BY THE TIME THE TRAIN REACHED UNCASTER, Charlie and Rosie had decided that this was the only way to travel. Even Aunt Mags had opened her eyes for the last few miles, although she refused to acknowledge there was anything positive about the speed with which they had reached their destination.

“It’s not right,” she said. “Just you wait and see. You’ll find you’ve left more than half your brain behind, and it’ll take at least three days for it to catch up. If God had meant us to go this fast, he’d have given us an extra pair of legs.”

“Come along, come along!” Pa stood up, gathering as many bags and cases and parcels as he could carry. “We’ve got to get the hampers, remember!” His large round face was shining with excitement, and he opened the compartment door with a flourish. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Steam Whistle Theatre Company – welcome to Fame and Fortune!”

Rosie and Charlie hurried after him. Once they were on the platform, Pa hustled them towards the luggage van. Two porters were heaving the wicker hampers out; the strange black box that Charlie had noticed earlier was already propped against a pillar.

“That yours?” a porter asked. Pa shook his head, and the porter looked at the label. “ ‘Little Baby Bubbles, the One and Only Child Master of Magic and Escapology’. Escapology? What’s that when it’s at home? Never heard of one of them before.” He turned the label over, and shouted at a large man leaning on the wall outside the ticket office. “Oi! Delivery for you! Got to go to the Supper Rooms!”

Rosie pulled at Pa’s arm. “Did you hear, Pa? A baby who does magic! And what’s ‘escap’ … ‘escap’ … the other thing?”

“You should know that, Rosie.” Charlie said in lofty tones. “It means escaping from boxes, or tanks, or being tied up.”

“Really?” Rosie was even more impressed. “Darling Pa, do say we can go and see him!”

“Maybe.” Pa watched the large man swing the black box onto his shoulders and stride off towards the small donkey cart tied to a railing. “It’ll be competition, pet. Still … it’s only a baby. What can he do?” Pa’s natural optimism asserted itself. “And we’ve got Shakespeare! Bound to bring the audiences rolling in.”

“That’s for sure.” Charlie nodded. “Where are we going now, Pa? Hey! We’re not playing at the Supper Rooms too, are we?”

“No.” Pa was counting coins from his pocket. “We’re off to The Golden Lion. Ma heard about it from a lady who’d stayed there on her way down from York. There’s a yard there, a yard with a nice little stage … suit us down to the ground!” He turned to one of the porters. “How much for a carrier? Those hampers over there – property of the Steam Whistle Theatre Company, to go to The Golden Lion.”

The porter shrugged. “Bert is the carrier here. And he’s gone.”

Pa’s face fell, but a glance at the baskets made him brighten again. Each wicker basket had the name of the company emblazoned on the side in gold and scarlet, and he suddenly saw the opportunity for a little free publicity.

“We’ll take them there ourselves,” he announced – and then, wondering if he’d been rash, asked, “Is it far?”

“Golden Lion? Only a step away. Down t’high street, then first on right.” The porter looked at Pa curiously. “Do them plays, do you?”

“Indeed we do!” Pa put his hands on his hips, and puffed out his chest. “Glorious Shakespeare! Comedy, history and tragedy; alarms, excursions and monologues; scenes of pathos to make you weep; scenes of terror to make you pale … we have it all. Tell you what, my man – come along after we’ve settled in, and I’ll let you in for free!”

“I’ll think on it,” was all the porter said, and he went off whistling.

Pa, somewhat deflated, called to his company. A few minutes later a strange procession left the station: Pa and a puffing Aunt Mags carrying the first hamper, Gertie and Charlie staggering under the weight of the second, and Vinnie and Rosie half-carrying, half-dragging the third.

“Once more unto the breach, my friends, my company, my children!” Pa declaimed as they made their way onto Uncaster high street. “On, on, my souls! Onward to glory, to victory, to fame!”

The Golden Lion was just off the main street: “nice and central”, as Aunt Mags said. Nevertheless, the street was on a hill and the hampers were heavy. The company was hot and sweaty within minutes of setting out. Various passers-by stopped to stare as they struggled on their way; a large whiskery man driving a coal cart enraged the Canary of Covent Garden by asking if she was, “One of them high-kicking girls?” Several elderly matrons tut-tutted and shook their heads as the cavalcade went by. By the time they reached the door of The Golden Lion they were exhausted, and Charlie and Rosie’s arms were aching badly.

Pa stopped outside to mop his brow and recover his dignity. “I shall go ahead and announce our arrival,” he said. “And then we will gather together to discuss what to do next.” His perspiring red face became hopeful. “It’s quite possible that word has already reached our worthy landlord. We may even be applauded on entering this noble tavern!”

Pa’s hopes were quickly dashed. The landlord, an enormous man with thick bushy eyebrows, was polishing pewter mugs at the bar and didn’t even look up as Pa approached.

Pa cleared his throat. “My good man, I am delighted to inform you that the Steam Whistle Theatre Company is here at last!”

