Why do I live in a theatre? you ask. Why am I not at home with my mama and papa? Well, you see, I seem to have lost my parents, or rather, they lost me. Mr Sheridan himself found the infant me on the theatre steps one cold January night in 1780. Rather than hand me on to the Foundlings Hospital, where a scrawny scrap as I was then usually dies in the first few days, he decided to take me in. He even named me after his theatre, which explains why my surname is Royal. Mrs Reid, the head seamstress, says that Mr Sheridan was drunk at the time or he would never have done anything so soft-hearted. This is probably true. But drunk or not, he picked me up, transported me over the threshold of his theatre, and I have not left since. The theatre has become my family and I have become its Cat. It has fed and clothed me, taught me to read and write and given me employment. There is many an abandoned child who freezes to death on the streets of London in winter . . . but I was lucky.
And what do I do in the theatre? Well, Reader, you may think of it this way. The theatre is a kingdom. Mr Sheridan is our King George (without the fits of madness); Mr Kemble his Prime Minister; the actors and actresses the Royal Family. The different departments in the theatre are like the various ministries of government, providing costumes, scenery, music and dance to keep the Royal Family in fine form. You could call me the mail coach, running messages about the kingdom. Johnny says I am more like the oppressed masses doing the jobs no one else wants for no wages. He told me to write down that he is the Archbishop of Canterbury as, in his role as prompt, he administers the word to those in need. I wasn’t sure if this was blasphemous or not but he instructed me not to be so lily-livered and put it down in any case.
This brings me to Johnny. Or Mr Jonathan Smith as I suppose I should call him if I am to make a proper job of the introduction. I first met him the day after the riot. He was waiting outside Mr Kemble’s office early the next morning when I came down from the Sparrow’s Nest with a pile of washing. He was kicking his heels in the corridor and whistling ‘Rule, Britannia’, just as Mr Sheridan had the night before, with the difference that his rendition was far more tuneful. He did not see me, perhaps because I only come up to his chest, so he managed to trip me up as I passed.
‘Clothead!’ I squealed at him as the washing tumbled on to the floor with me on top of it. ‘Fool!’ (You see that I was brought up in the politest society and know how to introduce myself to a gentleman in the most agreeable way.)
Johnny almost fell over himself in his attempt to right his wrong. He hauled me up and began to load me down with the clothes, practically burying me under Miss Stageldoir’s smelly stockings.
‘I am so sorry, I did not see you there, Miss . . .?’
I sniffed disdainfully, then regretted this immediately as it brought a rather overwhelming whiff of feet to my nostrils. ‘Miss Catherine Royal,’ I said with dignity.
‘Miss Catherine Royal,’ said Johnny, making a low bow, his eyes gleaming mischievously as he squinted up at me. ‘Will Miss Royal ever forgive her humble servant?’ He remained bent over, his face contorted, half-laughing, half-pleading.
I had to smile. ‘Of course,’ I said, trying to curtsey to show him that I too could be refined if I tried. Unfortunately, my bob sent the clothes tumbling back to the ground. We bent down together to pick them up. ‘But you’d better call me Cat because no one will understand you if you call me Miss Royal.’
‘Your wish is my command,’ said Johnny, like the genie out of the Arabian Nights.
I took an instant liking to him: a tall youth with long black hair tied behind in a blue ribbon. His eyes were so brown they were almost black and seemed to dance with laughter. He was also very handsome. I guessed that the girls backstage would all be swooning over him before too long.
‘And who are you?’ I asked when he did not introduce himself.
‘Mr Jonathan . . .’ he hesitated for a moment, ‘Smith . . . at your service. Though you can call me Johnny.’ He gave me a wink.
‘Well, Johnny, what are you doing here? Mr Kemble doesn’t usually get in this early.’
He fortunately found my impertinent curiosity amusing. He laughed. ‘Oh, I have an appointment. You’re looking at the new prompt.’ He stood up and gave another bow, this time as if to an imaginary audience.
‘Oh good!’ I exclaimed, thinking how angry Mr Salter would be. ‘I’m so pleased they’ve appointed you.’
Johnny gave me a queer look. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Thank you for your vote of confidence. From what Sheridan . . . Mr Sheridan . . . told me, I have to secure your blessing if I am to succeed behind the scenes.’
This made me wonder. It was strange to think that someone as important as Mr Sheridan had thought to mention me to Johnny.
‘I’d better get these to the carrier. I’ll see you later,’ I said, a little embarrassed as I clasped the washing tightly to my chest.
‘See you later, Catkin.’
I could feel his eyes on my back as I made my way down the corridor. I had a warm glow inside, a wonderful sensation like being allowed near Mrs Reid’s fireside on a frosty day.
After sending the washing off on the carrier’s cart to the laundress in the nearby village of Islington, I slipped into the auditorium to see what the damage had been from last night’s riot. Long Tom, the tallest of the stagehands, was sweeping up the debris left in the Pit. There was a dank, unpleasant smell left by too many bodies crushed together down here night after night. It needed a good airing. How strange to think that somewhere amongst the squalid splendours of Drury Lane Mr Sheridan had hidden a treasure . . . a perfect diamond, a real jewel in her gilt crown. I wondered where he had put it. The stone would not be large; it could be almost anywhere.
‘Much harm done, Tom?’ I asked, clambering over the upturned benches to reach him.
‘Morning, Cat,’ he greeted me, gesturing to the pile of rotten vegetables and screwed-up playbills he had collected. ‘Not too bad. I’d say we got off lightly seeing what rubbish we inflicted on them last night. We’ll be able to open tonight as usual.’
I began to help him right the benches but then a door behind us banged open and a white-haired man with a cloak lined with scarlet flapped down the central aisle. Enter Signor Angelini, musical director.
‘Vivamente! Quickly now!’ he called over his shoulder, clapping his hands rapidly twice.
‘Buon giorno, Signorina Caterina,’ he said as he swept past me to the stage.