Far To Go

First published in Great Britain by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd in 1976

This edition published by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2020

Published in this ebook edition in 2020

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Text copyright © Noel Streatfeild 1976

Cover illustrations copyright © Sarah Gibb 2020

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Noel Streatfeild asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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Source ISBN: 9780007349616

Ebook Edition © Feb 2020 ISBN: 9780008244071

Version: 2020-02-26

To Sophie, who liked Thursday’s Child

Monday’s child is fair of face,

Tuesday’s child is full of grace,

Wednesday’s child is full of woe,

Thursday’s child has far to go,

Friday’s child is loving and giving,

Saturday’s child works hard for a living,

And the child that is born on the Sabbath day

Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.

– Anonymous

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter One: Far to Go

Chapter Two: The Postcard

Chapter Three: The Red Dress

Chapter Four: The Interview

Chapter Five: About the Play

Chapter Six: Katie

Chapter Seven: The Calendar

Chapter Eight: Miss Grey has a Plan

Chapter Nine: Her Ladyship Hears the Story

Chapter Ten: Lessons

Chapter Eleven: Rehearsals

Chapter Twelve: Licences

Chapter Thirteen: A Letter

Chapter Fourteen: Christmas

Chapter Fifteen: Precautions

Chapter Sixteen: A Scare

Chapter Seventeen: Margaret’s Gone!

Chapter Eighteen: The Search Begins

Chapter Nineteen: A Telegram for Liza

Chapter Twenty: The Prisoner

Chapter Twenty-one: The Search Goes On

Chapter Twenty-two: Hope

Chapter Twenty-three: Queen Eliza

Chapter Twenty-four: A Whistle in the Dark

Chapter Twenty-five: The End

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Books by Noel Streatfeild

About the Publisher

Chapter One

FAR TO GO

Every day when she arrived at the theatre Margaret would feel a sort of blown-up feeling inside because she was so happy. To other people there might not seem much about the theatre to make her happy, for it was only a tent. It had started life – many years before – with a little family circus who had grandly called it ‘The Big Top’. That circus had done well so the owner had bought a bigger tent and had advertised for a buyer for his old one. The advertisement had been seen by Mr Fortescue, actor-manager of the Fortescue Comedy Company, who acted in what was called a fit-up theatre, that is to say, they put up a stage and curtains and acted in any building which could be rented where they could find an audience. It was the proudest moment in Mr Fortescue’s life when in 1895 he had bought the big tent and had had ‘Fortescue Comedy Company’ painted on it.

Margaret could not go to the theatre until the afternoons for she had to attend the local school. She did not mind, for she loved school, not just for the lessons but because she was special there. Not that she needed to be told she was special, for she had always known that she was. Who else had been found in a basket when they were a baby with three of everything, all of the very best quality? Who else had a card sent with her which said, ‘This is Margaret Thursday whom I entrust to your care’? Who else had received fifty-two golden sovereigns each year for her keep? Margaret knew it was not because of this romantic start to her life that the children admired her, it was because they had seen her act Little Lord Fauntleroy and they thought she was wonderful.

Oddly enough, that part of Margaret who was proud of herself did not care if she was admired as an actress or not. Acting was a different thing altogether. It was something that came to you when you stepped on the stage that made you forget everything except the part you were acting, that made you believe what you were saying and turned all the other actors into the people they were meant to be so she never, when on the stage, saw them as the tawdry, seedy, bad actors, atrociously dressed, that they really were.

At the back of the theatre in a small tent Mrs Sarah Beamish spent her days. She was a wonderfully good needlewoman and so was in charge of the wardrobe, though she played character parts or walked on when needed. Sarah had taken Margaret under her wing when she had joined the company four months before and, in innumerable ways, had not only seen after her but, when necessary, fought for her welfare. It was Sarah Beamish who saw she attended school. Her fat little figure had waddled into Ida Fortescue’s – the leading lady and manageress – dressing-tent a few nights after Little Lord Fauntleroy had become part of the repertory. Ida was taking off her make-up and did not want to be interrupted.

‘Well?’

‘Young Margaret should go to school starting Monday,’ said Sarah.

The question of sending Margaret to school had been discussed by the Fortescues and they had decided against it. In the company there was an actress so short she was almost a dwarf who had played children when they were needed. She had no talent so the Fortescues had decided, as soon as the summer was over, to dismiss her and give the parts to Margaret, which would mean she would be needed for morning rehearsals. Now what was Sarah Beamish sticking her nose in for? However, Sarah was too valuable in the wardrobe to be treated rudely. Ida spoke as though her tongue had been covered with cream.

‘Do you not think that a long role every night is enough for her? She is only just eleven.’

