Dido and Pa

  He shook his head again.

  ‘No, there is no kinship. And I was not so like him before – my nose was a different shape from his – but his excellency’s doctor has changed that –’ He touched the bandaged nose delicately – ‘and now you, it seems, have to teach me to speak exactly like his majesty.’

  ‘Yus; and I can see I’m a-going to have my work cut out,’ said Dido bluntly. ‘You ain’t even English, are you?’

  ‘No, I am Dutch. But I speak the English very well. My name is Henk van Doon.’

  ‘But what’s the point? Why should the king have a ringer?’

  ‘?’

  ‘A double, a lookalike.’

  ‘Oh, it is not at all uncommon. To take the king’s place if he feels ill – or for boring business, you know, opening hospitals, cutting ribbons, talking to burgomasters –’

  ‘Mayors,’ corrected Dido. ‘And you should say it burgomasster – that’s the way the king does – short, like that –’

  ‘Mayors, I thank you. Masster. Many royal persons have such a double-goer to save them trouble. I am – I am to be a gift from his excellency the Margrave to his cousin the king.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s right rum. And you must have to keep it mighty dark. Once folk get to know, they’d everlastingly be a-wondering whether they’d got the real ’un, the real king, or only the ringer.’

  ‘Oh yes, I shall have to live very private. People must not know.’

  ‘But do you want to do it?’ Dido stared at him. ‘Ain’t you got anything else you’d rather be doing? Seems a shravey kind of life. What did you do before?’

  ‘I am an actor – a comic actor, a clown.’

  ‘Well?’ demanded Dido. ‘Ain’t that better than letting-on to be a king, allus cutting ribbons? What’s the point? Making jokes, making folk laugh is better. I know which I’d rather!’

  Henk van Doon suddenly looked desperately sad.

  ‘My child, you do not understand. The jokes left me. They flew away.’

  ‘Why.’

  ‘I had a hard loss. My dear wife, my little daughter of six years, they caught the cholera. They died. How can I make jokes then?’

  ‘Send your voice up, at the end,’ absently corrected Dido. ‘Make jokes then?’

  ‘Then. I thank you. How can I make jokes then?’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘The heart went out of me. I was starving in the streets of Leyden. And a man from his excellency’s household saw me – I was brought to him at his house in Bad Wald – he said he would pay me well to play this part of king, all I need is a new nose, and to learn to speak like King Richard –’

  ‘If you could go and live with the king, in his house, that would be best – and study the way he talks –’

  ‘But then, too many people would know that there are two of us.’

  ‘Humph. No, it ain’t easy, I see,’ pondered Dido.

  A flight of joyful notes rose from below, like birds circling upward on an evening wind, and steps were heard on the stairs.

  ‘Here comes Pa. Have you all you want, mister?’

  ‘Yes, I thank you, my good child.’

  ‘See you in the morning, then, mister, and we’ll talk some more.’

  ‘Oh, tooral eye ooral eye agony,’

  sang Mr Twite ascending the stairs,

  ‘Oh, pickle a pocket of rye,

  If a man can’t find cheer in a flagon, he

  Might as well lie down and die.

  ‘That’s well, that’s good, my fairy. Time you betook yourself to the downy. Time all juvenile females was abed. I’ll take care of the visitor,’ said Mr Twite loftily. And he lurched past his daughter, who began climbing the ladder towards her own attic, greatly relieved at the prospect of being able, at last, to lie down and sleep. Halfway up, though, she remembered her promise to take down some bedding to the Slut. Poor little devil, huddling alone there in that damp cellar hole without a scrap of cloth to cover her; it’s not to be borne, thought Dido angrily, and she turned round and went downstairs again. Her father, in the Dutchman’s room, seemed to be singing the visitor to sleep. Dido wondered if van Doon was glad of this attention.

  Mrs Bloodvessel still snored in the lower room by the last glow of the fire. Taking a tattered, but ample quilt, Dido made off with it to the basement, past the locked door of the lollpoops’ room (inside which she could hear a faint murmuring and shuffling like a flock of starlings settling to sleep). There’s another lot of poor devils, but croopus, I can’t find quilts for all of ’em, and anyways I reckon they must all keep each other warm, packed together like pickles in a jar; and anyhow Pa’s got the key . . .

