Dido and Pa

  How good a turn, she did not realize.

  But she did notice that the boy Wally was running alongside the carriage. Despite the inconvenience of his bunchy, belted smock and too-large trousers, he ran well, easily keeping pace with the horses as they broke into a fast trot.

  Catching Dido’s eye, he shouted something.

  ‘What did the young ruffian say?’ asked Mr Twite mistrustfully.

  ‘He said his birthday’s the ninth of December.’

  ‘And what’s that to the purpose? Why in daisy’s name should we wish to know the birthday of a young guttersnipe like that? Does he expect us to send him a remembrance on the day?’ peevishly demanded Mr Twite. Then, forgetting the boy, he stuck his arm through the handle, as the carriage gathered speed, and sat morosely observing his daughter as she munched her apple.

  ‘He saw a gold crown in your hand – was that what the fellow said? How the plague could the blind rogue do that?’

  ‘How should I know, Pa?’ said Dido, nibbling speedily round the core of the apple. ‘But that’s what he said, sure enough. And a velvet carpet under my feet. Maybe he means I’ll go into the furnishing trade.’

  By now the boy, Wally, had fallen behind the coach, but he shouted a word to another boy, a towheaded crossing-sweeper, who promptly dropped his broom and broke into a run.

  ‘Remember that song you used to sing, Dido?’ pensively remarked Mr Twite. ‘Back in the dear old days in Rose Alley when we all lived together in previousness and happy harmony, when your beloved ma was still with us?’

  Dido’s chief recollection of that time was that her ma used to feed her on cold fish porridge and thump her with the fish-slice if she dared to grumble; that her clothes had been too short and too tight, so that she was often obliged to stay in bed for days on end because she had nothing to wear.

  ‘Which song was you thinking of, Pa?’

  ‘Ah, many’s the time we sung it together,’ went on her father with gathering enthusiasm. ‘You a-sitting on my knee and a-beating time with a pickle-fork in your tiny fist. Didn’t the words go:

  Oh, how I long to be queen, Pa

  And float in a golden canoe,

  Playing a pink mandoline, Pa,

  All up the river to Kew!

  Was not that how the song went? I remember our voices used to mingle in it so happily!’

  ‘The words didn’t go quite like that, Pa,’ said Dido, biting the last edible shred off her apple-core and tossing it out of the carriage window. It was pounced on by a skinny ginger-haired boy who had replaced the tow-head. ‘But near enough, I daresay.’

  ‘Perhaps those words foretold a Tremendous Truth!’ exclaimed Mr Twite, on whom the Organ Grinder’s Oil taken in the tavern had plainly worked a beneficial and reviving change. He gave Dido a tremendous smile, showing two sets of teeth the colour of Dutch cheese, then leaned forward and tapped commandingly on the panel.

  ‘Not a drop more,’ shouted the driver without turning his head.

  ‘No, it ain’t that, Morel. But I’ve changed my mind about going first to Cinnamon Court. Take us to t’other place, will’ee – Bart’s Building.’

  ‘My orders was to bring you to Cinnamon Court, with the kinchin. No other,’ said the driver firmly.

  ‘But, hang it, man, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to go to the Court first. It’s by far too early. His Nabs won’t have ate his breakfast yet. He’ll be all of a twitch. I want to go home and put on a clean cravat. Added to which, my dear little sprite here is tired and could do with a bit of shut-eye and a mouthful of furmenty.’

  ‘Orders is orders,’ replied the driver. ‘It’d be as much as my neck is worth.’

  ‘S’posing I was to tell Eisengrim about your little affair in Fish Lane, that time when you’d orders regarding the garden gate?’

  ‘You’d never!’

  ‘Oh, wouldn’t I, my game-cock? Don’t bet your belt on that!’

  ‘One o’ these days you’ll be found floating face down in the river,’ said the driver sourly; but he turned his horses left, out of Wapping Lane, and made eastwards; this was a part of London wholly unfamiliar to Dido, but she noticed a sign that said Farthing Fields.

