The four of us — for after the party my mother had returned to her refusal to speak to Mr Pentecost, and, indeed, now included Mr Silverlight in her anathema as well — often gathered in the tent in the Peachments’ room. And so Miss Quilliam (who had overcome her reservations about entering it) joined us where we were snugly toasting muffins before the fire.
“Your mother,” she said to me, “is writing furiously in her pocket-book. Do you know what it is?”
“I believe it is an account of her life. There are things she will not tell me, but she wants me one day to know the whole truth.”
I nearly bit my tongue, for I had uttered one of the controversial terms I tried to avoid.
“The truth!” cried Mr Pentecost indignantly.
“Indeed, the Truth. A noble ideal.”
“Nonsense! The truth is a lie, a fiction. Why, there is more truth in the silliest romance than in the most elevated history.”
“That may be so,” said Mr Silverlight. “I myself have written several plays and epic romances in verse which have been ignored because of the petty envy of the managers and the book-sellers. And I must own, there was a great deal of Truth in ’em. Perhaps I could turn my hand to a novel, for there would be more money in that. I know how well I could write the sections on High Society — from a satirical angle, of course — but I couldn’t stoop to the low-life and the intrigue. I know I should be no use at all at plotting.”
“Oh, leave that to me!” Mr Pentecost said.
“Are you such a designing creature?” Miss Quilliam said with a smile. “I begin to be quite afraid of you.”
“I believe I should be good at tracing out intrigues,” Mr Pentecost admitted as if rather ashamed of it. “But I readily acknowledge that what we call the motives of other people are entirely mysterious to me.”
“That is surely a serious handicap in an aspiring novel-writer,” suggested Miss Quilliam, smiling at me.
“On the contrary, for motives do not matter. All that matters is what people do.”
“That is nonsense,” said Mr Silverlight. “Motives are all that is important. Apart from elevated language and the design of the whole.”
“Design of the whole!” Mr Pentecost cried, and I believe his indignation cost him a six-penn’orth of snuff. “How can there be a design, my ridiculous fellow? Life is too random and arbitrary for that.”
“You’re wrong. Reason provides Man with his clew to the design that underlies the Universe.”
“The argument from Design!” Mr Pentecost exclaimed, his eyebrows shooting up. “Discredited decades ago!”
“The purpose of a work of Art,” Mr Silverlight continued as if he had not spoken, “is that Man may trace this out and find the pattern for himself. In any novel I collaborated upon everything would be a part of the whole design — down even to the disposition and numbering of the chapters.”
“Fiddlesticks! Novelist-writers are liars. There is no pattern. No meaning save what we choose to impose.”
“Your views, it seems to me, are complementary rather than in conflict,” Miss Quilliam suggested pacifically. Then, glancing with amusement at me, she went on: “So perhaps you should collaborate. Mr Silverlight could take responsibility for describing the motives of the characters (particularly, of course, in the upper ranks) while you, Mr Pentecost, could concentre your talents upon the elements of plotting and intrigue.”
I smiled at the notion, for I thought it would be like their Punch and Joan show.
“A capital idea!” Mr Silverlight cried. “But I think I should have to take charge of the design of the whole.”
“Not for a minute!” exclaimed his friend.
Miss Quilliam and I left the prospective collaborators arguing about this and returned to our chamber which we found in darkness. From the gloom my mother said slowly and indistinctly: “Why were you so long? I was all alone here and I was so frightened. Why did you stay with those horrid men?”
Miss Quilliam lit a candle and I saw my mother slumped in her chair with her pocket-book and her pen fallen to the floor before her. Our friend gestured to me to withdraw, so I entered the little closet where I slept. Why was my mother confused and childish like this so often now? And why was she suddenly so hostile to Mr Silverlight? I fell asleep listening to the murmur of their voices.
The fog was even thicker the next day. And in the days that followed, the misery of the poor increased. As a consequence of a disastrous harvest, the price of a four pound loaf rose from the eight-pence farthing it had cost when we had arrived in London to eleven-pence only this short time later.
As Yule-tide approached, the weather, which until now had been wet but not unusually cold, deteriorated. A hard frost gripped the land and stopped all employment in the brick-fields and the market-gardens which were at that time so numerous around the metropolis. To make matters worse, an East wind blew so steadily that ships could not come up the river to unload. Then a week before Christmas the Thames froze over as it had not done for forty years and all those involved in the river trade — coaling, wherrying, ballasting, ship-wrighting, and many others — were cast out of work.
We observed rather than celebrated Christmas, not daring even to halt work for the day. On Boxing-day deep snow fell in the capital and brought to a halt what little outdoor-work was still in train. Gangs of men patroled the metropolis and suburbs carrying the implements of their trades — hods for brick-layers, rakes for market-gardeners, and so on — and raised the traditional cry: “Froze out! All froze out!” as they proffered their hats for alms. The number of people begging in the streets visibly increased, as did that of street vendors, while against this the quantity of foot-passengers declined. Faced with this competition my earnings dropped even lower.
