‘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 firmly on 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 Angelini, cutting the stream of music off abruptly with a flick of his baton. ‘The opening of the second, if you please.’
Pedro took a deep breath, eyes closed, and now made his violin sing with such sweet sadness that I felt a sob rise in my throat. After only a few passages, Peter wept unashamedly into his white handkerchief, his shoulders heaving with emotion. Even the noises from the stage crew had stopped as Mr Bishop and his men stood still to listen to the performance.
‘Now the end of the third,’ said the conductor, looking round at the subdued audience with a triumphant smile.
The boy raised his bow and set off at a terrific pace, a virtuoso dash through the music, taking every obstacle in his path like a thoroughbred horse. Sweat beaded on his brow as he came to the conclusion, making the bow fly so fast that it became a blur. He finished on three victorious notes and was rewarded by the spontaneous applause of the orchestra and stage crew, as well as myself.
‘Very impressive!’ said Peter loudly. ‘That was Mozart as he should be played.’
Pedro, who had been studiously avoiding anyone’s eye but Signor Angelini’s, now shot a grateful look towards the first violin. The two musicians had come to a mutual understanding.
‘Indeed, Mr Dodsley,’ said the signor. ‘But, tristemente, Pedro will not be sitting with you to play Mozart. ’E will be playing the part of the Mogul Prince in the farce.’ The signor tapped his music stand with his baton. ‘Attention, gentlemen! Let us start at bar thirty.’
The music rehearsal now properly under way, I drifted off to see how work on the balloon was progressing. The stagehands were groaning in the wings as they tugged like mariners hoisting a sail, making the machine rise and fall slowly. I approached Mr Bishop with caution.
‘Will it work?’ I asked tentatively. I was never sure of my reception from Mr Bishop. Mostly he tolerated me, but occasionally he would scold me as a useful vent for his anger if he was having a bad day.
Perhaps the music had mellowed him, but he appeared to be in a good humour.
‘It might,’ he said, thoughtfully scratching his chin, examining the ropes and pulleys stretching up to the galleries above.
‘Can I be of assistance? I mean, would you like to try it with someone inside?’
Mr Bishop looked down at me, calculating my weight. ‘That’s not a bad idea. You’re a fraction of the weight of Mr Andrews, so it would give the lads something to practise on before we try the full burden. In you go, Cat.’
With a shout to his men, he lifted me into the basket and stood back.
‘Take her away!’ he ordered.
With a jolt, the basket began to move slowly up from the floor, ropes creaking in the blocks above. This must be what it is like to fly, I thought. I could see the will-o’-the-wisp lights of the orchestra in the Pit below, the gleam of the whites of the African boy’s upturned eyes as he watched me rise above him. Even the vast stage began to look very small. The white cross that marked the trapdoor in the floor looked tiny from up here.
‘One more heave and that should do it!’ bellowed Mr Bishop, standing underneath to monitor my progress. I leant over the side to give him a cheery wave.
‘Aargh!’
It was my scream that echoed around the stage as the rope holding the front of the basket came away from its fastening, tipping its contents . . . me . . . out forwards head over heels. As I fell, I just managed to grab on to a handle on the rim of the basket and ended up dangling twenty feet from the ground.
‘Stop!’ yelled Mr Bishop.
The balloon lurched to a standstill. There was another jolt and the tackle holding a second rope gave way, snaking to the floor like a whip. The orchestra ground to a dissonant halt.
‘Hang on Cat!’ Mr Bishop shouted quite unnecessarily. As if I was going to do anything else.
‘Can you lower her?’ he shouted into the wings.
‘The block’s jammed,’ Long Tom shouted back.
There was a hubbub of noise below me as people ran across the stage. Swinging like a pendulum, my skirts billowing in a most undignified manner, I clung on with my fingers, praying rescue would come quickly. Taking a terrifying glance downwards I saw one of the stage crew running on with a big piece of canvas, passing it out to the rest to form a net to catch me. Half the orchestra had also climbed on to the stage and were grabbing hold of the canvas. I felt sick with fear. Surely it was too far for me to fall even if they caught me?
Someone else must have been thinking the same thing for a new voice piped up.
‘She will break her neck if she jumps from there.’ It was the boy violinist. He leapt lightly on to the stage.
‘He’s right,’ chimed in Peter, climbing up beside him. ‘Don’t you have a ladder?’
‘Not long enough,’ said Mr Bishop.
‘No need for a ladder,’ said Pedro.
As I twirled in the air, I watched the boy bound across the stage, nimble as a squirrel, leap on to the rope Long Tom had used to haul the basket into the air and begin shinning up it.
‘Somebody stop the boy. ’E’ll kill ’imself!’ shrieked Signor Angelini, but Pedro was far out of reach before anyone grabbed the rope.