  Thinking about keys, she slipped into the Slut’s room and heard a faint gasp of fright.

  ‘It’s all rug – it’s only me, Dido. I brung you a comforter, like I said. Don’t make a row, or Pa’ll hear.’

  Mr Twite’s music had returned to the ground floor; apparently the Dutch gentleman had not welcomed his lullabies.

  ‘Ain’t that a ripsmashing tune, though,’ sighed Dido, as the notes of the hoboy scribbled a silvery pattern above their heads.

  ‘It makes me want to spew!’ croaked the Slut suddenly from her dark corner. ‘Gives me a pain in me belly. Makes me want to lob me groats.’

  ‘Pa’s music does? My blessed stars! Why?’ demanded Dido, really amazed – though, after a moment, she thought she began to guess the answer.

  ‘I hates that cove. She treated me a bit better before he come to live here. I just wisht he was dead.’

  It was astonishing that such a tiny, bony creature, crouched in such a damp, dark cellar, could speak with such ferocious force.

  ‘Well – dunno as I blame you,’ murmured Dido. ‘Still – you know – it don’t do no good to think that way. Here – have a warm-up –’ and she felt her way across the room and wrapped a capacious fold of the quilt around the Slut, who, however, shook it off fiercely.

  ‘I don’t want his mucky quilt. Or hers! They don’t give me one. She don’t! He don’t! You swiped it.’

  ‘Well, blister me, girl,’ remonstrated Dido. ‘You’ll freeze to death down here, one o’ these nights. You wants to stay alive, don’t you?’

  ‘Yus,’ agreed the Slut, after some thought about this. ‘And give ’im and Mrs B. a taste o’ their own!’

  ‘Well, then. Wrap up.’

  ‘No, I tell ’ee. I don’t want her slummocky quilt.’

  The Slut was crying with rage now. Dido’s gift of half a faggot seemed to have fortified her with a fiery spirit and sense of her grievances.

  ‘All right; suit yourself,’ said Dido crossly, and started for the door. But she trod in a puddle on the way, and heard something scuttle along beside the wall. She stopped again.

  ‘I can’t leave you in this nook-shotten place with nowt – was that a rat?’

  ‘There’s plenty rats,’ sobbed the Slut indifferently. ‘Ten rats for every ’uman, they say. Rats don’t bother me. I got a cat. Hain’t I Figgin?’

  A sound between a waul and a snarl answered her.

  ‘Figgin had a bite o’ faggot too,’ said the Slut with pride. ‘We looks arter each other.’

  ‘I reckon Figgin wouldn’t say no to a bit of quilt to curl up in,’ suggested Dido shrewdly. ‘You oughta think of him as well as yourself.’

  There was a silence. Then –

  ‘Would you stay too?’

  Dido’s mind filled with longing for the attic.

  Shut up in it, this morning, she had found little in its favour. But now, how peaceful, airy, and clean it seemed – far cleaner, at least, than this dank den.

  ‘Guess I will, if you want me,’ she said reluctantly.

  ‘If ’e finds you here in the morning, mebbee ’e won’t give me the stick. Or not so much. ’E thinks a deal o’ you.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ said Dido doubtfully.

  ‘’Eard’em talk. “That Dido’ll make all our fortunes yet,” he say to ??
?er.’

  ‘What the pize could he mean by that?’ wondered Dido, arranging herself and the Slut in the driest corner – which she could by now make out, tolerably well, by the light of passing barges. It was much harder to see Figgin, who seemed to be pure black, but by the feel of him he must be the scrawniest, boniest cat in Wapping, with coat as bristly as a doormat and a tendency to bite. ‘You keep Figgin on your side,’ Dido recommended.

  ‘Now: tell me summat,’ said Is.

  ‘What? Tell you what?’ yawned Dido, who was dying to go to sleep.

  ‘I don’t care. Anything! You musta seen lotsa things. I never had no one to keep me company afore.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Dunno. Since I can remember.’

  ‘Is Mrs B. your ma?’

  ‘Dunno. She never say. Tell me summat!’

  In her mind’s eye, Dido could dimly see all the adventures of her life, like a huge tapestry covered with tangled pictures – trees and rivers, ships and horses, people, good, bad, or wicked – mountains bursting into flames, St Paul’s Cathedral sliding into the Thames, rough seas filled with whales, men firing guns, cats carrying messages in the collars round their necks. There seemed far too much to put into words.

