Cat's Cradle Read Free Page B

with a grain of common sense, I knew better than to get entangled with the courts. The garden was beautiful though. The leaves of the trees were turning golden. With every breath of wind they scattered, tumbling on the grass like the coins poured out on fees by the unfortunate clients. Beyond the garden lay the Thames. A barge with terracotta-coloured sails floated slowly by, heading out to sea. The sun warmed the old stone of the buildings and made the dark waters of the river glow with an oily sheen.
    â€˜Sit down for a moment, Cat,’ Mr Sheridan said, handing me carefully to a bench. He remained standing. ‘I’m not sure how to go about this.’ His eyes followed the barge downstream.
    â€˜Go about what, sir?’ I was really worried now. It sounded as if he was about to announce a death at the very least.
    Mr Sheridan crossed his arms, paused, and then turned to me. ‘To go about telling you news of your family.’
    * For further details of these exploits, please see my tale,
Black Heart of Jamaica
.

A CT I

SCENE 1 – YOURS FAITHFULLY
    Reader, I felt as if I had just been doused in iced water.
    â€˜My . . . my family? But you have always said I was abandoned – that I had no one apart from the theatre.’
    He looked away. ‘That’s all true, I’m afraid. But something has turned up.’
    My heart was pounding, palms sweating. How many times had I dreamed that someone would some day reveal the mystery of my origins! It seemed as if that was about to come true.
    â€˜You can’t stop there, sir. You’ve got to tell me all of it.’ My voice sounded strangled.
Breathe, Cat, breathe
, I reminded myself.
    â€˜You are right. I must delay no longer.’ He sat beside me and took my hand. ‘You see, Cat, when I found you, there were a few clues as to your identity, as you probably know.’
    I wasn’t sure what he meant. ‘Clues?’
    â€˜Well, yes. First your appearance, carrot-topped even then – a distinctive feature. You must have wondered about that. Then there was your accent.’
    â€˜My accent?’
    â€˜You were only a little – or should I say,
wee
– thing, but the few words you spoke had a Scottish accent. I remember how you called for your
mither
. You were heartbroken at being left, and who can blame you? It took many weeks for you to settle in with us.’
    My mind was reeling. None of these bits of information fitted with the image I had of myself. ‘No one told me that.’
    â€˜You soon lost the accent – I doubt many remember now. I would not have recalled it if not for . . . well, never mind that now.’
    â€˜You think I’m Scottish?’
    â€˜Your mother must have been. You, my dear, are a Londoner through and through.’ He gave me a bow. ‘Any trace of that accent has long since disappeared.’
    â€˜And did you try and find my mother?’I clenched my free fist in the folds of my skirt, my knuckles white.
    â€˜Of course I did. Some remembered the . . . er . . . woman with the red-headed child but no one around Covent Garden knew what had happened to her – the trail petered out. There was one more piece of evidence, however. The blanket.’
    I remembered it well – I had used it on my bed in the Sparrow’s Nest, the old costume store in the theatre, until it fell into holes and had been thrown out. I’d always been told that it had been found with me so I’d kept a scrap of it tucked away among my belongings.
    â€˜It was the Stirling tartan,’ Mr Sheridan continued. ‘I thought I’d told you that.’
    I shook my head.
    â€˜Perhaps just coincidence, perhaps not.’ Mr Sheridan frowned, lost in his memories of the past.
    â€˜And is that it?’ I asked, feeling a gust of anger at the carelessness of great men. How like my guardian to be so casual about the few details con cern ing my identity, so vital to me, so