  Soon the carriage rolled slowly down a narrow alley, and drew up outside a gaunt, blackened house that seemed to have slipped sideways at some point in its very long life, possibly because it had been built on a mudbank, for it stood close beside the swiftly flowing Thames. To stop the sliding tendency, half a dozen massive piles buttressed the riverside wall of the building, slanting into the muddy water like huge crutches. A rusty rail protected the house and ran down into the water. Most of the many windows were boarded over, and the doorstep was covered thick with green slime. The paint on the massive door was so blistered and flaking that it would have been hard to guess its original colour. A small court, a kind of bay, opened off the alley in front of the house; the driver halted his horses here, on the wet cobbles, having turned them first, as if anxious to get away from the spot as fast as he could.

  ‘You’d best give me a chit for His Nabs,’ he growled at Mr Twite, who pulled a notebook from his pocket, scribbled a few words, tore out a leaf, and handed it over.

  ‘Tell him I’ll be along in the wink of a cod’s eye.’

  ‘A likely tale!’

  ‘And here,’ said Mr Twite, scribbling on a second leaf, ‘see that gets delivered too, will’ee? Send one o’ the pages with it.’

  Nodding gloomily, the driver took the second note. ‘Won’t there just be a spree when he gets your billy-doo, oh no! I wouldn’t be in your shoes, my fine fiddle-guts, that I wouldn’t!’

  With which parting remark, the driver whipped up his horses and drove away, ignoring Mr Twite, who replied, unperturbed, ‘His Nabs and I are just like brothers.’

  At the entrance to Farthing Fields the coachman passed a small skinny boy who seemed particularly busy inspecting an apple-core he held in his hand, but threw a sharp look at the coach as it passed him, taking in the driver, the horses, and the coat-of-arms on the door panel.

  Dido, chilled from the long ride, was quite eager to get inside, for the wet snow was now falling thickly. Her father was searching through all his pockets, apparently in vain, for a key. At last he rapped with the rusty door-knocker three times, at varying intervals: TAP, tap-tap; tap-a-tap TAP; tap-a-tap, TAP, TAP, TAP. There ensued a considerable pause, then, from within, a female voice cried, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Desmond,’ replied Mr Twite.

  This surprised Dido, for her father’s name was Abednego; but it did not seem to surprise the person behind the door, for it began to open slowly.

  Inside stood a raddled, sluttish woman, her dyed dark hair done up in curl-papers, which were partly covered by a large, gathered cap; she wore a frilly muslin wrapper, not very clean, over various petticoats, and greasy slippers on her feet; she held a heavy iron candlestick, which, as it contained no candle, Dido concluded was meant to be used in self-defence, if necessary. She was tall and plump, but her face was much wrinkled, especially round the pursed-up mouth; and her three-cornered eyes were extremely sharp and unwelcoming.

  ‘Well, upon my word! It is you, Desmond! I thought you was meant to go direct to Eisengrim with the wench!’

  The woman scowled at Dido, who scowled back.

  ‘Changed my mind,’ replied Mr Twite briefly. ‘Let us in, Lily, and give us a bite o’ breakfast. It’s a devilish raw morning, I’m dry as a bone, and I want to collogue with you.’ To Dido, he said, ‘This, my dear, is Missus Lily Bloodvessel, as handsome and kind a lady as you’ll meet this side o’ Spitalfields.’ He thought for a moment and added, ‘Or the other side, either.’

  Dido did not feel this to be much of a recommendation.

  Nor did Mrs Bloodvessel appear to be at all happy to see Dido.

  ‘Eisengrim won’t be best pleased,’ she observed shortly, making no movement to step aside and let them in.

  ‘Fiddlestick, my amaranth,’ retorted M
r Twite. ‘Just you wait, and hearken to the bit of news I picked up from Polly at the Mermaids; and then see whether you don’t agree His Nabs will be obliged to sing small. Plan B will have to go into operation – or my name’s Othello Tudor. Come on, let us in, for pity’s sake, we don’t want to stand here parleying on the doorstep.’

  ‘Oh – very well,’ replied the lady slowly, giving Dido another resentful look. ‘We’d best go down the area way, so’s to clear out the lollpoops. It’s almost their time. I was having a lay-in for I’ve a bad throat.’

  For a moment Dido had wondered whether Mrs Bloodvessel could be the afflicted person that she was supposed to tend; but this did not seem likely, and she abandoned the notion altogether when Mr Twite said, as they descended the slimy steps that led to the basement entrance: ‘You having a lie-in, Lily? That’s not like you. I never knew you to be under the weather.’