Sarah was not fooled by a creamy voice. ‘No, I do not. I think she should have proper schooling like any ordinary child. Besides it’s the law. Very strict they say they are now about children’s schooling.’

This was a brave statement from Sarah, who had not the faintest idea about school and the law. When she had grown up some children were still working in the cotton mills. She had herself for a year when her father had been out of work through an injury, but times were changing fast and now, with the coming of a new century, life was much easier for children. Even girls going into service in private houses seldom went until they were twelve.

As a result of what Sarah had said, Margaret had been sent to the village school. Ida Fortescue had settled the argument.

‘What does it matter, Mr Fortescue?’ she had said to her husband. ‘It’s just coming to the autumn. If we can get an audience in our tent for Fauntleroy until October we’ve done grand. Come mid-October we have to move under a roof anyway, and what school there may be there we can wait and see.’

As she said this she winked to show her husband there would be no schooling for Margaret if she was needed for theatre work.

Now it was late September, the last week when they could use a tent. It was pleasant weather with just a nip in the air to remind everyone summer was coming to an end and, in Margaret’s case, to put a skip into her walk and make her hum a tuneless song to the words, ‘I do like being me.’

Sarah heard her coming. ‘Is that you, Margaret?’ she called.

Margaret ran the last few steps and flung her arms round Sarah’s neck. ‘Of course it’s me, who else would it be? You know everybody is having a nap. Were you wanting me? What can I do?’

Sarah had a small kettle which was heated by a spirit lamp. Now she lit it.

‘We’ll have a cup of tea first, and then I’ve something I want to talk to you about.’

Margaret groaned. ‘How mean! Why not talk first and then tea? You know how I hate waiting to hear things. Hannah, the one who brought me up …’

Sarah stopped her. ‘Now don’t start on about how the rector found you and Hannah brought you up. I know that.’ Her voice softened. ‘Though very nicely that Hannah managed, I will say, but now we’ve other things to talk of. Open my cotton box and you’ll find a bag of sweet biscuits.’

It seemed to Margaret an intolerable time before the kettle boiled, but really it was only a matter of minutes before she and Sarah were drinking tea and eating the fancy biscuits. Margaret had grown to know Mrs Beamish, as she respectfully called her, too well in the past four months to hope to hurry her but she watched her, quivering like an eager puppy, and at last she had her reward. Sarah felt in her apron pocket and brought out a piece cut from a newspaper.

‘I haven’t talked about your future, Margaret, because there has not been any cause.’

‘There isn’t now,’ said Margaret.

Sarah went on as if she had not been interrupted. ‘That’s as may be, but some thinks different.’

‘But I know we’re leaving this tent next week and it’s being stored in a barn until next spring. Mr Fortescue has booked a hall where we move to and we play repertory until Christmas when we put on pantomime, and I shall be a little white cat and …’

Sarah stopped her with an upraised hand. ‘I am aware of what is planned, but maybe others have plans too.’ Her tone changed. ‘Listen, dear, I’m not the only one who has been watching you. I know you are not one to let compliments go to your head, but since you took on playing Little Lord Fauntleroy you’ve shown yourself an actress. Mind you, talent in a child does not mean talent when you’ve grown up, but I am not the only one in the company who has real hope for you.’ Sarah paused and unfolded the piece of paper. ‘So when I saw this I said to myself: “Sarah Beamish, it’s meant.”’

Margaret held out her hand. ‘What is it, Mrs Beamish? Show me.’

Sarah passed her a cutting from a theatrical paper called The Era. Margaret unfolded it and read: ‘Wanted: A clever girl to appear eleven. Appointment, write to Thomas Smith, The Dolphin Theatre.’

‘Where is The Dolphin Theatre?’

Sarah smiled at such ignorance. ‘In London, of course. It belongs to Sir John Teaser. He’s what they call a theatrical manager, which means he owns his own company and acts as well. Very important man, Sir John is. Why, when he went to Buckingham Palace for Queen Victoria to make him a knight, hundreds turned out to see him in his carriage drive through the palace gates.’

Margaret reread the cutting from the paper. ‘I shouldn’t think he would see me. I mean, London must be full of child actresses.’

Sarah nodded. ‘I thought that. A big man like Sir John Teaser would only have to raise a little finger and he’d have his theatre crammed full of clever little girls, all frills and curls with their mothers pushing them on. So, I say to myself, he’s looking for something different and maybe the answer is Margaret. She is eleven, not just appearing to be, and she’s clever, sometimes too clever by half.’

Margaret felt a glow of excitement; it was a very small glow, more like a spark, which could start a fire.

