Having been thusly so often disappointed by him, I decided it would be better to leave the city immediately. The best way to secure our safety was by our own efforts.
It has oft been recorded that a parent can be embarrassed by an unruly child, and ’tis true, adults write manuals and tracts as to how best to treat such disobedient children. But it is all too often forgotten that there are times when a child is embarrassed by a wayward father or mother. A book of instruction—How to Deal with Inept Parents—might make a handy volume for many a youth.
I recalled my father’s motto: “People care nothing for suffering. To get on you must mask your heart with false smiles.” I think only then did I realize that was precisely the way I lived with him.
“Charity,” I blurted out. “I think we should leave London right away. It’s too dangerous to stay.”
“I agree,” she said, but even as she did, she knocked on the door.
After a few moments, when no answer came, I turned away hoping Charity would follow. Instead, she pulled me back while pushing the door open. I had little choice but to look inside.
It was a thoroughly gloomy place, with but two candle stubs barely burning. From what I could see, the room had just five tables, with chairs about.
At first it appeared as if no one was there. Then I heard the sound of snoring.
The person snoring was at first hard to see because the man was slumped over one of the tables, head resting on the wooden surface, hands dangling limply by his side. Atop his head was a lopsided wig. Before him were three bottles. I assumed they were empty.
Although the man’s back was toward us, it hardly mattered. My heart sank. It was all that I had feared. By sound, sight, and circumstance, I recognized who it was. Many a time at the Golden Lion Inn in Melcombe Regis I had seen Father in this exact same posture. And so it was.
On the table before him was a backgammon board. No doubt he had been playing and gambling. I found myself wondering if he had won or lost.
In Melcombe, when my sister and I discovered Father in this fashion—drowned in his cups—we would manage to walk him back to our home on Church Passage. That was the end of it, until the next time. But here . . .
My sister and I exchanged knowing looks, the knowing full of despair.
Though I held back, Charity approached Father. She bent over him and into his ear whispered, “Father.”
He stirred, slightly. “Father,” she repeated more loudly. “It’s me, Charity. And Oliver.”
Father roused himself and sat up, albeit awkwardly, swaying as if sitting in a wave-tossed boat.
“Is it time to go . . . home?” he managed to say, only to droop over so that his head banged on the table. His snoring recommenced.
How can I express my sense of helplessness when presented with this state of affairs? Consider: Have you ever seen a marionette, the kind of puppet held erect by strings in the hands of a person above? Think of me as such a puppet—and see what happens when the parental strings are cut. Collapsed. At that moment, that was me.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
In Which We Seek to Find a Future
My sister sighed. “He doesn’t even know where he is,” she said.
“Or that we are here,” I said, feeling betrayed. “He never did look for you,” I added.
“Father,” Charity said into his ear, “are you lodging here?”
He lifted a dirty, wobbly hand and with one finger extended, pointed toward the ceiling.
I looked up and around and noticed that far in the back of the room were steps leading up. Even as I saw them, I saw a man descending.
He was a short, stocky fellow with clumpy wooden shoes on his feet and a besmeared white apron tied round his waist. He barely reached the last step when, seeing Charity and me, he called out, “Who are you?”
“Please, sir,” said Charity, “we are this man’s children.”
“Are you now?” He sounded unimpressed.
“His name is Mr. Gabriel Pitts. From Melcombe Regis.”
“Aye,” said the man. “That’s him. He’s been sitting there for a few days, he has. Playing backgammon. Won a ripe score, he has.”
“Did he take a room here?” asked Charity.
“One floor up. Immediately to the right. Not that he’s used it much. He’s done nothing but play backgammon.”
“Can we bring him up there?” Charity asked.
The man gave an indifferent shrug. “He’s paid for it,” he said. “You can always pay more.”
Somehow we managed to bring Father to his room. It required all of us, my sister, me, and the innkeeper. We pulled, pushed, shoved, and prodded Father up the fifteen steep steps, he more sack of sea-coals than man. I am not even certain he knew what was happening.
