Den of Thieves by Julia Golding Page B

shilling and sixpence in my purse. Next to nothing. Just enough for the next day’s meal. If I spent it on shelter I’d go hungry. Just a few yards away, the streets were still bustling with people going in and out of thetaverns and gaming houses, but I couldn’t afford to join them, nor would it be safe to do so. I slipped back across the road and into the alleyway to the stage door. I knew it was locked but it was the nearest I could get to home. I stowed my bundle against the doorpost and curled down with my back to the comforting solidity of the oak. I wasn’t ready to leave – not yet.

SCENE 4 – MR TWEADLE
    â€˜Cat, you look terrible.’
    Pedro was hanging out of the window of the Dover mail coach biding his friends farewell as I slid to the front of the queue. I’d purposely left it to the last moment, mingling with the crowds until the coachman took his seat and picked up the reins. I couldn’t cope with answering too many questions from Pedro today. After two nights of sleeping rough, I knew I must look a sight. To tell the truth, I was less worried about my begrimed state than the gnawing hunger. I’d only had a penny roll yesterday and nothing so far this morning. I wasn’t managing well and I was too humiliated to let anyone know. They all thought of me as the girl who always landed on her feet, good for a laugh, guaranteed to look on the bright side when others were moaning. I wasn’t finding anything funny at the moment.
    â€˜Have a safe trip, Pedro,’ I said huskily.
    â€˜Cat! Where have you been? Why didn’t you come earlier? I’ve been frantic with worry. Look, I’ll write to you – where shall I send it?’
    I was about to say ‘Drury Lane’ but pulled up short before I made so obvious a mistake. ‘Um, send it to . . . to Syd’s parents. I’m sure they won’t mind.’
    â€˜But why can’t I send it directly to you? Where are you staying?’ Pedro asked shrewdly.
    The coachman cracked his whip.
    â€˜Oh, look: you’re off.’ I gave Signor Angelini, Pedro’s master, a smile. ‘
Buon viaggio
!’
    â€˜
Grazie
, Caterina,’ the maestro replied. ‘I look after your little friend for you!’
    Pedro was not satisfied. ‘But Cat, tell me where . . .’ The coach surged forward in a clatter of hooves and jingle of harness. ‘I’ll write to Frank if you –’ The rest of his words were lost as the mail pulled out of the stable yard. I kept up my smile, and waving, until he was out of sight, then I let it slide off my face like greasepaint under hot lights. I had to do something today. It was Monday. I couldn’t spend any longer mourning for thehome that was now barred to me. Even though it was early summer, the nights were chilly. Sleeping rough was exactly how it sounded. If I carried on I’d lose all claim to a respectable appearance and would find it even harder to get serious attention anywhere.
    Struggling with my despondency, I sat down on the milestone in the inn yard. Dover 70 miles. All being well, Pedro would be on the high seas by nightfall, off on his grand tour like a proper gentleman. I knew I had another tour to make: a round of the booksellers. With my ducal patron abroad, I would have to see what a direct approach would do for me. It was all I had to offer. Picking up my bundle of stories, I set off towards St Paul’s.
    Noon passed. The sun beat down on the stones, bleaching them a blinding grey-white like an expert washerwoman. My eyes were watering – but that was only the glare, of course. I assure you, Reader, I was becoming hardened to rejection. First the ingratiating, though slightly doubting, smile from the assistant as I stepped into the shop. Then the sneer that began as soon as I opened mybundle. A hurried ‘No, thank you, miss’ and ejection on to the pavement with the door snapped shut behind me. One