways. I said farewell to Mrs Reid and Sarah Bowers in the now empty Sparrow’s Nest. The costumes were boxed and waiting downstairs for the carrier tomorrow. All that remained was my bundle and the old sofa, judged too far gone to be worth anything.
‘You’ve got somewhere to go, haven’t you, Cat?’ Mrs Reid asked as she locked the door behind us for the last time.
‘Oh yes,’ I lied. The waters were well over my chin by now and still I was not budging.
‘There’ll always be a welcome for you wherever I am,’ said Sarah. ‘When you’ve found your feet, come and ’ave a nice cup of tea and a natter.’
‘I’ll do that.’ My voice sounded false to my ears – overly cheerful.
‘It’s the end of an era,’ said Mrs Reid, looking about her as we descended the stairs. ‘Mr Garrick’s theatre gone. It’s a special place this, full of memories.’
It’s the only place, I thought.
We were among the last to leave by the stage door. Mr Sheridan and Mr Kemble were standing there to shake hands with everyone – and to check no one carried off something they shouldn’t.
‘See you at the Haymarket, ladies,’ Mr Kemble bowed to my companions. ‘You all right, Cat? Got somewhere to go?’
The thought streaked across my mind that I should scream that ‘no, I bleeding well didn’t have somewhere to go, for his employer was knocking down my home’, but the impulse had fizzled out before I opened my mouth to speak.
‘Yes, sir. Goodnight, sir.’
I must have sounded so unlike myself that Mr Kemble was suspicious.
‘So where are you going?’
His concern almost did for me. I could have wept there and then, melted away in tears so that nothing was left behind.
‘I’m staying with friends,’ I lied, too ashamed to tell the truth. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight. Come and see us very soon,’ said Mr Kemble, waving me off.
‘Let me know where you are,’ called Mr Sheridan. ‘Send a note to my house. I want to be sure you have found a good home.’
No thanks to you.
‘Of course, sir.’
And that was that. I watched from the shadows opposite as Mr Kemble turned the key in the lock and handed it to Mr Sheridan. They shook hands and parted to return to their comfortable houses.
As the darkness swallowed them up, I considered my position. I had exactly one shilling and sixpence in my purse. Next to nothing. Just enough for the next day’s meal. If I spent it on shelter I’d go hungry. Just a few yards away, the streets were still bustling with people going in and out of the taverns and gaming houses, but I couldn’t afford to join them, nor would it be safe to do so. I slipped back across the road and into the alleyway to the stage door. I knew it was locked but it was the nearest I could get to home. I stowed my bundle against the doorpost and curled down with my back to the comforting solidity of the oak. I wasn’t ready to leave – not yet.
SCENE 4 – MR TWEADLE
‘Cat, you look terrible.’
Pedro was hanging out of the window of the Dover mail coach biding his friends farewell as I slid to the front of the queue. I’d purposely left it to the last moment, mingling with the crowds until the coachman took his seat and picked up the reins. I couldn’t cope with answering too many questions from Pedro today. After two nights of sleeping rough, I knew I must look a sight. To tell the truth, I was less worried about my begrimed state than the gnawing hunger. I’d only had a penny roll yesterday and nothing so far this morning. I wasn’t managing well and I was too humiliated to let anyone know. They all thought of me as the girl who always landed on her feet, good for a laugh, guaranteed to look on the bright side when others were moaning. I wasn’t finding anything funny at the moment.
‘Have a safe trip, Pedro,’ I said huskily.
‘Cat! Where have you been? Why didn’t you come earlier? I’ve been frantic with worry. Look, I’ll write to you – where shall I send it?’
I was about to say ‘Drury Lane’ but pulled up short before I made so obvious a mistake. ‘Um, send it to . . . to Syd’s parents. I’m sure they won’t mind.’
‘But why can’t I send it directly to you? Where are you staying?’ Pedro asked shrewdly.
The coachman cracked his whip.
‘Oh, look: you’re off.’ I gave Signor Angelini, Pedro’s master, a smile. ‘Buon viaggio!’
‘Grazie, Caterina,’ the maestro replied. ‘I look after your little friend for you!’
Pedro was not satisfied. ‘But Cat, tell me where . . .’ The coach surged forward in a clatter of hooves and jingle of harness. ‘I’ll write to Frank if you –’ The rest of his words were lost as the mail pulled out of the stable yard. I kept up my smile, and waving, until he was out of sight, then I let it slide off my face like greasepaint under hot lights. I had to do something today. It was Monday. I couldn’t spend any longer mourning for the home that was now barred to me. Even though it was early summer, the nights were chilly. Sleeping rough was exactly how it sounded. If I carried on I’d lose all claim to a respectable appearance and would find it even harder to get serious attention anywhere.