Regardless, we got him into his room. It contained little more than a bed, a small table upon which sat a washing bowl and a candlestick. On the floor was a chamber pot.
We flung Father onto the bed, wherein he rolled over and continued sleeping. As he turned, many shillings, guineas, and even sovereigns poured from his pockets.
I knew my father gambled a lot, often winning. Let it also be clear that I felt gambling was sinful. But given our predicament, I presumed his winnings might mean he could yet take care of us, which I thought was good. Yes, it troubled me that something I thought bad might bring good, but I was beyond weary and unable to resolve yet another conundrum.
“Please, sir,” said my sister to the tavern owner who had remained to look on. “May we stay with him?” Even as she spoke she handed him a coin from Father’s hoard.
The man made no objections but put a finger to his brow and left, shutting the door behind him.
For a moment Charity and I stood and looked down at Father. His breathing was bubbly with spit and caused that small room to reek with his besotted breath. The sound of his snoring was like a grunting pig.
Feeling disgust, I said, “We should leave him.”
“I can’t quit him like this,” said Charity, living up to her name.
I was prepared to go against the world, but not her.
Could we have truly left him then and there? I suppose so. Then why did we not go? Because whereas it is common belief that it is the parent who will not abandon a child, my experience is that it’s the child who is far more reluctant to leave the parent. Surely Charity acted so. My emotions were equally conflicting: I felt the urge to give him one more chance even as I was telling myself he would be sure to disappoint. The world would have it that childhood is a sweet and easy time. The truth is, to be a child is hard.
During the next few hours, Charity and I remained in that small, stifling room. A solitary candle provided a pale yellow flickering, which threw out more dejection than light, the very replication of our minds.
As time wore on we used some of Father’s money to purchase food from the tavern keeper. And Charity, in her fashion, endeavored to tidy the room, though there was little enough to adjust.
After perhaps two hours, I said, “He might sleep all day. I really think we should go.”
“And not say good-bye?”
“He’ll only swear to do better,” I reminded her.
“I know,” Charity acknowledged. “But I promise we shall leave as soon as he wakes.”
Thus we waited. For the most part we used the time to talk about places to go. And though I must not foretell the future, suffice to say the place in fact we did go was nothing like we ever could have imagined.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Reveals What Happened When Father Woke Plus a Shocking Turn of Events.
It took a while for Father to awaken. Upon partially opening his eyes and seeing Charity, the first thing he said was, “Did you marry?”
“No, sir.”
“Then I have saved you,” he muttered, closed his eyes again, and resumed his sottish snoring.
I turned to Charity. “Now can we go?”
“Soon,” Charity whispered, though I thought
she was about to cry. I sat down in a corner, pulled up my knees, and gave myself over to more frustrated waiting.
After some further time Father truly awoke. He did not seem to consider how odd it was that Charity and I were with him. But as I have said before, we had taken care of him many a time in his similarly swilled situations.
This time, however, he sat there, limp and looking forlorn, his wig off, revealing a head with a rough stubble of gray hair. His chin was grizzled, his eyes bloodshot, his lips slack, his ears tufted with gray hair, his neck skin wrinkled and flabby, prickled with white hairs, a ragged, untied neckcloth, a torn and dirty jacket. I was shocked by how tottery and decayed he appeared. I had never thought him old. I did so then. I found myself feeling sorry for him.
“What is this place?” he asked, making a general gesture of the room.
Charity told him.
“In what city?”
“London.”
“London?” he slurred. “How long have I been here?”
“I’m not certain, sir,” she said.
“And you,” he said to me, “how did you get here?”
“It’s a lengthy story.”
“I will hear it,” he said.
We told him our stories, Charity first, then I. He listened, head bowed. By turns he was angry, indignant, muttering now and again about a lack of justice. “Why did you accept such treatment?” he asked of us both.
