Dido and Pa

  ‘Travelling?’ Penelope said bitterly. ‘Some folk have all the luck.’

  ‘What happened to—? Were you not married?’

  ‘Oh! Him! He left me flat. Years ago. Took all my savings. I had a baby – but it died,’ Penelope said in a toneless voice. She fetched a brush and swept up the fragments of broken crockery. ‘You won’t be wanting to spend the night here,’ she said. ‘Luckily you won’t have to – which is just as well, for I’ve no extra grub. Some chaps’ll be coming past about midnight. Surveyors.’

  ‘Surveyors?’

  ‘Summat to do with that new Thames tunnel and the procession,’ she explained without interest. ‘They been planning the way it’s to go, and working out how long it takes. They said they’d be by tonight, and one of ’em agreed to bring me a parcel o’ piece-goods from Chislehurst. The carrier leaves ’em for me there. Mostly I walks over – but with the wolves it’s getting too dangerous.’

  ‘I should think so,’ said Simon. ‘It’s lucky I came along when I did, or you’d not be needing that parcel.’

  He could not avoid a feeling of relief that he need not spend the night with this crabbed creature. Still, he felt sorry for her.

  ‘Wouldn’t you be better living in a – in a place that wasn’t so lonely?’

  ‘Why?’ said Penny. ‘I don’t like folk. I do well enough here – if the wolves hadn’t grown so pesky. I ain’t keen on being bothered. This procession coming past here is going to be a blame nuisance.’

  ‘Maybe you can sell some of your animals?’

  ‘Hah! Not on your oliphant! In town’s the place to sell toys. Coves in processions don’t want ’em.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  Penelope sat down and began sewing the whiskers on a stuffed kitten with small fierce stitches.

  ‘Shall I – would you like me to send a message to your father – or to Dido – telling them where you are?’ suggested Simon uncertainly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You might like to see them? They might be glad to see you?’

  ‘Fish! Why’d they want to see me? Anyhow, I don’t want to see them.’ She snapped a thread, re-threaded her needle, then added, ‘You’d best have a nap. Talking’s tiring. And there’s no point in it. You can doss down in my hammock till the men come.’

  Simon saw that it would be kinder to do this than to sit asking questions. He lay in the hammock and thought that he would never fall asleep, but, in fact, he did drift off after a while.

  He was roused by Penelope shaking him, quite sharply.

  ‘Hark! There’s horses coming.’

  ‘Your ears are quicker than mine,’ Simon said, getting out of the hammock.

  ‘Comes of living alone,’ she said. ‘Weeks go by when I hear nowt but my own voice.’

  A few minutes later there were shouts beyond the door; with trampling and jingling of bridles and snorts and whinnies a party of horsemen drew up outside. Someone banged on the door, calling, ‘Passel o’ dry goods for Missus Curd – anyone in?’

  ‘There’s a chap here wants to ride to Rotherhithe with you,’ Penelope said, opening the door and receiving the parcel.

  ‘And welcome. He can ride the chain horse.’

  Stepping out, Simon explained that he had a horse of his own, but it was lame and could only go at a slow pace. He was assured that he might use the cob which carried their tools and measuring equipment; without a rider his own mount would probably be able to keep up well enough.

  Simon said goodbye to Penelope. He bought a stuffed mouse from her, thinking that Sophie would be able to find some child to give it to. Penelope stuck out her lower lip but accepted his money.

  ‘There’s nothing I can do for you – send you?’

  She sniffed. ‘Not as I can think on.’

  ‘No message for your father? Your sister?’

  ‘I never cared for Pa. And that Dido used to be a right plague. They don’t care if I’m alive or dead.’

  ‘I wonder! Well, goodbye. And thank you for the tea.’ He remembered the cup she had dropped, and added, ‘I’ll bring another cup, next time I come by.’

  ‘You won’t be coming here again.’

  Abruptly she turned her back on Simon and paid the man who had brought her parcel. Simon led out Lochinvar and mounted the survey troop’s chain horse.

  ‘What the deuce was the Duke o’ Battersea doing in this nook-shotten spot?’ asked the man who had brought Penelope’s parcel, biting her sixpence to make sure it was a good one.

  ‘Him? He ain’t no duke,’ said Penelope scornfully.

