‘Buon giorno, maestro.’ I bobbed a curtsey.
Behind him trailed the members of the orchestra, the cellists carting their instruments under their arms like reluctant dance partners. The orchestra strongly resented being made to rehearse before noon. I spotted Peter Dodsley, a tall, thin man, never seen without his immaculate white wig. He played first violin and was an old friend of mine. He gave me a wink and suppressed a yawn.
‘You’re up early,’ I teased. Peter would probably have only slept for a few hours after earning a little extra on the side playing at some fancy party until the small hours of the morning.
‘Apparently,’ said Peter, nodding towards the maestro, ‘he has something special for us.’
‘I see,’ I grimaced back. We both knew that this probably meant that Signor Angelini wanted to inflict one of his own modern compositions on the orchestra, some wild piece full of unrestrained emotion. He’d then spend the rest of the day trying unsuccessfully to persuade Mr Kemble and Mr Sheridan to let him play it that evening. He’d been turned down so often that they were said to shout ‘No!’ as soon as they saw him darken their doorways holding a sheaf of music.
On this occasion, I heard raised voices coming from the stage. I turned from Peter to see Signor Angelini head to head with the stage manager, Henry Bishop, a powerfully built man with a shock of red hair peeping out from under his ancient wig.
‘Absolutely not, sir!’ Mr Bishop was shouting. ‘You cannot rehearse now. I’ve got a hot air balloon descent to practise for tonight’s musical farce.’
‘Dio! You think spectacle of stupid balloon dropping from ceiling more important than music?’ protested Signor Angelini, his conductor’s baton jabbing at the scenery suspended in the flies.
Mr Bishop put his hands on his hips and fixed the musician with his one good eye, the other being hidden by a leather patch, a casualty of a special effect with brimstone that went wrong a few years back. ‘Yes, I do. It’s what the public want and we’re going to give it to them. After last night, we can’t afford to disappoint them. Mr Kemble has ordered that we prepare for the farce . . . and unless I get this contraption working, there will be hell to pay.’ He stared down the Italian so that even the usually indomitable Signor Angelini withered like a plant in the hot sun.
‘Claro,’ the signor said, bowing to the stage manager’s authority, ‘but I can practise down there, no?’ He pointed to the cramped orchestra pit.
‘Of course. You tootle away as much as you like . . . it won’t disturb me and the men.’
‘If they are men, what are we then?’ Peter whispered to me archly. ‘A bunch of daisies?’
With an irritable flick of his wrist, Signor Angelini directed his players to their places in the Pit. Peter gave me a nod of farewell and settled himself down at his usual station at the front of the orchestra.
Behind him, ropes began to creak as Mr Bishop’s team started dropping and raising the mock air balloon, a copy of the amazing Montgolfier craft that they say really flew over Paris in 1783. Imagine, Reader: men taking flight like a bird for the first time since Icarus! We are living in exciting times. The balloon was a sumptuous piece of scenery . . . a circular frame draped in blue and yellow silks over a large wicker basket which was to hold the actors. I was most desirous to have a ride in it ever since seeing it under construction so I perched hopefully on the edge of the stage waiting to see if Mr Bishop needed any volunteers for a test flight.
‘So, maestro, where is the music?’ asked Peter with a hint of resignation in his voice as he bowed to the inevitable.
‘No new music,’ said Signor Angelini, rifling through his sheets, scattering them to the floor like seed corn. I jumped down to gather them up for him. ‘No, today we ’ave a new player to join us. ‘’E will be performing in the play.’
Peter looked about him but could only spot the familiar faces of his colleagues.
‘Where is he? What does he play?’ he asked.
Signor Angelini did not answer; he clapped his hands twice again and barked, ‘Pedro, come!’ The main doors to the auditorium swung open and a small figure could be seen silhouetted against the daylight streaming in from outside. The newcomer made his way confidently down the aisle to the orchestra pit and bowed low to Signor Angelini. With lightning swiftness, he then undid the case he held clutched under his arm, took out a violin and bow, and stood, feet apart, ready to play.
The new player was a boy no older than me, but he had the darkest skin of any child I had ever seen. Dressed in yellow and blue livery, his skin gleamed like the ebony notes on the pianoforte. I realised then that he must be from Africa, one of the people taken forcibly from their homes to work as slaves on the plantations of the West Indies. You’ve doubtless read about them since the recent exertions of the Abolitionists to bring their plight to the public’s attention. But how he had ended up in Drury Lane with a violin under his chin was anyone’s guess.
‘Who’s the boy, maestro?’ asked Peter dubiously, eying the violin as if it might explode at any moment.
‘Is this a joke?’ muttered the horn player, an unpleasant fellow who played his instrument most crudely (Peter has nicknamed him the brass-belcher but I would be grateful if you did not pass this on). ‘It’s bad enough with those bare-legged hoydens flitting about in the ballet; surely you don’t expect us to play with performing monkeys too?’ He scowled at Pedro, but the boy did not flinch. Pedro kept his gaze fixed on the conductor, his posture confident and dignified, though from the tightening of a muscle in his jaw I could tell he was offended.