Journey to the River Sea

When they had left, the Colonel picked up a toothpick and watched them out of the window. At least that would get them out of the way for a few days. Not that he expected anyone to give Finn away. What Westwood had done to Bernard Taverner was well-known to his friends. Taverner had been fearless in the jungle, but those who had camped with him on his collecting trips remembered nights when he had woken in terror after a dream, with the name ‘Westwood’ on his lips.

After a while the Colonel opened the door to his office.

‘Go to the museum and tell Professor Glastonberry that I’ve sent the Englishmen upriver,’ he said to the policeman there. ‘But he’s to tell Finn to stay where he is – I don’t know how long they’ll be away.’

The professor would send the little lad from the fish market, who was Tapi’s nephew, up to the huts behind the Carters’ house. The Indians there would do anything for Taverner’s son.

In the beautiful theatre in Manaus, with its crimson and gold decorations, its pillars and statues, the audience was waiting for the curtain to go up on Little Lord Fauntleroy.

Beatrice and Gwendolyn were in the front stalls with their mother. The box of chocolates they were guzzling was on the arm of the seat between them and their plump fingers stirred the tissue paper as they dug for their favourite centres, making a loud, rustling sound.

‘I wanted that one,’ complained Gwendolyn as Beatrice’s jaws moved up and down on the hazel nougat. ‘Mama, why can’t we have two boxes of chocolates? We ought to have one each.’

Mrs Carter was craning her head, peering at the people in the audience.

‘Look at that ridiculous Russian woman,’ she said as Sergei’s mother came down the aisle, ‘wearing her emeralds in the middle of the afternoon. And they’re bringing their governess – giving her ideas!’

As he passed the twins, Sergei turned and said, ‘Where’s Maia?’

‘She couldn’t come. She isn’t well,’ said Beatrice.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. Is it anything serious?’

The twins shook their heads – both together, left to right, right to left – and Sergei moved on.

‘Doesn’t Netta look silly in that dirndl?’ said Gwendolyn. ‘I suppose her parents couldn’t afford a proper party frock.’

It wasn’t true that there were no seats left, they could have bought a ticket for Maia quite easily. All the same the theatre was nearly full. The Pilgrim Players might have been a small company that no one had ever heard of, but out here people went to everything. Old ladies had come to see Little Lord Fauntleroy even without a grandchild in tow, and army colonels with fierce moustaches... and of course every child whose parents could afford a ticket was there.

Mrs Carter opened her programme. There was a picture of Clovis King inside; it had been taken three years earlier and he looked very sweet.

‘I bet Maia doesn’t really know him. I bet she made it up,’ said Gwendolyn.

‘Clovis King in the part he has made particularly his own,’ read Mrs Carter.

Clovis was Cedric, the American boy who finds he is heir to his grandfather’s title and has to leave his simple life in New York, where he is friends with the grocer and the shoe-shine boy, and travel to England to start a new life as an aristocrat.

‘With his beautiful mother, Dearest, he melts the heart of his stern old grandfather, the earl, and starts doing good to the peasants on the estate. But there is a dastardly plot—’

‘What’s dastardly?’ said Beatrice, her mouth full of chocolate.

‘Wicked,’ said Mrs Carter, ‘... dastardly plot to usurp Little Lord Fauntleroy’s place which is foiled ...’

But the house lights had dimmed. The curtains parted. The play had begun.

Maia ran across the empty square towards the theatre. She was out of breath, her efforts to scrub the blood off her hand and tidy herself up had not been very successful, but she thought of nothing except to keep her promise to Clovis.

But she was too late. Everyone had been sucked into the theatre; there were a few beggars on the steps, an old woman selling peanuts. Nobody else.

She ran round to the side of the building and found the stage door, which she pushed open. She was in luck. The Goodleys’ nephew was sitting in the cubby hole, with his feet on the desk, smoking a cigarette.

‘Oh please,’ said Maia trying to get her breath. ‘I promised Clovis I’d be here for his opening – we met on the boat. Would you let me wait for him?’

‘Sure. But why don’t you go out front and see the show? I’ll tell him you’re here.’

‘I can’t. There aren’t any tickets.’