  ‘Then that’s all you know!’

  Whistling, the man swung on to his horse and kicked it to make it catch up with the others. Penelope stared after the group, her usual sour look replaced by one of real amazement, before stepping back inside and bolting the door.

  The survey group rode down Blackheath Hill and through Deptford.

  ‘Come through the new tunnel if you wish, sir, we have the key of the gate,’ said the leader of the troop, a burly, cheerful, red-headed man with a feather in his hat. ‘You may ride to Chelsea as well north of the Thames as south of it.’

  The route south of the river was more direct, but Simon, curious to see the new tunnel, accepted the offer. After all, he thought, I am going to be home so late that an hour or two won’t make all that difference. Sophie will be long in bed.

  The approach to the new Rotherhithe tunnel began among docks and warehouses half a mile away from the river itself, and plunged steeply downhill between massive walls built from great granite blocks.

  ‘It’s a grand piece of work,’ said Simon, greatly impressed. ‘Pity the old king didn’t live long enough to see it completed and join in the celebrations.’

  ‘All this junketing – bands, flag-waving, processions – that’s a waste o’ public money if you ask me,’ grumbled the surveyor. ‘Foolish, too. Suppose the river floods into the tunnel?’

  ‘Is that likely?’ asked Simon, startled.

  ‘Not to say likely,’ the man admitted. ‘But there were a great flood in my granda’s granfer’s day – a mort o’ folk drowned in Deptford and Rotherhithe. If there were a sudden flood coming down-river – from rain at Henley, say – and that were to meet with a high tide coming up—’

  ‘Well let us hope there is not,’ said Simon with a shiver, as, pulling out a bunch of large keys, the surveyor unlocked the massive iron gates which barred the entrance to the tunnel. The gates slid back in a track, the party passed through, and then the leader closed up and locked the gates again behind them.

  ‘That way no wolves can get through to Shadwell,’ he remarked, striking a phosphorous match and lighting a tar-soaked torch, which he held above his head. The rest of the troop did likewise.

  ‘The gas lighting don’t come on till next week, day before the opening,’ he explained. ‘But these do well enough.’

  The tunnel’s high arched dome was lined with brilliant white tiles, which reflected the orange light of the torches and threw back eerie echoes as the horses clattered nervously along the paved footway; the Margrave’s idea, of two processions moving in opposite directions, would be, Simon saw, perfectly possible, for the road was wide enough to accommodate two coaches driving abreast. Yet now that he was down here the scheme had lost its appeal for Simon: this was such a terribly gloomy place in which to have a public event take place. It is just like that creepy Margrave, thought Simon, to plan that the most important action should happen underground where no one could see it.

  Except the people taking part, of course.

  The surveyor unlocked the Shadwell gate and led his troop out into the snowy night.

  ‘We have our depot and stables in Tower Hill, sir,’ he told Simon. ‘Can you manage to get home from there? Or would you like to borrow our horse for the night?’

  ‘Oh, I can get a hackney carriage from Tower Hill, thank you. I’m much obliged to you for your help.’

  ‘Gloomy, doomy sort o
’ place, that tunnel, though, ain’t it?’ said the surveyor, echoing Simon’s thought, as they rode up the enclosed slope from the northern entrance. ‘Useful enough, I don’t deny – not that there ain’t enough bridges, if you go westwards; myself, I’d sooner take a ferry. I’d enough o’ tunnels when I were a lad; trap-opener in a Kentish colliery half a mile underground – ugh! I’ll stay above ground for the rest of my life, thank you.’

  ‘I quite agree with you,’ said Simon, as they rode along Wapping High Street. ‘Good heavens, what a lot of carriages – some of them very handsome – where can they be coming from in these parts, so late?’

  ‘Oh, it’s that feller as calls himself the Margrave of Bad Thingemajig. He was holding a big assembly tonight, what he called a musical swarry. My boy Alf is a page at Cinnamon Court, the Margrave’s place; he told me there were a lot of nobs coming. There was going to be music and refreshments, everything very à la.’

  I wonder if he sent an invitation to Sophie and me? thought Simon as coach after glittering coach passed their weary, mud-splashed troop. Perhaps Sophie is there now? Perhaps I ought to call in and offer to escort her home? But it would hardly do for me to present myself at such a gathering in my torn breeches and powder-grimed jacket.

