Dido and Pa

  ‘Aye – that and the bird. ’Twas I who told him –’ Mr Greenaway was silent for a moment – ‘I told him too – what I found plain in his life-line – that this way through the world would take a wondrous sharp turn when he found his path crossed by a girl who was dressed as a boy.’

  ‘Then that was why he was so anxious to have me on his side!’ exclaimed Sophie. ‘I could not think why he should keep on urging me when I had made it so plain that I would do no such thing – And what about the bird?’

  ‘The bird,’ said Mr Greenaway, ‘would be the last thing he saw.’

  ‘No wonder he hates them so!’

  ‘I’ve long wished to meet ye, ma’am,’ said Mr Greenaway. ‘My boy Wally – he conducts the children’s birthday league, you know – he tells me he heard you were planning a scheme for homeless ones –’

  ‘Yes, I am!’ Despite the pain of her badly bruised and contused hands and feet, Sophie’s face lit up with excitement. ‘Next year when I am eighteen, Mr Greenaway – when my money comes out of trust and the lawyers can’t stop me using it – I intend to start a series of houses where poor children without family may get decent food and lodging. Bakerloo House will be the first; I’m not allowed to use it yet –’

  ‘’Tis a grand scheme, missie.’

  ‘Won’t you call me Sophie?’ she said, going a little pink. ‘I – I feel I know your son Podge so well –’

  Simon said to Dido: ‘Just fancy, Dido! I’ve seen your sister Penelope!’

  ‘Never! You’ve seen Penny? Where?’ Dido was all eager interest. ‘With her buttonhook beau? How’s she doing? Is she better tempered than what she used to be?’

  ‘No, the buttonhook dealer seems to have left her some time ago.’

  ‘Oh, then she certainly won’t be in good skin. Poor old Penny-lope,’ said Dido, considering this. ‘Where is she? I’d not be sorry for a sight of her.’

  ‘I was wondering –’ Simon leaned his head close to hers and talked fast and earnestly, while Dido listened, nodding thoughtfully.

  Podge said shyly to Sophie, ‘I’ve a little ivory looking-glass for you, Miss Sophie – with roses round the frame; it’s not much, I know you’ve plenty already, but I hoped you’d like it –’

  Sophie said, ‘Oh, Podge! You spoil me – indeed you do!’ But her voice was a little sad.

  Wally said to Mr Greenaway, ‘Dad, how’re we a-going to get all these folk away from here without His Nabs’s guards smelling a rat? Or some o’ those Bowmen bully boys? They’re always about and they’re hand in glove –’

  ‘No dole, boy, don’t you fret your head. The Canterbury carrier comes past at seven. He’ll not have a full load, we can stow a good few among the casks and bales –’

  Simon, overhearing this, said, ‘Mr Greenaway, does the carrier go up over Blackheath Edge?’

  ‘I reckon he would, lad – for the price of a pot of porter.’

  ‘He shall have the price of a dozen pots – and gladly.’ Simon then reflected and said, ‘I wonder where I can get a china cup?’

  ‘A cup, lad? I think I got a crate somewhere, real Chinese ones, come along with a load of spices from Poohoo Province; what you want a cup for?’

  ‘If you have a crateful I might as well have several!’

  Sophie said to Dido: ‘As soon as it is safe for you to do so, I long for you to come and live with us at Bakerloo House. I so much want to hear all your adventures. The things you must have seen!’

  Dido said rather gruffly, ‘If you’re sartin sure I won’t be in the way?’

  ‘In the way? I can’t imagine anything more delightful! Simon and I rattle about like two peas in a pod in that house. And, next year –’ Sophie hesitated and then said delicately, ‘If you do not wish to live with your father, that is?’

  A cloud came over Dido’s brow.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I shan’t want to live with Pa.’

  Sophie thought how very sad it must be to have a father whom one could not respect. She too had noticed the deference and devotion of Wally and Podge to their father. Her own father had died in the Hanoverian wars when she was a baby.

  Podge said to Simon, ‘How do you plan to get a word to the king – if you can’t be seen?’

  Simon said, ‘I’ve been thinking about that. What Wally said gave me a notion. Not false beards – wigs!’

  ‘Wigs?’

  ‘You’ll have to help me, Podge.’

  ‘That’s of course.’

