Quincunx

  My mother looked at me in dismay. I nodded to encourage her.

  “Pretty well,” she stammered.

  “I don’t think you’ll sarve,” he said grimly. “I don’t know if it’s worth my time to write you down. Anyways, have you anyone to speak for you?” Seeing that we did not understand he said irritably: “What character can you furnish?”

  My mother gazed at me in dismay. Why had we not thought of this?

  “Mrs Fortisquince,” I said.

  My mother looked at me in surprise and the sharp-eyed clerk noticed this and looked at both of us sceptically.

  “Who is Mrs Fortisquince and where does she live?”

  “The lady is the very respectable widow of a legal gentleman,” I said. “She lives in Golden-square.”

  The man rudely snapped his fingers: “Faugh to your Mrs Fortisquince and Golden-square. We wants a title or a bang-up West-End address at the very least.”

  “But wouldn’t she suffice for a family in ordinary circumstances?” my mother asked.

  “Perhaps you know more about it than I do,” he said rudely. “Such famblies is more pertickler about tip-top connexions than the aristoxy theirselves.” To our horror he tore out and crumpled up the page of the ledger on which he had begun to write my mother’s answers. “We won’t take you on. There ain’t no p’int.”

  “No point?” my mother repeated.

  “You could try for a position as a children’s nurse,” the man added. “Your Mrs Fortisquince would sarve for that. But we don’t touch that sort of work. You want a sarvints’ hirin’-office for that. Now move along, please.”

  As she turned away I tugged her sleeve: “Miss Quilliam,” I reminded her.

  “We can’t,” she whispered.

  “You promised,” I urged and reluctantly she turned back.

  “Can you give me some information?” she asked. “I wish to find a friend of mine — that is, of my son — who may have been registered with you. A Miss Quilliam.”

  “I seem to rec’lleck the name. But what’s it to me?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What’s it worth to me to bother with it?”

  “He wants money,” I whispered.

  “How much?” she whispered back.

  “Two shillings,” I suggested, wondering if it was worth such an investment.

  My mother drew the coins from her reticule and placed them on the counter. The clerk took them up as if absent-mindedly, his attention preoccupied with opening a large volume lying nearby. He ran a finger down the page and at last said: “Yes, I thought I rec’llected the name. Was registered with us while in the employment of the family of Sir Parceval Mompesson of Brook-street and Mompesson-park, Hougham.” Here he looked into space reflectively and an almost wistful expression appeared on his features: “A most elegant establishment. We’ve sent them many a governess while their two young genel’men was in the school-room. And more recent, too, for the young lady. Oh yes, very many.”

  “Can you tell me by whom she is presently employed?” asked my mother, breaking in upon his reverie.

  “No, I can’t,” he said abruptly and frowned.

  “But won’t you look,” I protested.

  “I don’t need to,” he said. “She ain’t registered with us no more. She come in here about a month or two back and wanted to register again, but I couldn’t do nothing for her.”

  My mother and I looked at each other in dismay.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  He gave us a very mysterious, knowing look accompanied by a piece of pantomime which involved laying one thick finger alongside his nose and shaking his head significantly: “She left without a character.”

  This confirmed what Henrietta had said, but here was an unforeseen obstacle to our finding her.

  “Well then, will you at least be so kind as to tell me her address,” my mother asked.

  “She didn’t leave one, there being no call.”

  “But have you no address for her?” I demanded.

  Reluctantly he looked at the greasy page of his great tome: “According to this, previous to her engagement with Sir Parceval’s fambly, she lodged at No. 26 Coleman-street. (Now that’s still a wery good address, for all it’s in the City.) But there ain’t no reason to suppose she’s there now.” He shut the book with a bang: “That’s all I can do for you.”

  “You remembered all the time that you couldn’t help us,” I protested. “You shouldn’t have taken the two shillings!”

  “Move along,” he said threateningly. “There’s others waiting.”

  My mother took me by the arm and we went out and began to walk disconsolately towards our lodgings.

  “Why was he so unkind?” my mother asked.

  “Because he’s a beast,” I cried.

  “Johnnie,” she said a few minutes later, “if ever I did need to accept a situation, do you think we dare give Mrs Fortisquince’s name?”

  Now that I had time to consider it I answered: “I don’t think it would be safe to let her know where you were, Mamma.”

  She agreed and we continued on our way. When we got back and had had dinner, my mother put on her bonnet and set off on her mysterious errand.

  While I waited for her I tried to amuse myself by looking at one of my favourite books which had survived the theft because I had been carrying it, but the pictures that had interested me when I gazed at them in Melthorpe seemed strangely flat now. Perhaps it was because I was at last in London and therefore adventure and excitement lay all around me; though if this were so, then this house and this street seemed disappointingly mundane. I closed the book and, seating myself at the window, looked at the evening sky as the sun sank over the horizon, and watched the cowls slowly turning on the chimney-tops and the sparrows hopping about in the gutters of the houses opposite.