  He rode on his way.

  9

  ‘DAUGHTER, HIS EXCELLENCY is giving a musical soirée this evening, at which two of my Eisengrim Concertos are to be played,’ remarked Mr Twite, strolling into the lodger’s room, where Dido was teaching van Doon how to say, ‘Och havers’ and ‘Aweel, aweel’ while the Dutchman, in his turn, taught Is how to play noughts and crosses. Mr Twite scowled at this latter activity, and demanded, ‘Has that little wretch nothing better to do than scribble on a bit of paper? Why is she not at work, pray?’

  ‘She’s being useful, Pa,’ said Dido briefly. ‘She keeps Mr van Doon from scratching his nose.’

  ‘It tickles at me dreadfully,’ sighed the patient.

  ‘Sair, mister; you should say, “it itches me sair.” ’

  ‘It itches me sair,’ he repeated dutifully.

  Mr Twite gave a nod of approval.

  ‘Not bad; not bad at all! You sound just like one of those haggis-eaters. – Daughter, I wish you to accompany me to the recital at his excellency’s residence.’

  ‘Me, Pa? Why?’

  Dido was not in the least enchanted at what her father plainly considered a great honour.

  ‘Highty tighty! Don’t take that tone with me, miss! You should be grateful.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Dido again.

  ‘I wish – Ahem! That is to say – If his excellency should take a liking to you – as he has to our friend here –’

  ‘But that’s in the way of business. Ain’t it?’ said Dido bluntly. ‘Mister van Doon is useful to His Nabs.’

  ‘And so could you be, daughter – if you chose. And then your fortune would be made.’

  ‘I’d as soon be useful to a crocodile. And a crocodile’d have just about the same use for me, I reckon,’ said Dido.

  ‘Don’t be impertinent, child.’

  ‘Anyways, how could I come to a grand party! I ain’t got any grand clothes. I’d look as out of place as a herring in a harp factory.’

  ‘Fiddlestick,’ said her father. ‘You can put on that page’s uniform again, then you will sink into the background like a – like –’ He sought in vain for the right word.

  By this time Dido had thought again. She said, ‘Oh – very well. Tol-lol. I’ll come.’ It had occurred to her that, by going to the Margrave’s palace, during a musical party when the host, no doubt, would be busy entertaining his guests, she might be able to fulfil her promise to Podge Greenaway and acquire some useful knowledge about his excellency.

  ‘Just you keep on making Mr van Doon say “Och, havers” and “gudesakes”, ’ she instructed Is. ‘And whatever you do, don’t let him scratch his nose – even if you have to tie his hands behind his back.’

  Is nodded solemnly.

  Dido ran up to the attic and put on the black velvet page’s uniform, which had not been returned to Cinnamon Court. Returning to the ground floor, she heard sounds of angry disputation coming through the open door of Mrs Bloodvessel’s frowsty parlour.

  ‘You won’t take me; oh no; but you take along that finical, mopsy little drab! I’m not good enough any more – though it was I introduced you to his excel – hich! – excellency, but no, I’m not fine enough to appear at his party now. Time was when I was – when I was his Matron of Honour – when I’d have been there, receiving the guests, sitting in the front row in pink velvet and pearls. How do you know Eisengrim wouldn’t be pleased to see me there, enjoying meself – you pig, you!’

  ‘Take a look in the glass, you miserable old canker-moll! Do you think Eisengrim wants to see that, gleering at him among the duchesses and viscountesses? Think yourself lucky he don’t turn you out of this house! And now will you stop badgering on at me? Yes, yes, I’ll see you right – I’ve promised to, haven’t I? – when I’m Master of the King’s Music. But, blister me, if you go on like this, I won’t, I’ll cut loose – Oh, stuff a belcher in it!’ Mr Twite cried in exasperation as she let out a wail. ‘Here, take a dram of loddy – do; take several drams; only don’t obfuscate me, just when I’m wondering if I ought to speed up the tempo in the second movement before the fiddle comes in –’

  ‘I’m ready, Pa,’ Dido said, walking through the door. Mrs Bloodvessel threw her a venomous look. She reclined on her sofa as usual, with a large glass of her laudanum mixture in one hand, and a half smoked cigar in the other. At her elbow stood a bottle of port and a plate of bread and butter. She was much flushed.