“What’s that?” The landlord put down his cloth and peered suspiciously at Pa. “I bain’t nobody’s good man, and that’s a fact. And who might you be, marching in here like the Lord of Rumplepooza?”

“My name is Frederick Pringle.” Pa gave a small bow. “My esteemed wife wrote to inform you that the Steam Whistle Theatre Company would shortly be available to perform tragedy, comedy, and a variety of other dramatic works at The Golden Lion … and lo! here we are!” He stepped back, expecting the landlord’s suspicious scowl to melt into a welcoming smile.

Instead, the scowl grew darker. “Never had no letter like that.” The landlord shook his head. “Anyways, we’re booked for theatricals. So you’d best be off where you come from.”

“Fred?” Aunt Mags appeared in the doorway. “Is there a problem? Oh! Excuse me, Sir. May I have the pleasure of introducing myself? Miss Margaretta Pringle. We are SO delighted to be here in your most excellent hostelry. Perhaps you might care to choose the first play from our extensive repertoire? Might I recommend The Crowning of the Queen of Sheba?”

“Sukie!” The landlord turned, and roared down the passage behind the bar. “SUKIE! There’s a pair of dafties here, and one of ’em thinks she’s the Queen of Sheba! Come and see before I throw them out.”

A small, red-haired woman came bustling up the passage. When she saw Pa and Aunt Mags, she stopped. “Well I never,” she said. “Londoners, or I’m a scratchrabbit! Whatever are you doing here, my dears? Lost your way?”

Aunt Mags had been taking in the furniture and fittings of The Golden Lion. Rather too many broken windows for my liking, she said to herself. Still, the floors are clean enough. She switched her attention to Sukie: “Yes, indeed! We hail from London, but I’m sure my sister-in-law’s letter explained how much we hope to be welcomed here in the North.”

“Sukie, tell Lord Rumplepooza here we ain’t had no letter.” The landlord folded his arms. “And then I’ll show them the door.”

“Letter?” Sukie looked suddenly thoughtful. “But there was a letter, George.” She screwed up her face as she tried to remember. “But it weren’t about a lord. Or a Queen of Sheba – t’was about the little stage in our yard. What was the name now? Bungle? Pinkerton? No … t’wasn’t that…”

Charlie, who had crept in behind Aunt Mags, came hurrying forward. “I know!” he said. “It’s not Pinkerton – it’s Pringle! The Pringle Players! Ma wrote in such a hurry she must have forgotten we’d changed the name.”

Sukie nodded. “That’ll be the right of it. The Pringle Players. Coming here, they are. So we don’t have no room for the likes of you, m’dear.”

Relief made Aunt Mags sink down on the nearest chair. “But that’s us! We are the Pringle Players! I am Miss Margaretta Pringle, and my brother here is Frederick Pringle, but we have a new name for the company, you see—”

Pa interrupted her. “That’s right. We are now the Steam Whistle Theatre Company, Intrepid Travellers from South to North.”

“Ho, yes?” The landlord, George, was unconvinced. “Seems mighty odd to me, changing names at a moment’s notice. And what’s wrong with ‘Pringle’? The old Uncaster blacksmith, he were a Pringle. Right good man he were too, afore he died.”

“That’s why George said he’d let them use the yard,” Sukie put in. “Said as it was a name he could trust.” She shook her head. “We never had theatricals before, see, but we thought we’d try, just this once – seeing as it was a good respectable name. There’s a lot in a name, George says.”

“How right you are, madam. Our noble bard has much to say on the subject. Why, I could quote—” Pa was silenced by a sharp kick on the ankle.

“My dear brother knows the works of Mr Shakespeare all too well,” Aunt Mags remarked, with a warning glare at Pa. “Now, might we see the stage? And do you have accommodation?” She saw Sukie’s blank face. “I mean, do you have rooms for us? We’re a company of six, but two are children.”

It took another half an hour to persuade the suspicious George that the company was truly risen from the ashes of the Pringle Players. Even when Charlie showed him props and costumes labelled with the old name he remained doubtful, and flatly refused to allow Sukie to offer Pa rooms.

“I’ll give them a month in the yard,” he said. “Fair’s fair. But I’ll not have them staying in the house.” He picked up his polishing cloth. “If they’d been what that letter said they was, I’d have thought on it. But all this chopping and changing – why, I don’t hold with it and that’s a fact. ‘Steamy Whistlers’? What kind of a name is that? Show them the stage, Sukie. And make sure they don’t make off with the candles!”

Seeing Pa turning a deep shade of crimson at this outrageous suggestion, Aunt Mags took his arm in a firm grip. “Come along, Fred. Charlie, run and call the others. They’ll be wondering what’s going on.”

Charlie did as he was told, and found Gertie and Vinnie sitting on the wicker hampers. There was no sign of Rosie.

“Where’s she gone?” he asked.

“Went to explore,” Gertie told him. “She’ll be back in a minute. What’s it like?”

“Tricky,” Charlie said. “And what’s more, we’ve got nowhere to sleep tonight.”