  ‘Didn’t you say you had a cousin who’s a footman at St James’s Palace?’

  As Podge listened, he broke into a broad grin.

  By degrees a dim, doubtful red glow began to show in the eastern sky – all there would be of a sunrise this wintry day. The snow had stopped for the moment, but cloud and fog hung low, and the cold was sharper than ever; on either side of the Thames the rim of ice now extended well out into the river, leaving only a narrow channel in the middle; soon that, too, would be frozen.

  At half past seven the Canterbury carrier – a large hooded wagon which carried spices, dry goods, tea, and hides – paid its regular weekly visit to Mr Greenaway’s warehouse, bringing him apples from the Kentish orchards, taking back goods for the shops of Tonbridge, Maidstone, Ashford and Canterbury. The Margrave’s guards, loitering about the streets of Wapping, let it pass unquestioned; they were accustomed to the sight of it.

  Later Mr Greenaway, assisted by cross-eyed Wally and another lad, wheeled out his apple barrow into Wapping High Street. The helper, who wore the jacket, badge, cap, and leathers of a charity boy, then strolled away, and, by a circuitous route, down an alley to the river, and along the ice at the edge, made his way to Bart’s Building.

  The house was locked. Dido used her key to let herself in. At once the sour, choking smell of the wet wood made her cough, and a scared voice from upstairs called, ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘That you, Is? It’s Dido.’

  ‘Oh, fank evvings! I was feared, all alone in the ’ouse.’

  ‘Why, where’s Mr van Doon?’

  ‘There were a missidge come from His Nabs to go round to Cinnamon Court. To see ’ow ’e were getting on in his talk-learning. Off ’e went.’

  ‘What about the lollpoops?’

  ‘They took theirselves off, same time as usual.’

  Dido noticed with approval that the lollpoops had tidied the rooms they used, and swept them too. Little Is had also done her best to clean some of the soot and grime from the rest of the house, and had washed the curtains in van Doon’s room.

  ‘D’you reckon the mister’ll come back, miss?’ she asked anxiously. ‘He be a right nice gemmun.’

  ‘I dunno.’

  Tomorrow, Dido knew, was the day of the tunnel opening. Presumably the Margrave had summoned van Doon for his final orders. Would he then remain at Cinnamon Court?

  That would complicate the plan which had been worked out in Mr Greenaway’s warehouse.

  Looking at the sorrowful, anxious face of Is, Dido said kindly, ‘Has he left his things?’

  ‘Yus.’

  ‘Then he’ll be back for them, you may lay.’

  In about half an hour, brisk footsteps could be heard approaching along the cobbles, and a voice raised in song heralded the approach, not of Mr van Doon, but of Mr Twite.

  ‘Oh, riddle me riddle me ravity,’

  he sang,

  ‘And diddle hey diddle dye dum

  I am known for my calmness and suavity

  And the beautiful airs that I hum.’

  He ran up the steps, opened the door, and looked around him distastefully.

  ‘Hey-day! What a sordid scene!’ He peered into the charred and blackened room that had been Mrs Bloodvessel’s parlour. ‘Could you not have cleaned it up – cleared it out?’

  ‘Not without you pay for a joiner, and a plasterer, and a glazier, to mend the walls and the windows and the hole in the floor,’ replied Dido.

  ‘Ah well, ah well! ’Tis no great ma
tter. – Hey, you,’ he said to Is. ‘Run round the corner and buy two gills of hot coffee, a half quartern loaf, and one ounce of Vosper’s Nautical Cut. And don’t dilly-dally.’

  When she had slipslopped off, Dido said. ‘You heard what happened to Mrs B., Pa?’

  ‘Ah yes,’ he replied. ‘I read it in the early editions, delivered to Cinnamon Court. A sad fatality, but – let us agree – a blessed release also. – Now, daughter,’ he added, in quite a different voice, ‘have you considered any further upon the matter I alluded to the other evening?’

  ‘Which matter was that, Pa?’