‘Just in case I was the girl he wants, how do I get to London because I haven’t any money, at least almost none because Mr Fortescue engaged me as a student all found, which doesn’t mean more than my bed and food and a few clothes like the frocks you’ve made me and …’

‘How you do run on!’ said Sarah. ‘You might give me credit for a little sense. Of course I know you haven’t any money, but I have my savings, not much in this company, of course, but I used to earn more …’

Margaret stopped her, her eyes flashing as though a light was shining behind them. She threw her chin into the air. ‘Thank you very much but I don’t want charity. You forget I was found in a basket with three of everything all of the very best quality and—’

Sarah stopped her.

‘I know. Now calm down, do. I wasn’t offering to give you the money, only lend it. You can pay me back when you’re earning. Now, listen. I’ve got a sister called Louisa but we just call her Lou. She works in a theatre wardrobe. Well, her theatre puts on pantomime at Christmas, tremendous big shows they are with all of two hundred artistes. So well before Christmas the wardrobe mistress hires dozens of extra staff to work on the panto dresses. Many’s the time Lou has written to me, begging me to work with her over Christmas so we could see each other. Each year I mean to go, but somehow I never have. But this year I’m going. I sent Lou a letter saying to expect us Monday, and I wrote to this Thomas Smith asking for an appointment. I gave Lou’s address.’

Chapter Two

THE POSTCARD

Sarah and Margaret travelled to London after dark so that no member of the company would see them go. The station was quite near the hall where the Fortescue company was playing Maria Martin or The Murder in the Red Barn. It was always popular and, such scenery as there was, easy to set on the stage, so they usually opened a season with it. There was no part in the play for Margaret so no one would miss her, but Sarah’s and Margaret’s hearts beat very fast as they crept out of their lodgings and down the village street. When they reached the station they hid behind the shed where left luggage was stored but, even so, and though it was not likely any member of the company would come to the station at that time of night, they clung to each other, jumping at every sound.

When at last they were safely in an empty carriage and the train was chugging out of the station, Sarah let out a breath so held in that, as it came out, her jet necklace rattled.

‘It’s not that I think what we’re doing is wrong,’ she whispered. ‘I mean, Mr Fortescue couldn’t have stopped us going if we wanted to.’

Margaret agreed. ‘Of course it’s not you, it’s me. I don’t suppose I can leave just when I want to, I’m only a student and I did sign a paper.’

‘Well, we needn’t trouble about that now,’ said Sarah hopefully. ‘I can’t see Mr Fortescue going to the police, he never would.’

‘Well, he can’t if he wants to, he doesn’t know where I’ve gone. Funny, I always seem to be running away. Did I tell you about escaping on the canal?’

‘You did, I don’t know how many times, and I’m not going to hear it now. We’re going to settle down and have a sleep, for we have walking to do when we get to London.’

London, even in the evening, seemed very crowded to Margaret. The traffic was almost all horse-drawn, and to Margaret, crouching against Sarah for safety, it seemed as if at any moment everything would spill on to the pavement, especially the great carts filled to overflowing with garden produce making their way to Covent Garden. And as for the people! It seemed as if all Londoners went out walking at night. Margaret was to learn to love London in all its moods, but that night she was tired, and the unexpected rush and roar were too much for her. Not that she complained, she would never do that, but she did tremble, and Sarah, in spite of her thick full skirt and innumerable petticoats, felt this and sympathized and took, for her, a world-shaking decision.

‘We’ll take a cab to Lou’s,’ she said.

The cab, when at last they got one, smelt of hay, for a sackful was under the seat for the horse’s dinner, but after the noise in the street, to Margaret it was pure paradise. However, she did not overlook her arrangement with Sarah.

‘Don’t forget to add what this costs to what I owe you, Mrs Beamish.’

Sarah smiled. ‘When you have work we’ll fix everything,’ she said comfortably. ‘There’s one thing I’ve been thinking of, though – you’d better call me Sarah from now on. You see, all Lou’s friends just call her Lou and they will call me Sarah. You see, Mrs is just what I call myself, like many do in the profession when they are not so young as they were.’

‘Is it far to Lou’s house, Sarah?’ Margaret asked, emphasizing the name.

‘No, dear, it’s near Covent Garden. That’s where the fruit and that is going. It’s a big market. But you told me you’d been to London before, so you must remember Covent Garden.’

In the darkness Margaret blushed. She knew that sometimes she exaggerated to make a better story.

‘I have, but I didn’t stay the night. You see, Hannah, the one who brought me up after the vicar found me on the church steps …’

‘With three of everything of the very best quality,’ Sarah quoted.

‘That’s right,’ Margaret agreed. ‘Well, she had to bring me to London to the third-class waiting room at Paddington Station. There a terrible woman from the orphanage met us.’

‘So that’s all of London you’ve ever seen?’

‘That’s right,’ said Margaret.