“We didn’t know what else to do,” said Charity.
To me he said, “At least I arranged to provide you with sufficient funds.”
“You did?” I said, taken by surprise.
“Of course!” he said with anger. “I left you a letter.”
Angry, I yanked the smeared, crumpled letter from my pocket and thrust it at him. “This is what I found.”
He gazed at it for a few moments and then began to read as if the smeared ink had melted away:
Oliver,
I received a letter which informed me that Charity is about to be married!! This is terrible news. I intend to stop it. I leave for London immediately. I will leave money for you with Mr. Webber at the Golden Lion where I take the stage. You can apply to him for such funds as you need.
I shall return when I can.
Your father,
Gabriel Pitts
“But I could not read it,” I cried, thinking how altogether different things would have been if only I had done so.
“Then you believed I abandoned you!” he said with indignation.
“I hardly knew what to think,” was my evasive answer. Fearing I may have misjudged him, I felt a jolt of self-blame.
I told him Mr. Bartholomew wished to lay a charge against him.
“I care that about the man,” Father said and snapped his fingers. “I assure you,” he added with majestic irrelevance, “the law is king.” He turned to Charity. “But you did not marry.”
“No, sir.”
“Then all is well!” making it clear he did not understand our predicament. “Very good, then. We shall return to our Melcombe home,” he announced. “Your suffering is over. I have won a great deal of money. All shall be good as it was.”
In my state of confusion as to what I felt about Father, I looked to Charity. She drew herself up and said, “But Father, it was not good before. The truth is, you did abandon us long ago.” Then she said, “You cared little for our suffering. To get on we did as you bid: masked our hearts with false smiles.”
Charity’s remark struck him hard. Deep. His body slumped more. His look turned bleak. Perhaps, too, the words went deeper, pushed further in by our hard expressions. He seemed to gain some understanding. Tears trickled down his dirty cheeks.
After a deep sigh, he said, “You are right. I have not . . . been a good parent. I promise to do better.”
Alas, those words were only what Charity and I had heard Father say on many occasions. This time Charity said, “Father, I understand you mean well, but you must know that Oliver and I have decided that we can’t go back to—”
She never finished the sentence because the door burst open. In stepped Mr. Bartholomew’s manservant. He pointed right to me and cried, “There he is! The highwayman!”
Crowding in behind him was Mr. Bartholomew himself and Captain Hawkes, plus a man dressed in a blue cloth gown, whom I had never seen before. That man pushed to the forefront and proclaimed, “My name is Sergeant Constable John Roque, for the City of London. We arrest you in the name of the King’s Majesty and we charge you to obey us.”
As he spoke, he pointed in turn to my sister, my father, and me. My instantaneous thought was: we are all going to be hanged.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
In Which I Learn about the Wood Street Compter.
I’m not exactly sure how we managed to walk down the steps, but down we surely came, pushed and pummeled, all but falling, forced by those who came to arrest us. Outside there was a swirling cold gray mist, heavy, dank, and drab, which seemed brewed for the occasion.
On the street, strangers stopped to watch, some even hooting with derision. The only private words I heard were those spoken into my ear by Captain Hawkes, who, while holding me painfully by the neck, hissed into my ear, “You should have not deceived me. You had a great future and I had grown fond of you.”
He offered no smile and I made no reply, though my thought was, Who deceived who?
As for Mr. Bartholomew, he was bleating words such as, “Now we shall see three rogues pay for their vile crimes!”
For his part, Father made a variety of loud, legal pronouncements, accusing the sergeant and the others of illegalities, a blatant ignorance of English justice. None of his words or arguments were answered. I doubt they were even considered. Of course, Father was in a state of considerable dishevelment, so that he hardly looked like an authority on anything. But he had both hands in his side pockets, which at least told me he had the wits to hold on to his money.
