He climbed right up into the roof to the jammed block of the pulley system and leapt across to transfer to the rope leading down to the basket. I gave renewed shrieks as the basket began to sway alarmingly, my grip sliding on the wicker weaving. Calmly, Pedro slithered down the rope to stand on the upturned edge of the basket. Twisting one leg around the rope, he stretched over the side and held out his arm to me.
‘Here, take my hand,’ he said, holding it out inches from mine.
‘I can’t!’ I whispered, now almost paralysed with fright. ‘I can’t let go.’
With an impatient whistle between his teeth, Pedro let himself slide a little further over the edge so that he was now dangling upside down alongside me.
‘Is that better?’ he asked cheerfully, grabbing both my wrists in his hands. ‘Trust me now?’
‘Yes,’ I gasped. I let go.
Like some bizarre circus act, we swung there for a few moments, Pedro upside down, me dangling in his grip, before he heaved me up on to the upright side of the basket.
‘Here, hold on to this,’ he said, placing my hands on the rope. ‘I’ll see if I can unblock it above.’
Now I was no longer hanging by my fingertips, my pride was returning. If Pedro could climb the ropes, then so could I.
‘No, I’ll follow you,’ I said, kicking off my leather shoes for greater grip. They tumbled to the ground, hitting someone in the crowd gathered below. The victim cursed loudly.
Pedro shook his head. ‘English girls don’t climb,’ he said. ‘Sit still.’
‘This one does.’ Not waiting for him, I started to shin up the rope as I had seen him do. It wasn’t easy: I had to fight off the silk canopy of the balloon as it billowed around me. But I’d been playing backstage all my life, climbing over bits of scenery and scaling the odd rope, if never one so high, so I refused to be put to shame by this newcomer. After all, I was the girl who had perfected the one-armed cartwheel during many hours playing alone on the empty stage. I could do it.
Or perhaps not.
I had clambered up to the tackle and seen what was to come next. I bit my lip. The jump that Pedro had made looked a very long way from here. A one-armed cartwheel was one thing; a leap across this chasm another.
‘Stay there, Catkin!’ someone shouted below. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’
But I could now feel Pedro’s breath literally hot on my heels. For the national honour, I had to do it. I held out my arm over the void, preparing to leap.
‘No good like that,’ Pedro panted below. ‘Swing closer.’
The rope began to sway. I glanced down and saw Pedro hanging off it to make it move to and fro, each time bringing us closer to the rope at the side of the stage. Catching on quickly, I began to copy him. The balloon and basket creaked ominously below. I could hear Mr Bishop clearing the stage in case something larger than my slipper fell on a head. But now the rope was almost within reach.
‘Ready?’ asked Pedro. ‘Next time, we go. I count to three . . . one, two, three!’
And we were off, both letting go with one hand to stretch across and hook the rope. Like acrobats, we hung straddled between the two ropes before swinging over to hold on to the one leading to the ground. Pedro slid down as if the rope was greased; I followed gingerly, having no desire to make a mistake at the last moment.
Mr Bishop was waiting to lift me to the floor.
‘I think you’d better not let Mr Andrews try it just yet,’ I panted with relief as my feet hit firm ground.
Mr Bishop scratched his head, pushing his wig on to the back of his head. ‘No, you’re right there, Cat. Back to the drawing board on the ropes.’
‘I didn’t notice that in the script,’ said Johnny Smith, coming forward to pat Pedro on the back. Johnny handed me my shoes with a rueful grin. I noticed that he had a red heel-shaped mark on his forehead.
Pedro shrugged; his face resumed its disengaged look. It made me think that he was probably used to being treated badly and found it safest to keep himself to himself. He didn’t know yet that he was among friends at Drury Lane. As he turned to leave the stage, I darted forward and caught him by the arm.
‘Thank you,’ I said, trying to coax a smile from him.
He looked at me with his large brown eyes and seemed on the point of saying something when the horn player blurted out:
‘What did I tell you? Performing monkeys . . . and now we’ve got two of them. And one of them wears a skirt!’
‘Hold your tongue, Harding,’ said Peter, his pale eyes flashing angrily at the offender.
I wheeled round, fists balled, ready to lash out at the horn player.
‘I didn’t see you risking your neck to save me,’ I said tartly. ‘At least there was one gentleman brave enough to do so.’
‘Gentleman! Pah!’ mocked Mr Harding, leering at me. ‘I saw no gentleman.’
‘Yes, gentleman,’ I said defiantly.
‘She’s right,’ chipped in Johnny from behind me. ‘It’s the manners that make the man, not the colour of his skin.’
The other musicians murmured their agreement, forcing Mr Harding to back down this time. He retreated to the orchestra pit, grumbling loudly. Satisfied that I had won this bout of verbal sparring, I turned back to speak to Pedro, but he had gone.
SCENE 2 . . . GANG LEADER
‘Where is ’e?’ asked Signor Angelini. ‘We still ’ave much to do!’
‘Perhaps he has gone to have his costume fitted?’ suggested Peter with a languid wave towards the rear of the stage. ‘You did tell him that Mrs Reid wanted to see him.’
‘Shall I go and look for him?’ I asked, eager to find out more about my rescuer.
Signor Angelini nodded. ‘If you would, Caterina. We ’ave wasted enough of time already this morning. If we do not want the music to be a farce as well as the play, we must work very ’ard.’
‘Wasted!’ protested Peter, putting an arm around my shoulders and giving me a comforting squeeze. ‘Only so we could save our Cat!’