  ‘I got plenty to try me,’ returned Mrs Bloodvessel darkly. She pulled a large rusty key from a bunch attached to her belt and opened the basement door.

  ‘Everybody out!’ she bawled in a voice so loud that it made Dido jump. ‘Come on – out of it, you slummy little tadgers, you! And be quick about it! Time’s up! One minute longer and you pay me another farden apiece.’

  To Dido’s amazement, out of the narrow door there began to appear what seemed like a never-ending stream of children, most of them barefoot, dressed in tatters, undersized, shock-headed, and bleary-eyed. They were yawning, rubbing their eyes, and shaking their heads as if to clear them, while they pushed past Dido and climbed the area steps. Some wriggled and worked their shoulders as if to relieve stiffness. One or two glanced curiously at Dido. Most still seemed half asleep. A strong reek of unwashed bodies came from them, and when Mrs Bloodvessel stepped through the door, beckoning her guests to follow, Dido found that the reek was even stronger inside.

  ‘Eight-one, eighty-two,’ counted Mrs Bloodvessel as the last yawning boy stepped through the door. ‘There should be another, where is he? Come on, you – get out of there!’

  The room they had entered was a dark, dank basement place, not large; Dido was astonished that so many children could have emerged from it. There was no furniture at all, not so much as a stool on the filthy floor. Dido was puzzled, also, by the forest of ropes that dangled from bacon hooks in the ceiling, with knotted loops at their lower ends, as if this were a kind of hangman’s warehouse; then she guessed what their use must be as she saw Mrs Bloodvessel march over to a corner where a sleeping boy dangled motionless with his head, arms and shoulders through the loop of rope, and his feet dragging on the flagstones. He was so deep asleep that Mrs Bloodvessel exclaimed, ‘Here, Desmond, roust this one up. Prod him, will you?’ She extracted a long steel pin from her nightcap and handed it to Mr Twite, who jabbed it into the boy’s arm. He woke with a yell, tugged his head and shoulders free from the loop, and made off with terrified haste, as Mrs Bloodvessel bawled after him, ‘Six o’clock’s striking! Can’t you hear Marychurch bells across the water? Get out, you lazy young lollpoop, or you’ll have to pay for another night.’

  When he had gone, Mrs Bloodvessel locked the outer door behind him, and then proceeded to unlock an inner one which gave on to a dark passageway and a flight of steps.

  ‘You go on up,’ she ordered Mr Twite and Dido, jerking her head at the stone stairs. As they did so, she could be heard unlocking another door below.

  ‘Look sharp and sweep the lollpoops’ room and sprinkle vinegar,’ Dido heard her ordering somebody. ‘And don’t you dare drink any! There’s just half a gill in the bottle.’

  Mr Twite and his daughter mounted to the ground floor and entered a double room which ran from front to back of the house. It was rather dark, for the front window was boarded up, and so crammed with large mildewy pieces of furniture and piles of material that they had to edge their way slowly and with difficulty. By the back window, which gave on to a little muddy creek, a small area had been left free for occupation. Here was an armchair, a bamboo table, a frowsty couch, a pot of ornamental grass, a goldfish in a bowl, and dishes left from several meals on floor, table and mantelpiece. The whole place smelt strongly of cigar smoke. A fire, mainly coal dust, smouldered in a small grate.

  ‘The comforts of home,’ said Mr Twite contentedly, and sat down in the armchair.

  Dido, who was beginning to feel exceedingly tired, looked around for somewhere to sit. The night had been spent in travel, the previous day had been a very active one; her legs ached and her head was heavy with sleep.

  ‘Perch on the ottoman yonder, my sprite,’ suggested her father. Following the direction of his nod, Dido saw what might be a sofa littered with books, bedroom ware and piles of linen. She had to climb over a sideboard, and past a pair of glass-fronted cabinets, to reach it. Shifting some books on to the sideboard, she cleared a space and curled up thoughtfully.

  ‘Where’s the sick cove I’m s’posed to nurse, Pa?’ she croaked.

  ‘We’ll see him soon enough. Never mind that for now, my duckling. You rest yourself, taste a little of Lily’s eggnog; that’ll set you up like nought else.’

