Dido and Pa

  ‘There ain’t a lot to tell,’ said Dido, surprised. ‘It was on account o’ the Georgians a-fixing to knock down St Paul’s at the crowning. Me and my mates had got inside the church to warn the king afore he was crowned. He ain’t a bad cove – quite a deal of sense, he has. He was up in the top o’ the church, chewing the rag with the old Dean, playing cards. We had a bit of a parley. And then he got the folk down in the church a-singing hymns while the constables went round, looking for the Georgian coves and sorting them out. He sure knows a sight of hymns, King Dick do. And then – arter that – he said me and another gal and a couple o’ boys should carry his train at the crowning . . . That’s all there is to it, really.’

  ‘So you were talking with the – with the king for an hour or two before his coronation. And then carried his train. Would you know him again?’

  ‘O’ course I would,’ said Dido testily. ‘I’m not thick!’

  ‘Dido!’ hissed her father.

  ‘Beg pardon, yer lordship.’

  ‘And you would recognize his voice? You remember the way he speaks?’

  ‘Sartin sure I would; he speaks rather quick and short, like a Scotsfeller. That’s what he is.’

  ‘Look at these pictures and tell me which is his likeness.’

  Boletus the steward laid out twenty or so portraits on the velvet benches. They were all very similar – slight, active-looking men in their thirties with long noses, weatherbeaten skin, bright grey eyes, and reddish hair. Some were smiling, some serious, Dido considered them all, slowly, once, then again. Then she put her finger on one and said, ‘That’s him.’

  Mr Twite looked up anxiously at the Margrave, who nodded.

  ‘Yes, she knows him. But has she the ear for a voice?’

  ‘She has my ear,’ said Mr Twite with much more assurance.

  The Margrave nodded again, slowly.

  ‘Very well. She may – for the time – instruct the replacement. We shall see if he makes good progress. If not –’

  Mr Twite, already rather pale, became paler at that if not.

  ‘My daughter is a very clever girl, your excellency –’

  ‘We shall see,’ repeated the Margrave impassively. His expressionless eyes moved from Dido to her father. ‘Have you completed the Tunnel Music?’ he asked.

  ‘V-very nearly, your worship. The last movement must be a Coro. That is not quite com –’

  ‘It is of no moment. I do not at present see how it can be used at the Tunnel Opening. The Pretender is not yet – ah – displaced. Your music must be held over for a subsequent occasion – a Firework Progress, perhaps.’

  ‘Fireworks?’ muttered Mr Twite, sounding anything but pleased.

  ‘You. What about the other two who carried the royal train at the coronation – the two boys and the girl?’ suddenly demanded the Margrave of Dido. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘One of ’em’s gone off to Wales with his dad, sir; Owen Hughes, that is; and the other two has gone back to Sussex where they lives.’

  ‘Very well – they are out of the way,’ murmured the Margrave. ‘You may leave me, Bredalbane. Leave the child here, in Cinnamon Court.’

  Mr Twite seemed utterly dismayed at this order. He stammered, ‘B-beg pardon, your eminency – but wouldn’t it be better – don’t you reckon – if Dido was to teach the cove round at our place? At Bart’s Building? It’d be quieter there. She – she’d not feel easy in – in your lordship’s house; ’tis much too grand, she’s not accustomed –’

  ‘Oh? Very well. Mijnheer X shall be escorted to Bart’s Building later this evening. Now leave me, if you please.’

  ‘Your lordship don’t want any therapeutical music this evening –?’

  ‘No. I am well. Leave me.’

  Mr Twite scuttled away, dragging Dido after him.

  ‘Hey! Wait a bit, Pa! I want my own cloes and sheepskin jacket back,’ she protested, as he was about to whisk her out through the front entrance. ‘Look – there’s that Boletus chap – I’ll ask him for them –’

  ‘Oh, never mind them, my sparrow – I’ll get you others –’

  But Dido, knowing the nature of her father’s promises, disengaged herself from his nervous clutch and asked the steward for her clothes.

  ‘I’ll make sure this rig is sent back to you soon’s my breeks are dry,’ she said politely.

  Boletus curtly instucted a page to find the clothes – ‘if they have not already been burned,’ he added.

  Dido’s mouth and eyes opened wide at this, but fortunately, before she could speak her mind about people who burned up other people’s trousers, a red-headed page was able to produce the damp bundle. He looked a little downcast as he handed it to Dido; she wondered if he had planned to sell her clothes to a rag-man. ‘Thanks, cully, much obliged,’ she said to him gruffly. ‘I sets store by that-there jacket; a pal gave it to me.’ Hoping to soften his disappointment, and remembering the apple-boy, she added, ‘My birthday’s March the fust. When’s yours?’

  His face lit up. ‘July second!’ he whispered. ‘In the days of Queen Dick!’ and he gave Dido a quick, friendly grin before dashing away up the marble stair.

  ‘Who’s this cove I’ve got to teach, Pa?’ Dido asked, as she and her father walked homewards.