  ‘Tush, child. You know quite well what I mean.’ He hummed, ‘Oh, how I long to be queen, Pa, and summon my troops to review, watching this soldierly scene, Pa, as I munch on a tasty ragout . . . Married to Henk van Doon, who is, I daresay, as good-natured a fellow as ever rode down the turnpike, you would be queen of this fair land, your life would be nothing but garnets and gravy; furthermore you would be able to do your loving old pa no end of good turns. Whereas,’ he went on warningly, ‘in any other circumstances whatsoever, I fear that his excellency would consider it the part of prudence to have you eliminated – now that your task of teaching our Netherlands friend is complete.’

  ‘Eliminated?’ said Dido.

  ‘As he would have eliminated your lamented friend Simon – only the wolves got in first.’

  Mr Twite pulled an evening paper from his pocket and pointed to the headlines:

  HIS MAJESTY TO HONOUR DEAD DUKE OF BATTERSEA

  King Richard to lay wreath under Thorn Tree on Blackheath Edge.

  He read: ‘“His majesty will today pay tribute to the selfless gallantry of the Duke of Battersea who died yesterday defending the capital from the assaults of wolves –” Excellent valiant young man! He has saved the Margrave a deal of trouble –’

  ‘You mean,’ said Dido slowly, ‘You mean the Margrave always did plan to kill Simon anyway? When you promised me that if I stayed away from Simon he’d be safe – when you promised that, you were only codding me? You didn’t mean it at all?’

  ‘I had to enlist your support in the best way I could, my chickadee.’

  Dido had always known that her father was a liar. But still she had hoped to be able to believe him in this.

  ‘Poor young fellow, cut off in his prime,’ sighed Mr Twite, and he sang:

  ‘Oh willow, herb willow,

  Drop a tear on the pillow

  And toll out the knell, oh,

  For that charming young fellow!’

  ‘Persuade your father, if you can, that you are still ready to do what he suggests. That way, he may tell you more of the Margrave’s intentions,’ Simon had said to Dido, and she had promised to do her best. – But now, faced with the flat fact of her father’s falseness, she found that she could not pretend.

  ‘Then I think that you’re a pig, Pa, and I don’t want no part at all in the business,’ she said baldly.

  ‘In that case, my dovekin, I can only advise you to make yourself very, very scarce,’ replied Mr Twite, without any particular sign of dismay. He was wandering about, collecting such of his belongings as were undamaged, and stuffing them into a canvas bag. ‘Yes indeed, I would certainly recommend that you leave the city without delay, or you are likely to meet with a fate similar to that of your red-headed young acquaintance.’

  ‘What?’ gasped Dido. ‘Which one? What are you talking about, Pa?’ – as the Slut came back with the bread, tobacco, and a tin jug of coffee. ‘What do you mean?’

  Mr Twite drank half the coffee before replying.

  ‘Why, his excellency took a notion that the escape of all those young persons and elderly characters from the cellar had been somehow abetted by that red-headed boy – the porter revived and saw him running up the stairs, it seems, around that time – so they tied his feet together and dropped him out of the salon window; to see if he would break the ice. He did break it, and that was his finis, poor fellow. He went under and was seen no more.’

  Mr Twite sang mournfully, with his mouth full of bread and coffee:

  ‘Oh what a fearful finish

  To sink beneath the ice

  But let your tears diminish

  He’s now in Paradise.’

  Dido was so choked with grief and indignation that she could not speak. Besides, what would be the use? The deed was done, nothing would bring the red-headed boy back to life. And I never even knew his name, she thought wretchedly. And he would have liked to come with us – I saw that. Why, why didn’t I ask him? Now he’d be safe and well. Just wait till I tell Simon and he tells the king what that monster has done. Killing a person just like that. I suppose it’s only one of dozens. But it seems different when it’s a cove you know, as has helped you.

  ‘Are you going away, mister?’ asked the Slut timidly, observing that Mr Twite had now packed up all his things.

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ he replied carelessly, draining the last dregs of coffee. ‘I am va – ca – ting these prem – i – ses. And so is Mr van Doon from tomorrow. I shall be residing with his excellency. This house will be shut up.’

  ‘What about me?’ demanded Is. Her mouth drooped forlornly. ‘Where’ll I go?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ replied Mr Twite airily, poking a couple of hoboys into the interstices of his bag. ‘His excellency certainly don’t want a little drabble like you about the place. You’d best go back where you came from.’

  ‘But I never been no place but here!’