  At last I heard the door-bell and Jennie going to answer it. Then I detected a light step outside and when my mother came in I knew immediately that something had occurred that had moved her deeply. As she removed her bonnet she looked at me without seeming to see me and I could not tell whether what had happened was good or bad. She seemed excited as if inspired by some unanticipated hope, and yet at the same time saddened as if some dark shadow of the past had fallen upon her. When I spoke to her she looked away suddenly and took a long time to answer me. It was only with considerable difficulty that I was able to observe my undertaking and refrain from asking her any questions while we made our supper of the bread and cheese she had brought back.

  Afterwards she sat at the table and began writing in her pocket-book. When I went to my bed a couple of hours later she was still writing, and, happening to awaken some hours later, I crept into the sitting-room and saw her still bent over the table scratching away with her quill.

  CHAPTER 30

  I was worried by the realization that it might be less easy than we had assumed for my mother to find work as a governess, but she was less concerned since she was anyway determined to earn her living by her needle. So the next morning we strolled up and down Regent-street before at last choosing one of the grand shops selling gowns. As we entered a shop-woman came forward smiling and made a little bobbing curtsey.

  “Good morning,” my mother began nervously. “I wish to offer to do fine embroidery work for you.”

  The woman did not understand at first, and my mother had to repeat her words. Then her face darkened and she came up close to us and hissed: “You never ought to have come in the front. Don’t you know no better than that?”

  “Where should I go?” my mother asked in dismay.

  “Out of here and round the back.”

  We turned and left with as much dignity as we could muster, then went round the mews and with difficulty identified the rear of the premises. Then, directed by a youth loading boxes onto a hand-cart, we climbed a pair of back-stairs to a big bare room beneath the roof where about twenty women — predominantly young — were sitting round a hug
e table heaped with materials, and stitching so intently that they hardly glanced up as we came in — except for one, who was older than most of the others, and who was putting on her bonnet as if to leave.

  “What do you want?” said another older woman, rising and coming forward to speak with a mouthful of pins.

  My mother repeated her words and the woman answered brusquely as she turned away: “You’re wasting my time. Be off with you.”

  “How dare you speak to a lady like that!” I cried.

  She turned and said scathingly: “Oh, a lady is it? I nivver heard of no lady peddling her work.”

  My mother pulled me from the room but as we slowly descended the stair she said: “Why must they be so impolite?”

  By the door we were overtaken by the woman who had been making ready to leave.

  “You see, my dear,” she said kindly, “there ain’t no call for fancy work. The ladies do it themselves, you know, and bring down the price to nigh on nothing.”

  “But I must find work to keep myself and my son!”

  “Your only hope is to find plain-sewing. But there’s no call for it just now since the Season hasn’t begun, and I don’t know if you could do the hours if you aren’t bred to it.”

  We thanked her and she hurried away.

  “I don’t believe it,” my mother exclaimed. “There must be people who want fine work. If only that wicked woman hadn’t stolen my things I could show them a piece and I’m sure they would buy it.”

  However, what this woman had told us was confirmed — at least as far as I was concerned — during the next week or so as we traipsed from one mantua-maker’s shop to another, often received with considerable discourtesy, though occasionally with kindness.

  To my relief, my mother seemed strangely cheerful in spite of these discouragements. In the evenings she divided her time between working at a piece of embroidery that I assumed must have survived the theft, and writing in her pocket-book.

  One evening when I was particularly cast down at having failed once again to persuade her that it would be wiser to attempt to find a situation as a governess at one of the registry-offices that remained to be approached, she said: “It will be all right, you know, Johnnie. I have a design.”

  “What do you mean by a design?”

  “Wait and see,” she said, shaking her head with a mysterious smile.

  It was about this time that I suggested to her that we should find a cheaper lodging without waiting for the expiry of our month’s tenancy. For on our journeyings through the poorer streets we had observed cards in the windows advertising rooms to let at much lower prices. She reluctantly agreed and we picked out one nearby in Maddox-street that seemed clean and respectable. The landlady, Mrs Philliber, appeared to be a pleasant and decent woman and we negotiated with her for a single room at 7s. a week.

  Mrs Marrables was not pleased that we wished to end the tenancy so soon and refused to return any of the first month’s rent unless she could find another tenant for that period. This was undeniably fair, but fortunately she found another person who was anxious to take the rooms immediately and at a higher rent than we were paying her. She declined, however, to return the whole of the unexpired portion of our rent and now revealed an aspect of her character that we had not seen before:

  “Why, Mrs Offland, there’s all the fuss and bother I’ve had and that has to be considered. Time is money, you know, and I’d be robbing myself and my family not to take it into account.”

  I prevailed upon her, at last, and we compounded with her to receive a rebate of a week’s rent and took possession of our new room that afternoon. Now, on closer acquaintance, it became clear that although our new lodgings were only a few streets away from our old, the district was much less respectable, and I saw that my mother’s spirits sank.

  “I know!” I cried. “Let us have a feast to celebrate our new home!”

  She clapped her hands together: “Yes! And then I will make negus! And it will be just like the old days. You’re right, Johnnie. This will be our home from now on, so I will write to Bissett to send the money here.”