  Instead, she remembered the pile of keys she had imagined as she climbed the stairs.

  ‘Once there was a king as lost the key to his money-box,’ began Dido dreamily. ‘So he made a law that everyone in the whole country hadda bring all their keys and lay ’em in a heap in front of St Jim’s Palace. So he could find if any of ’em fitted. All the folk brought their keys – church keys, stable keys, desk keys, strongbox keys, door keys, watch keys, clock keys –’

  ‘Did any of ’em fit?’ croaked the Slut.

  ‘The heap was so huge that it filled the whole square, higher than the palace. And when the sun shone, didn’t those keys half glitter! Then – the king said –’

  ‘Said what?’ demanded Is, but her voice trailed away in a yawn.

  Dido was already asleep.

  Just before she drifted off, she had a quick thought about the Dutchman, van Doon, training himself to look and sound exactly like the king. That’s a right rum business – can it be all hunky dory? Or is the Margrave up to summat?

  Anything that my pa’s in must be crooked, thought Dido.

  Then she floated into dreams.

  6

  SIMON AND SOPHIE were taking breakfast in the morning room of Bakerloo House. Grey light from the east window fell across the table with its white cloth, bowls of fruit, rolls, and pots of honey, but the morning was not a bright one; purple-black snow-clouds were piling across the sky, and the children out in the yard played their games under a thin flurry of flakes.

  Simon was still worried about Dido.

  ‘If she were with anybody but her father! He is such an out-and-out rascal. He might get her mixed up in all manner of wrongdoing – and then leave her without scruple –’

  ‘Don’t you think she can look after herself?’ suggested Sophie. ‘After all she managed to find her own way home from – Nantucket, did you say? The Galapagos Islands?’

  ‘She is such a little scrap of a thing.’

  Mrs Buckle came curtseying in with a letter.

  ‘From his majesty, your grace.’

  ‘Oh, dear, so early in the day?’ said Sophie, as Simon broke the large red-and-gold-seal. ‘The poor man depends on you so. What does he want now?’

  ‘He is asking if I will take on Lord Raven’s job.’

  ‘The Office of Home Affairs? That won’t leave you much time for painting,’ sighed Sophie. ‘Of course you’ll say yes?’

  She knew her brother far too well to suppose that he would disoblige the unfortunate new king in his difficulties.

  ‘I’ll do it just for the time,’ said Simon. ‘Until he can find a better person. And he also wishes to consult me about wolves in Kent. Mogg!’ he shouted. ‘Can you fetch my boots and coat, please? And tell Sam and Sim to get out the curricle; I have to go to St James’s.’

  ‘Wolves in Kent? Are there so many?’

  ‘A number of reports have been coming in. The wolves in Europe are migrating westwards, because of the early winter. Belgium and France are already overrun; now they have begun finding their way to Dover, by night, along the undersea road from Calais. South-east Kent – Ashford, Dymchurch and Romney Marsh,’ said Simon, studying the notes that accompanied the king’s letter, ‘are infested by packs of wolves which are moving daily closer to London. The king asks me to make a plan. Armed wolf patrols, perhaps.’

  ‘What fun! We can all go out on horseback, with muskets.’ Sophie’s eyes sparkled at the idea.

  Mrs Buckle reappeared with another letter.

  ‘From that mirksy Hanoverian fellow.’

  She managed to convey disapproval in her curtsey.

  ‘See what he wants, Sophie, there’s a kind sister,’ said Simon, who was pulling on his boots.

  ‘He says he is indisposed; asks you to go round to Cinnamon Court this morning to discuss the Rotherhithe tunnel opening celebrations.’

  ‘Oh, curse the man! What a nuisance he is. Anyway I can’t go this morning – I suppose I’ll have to write a note and tell him so.’

  ‘He’ll be offended.’

  ‘Can’t be helped. Unless – I say, Sophie – I don’t suppose you’d like to be a good sort and go for me, would you? It’s only to hear his plans. You may borrow my plum velvet suit – you said yourself you look well in that.’

  Sophie dimpled.