Sarah took one of Margaret’s hands in hers. ‘Now don’t worry, love, we’ll soon be at Lou’s and, if I know her, she’ll have taken the time off to welcome us and there’ll be tripe and onions for supper and, until you’ve tasted Lou’s tripe and onions, you haven’t lived.’

Afterwards Margaret could not remember much about the arrival at Lou’s. She remembered climbing innumerable stairs, at the top of which stood Lou. She was very like Sarah but twice as fat. She remembered the smell of tripe and onions which filled Lou’s room at the top of the stairs, and she remembered Lou and Sarah hugging each other while Lou said: ‘A card’s come, they’re seeing her tomorrow,’ and shoved a card into Margaret’s hands. On it Margaret read:

DOLPHIN THEATRE

Mr Thomas Smith will see Miss Margaret Thursday on Tuesday next at 11.30 a.m.

Chapter Three

THE RED DRESS

Sir John and Lady Teaser and their daughter lived in spacious apartments over The Dolphin Theatre. It was, Sir John found, infinitely less tiring to live where he worked than have to drive to and fro to somewhere more fashionable, which was what Lady Teaser would have liked.

That Tuesday morning Sir John was enjoying a late breakfast when Lady Teaser swept into the room. She gave him a kiss.

Lady Teaser – her name was Ada – was an imposing-looking woman of a statuesque type. She had been an actress and had made a name for herself in a small way. But when she married Sir John Teaser she had given up her career for she was sure, if they both put their minds to it, that John would rise to be head of his profession. Because she had stopped acting that did not mean she had lost all ambition: she was very, very conscious that if she had gone on, she too might have reached the heights. Anyone who knew her and forgot this was making a very great mistake.

Now, as she had come in and because the day was beautiful and Ada, judging by the kiss, in a good temper, Sir John turned the conversation to his new play.

‘I’ve left the sorting-out of possible little girls to Tommy. He won’t let any of promise pass by him, but it is proving difficult to find exactly the child I want. He has had no luck so far; I gather they are all curls and dimples.’

There was a pause, which Sir John prayed Ada would fill, but when she spoke it was not to say what he wished to hear.

‘If you are still hoping I will allow Katie to play the part, you are wasting your time. Our little girl is being brought up to be a fashionable young lady. When she is old enough she will be presented at Court, and later she will marry a suitable husband, preferably a member of the peerage …’

Sir John laid a hand on Ada’s shoulder. ‘I know, dear, that is what you hope, but think back to the old days when you were an ambitious child, imagine what you would have felt if you had been given the chance to play the leading part in a beautiful play.’

Ada shook his hand off her shoulder. ‘When I was a child the question did not arise, and if it had, my father would not even have considered it.’

Sir John tactfully did not point out that Ada’s father, a poor man, would probably have jumped at the offer. ‘I shall not override your wishes, Ada, you know that, but I do beseech you to think of Katie. She is an exceptionally gifted child and, though she has heard nothing from either of us about the part of Anastasia, there must be talk, you know what servants are.’

Ada nodded.

‘If necessary I will tell Katie the whole truth. She will be angry with me for she believes herself to be an actress, but I do not want Katie to lead the life we led. You may have forgotten but I have not, those dreadful theatrical lodgings in which we stayed when we were first married. The mice and the rats,’ she shuddered, ‘the vermin in the beds where we lodged. By the time Katie was born, things had improved a little and, although when small she travelled with us, I suspect she has forgotten the discomforts and the smells. I have only one daughter. Is it not natural I should wish to keep her away from those sordid things that you and I remember?’

Sir John knew he was beaten. He took his watch out of his pocket. ‘I’m going down to see what news Tommy has. I believe he’s seeing another child this morning.’

Lou had only one room. She shared the kitchen and lavatory with the fourteen other tenants. Fortunately her bed was big so Sarah squeezed in with her. Margaret slept on a borrowed mattress on the floor.

Because the sisters were both members of the profession, as they grandly described being actresses, the next morning belonged to Margaret. Seeing a manager about a part was important, and everything else had to be put on one side for it.

First there was a discussion about Margaret’s hair. For Fauntleroy it had been dyed with peroxide but now the dye was growing out and Margaret’s original chestnut hair was showing at the roots. Lou ran her fingers through Margaret’s curls.

‘Lovely hair it is.’

‘If I slip out quick,’ said Sarah, ‘I could get more peroxide. Wouldn’t take long to do.’

Lou thought about that. ‘Very high class The Dolphin is, I wouldn’t think that Sir John would fancy dyed hair, not on a child.’

Sarah gave in. ‘After all, this Mr Smith who is seeing her will be used to hair dyes and that, seeing it’s a theatre, so he’ll know it could be fixed whatever colour was wanted.’