  ‘Have you let in the lollpoops?’ Mr Twite asked Dido.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where’s the keys?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Put them on the mantel.’

  ‘Little vixen!’ Mrs Bloodvessel shook her cigar angrily as Dido did so, and a large lump of burning ash fell on to the bedspread. She rubbed it away with the hand that held the glass. ‘You think yourself so nim, in your black velvet suit – don’t you?’

  ‘No, I don’t, said Dido. ‘Not partickle. Pa told me to put it on.’

  ‘Oh yes – he favours you – so he does – because you can be useful to him. He favours you,’ repeated Mrs Bloodvessel. ‘But what about me? What about poor little Is, down in the cellar? He got no time for us, any more than if we was lollpoops.’

  Dido was about to point out that Mrs Bloodvessel herself had not appeared to set any value on little Is – except as a slave – when her father exclaimed, ‘Hold your row, Lily, do! I shall be late if we don’t go at once. Drink up your dram – there – and I’ll pour you another.’ He did so, tipping in, Dido noticed, an extra quantity of liquor from a small bottle he pulled out of his hoboy case. ‘Now then, read a book, why don’t you,’ he advised. ‘Or – or do some embroidery. Or mend one o’ my shirts – they all need it, lud knows! Come on Dido. – I will say for Ella Twite,’ he continued loudly as they went through the door, ‘she could keep a man mended up and cook a meal, even if it was mostly fish porridge.’

  As he slammed and locked the front door another wail from Mrs Bloodvessel showed that this shaft had struck home.

  ‘Pa,’ said Dido as they hurried along over the snow-covered cobbles. ‘You said just now that you’d see Mrs Bloodvessel right when you was Master o’ the King’s Music. Is the Margrave going to put in a word for you with the king, then? I thought you said the king would be sure to throw you in the Tower for – for Hanoverian jiggery-pokery?’

  ‘Hush!’ snapped her father. It was plain that, unlike Mrs Bloodvessel, he had had nothing to drink and was as nervous and jumpy as a barrel of weasels. ‘I’ll – I’ll explain all that later. Just you keep your mouth shut now and pay attention to what’s going on. What you have to remember is that his excellency sets a proper value on me. He knows there’s no one writing music like mine.’

  I reckon
that’s true, thought Dido. And ain’t it queer?

  She wondered what the real reason was for her father’s taking her to this party. Guess I’ll find out soon enough. Hope there’s summat to eat. I’m hollow.

  Fare in Bart’s Building was scanty, except that provided for Mijnheer van Doon; and little Is was so evidently half starved that Dido generally gave the child most of her own share of whatever was going.

  From several streets away it was plain that a tremendous fête was taking place at Cinnamon Court. Dozens of carriages rolled past them, and when they came in view of the building they saw that it was a blaze of light with doors open and red carpet running, not just down the steps, but half the length of the street. Glittering conveyances were setting down their passengers, while others waited; knee-breeched, white-wigged footmen were kept busy opening carriage doors and handing down gorgeously dressed ladies and gentlemen. Flaring lights at the gates and on the stone stairway made the scene brighter than day and turned the falling snow to a spangle of gold.

  Dido felt shy and out of place, climbing the steps in her page’s uniform at the side of her father – who, for once, was tidily dressed in black, though he still wore his red wig and moustache. But the porter bowed respectfully to him and it was plain to Dido that he and his music were an important part of the evening’s programme.

  This time they did not turn into the small music room, but made their way up a double flight of stairs to a huge salon, already more than half filled with guests, who strolled or chatted or sat on groups of gilt chairs. Along one side of the room a row of huge windows gave on to the river. On a platform at the far end a small orchestra was assembling; the string players were quietly tuning their instruments, the spinet player had opened the lid of his and was peering inside it, the flautists were softly comparing notes.

  Mr Twite started towards the platform at a purposeful pace, evidently forgetting all about Dido.

  ‘Where shall I go, Pa?’ she asked urgently, before she had lost him for good.

  ‘Ah – humph – ah – just mingle with the guests, why don’t you my chickadee, until it is time for us to start playing.’