  ‘Wretch! You did say that you wouldn’t ask me to play that trick any more –’

  ‘Just this last time. You know that you really enjoy it. And since I have to see the king – and it’s important not to offend the Margrave –’

  ‘But suppose he sees that it’s me, not you? After all he was here at the house, he saw both of us, so lately –’

  ‘I do not think he will. You were out with the children, he never met you face to face. And he hardly looked at me; he kept his eyes fixed, all the time, on the king.’

  ‘Oh well,’ sighed Sophie, ‘I suppose I must oblige you.’

  ‘You are a prime gun,’ said Simon, giving her a hug. ‘And I tell you what – you shall drive the curricle – even Mogg says you drive it better than I do – and I’ll take the big carriage. You can have my caped coat, too.’

  Seen side by side the brother and sister were, indeed, so remarkably alike – black-eyed, with dark curly hair, wide mouths, and resolute noses – that, dressed for riding, they were often mistaken for each other. Sophie went off now to put on Simon’s plum velvet suit, while Mrs Buckle muttered something severe about ‘harum-scarum ways’.

  Simon had already left for St James’s Palace when Sophie drove off in the curricle, looking extremely smart in her brother’s caped greatcoat and beaver hat, with her curls tied severely back in a grosgrain ribbon.

  The Margrave received her graciously.

  ‘Many, many apologies – my dear duke – for my discourtesy in not waiting on you myself – but a touch of my old malady – it is most kind of you to oblige me in this way? A drop of sherry wine? Or Bohea? Or Canary?’

  The Margrave was decidely pale. He did look unwell, Sophie thought. His eyes were deep-sunken, his cheeks waxen.

  She politely declined the offered refreshments, glancing with frank interest around the salon they were sitting in, which was very gorgeous, with Chinese carpets, and bronze furniture, and pictures of bygone Hanoverian nobilities on the walls.

  ‘To our task, then. It is the most trifling affair, after all! I need not detain you, I am sure, above ten minutes. Morel, fetch the Chapelmaster, will you?’

  Mr Twite arrived in his kilt and red wig. At the sight of Sophie he started and turned a little green; he took pains to remain at a considerable distance from her, eyeing her, meanwhile, with great attention. Sophie, who had never seen him before, could not imagine what ailed him but thought perhaps he w
as afraid of his master.

  ‘Now!’ said the Margrave. ‘This is my Chapelmaster’s plan. It is really most ingenious! But first let me ask you, my dear duke, what are your principal feelings about watching a procession – your main emotion on such an occasion?’

  ‘Why,’ said Sophie, after thinking about it for a moment, ‘I suppose the dreadful boredom. You have to go there hours before, to secure a good place, you wait and wait, the procession passes, and then you are in the middle of such a crowd that you can’t get away, so you wait and wait again.’

  ‘Precisely!’ said the Margrave in triumph. ‘Exactly so! You wait and wait. The procession passes, and all your waiting has been for just a few minutes of spectacle. But how would it be if there were two processions, travelling in opposite directions?’

  ‘Well,’ said Sophie, ‘I suppose that might be –’

  ‘Of course!’ said the Margrave, without waiting for her to finish. ‘You are right! It is far, far better. It is fairer. And in this way Herr Bredalbane, my clever Chapelmaster, has planned it all. To be accompanied by his superb music! Two processions – one commencing in London, marching under the Thames, out into Rotherhithe, ending in the fields of Kent – at Greenwich, perhaps; the other commencing in Kent, proceeding under the Thames, and so into the city of London to end at St James’s. It is sublime! In from the country: yeomen, local militia, farm wagons garlanded with flowers –’

  ‘Flowers in January, your excellency?’

  ‘Tush!’ said the Margrave. ‘Well – holly, mistletoe, greenstuff, I know not – milkmaids tripping, shepherds dancing, morris men. Music of pipes and tabors – joyful rustic music, suitable for such an assembly. – And then out, from the city: the king’s own household regiments, guards in full regalia, aldermen, city dignitaries, peers, lords, barons, and so forth. And their music will be of a more dignified nature – yet joyous too – music suitable for city regiments, for the royal retinue –’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ said Sophie, nodding. ‘And, when the two processions meet –’

  ‘Ah then!’ cried the Margrave, in heights of ecstasy. ‘You have hit on the nub of the matter, my dear duke. Where the two processions meet – that is the crown, the crest, the culminating point of the affair! Then the music blends, the city themes with the country themes, they are combined, are harmonized, are extended into a surmounting climax of beauty!’