We were taken away, Sergeant Constable John Roque in the lead, the three other men—Hawkes, Mr. Bartholomew, and his servant—collaring each of us. Though Charity and I did manage to walk side by side behind Father, we said nothing. Our closeness did give some needful comfort, but I think we were in shock. As for where we were going, I didn’t know, save that I’d heard the constable say, “We must proceed directly to the Compter.”
As I would learn, the Compter was where prisoners were taken before a trial, the actual trials being held at the Old Bailey, at the court known as the King’s Bench. This is to say, we were being swallowed by the legal system.
Fronting Wood Street, the Compter was a long, four-story brick building and an altogether dreary-looking place. Across the top three levels of the building were eight windows, all closed off by shutters. The lowest level had more windows, but they had bars as well as shutters. Clearly, this was not a building that welcomed light in any sense of the word.
Before the Compter’s front door a variety of people had crowded wanting to get in, many carrying odd parcels—food and blankets—to those already confined. As we approached, they were forcibly shoved aside and could make no defense save abusive words.
We three were hurried forward into a shabby vestibule, at the head of which was a desk. Sitting behind it was a man who immediately reminded me of nothing so much as a skeleton.
He wore no wig, which made his hairless head quite skull-like. His face had hollow cheeks, a small stub of a nose, a receding chin, and hollow, dark rimmed eyes. His eyebrows were but faint, and his slack mouth revealed a row of teeth like a broken fence. For clothing, he wore a filthy brown robe with great wide sleeves, from which dangled long fingers with yellowing fingernails.
On the table before this disagreeable-looking man was a large book of many pages, already spread wide, like a gaping mouth. To one side lay a quill pen and a stubby bottle of ink. To his other side was a small wooden box.
Behind this man, lounging on a bench, were two rough-looking and burly men.
&nbs
p; The sergeant constable marched us right up to the skinny man. “Prisoners, sir!” he called. “All three of them. A vicious gang.”
The man looked at us with his big eyes and spoke to Father, “Sir, I am Mr. Witherington, the turnkey here. Be so good as to provide your names.”
Before we could answer, Mr. Bartholomew shouted out—while pointing—“Mr. Gabriel Pitts, Master Oliver Pitts . . . I don’t know the chit’s name.”
“Charity Pitts,” said my sister.
“Can you write your names?” inquired Mr. Witherington.
“We can,” said my father.
“Very good then, sir,” said Mr. Witherington. “Write those names in the book here.” Lifting up the quill pen he dipped it daintily into the inkpot and with a polite gesture offered it to my father. “And, please, you sir, pay your entry fee, the garnish. One shilling for each of you. If you don’t have it, I’ll be obliged to strip off your coats and shoes.”
As he spoke the two men behind him stood up, making it clear that they would be quite willing and able to take our garments if requested.
“Such fees are extortion and illegal,” pronounced my father. “And I am a lawyer.”
Mr. Witherington gestured to the men behind him, and in a rather mild voice said, “Sir, I appreciate the fact that you have your profession. I have mine. These men are all the legality I need, sir. Now, sir, pay in cash or coats.”
Father, with contempt, threw three shillings on the table. Unperturbed, the turnkey scooped them up and flung them into his box as if they were pebbles.
“Now, sir,” he said, “be so good as to inscribe my book.”
The three of us wrote down our names. My hand was shaky.
“Very well,” continued the turnkey, “I am pleased, sir, to offer you a choice of accommodations. The weekly rates are the master’s side, ten shillings, six pence. The knight’s ward, five shillings, or the hole, three shillings. Or,” he added with a visible sense of disgust, “you may sleep over the cellar drain or sit up with other prisoners who are not as blessed as you. You may be sure, sir, it matters nothing to me. Still, my professional advice, sir, which I offer free of fee, is that if you are going to be hanged—and I presume you will be hanged—you might, as I often say, provide yourself with a dab of delight before you dangle.” He grinned hideously at his own jest.