The Diamond of Drury Lane Read Free Page B

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 settledhimself 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 plightto 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.
    ‘Tcht!’ hissed Signor Angelini, waving an angry finger at the horn player. ‘Enough of your rudeness, barbarian. The boy can play like an angel. Pedro, start at the first movement.’
    The horn player snorted scornfully. Now firmlyon the boy’s side, I watched with bated breath as he took a moment to compose himself. He then launched into the piece, making the notes dance and flutter about the strings in a cloud of butterfly melodies, wiping the sneer off the face of the horn player.
    ‘Enough,’ interrupted Signor