  ‘Then you’ll have to go on the streets with the rest of the lollpoops, I presume,’ said Mr Twite indifferently, and he ran down the steps, whistling ‘Calico Alley’, without a backward look.

  The two left behind stared after him, both through tears: Dido’s of enraged grief, the Slut’s of fright. Then they heard somebody else approaching, and saw Mr van Doon come gliding along the ice with the expert gait of a practised skater.

  ‘Oh mister! Oh mister!’ cried Is, and she ran to him joyfully. ‘Oh, I was so feared I’d never see you no more.’

  He patted her head very kindly, but the face he turned to Dido was white and haggard.

  ‘What’s up, then?’ she asked him, though it was easy to guess.

  ‘Come inside the house! It is too terrible to speak of in the street,’ he said with a look of horror, and led them up to his room.

  To help him, for he seemed tongue-tied, Dido said, ‘His Nabs has told you all he plans to do?’

  ‘And what he has done already! All those people he has killed. That page –’ Poor van Doon shuddered. ‘And now he says I am in too far to draw back. Oh, I am on the edge of a deep, dreadful cliff. What shall I do? What shall I do now?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what you gotta do,’ said Dido. ‘Just you listen to me.’

  13

  THE DAY OF the Tunnel Ceremony dawned bright, fair, and bitter, bitter cold. Half London had lined up along the route of the procession, on either side of the Thames, and half London was half frozen, keeping itself warm as best it could, wrapped in velvets, in furs, in rugs, in rags, in old newspapers. Charcoal braziers and spirit lamps heated water for foot- and hand-warmers; hot cockles and hot pies and roast chestnuts had a nonstop sale. Wally had repaired and cleaned up his coffee-stall, and hammered out the dents, and was selling mugs of tea and coffee as fast as he could pour them, in a little alley called Glamis Gardens, not a stone’s throw from where the new tunnel emerged into Shadwell on the north side of the river. In order to secure such an advantageous position, he had set up his stall there, with Dido’s assistance, long before daybreak. Dido was helping him pour and sell his drinks, but an hour before the procession from St James’s was due to arrive, he told her: ‘You cut along now, young ’un –’ which made her grin, for she was several years the older – ‘cut along, get yourself a spot by the road. You been a whizz at helping and I’ll recommend you for the job o’ Chief Coffee Waiter at the Pulteney Hotel any day you name, but now you want to hear your old man’s mu
sic, so skedaddle! I’ll see you at my dad’s place, after.’

  ‘You sartin, Wally? You’ll never sell half so much, not without me.’

  ‘Get along, girl! You want to see old King Dick riding in his gold coach – and Podge and Simon standing up behind. Give ’em a yell from me. Scarper now, or you’ll never be able to fight your way to the front.’

  ‘What I might do, after,’ said Dido, considering, ‘is cross the river on the ice and watch ’em come out the other side.’

  ‘Blimey, kid, you sure that ain’t a bit chancy? All the way over the ice?’

  ‘I’m sure it’s strong enough, Wally, I heard the landlord of the Jolly Mermaids tell your da that some bloke’d driven a curricle across at Charing Cross.’

  ‘That may be,’ said Wally doubtfully, ‘but suppose half the crowd takes it into their noddles to do likewise? All those folk on it might bust the ice. Charing Cross is a lot farther west. It’s rabshackle, to my mind.’

  ‘The ice won’t give, Wally. Just feel how cold it is – enough to freeze the feelers off a brass octopus.’

  She waved to him and ran off.

  Wally stared after her anxiously, then turned to dispense coffee to a waiting line of six impatient people jumping up and down and chafing their hands together.

  Dido, accustomed to fending for herself, had no difficulty in securing a place of vantage from which to see the procession. She wriggled, she edged, she slid, she nudged, she crawled, she slithered, and at last, with nobody even noticing that she had got ahead of them, she found herself perched like a house-leek, ten feet up, on top of the granite wall cutting through the bank, just where the tunnel road began its plunge to go down under the Thames. Her view could not have been better. Indeed, her only problem now was to keep the surging mass of people who were behind her on the bank from pushing her forward off the wall and under the hoofs of the processional horses. The hillside was all frosty and frozen, the ground like iron covered with snow; but the top course of the wall formed a slight ridge, a few inches above ground level, so she hooked her fingers and toes into this and clung as tight as a monkey.