Worst of all, however, was the effect of the weather on the fashionable Season. Because of the state of the roads His Majesty and his family remained at Windsor and many of their most elevated subjects chose to emulate them by staying in the country after Christmas. And so the start of the Season, that usually occurred in the middle of January, was delayed; Parliament did not reassemble and race-meetings were cancelled. All of this meant that the hoped-for demand for clothes on which we were relying failed to appear and we, like many other trades — tailors, shoe-makers, dress-makers, cabinet-makers, harness-makers, saddlers, servants, cabmen, farriers — suffered in consequence.
The streets around all the workhouses were thronged with people seeking relief, nearly all of whom were refused outdoor assistance. I myself saw some of those who had been turned away from St. Anne’s workhouse by Drury-lane, then accost well-dressed foot-passengers for alms in a threatening manner, and meanwhile reports circulated that mobs had attacked bread-shops and eating-houses in Whitechapel.
One morning at the end of January Mr Peachment told us that Dick had failed to return the night before. At first they were very alarmed for his safety but after a few days they realized, after going over and over the things he had been saying for the past few months, that he had deserted them. This was a heavy blow to the family for they relied on his earnings, and Mr Pentecost expressed to the parents his deep contrition for having put ideas into the boy’s head.
Our large, lofty-ceilinged room with its partly-unglazed windows dissipated all the heat that was so dearly bought. We tried to make a chauldron of coal last two weeks by keeping only a handful of cinders burning during the day and huddling together as we slept at night. All of us suffered from chilblains and cold sores, as well as the colds and coughs that particularly affect those new to London.
The winter, instead of ending in February, actually worsened for now there came a frozen fog — heavy, foul-smelling, and yellow — which for days at a time granted scarcely a glimpse of the sun. On such occasions there was little point in my going out with my tray for I could sell nothing on the streets. Food-prices rose and the value of made things dropped, for there were no buyers.
Needless to say, the two gentlemen (whose mean
s of livelihood were as badly affected as mine) frequently argued about the implications of what was happening. Mr Pentecost believed that the bad times would regulate themselves, and that when wages fell low enough employment would start again. Mr Silverlight, on the other hand, insisted that things would spiral into disaster and said cheerfully that he lived in daily hopes of a popular rising. He rejoiced, he said, to hear of a bread-shop being attacked.
Despite his display of cheerfulness, however, I could see that Mr Silverlight was finding it hard to endure the privations that were now forced upon him. Gradually the furniture disappeared from the Caliph’s tent, then Mr Pentecost’s watch, then articles of clothing. Mr Silverlight remained as well-dressed as always, until one day at the very end of that terrible February, when I came home and met him hurrying down the stairs muttering to himself, clad in a shabby coat I had not seen before and wearing no neckcloth. I had never seen such disarray in his dress, and indeed never saw such a thing again.
The next day Mrs Peachment, two of her children, and Mr Pentecost fell ill of a high fever. When I went into the other room that evening I found the latter lying on the bed with a flushed face and wandering in his thoughts: “Where is Silverlight?” he kept saying. Surprised not to find him present, I asked Mr Peachment. That honest fellow drew me to one side and explained in an undertone that he must have stolen away during the hours of darkness for they had found him and his belongings gone that morning and they had not seen him since.
I was puzzled by this but was to become even more confused the next day.
Miss Quilliam and I did what we could for our neighbours that evening. Then late the following afternoon, as I was returning from an almost profitless trawl of the streets, I heard my mother shouting at someone as I reached our landing: “Begone! I want nothing to do with you!”
There was a man standing at our door accompanied by a large dog which was baring its teeth and growling at my mother, while Justice — for I now recognised the old beggar — was trying to quieten it and to reassure her.
“I’m only seeking Mr Pentecost,” he said, turning towards me when he heard my voice.
I calmed my mother and coaxed her into our room. Then I explained to the old man that our friend was ill.
“I’m powerful sorry to larn that,” he said. “Mr Pentecost has sarved Wolf here and kept the poor beast alive. Many and many a time he’s brung a piece of polony or a pork-pie when I had nought to give him.”
Since old Justice wanted to see Mr Pentecost I knocked on the door of the opposite room and led him into it. I was relieved to see that my old friend had fully recovered his senses, and to my surprise, when he saw who my companion was, he caught my eye and blushed.
“It’s most extraordinary that you have not received anything,” he said when Justice explained why he had come. “For I was so concerned when I knew I was falling ill that I told Silverlight about you — or, rather, that is to say, about Wolf — and asked him to take a shilling to you so that you could purchase something for the dog. I cannot imagine what can have happened.”
I broke it to him gently that his friend had left him but this merely plunged him further into bewilderment.
“Gone?” he kept repeating. “Why, the poor fellow can’t manage without me. Hopelessly trusting, you know. Quite a child.”
Old Justice had been brooding thoughtfully and now said: “Mr Silverlight? Was that the genel’man that you was with that day I met you and the younker here?”
“That is so.”
The old man shook his head thoughtfully and I believed he was about to speak, but he seemed to think better of it.
“Wolf looks hungry. I still have a shilling left,” Mr Pentecost said, looking in fact at his master.
