I looked around the piazza. It was a crisp winter’s day . . . the painted houses stood out gaily against the bright blue sky, each roof ridge, each chimney pot sharp and distinct. At first I saw nothing unusual; just the normal collection of servants making purchases, stallholders waylaying the na?ve with rotten fruits hidden under their most gleaming articles for sale, apprentice boys lounging outside the inns finishing a late breakfast, gentlemen passing in and out of the coffee houses.
Then I spotted him. I had not seen him at first because he was, as I had feared, surrounded by a crowd of some of the roughest boys of the market, pushed up against the stone monument in the centre of the square. Foremost amongst them was a tall, thin youth of about seventeen with a close-cropped head of dark hair. It was Billy Shepherd, the leader of one of the gangs that vies for control of the market underworld. I’ve known Billy ever since I first played on the streets: he was a bully then and shows no signs of improvement as he gets older. Of course, he is by no means the only tyrant in Covent Garden. The thing that makes Billy different, that has thrust him to the head of his gang, is that he is clever. He links a total absence of moral scruples with the cunning of a fox. Let me put it this way: if the Devil challenged him to a sinning match, and they were taking bets, I’d put my money on Billy to win. You don’t believe me? Well, here’s my shilling, Reader: put yours down on the table and we’ll see who’s the richer at the end of the adventure.
Knowing Billy as I do, I looked anxiously around, wondering if Syd’s gang was anywhere in sight. Syd was Billy’s rival for mastery of the square. Though a gentle giant, Syd had a mean pair of fists when roused to defend his territory. If I could persuade him to take Pedro under his wing, he would look after him. Unfortunately, I could see neither hide nor hair of my friend. I was on my own if I wanted to return Pedro to the theatre in one piece. And I had better act quickly for Billy now advanced on Pedro and grabbed him by the jacket. Pedro stared back at him in disbelief, confused by the attack he had done nothing to provoke. He didn’t understand that Billy needed no excuse.
‘Oi! Billy!’ I shouted, running over the cobbles to reach them. ‘Leave him! He’s with me!’
Billy leant coolly against the pillar, pinning Pedro by the throat. A couple of his burly mates chuckled as I came sliding to a stop at the bottom of the steps to the monument.
‘Found yourself a beau, ’ave you, Cat?’ he sneered. ‘Scraping the barrel with this one, ain’t you? What’s wrong with one of us?’ His eyes, pieces of ice in his pasty face, sparkled maliciously as he looked down at me.
‘Oh, hold your tongue!’ I snapped back, annoyed to feel that I was blushing. ‘He’s not my beau. I only met him this morning but he saved my neck at the theatre just now.’
‘Saved your pretty white neck, did he?’ said Billy. ‘Well, ain’t that nice to ’ear. I tell you what, if you give me a kiss, I’ll let him go.’ He puckered up his ugly fat lips and waited. His gang all laughed as if Billy was the sharpest wit in London.
‘Kiss my a**e, you toad! I’ll smack you in the face if you don’t let him go this instant!’
‘Ooo! I am scared!’ Billy said in a mock whine. ‘The little cat will get out her claws, will she? ’Elp, boys, I’m terrified.’
His cronies sniggered again. One with a sharp nose like the snout of a ferret made a meowing sound behind me, plunging them into fresh paroxysms of mirth.
‘I’m warning you!’ I said, taking a step towards Billy. I did not know what I was going to do, but anger was driving me recklessly on, like a runaway horse pulling a carriage downhill.
But at least my rage produced one good effect: Billy released his hold on Pedro and swaggered towards me as if he owned the whole market and everything in it . . . including me. ‘Or what? Are you askin’ for a beatin’? ’Cause I’ll give you one, even though you are a girl. Mind you, you’re no lady, so it don’t count.’ He gave me an evil grin, displaying his row of blackened teeth. ‘You’re just a daggle-tail ’oo can speak like a duchess when it suits but can’t wash off the stink of the gutter no matter ’ow you pretend to your fine friends in the theatre.’
‘A daggle-tail cat!’ repeated Ferret-features with an appreciative chuckle.
I was searching for a suitably tart response when Pedro scrambled to stand between me and Billy, his fists raised.
‘Don’t you dare touch her!’ he challenged.
Even I had to admit, my champion’s threat was not very impressive. He looked as if one stout blow would knock him to kingdom come. But I appreciated his courage all the same.
‘Or what, Blackie?’ jeered Billy. ‘You want a gob-full of claret too, eh?’
‘Leave him out of this!’ I said angrily.
Billy flicked a contemptuous look at Pedro. ‘Wot ya think, boys? Our Cat ’ere ’as fallen for ’is dusky charms.’ Billy pushed Pedro aside and tucked me under his sweaty armpit. ‘We can’t ’ave our English girls messin’ with no African slave boys, can we now?’
I struggled to free myself from his arm but he continued to tow me away. If I didn’t do something quickly, he would bring his boys in against Pedro in a lynch mob. There was nothing the London youth liked better than a bit of foreigner-bashing. I had to think of something to draw their fire away from him.
But the African wasn’t helping. ‘I’m no slave!’ declared Pedro proudly, standing up erect.
‘Let me go, you fathead!’ I protested, punching Billy ineffectually in the ribs to get him to release me. ‘Back off, Billy Boil!’