  Mr Twite seemed very preoccupied. ‘Fireworks,’ he was muttering. ‘Fireworks and promises – both made to be blown to blazes! Yet it is true matters are in a different train now that the Prince Over the Water is under the ground –’

  ‘Is it true then, Pa – that Bonnie Prince Georgie has croaked?’

  ‘Hush, child! Mind your tongue in the open street!’ Mr Twite glanced round warily. But the streets of Wapping were even emptier than before; it snowed harder than ever. He added in a low tone, ‘Yes, I fear that our gallant leader is no more. Alas! But –’ brightening up, ‘his excellency the Margrave is never at a loss. Such a mind! Such a sagacity! He has already found an alternative. But let me think now – let me think – how my Tunnel Music can be brought into play.’

  ‘An alternative?’ said Dido slowly. ‘Oh, now I begin to twig. Was that what His Nabs meant by “the replacement”? The cove that I’m to teach? But what am I to teach him? Don’t he speak English?’

  ‘Why, as to that, my dove, I really cannot say,’ her father answered hastily. ‘But I am very sure that you will be able to instruct him in whatever is needful – and so I told his excellency – you are such a remarkably clever chick! And you had better do so, and quickly – mind that!’ he added. ‘It was only because I persuaded the Margrave as to – as to your special knowledge – that he agreed to give you a trial. Otherwise, believe me, you would by now be floating in the Pool of London along with Lord Forecastle and the others. – And that would be a hem waste,’ he added to himself, ‘if what the costermonger said is right.’

  Dido stared frowningly at her father; then walked along beside him in silence, deep in thought. The Margrave is arranging for all the king’s friends to be killed off, she thought; or anyone who knows him to speak to. There aren’t many of those. Why’s he doing that? So as no one will cut up rough when this other cove is fetched in? But who is the other cove – the one I’m to teach? Bonnie Prince Georgie’s son? His brother? – And that’s why Simon is in danger, she thought – because he knows the king, he said so. Croopus, things around here are in a rabshackle way. I ought to warn Simon; but if I sent a message it might just make more danger for him.

  One thing’s for certain, she thought; that Margrave is a right spooky devil. I sure don’t go for him above half. And here’s Pa, a-readied to lick a path for the guy, all the way down the stairs and out into the street, do he only say the word. It’s fair disgusting.

  ‘Pa,’ she said after a while, ‘that was a ripsmashing piece that you and the others was a-playing on your fagotts and hoboys.’

  ‘Naturally it was,’ her father replied absently. ‘I am the greatest composer of these times.’

  ‘What’s it called?’
/>
  ‘It is my Eisengrim Concerto number three. I am writing a set of seven in honour of the Margrave.’

  ‘Must you work for that pesky fellow, Pa? I don’t like him.’

  ‘My sylph, he is the only one who appreciates me. Furthermore, if King Richard’s officers were aware of my presence in London, I would be hanged up directly, like a flitch of bacon. A musician of my calibre!’

  But that ain’t to do with your music, thought Dido, it’s naught to do with music; it’s on account of your havey-cavey Hanoverian dealings.

  Oh, why can’t people do just one thing, instead of being so muxed-up?

  She sighed and said, ‘I ain’t half hungry, Pa.’

  ‘I could peck a bit myself,’ he said. ‘we’ll send the Slut round to the cooked-meat shop.’

  The Slut, Dido wondered. And who may the Slut be?

  They were now back in Farthing Fields, and soon turned into Farthing Court, the narrow alley in which Bart’s Building stood. Dido had a momentary impulse to take to her heels and make a dash for it; she could easily outrun her father and would soon be clear away from him in the network of dark silent streets. She could ask her way to Chelsea . . . But there was the man in the three-cornered hat at the end of the street. ‘Once he’d seen you, you’d get no farther,’ her father had said.

  And then Simon would be in horrible danger. Maybe things is best as they are, Dido thought. The way I’m fixed here, teaching this Mijnheer X, whoever he be, mayhap I can find out more about what old Margrave Eisengrim is up to, and put a spoke in his wheel. He’s one as’ll bear watching, that’s certain. I reckon it’d be a good thing for King Dick if that one were under hatches.

  Mr Twite had brought a key with him this time and used it to unlock the door. As they re-entered the black, silent, leaning house by the water’s edge, Dido asked, ‘Do this house belong to Mrs Bloodvessel, Pa?’

  ‘She rents it from the Margrave, child,’ he replied absently. ‘The Margrave owns much property hereabouts.’ He was paying little heed, for, as they passed through the door, loud hysterical sobs could be heard coming from the room where, that morning, Dido had been given the over-spiced eggnog.

  When they entered the room – which was thick with blue cigar smoke – Dido found that the source of the noise was Mrs Bloodvessel, who seemed very afflicted, crying, wailing, and shrieking, throwing herself back and forth in an armchair until she nearly tipped it over, and exclaiming at the top of her lungs that savage ants were walking over her.

  ‘Oh! they bite! Oh! they sting! They are drilling holes right through me! Yellow and creeping and biting and boring! Ants, ants, and devilish pinching crabs!’