Justice resisted but at last he was persuaded to take the money for the sake of the wretched beast. However, a few minutes later he returned with some meat-pies which he insisted on sharing with Mr Pentecost and the hound, and I left them making a feast on the straw mattress in the corner of the tent. I was rather puzzled as to what to make of all of this and although on the face of it there seemed grounds for suspecting my old friend of a breach of his strict principles on the subject of charity, I was reluctant to think the less of Mr Pentecost.
I soon had other matters to occupy me, however. For when I got into our room my mother came forward and greeted me anxiously: “How much have you brought?”
I showed her the few pence I had earned and she seized the coins and began to put on her bonnet.
“Have we no food?” I asked.
She nodded and hurried out.
When she came back only a few minutes later she was much calmer and sank into her chair without removing her bonnet. When she made no move to produce anything to eat I reproached her. She did not answer and I went over to her. To my surprise, I saw no purchases.
“What have you done with the money?” I demanded.
She smiled at me.
Suspicions that I had long nursed came crowding upon me. I lifted her hands that were lying on her lap and found what I had expected. The cork had already been removed.
“How long have you been taking this?” I demanded.
“It does me no harm,” she said, smiling dreamily. “Helen takes it.”
Miss Quilliam came in just at this minute.
“Is this your doing, Miss Quilliam?” I asked, holding up the little dark-green vial.
“I have never encouraged your mother,” she said, colouring slightly. “For I once became enslaved to it. I only saved myself from its clutches by recording the number of grains I was taking and forcing myself to reduce the amount day by day.” She shuddered. “I would not want any friend of mine to have to endure that.”
“It lets me sleep even when I cough and it gives me such beautiful dreams, Johnnie.”
“Then let me take it,” I cried angrily, removing the cork. “I want some beautiful dreams, too!”
“No,” Miss Quilliam cried, crossing to me and snatching it from me. “In small quantities it brings sleep, in larger amounts strange visions, but in excess it is a deadly poison if you are not habituated to it, Johnnie. That is why they call it the best friend of the poor. It robs you of life but leaves no sign of the means of death to shame your friends.”
I looked at my mother who had fallen into a slumber.
With much to brood upon, I went to bed and slept badly. Before dawn I was awakened by a loud noise from across the landing. When I went out to look I found Mr Pentecost — still pale and thin from his illness — standing between two men whose cocked hats and silver staves of office I knew so well.
He smiled when he saw me: “Well, my young friend, I’m for the Fleet again.”
So he had been a Fleet prisoner before that!
“On what account?” I asked.
He looked discomfited and said: “I believe I told you that I was being sought by my creditors. The truth is a little more complicated. The fact is that some years ago I backed a bill for a friend.”
Here was a frank confession of his hypocrisy in acting contrary to his principle of self-interest, and I blushed to hear it from him.
“I dare say you’re wondering how we managed to find you arter all these years, Mr Pentecost,” one of the bailiffs began in a friendly tone.
“My good fellow,” Mr Pentecost interrupted quickly, catching my eye, “not for a minute, I assure you.”
There was nothing that could be done and to the dismay of the Peachment family — and, indeed, of the whole stair — he was given a few minutes to gather his scant possessions before being led away and put in a waiting hackney-coach.
In the weeks that followed I thought often of Mr Pentecost when I had leisure from my own concerns. A few days after the arrest of his patron, the old beggar had come again and was deeply upset to learn of his fate.
“Why,” he said, shaking his head, “Blind Justice knowed it when he heerd his voice. A leper don’t change his spots, ain’t that what they say, sir?
”
When I pressed him to explain his meaning — which I feared I partly understood — he merely shook his head with a sad smile and shuffled down the stairs.
The winter eventually came to an end in the middle of March and trade picked up a little. I was aware that the first monthly payment of interest on the locket was now due, and I knew my mother would be determined to raise the money. And so it happened, for she starved herself to put a little aside and although we had an argument about it, when the time came she went back to the pawn-broker and had her duplicate endorsed for a further month. She managed to do the same in April and May but after that our plight deteriorated so much that it became clear that the locket would have to be forfeited.
I came to this conclusion because at the end of May Mr Peachment warned us that the Season appeared likely to terminate sooner than usual because of its unpropitious start. He added that he suspected that the garret-master from whom he sub-contracted work, was on the point of going out of business because of this. Moreover, I knew that he and his wife no longer had Dick’s earnings to help them and that after the departure of Mr Pentecost and Mr Silverlight they had failed to find a tenant to whom to let the other half of their room because trade was so depressed.
During these months I had continued to think about my old friend and several times I went past the begging-grate (which was an iron grille let into the wall in Fleet-market) where one of the prisoners always stood to beg, with the words “Pray, remember the poor debtors,” hoping that one day it would be Mr Pentecost’s turn. It never was he, however, and at last I summoned the courage to ask the prisoner I found there if he knew anything about him. He knew his name and told me he was seriously ill and his life despaired of.
Now it began to get hot and an oppressiveness settled on those miserable streets that was as onerous as the fogs of January. By the end of June my mother had not managed to save enough to pay the next month’s interest and although she was very upset about this, I was not sympathetic.