  So we enlisted the help of the young maid-servant, whom we sent out for two chops and four-pence-worth of muffins and a little brandy for the negus. Meanwhile we put the plates to warm behind the fender and made the room ready. When the girl brought her purchases back — together with some baked potatoes from the cook-shop and a jug of milk, a handful of spices, and two eggs purchased from Mrs Philliber — my mother broiled the chops over the fire on a grid-iron suspended on a couple of trivets. As we ate them we felt very jolly and pleased with ourselves, and except for a certain burnt quality on the outside and an undeniable rawness inside, the chops were excellently cooked.

  Then, while I speared the muffins on a toasting-fork and grilled them, my mother set about making the negus. As I watched her she seemed suddenly very innocent and vulnerable, filled now with delight at the prospect of the negus and, I guessed, at the thought of writing to one whom she loved and trusted. I feared that she had not yet realized how difficult things were going to be for us and I felt oddly as if I were older than she. I had seen strangers look at her with so cold and calculating an expression that I felt that I could take nothing for granted — and certainly not Bissett’s loyalty.

  When the negus was ready she poured me a third of a tumbler and we toasted each other in the hot, fragrant liquid.

  I gasped: “It tastes even nastier than usual!”

  She laughed and sat down to begin her letter.

  “Are you telling her our address?” I asked.

  “Of course, my dearest. How else should she know where to send the money! You are funny.”

  I hesitated, but I could not bring myself to say anything.

  She glanced at me, the point of the quill pressed thoughtfully against her cheek as she pondered: “I am telling her to deduct from what she sends us all her expenses — arranging the sale, paying for this letter, and so on — and, in addition, a quarter’s wages in lieu of notice.” She removed the point of the pen leaving an inky trace on her face: “Do you think that is fair?”

  “Indeed. And perhaps more generous than we can afford to be!”

  She frowned: “Do you think I should ask her to take less?”

  “No, I think we must treat Bissett well.”

  “Yes, Johnnie,” she said delightedly. “That’s just what I think. You know, she is really our only true friend.”

  We confided the letter to the post-office the next day. Assuming that Bissett had had time to sell the furniture and settle with the creditors, we expected to hear from her by the end of the following week.

  When by that date no letter had arrived, my mother assumed that it was taking her longer to settle up than we had calculated. We had other, more pressing worries by that time, anyway, for it had been a week of further disillusionment. For one thing, we had become concerned about our new lodgings, for the house was dirty and often rather noisy late in the evenings, while the servants, though friendly, were careless and slovenly. And Mrs Philliber frequently smelt unmistakably of spirits and on those occasions tended to be robustly informal.

  Additionally, still convinced that she would be able to earn our keep by doing fine embroidery, my mother had insisted that we start looking for a school for me. I had protested and told her the size of the fees that I had seen in the newspaper, but she had remained obdurate.

  The first academic establishment we visited was in Goodge-street and was kept by a gentleman with a very red nose, an unsteady gait, and an equally uncertain grasp of English grammar. The second was up a dirty bye-street off Fitzroy-square where, after a long silence, our knock was greeted by a grubby curtain moving cautiously at a window. Then the door was opened by a thin man in patched clothes who, declaring himself to be the “High-master”, instantly remarked conversationally that he had never had to answer the door before but as it happened the maid-servant, the cook and the kitchen-boy had all been given a h
oliday that day and the parlour-maid had been sent out on an errand that very minute. We went in and, noticing that we were struck by the absence of furniture in the hall, the High-master mentioned that it had all been sent away for French-polishing. He led us into the school-room and we found that the establishment appeared to consist of two small frightened boys covered in ink and chilblains and wearing collars that were too large for them.

  That evening I put it to my mother that since there was clearly no point in her continuing to look for orders for fine work, we would have to consider other ways of earning our living and therefore abandon the quest for a school.

  She smiled and said: “But you’re quite wrong, Johnnie. I have a surprise for you. I have finished my design.”

  She held up a piece of broderie anglaise and I saw that it was a length of silk with beautifully worked designs in silver and gold of the kind I had often seen her undertake at Melthorpe.

  “I thought all your good stuffs had been stolen. Where did the material and the thread come from?” I demanded.

  She blushed: “I bought it, Johnnie.”

  “How much did it cost?”

  “Three pounds,” she said, looking away.

  “Was it?”

  She reddened: “Well, the thread was another two pounds. But don’t you see, when I show this, I will be certain to get work.”

  “It was very wrong of you not to ask me before spending so much!” I cried, feeling a surge of rage at her simplicity and deceptiveness.

  “I knew you’d stop me if I told you,” she exclaimed, near to tears.

  We quarrelled and, unreconciled, both sobbed ourselves to sleep. Next morning a sort of peace was restored between us and, making the best of our appearance, we set off for New-Bond-street. There we entered a grand shop (by the rear entrance, of course) and found the forewoman.

  Before my mother had finished her introduction, she seized the material, briskly unrolled it and, with a grimace, held it stretched out: “Why, this was a dacent piece of silk what I might have done something with, only you’ve gorn and sp’iled it.”

  My mother flushed and I cried: “Why, whatever can you mean?”