It took some minutes before the play was able to resume. When the noise had simmered down, Mr Andrews gave his farewell speech and climbed into the basket.
‘Farewell! See you in Green Park!’ he shouted, waving cheerfully to the audience. They waved back and then waited. We all waited. It became clear something was wrong with the pulley system once more. The play was about to end with a flop.
Suddenly, Pedro leapt into action. Abandoning his violin in the hands of a startled Mr Kemble, he jumped into the basket and shinned his way up the nearest rope. The audience began to murmur, wondering if this was all part of the act. Mr Kemble seized the moment.
‘Look, my son goes to ask the gods to allow the balloon of the Christian barbarian to return to his damp island,’ the Great Mogul declaimed, waving the violin bow at the ceiling.
The crowd laughed and cheered the Mogul Prince as he climbed up and disappeared under the silken canopy. Then the slack ropes of the grounded balloon began to shake. I guessed that Pedro was adjusting them in the tackle above. Only a minute or so had passed and Pedro re-emerged, sliding rapidly down the rope to spring to the floor.
‘Are the gods content to let this heathenish contraption rise again?’ asked the mogul.
Pedro gave a nod, his ostrich feather agreeing with him vigorously over his head.
‘Then, farewell, stranger!’ cried the mogul. He clapped his hands twice, Mr Andrew gave a slightly nervous wave to the spectators, and the balloon creaked once more into action. As it disappeared up into the roof, the actors and audience all tilted their heads to watch and the curtain fell.
‘Amazing!’ cried my gentleman, clapping and cheering with the best of them despite his advanced years. ‘In all my days, I’ve never seen the like! Did you enjoy it, my dear?’
‘It was wonderful!’ I said sincerely, accepting his hand to jump down from my vantage point. ‘And Pedro was brilliant.’
‘Pedro?’ he asked, his eyebrow cocked with interest.
‘The little prince . . . Pedro Hawkins.’
The man straightened up and started to chant, ‘Bravo Pedro! Bravo the prince!’
Those near us took up his call and soon the whole theatre was ringing with Pedro’s name. As the curtain rose again, he was ushered forward by Mr Kemble to take his own bow.
Pedro Hawkins had made a name for himself.
ACT II
SCENE 1 . . . THE DUKE’S CHILDREN
Iran as quickly as I could to the Green Room so I would be the first to congratulate Pedro on his London début. In the end, I need not have hurried because I had a long wait . . . the crowd must have demanded a further encore. Finally, the performers piled into the room, talking loudly in their exhilaration at being in a hit. Mr Andrews and Mr Kemble had their arms around each other’s shoulder, faces glowing with high spirits. Mr Andrews was mimicking his companion’s extemporised lines about calling on the gods for permission, making the actor-manager roar with laughter.
I looked in vain for Pedro. He had not come in with the others. The Green Room was already stifling with the heat of so many bodies crushed together, the clink of wine glasses being raised to toast the success, the odours of greasepaint and perspiration. I wormed my way to the door, ducking through the crowd of Eastern beauties and slaves in curling slippers. There, on the threshold, was Pedro. He was having his hand shaken by each of the stage crew in turn. Long Tom thrust a mug of foaming beer into his hand and Mr Bishop slapped him on the back as he made to drink it, slopping beer everywhere. The stage crew howled with exuberant laughter. Pedro smiled uncertainly, wondering if they were mocking him or merely having a lark. But the friendly smiles on their faces told him that they now considered him initiated as one of the boys, so he grinned and downed the rest in a gulp.
I hovered shyly to one side, waiting for my opportunity to congratulate him, but before I could get a word in, Mr Kemble had come forward and steered Pedro into the thick of things, shouting out to the crowd, ‘Here is the man of the moment! What a performance!’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Mr Andrews. ‘Without your quick thinking the crowd might have hanged us all from that damned balloon.’
Pedro accepted the adulation with dignity, bowing to those who came up to compliment him. I still could not reach him . . . so thick was the press . . . but I noticed that he was looking around, perhaps trying to spot me in the forest of grown-ups.
‘Pedro!’ I shouted from the corner I had been backed into. Peter Dodsley was embracing Pedro with great emotion. ‘Pedro, over here!’
My voice must have carried to his sharp ears for he turned and waved. He broke away from the first violinist and began to duck and weave his way through the crowd until finally we were together again.
‘Did you watch?’ he asked eagerly. ‘I played to your box but I couldn’t spot you.’
‘No, you wouldn’t’ve. Mr Sheridan arrived with guests and threw me out.’ Pedro’s face fell. ‘But I watched from the Pit. I had a splendid view. And you were magnificent!’
Pedro’s face cracked into a wide smile. ‘So no one noticed my black eye then?’
I laughed and shook my head. ‘Absolutely not.’
There was a loud call for silence at the door. We turned to look and saw Mr Sheridan standing framed in the doorway, flanked by his three smart guests who had ousted me from the box.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Mr Sheridan called. A hush spread from the front of the room to the back like a wave rippling over the Serpentine. ‘I have the great honour of presenting a very special visitor to you. The Duke of Avon expressed the desire of personally conveying his appreciation of tonight’s performance to you all.’
The Duke of Avon, a stately gentleman with white locks brushed forward from a receding hairline, stepped into the room and cleared his throat.
‘As my honourable friend here says, I thought you excelled yourselves tonight . . . none more so than our little African. Where is he? My children in particular would like to meet him.’