  Just for the moment, Dido was glad enough to let go of her worries about Simon, and sink back into the soft grubby folds of the dustsheet that swathed the ottoman. She was so weary that her eyes began to close. Then she heard a thumping step as Mrs Bloodvessel entered the room and asked sharply, ‘Where’s the kid?’

  ‘On the couch yonder. Make us a bit o’ nog, Lily,’ said Mr Twite in a wheedling tone. ‘Look, I brought you a bottle o’ canary wine from the Mermaids.’

  ‘Oh – very well! Though with eggs at threepence a dozen –’ she grumbled. Soon Dido could hear the sound of eggs being broken and beaten, and the clink of a saucepan on the hob.

  Wonder who His Nabs can be, that they all talk of, wondered Dido sleepily. He must be another o’ these Hanoverians, working away to fetch Bonnie Prince Georgie over from Hanover land and tip King Dick off the throne.

  Now and then she could hear the voices of her father and Mrs Bloodvessel.

  ‘Pour in a drop o’ wine, Desmond – not too plaguy much! A half cupful will do. Now the sugar. Now a pinch of –’

  ‘Hush, my sybil. There! Nectar! Queen Juniper herself never tasted a finer brew. Here, my chickadee – put that inside you, and you’ll soon be as spry as a new-born lambkin.’

  Mr Twite actually exerted himself so much as to stand up and reach a long arm, holding a mug, across the intervening furniture to his daughter. Dido received the mug, which held a frothy yellow drink smelling of nutmeg and cloves. She tasted the liquid with caution, finding it highly spiced, but nourishing.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Bloodvessel,’ she called politely, ‘it’s right tasty!’ and received an ungracious grunt in reply.

  Resettling herself, Dido sipped slowly and listened as much as she was able to the voices of her father and his lady friend. It’s allus best to know what Pa’s up to, she thought drowsily.

  ‘So, tell me then, what Polly Tapster had to say? Though why you should pay any heed to that brass-headed mivey –’

  ‘Polly’s as staunch a Georgian as any, my love. We’re lucky to have her in that ken, for Benge is a rabid royalist. And she hears all manner of tidings from seamen at that tavern. Now listen here – why, this very day –’

  Mr Twite dropped his voice. Dido, listening with all her ears, could just catch the words, ‘B.P.G. has stuck his spoon in the wall! Dead as a herring! News just come in from Bremen –’

  ‘Lor!’ said Mrs Bloodvessel. Even she seemed impressed with this information. ‘Did he ever have any young ’uns?’

  ‘Never wed. Neither chick nor child.’

  ‘So what’ll Eisengrim do now? You can’t have a cause without a leader.’

  ‘Eisengrim will have to fry other fish. Plan B.’

  ‘What’s Plan B? You can’t have a party without a prince.’

  A party without a prince, thought Dido. She imagined a party, a huge, marbl
e-floored room filled with ladies and gentlemen in silk crinolines and satin breeches, waving their fans and drinking wine and waiting for the prince to walk in – waiting and waiting, waiting and waiting . . .

  Heavy clouds of blue smoke began to fill the air as Mr Twite puffed on a pipe full of Vosper’s Nautical Cut, and Mrs Bloodvessel lit a long brown cigar and smoked it.

  ‘What about the kinchin?’ Dido heard Mrs Bloodvessel say.

  ‘Ah; we’d best put her somewhere where she can’t wander . . .’

  Dido fell asleep.

  3

  AFTER SEVERAL FRUITLESS hours spent searching for Dido in the streets and environs of Petworth, and making inquiries of everyone he met, Simon had finally decided to return to London. He was very unhappy and worried about Dido, and left instructions with the Petworth constables that, if any word of her came through, he was to be informed at once. Then he drove off along the London road.

  ‘I don’t like it a bit, Matthew,’ he said to his groom. ‘Dido wouldn’t just go off without a by-your-leave – it wasn’t in her nature. Hang it, she was pleased to see me! And she was asking all manner of questions about our life in London and the house in Chelsea – I can’t believe she went of her own accord. She wanted to come to London with me.’

  ‘Happen she got snabbled,’ said the aged groom gloomily. ‘Someone see’d her with you – knowed you was the dook – reckoned as they could make a bit o’ skin-money from her. Best you get back to the house i’ Chelsea and wait; ’tis like you’ll get a message asking for ransom.’

  Simon frowned and shivered, shaking his head to dispel the horrible notion.