  ‘Mercy, what’s amiss with her?’ said Dido, startled and shaken. ‘I don’t see no ants.’

  ‘Ah, it is a mere hysterical spasm. It will pass. I know what she needs,’ said Mr Twite, who did not seem surprised or perturbed. ‘Fetch the Slut, will you, child? She can run round to the druggist and get us some supper as well, while she’s out.’

  ‘Who’s this-here Slut?’

  ‘Down the basement stair. First door on the left.’ Mr Twite selected a key from the bunch at Mrs Bloodvessel’s belt – not without some trouble, for she was writhing from side to side, screaming that a crocodile was gnawing a hole in her back.

  ‘Help me, help me, why won’t you help me?’

  ‘We’re a-going to help you, Lily, you’ll be slap up to the echo in no time,’ said Mr Twite, calmly passing the key to Dido, who ran down the basement stair and unlocked the designated door. The room beyond was pitch dark, and she would have been able to see nothing inside, had not one small window opened on to the river, and the rigging-lights from a passing barge, slowly battling its way against the tide, thrown a dim, sliding glimmer across the floor. In this half-light Dido could just make out a tiny huddled dark shape perched on something that was probably a box. The floor itself was shining with wet, and the room was icy cold.

  ‘Hilloo?’ called Dido softly and doubtfully. ‘Is – is anyone here?’

  She found it hard to believe that a live person could emerge from such a dank and freezing lair.

  ‘Who’re you?’ breathed a voice.

  ‘Dido Twite. My dad’s upstairs. He wants you to go for a bite o’ supper. And some medicine for Mrs Bloodvessel.’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ whispered the voice meekly, and the small shape removed itself from the box and limped slowly across the floor. Dido and whoever it was returned up the stairs, and in the light of the room above, where Mr Twite had kindled several lamps, the Slut was revealed as a tiny girl, wearing a grubby apron over a skimpy dress, and a bunchy calico cap bound round her head with a bit of string. She was the most mournful, wizened, shrunken little creature that Dido had ever laid eyes on; she might be nine or ten, perhaps; but her size was that of a six-year-old, and her face drawn and haggard as that of an old woman. Her limp was explained by the fact that on her feet she wore canvas shoes which were evidently several sizes too small, for her toes had pushed their way through the canvas and stuck out in two blue and battered rows.

  Mr Twite greeted her with a sharp box on the ear.

  ‘Took your time getting here, didn’t you, you Slut! Here’s your mistress sick and sorry. Remember, you run when she needs you.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ whispered the child.

  ‘Now you run to the druggist’s in Wapping High Street, and buy your mistress six-pennorth of laudanum – here’s sixpence; and on the way back stop at the cookshop in Dyke Street and buy three hot faggots – here’s threepence for them – and a jug of gravy – there’s a halfpenny for the gravy – and a quartern loaf – there’s another fourpence. Mind you don’t nibble the bread on the way back, for I shall see directly if you have. And I shall give you such a beating! There, now, make haste – you’ll get a thump for every minute over ten that you take. Here’s the bottle for the laudanum.’

  The child nodded, took bottle and money, which she counted carefully, then hobbled off as fast as her tight, broken shoes would allow.

  Dido, looking after the Slut, recollected that in the past her father used to thump her on the ear, quite often, if she annoyed him or failed to obey his orders. Reckon he wouldn’t try it now, she thought, and realized how much she had grown during the years she had been away from home. He knows I’d give him as good as I got. It’s a hem shame the way he clobbered that little ’un.

  The child heeded Mr Twite’s warning and despite her bad footwear made good speed; in six or seven minutes she was back, and this was just as well, for all the time she was out of the house Mrs Bloodvessel continued to shriek and writhe. Mr Twite seemed accustomed to this, and paid it little heed.

  ‘She often gets seized this way of an evening,’ he explained. He took the laudanum the Slut had bought – it was a red, syrupy liquid – poured a spoonful into a glass, added some spirits of Geneva from a square bottle, and a teaspoonful of sugar, then administered the dose to Mrs Bloodvessel.

  It soon calmed her; she drew a deep breath, smiled, looked at herself in the glass, and, muttering that she was a sight, withdrew and was heard going upstairs, but called down to ask that her faggot be set before the fire to keep hot, for she was sharp set and would be down to eat it directly.

  Mr Twite sliced up the loaf of bread – having first inspected it narrowly to make sure that the crust had not been nibbled. Then he gave Dido her faggot. This was quite different from the instruments played upon by Mr Twite’s companions. It consisted of a lump of chopped liver and lights, rolled into a ball and cooked inside a pig’s caul. It was served on a slice of bread, with gravy poured over.

  Being ravenous, Dido was about to take a bite when Mr Twite said to the Slut, ‘What are you hanging about for? Get back to the basement.’

  ‘Don’t she get no supper?’ demanded Dido, surprised; and the Slut humbly whispered, ‘Oh, please, sir, mayn’t I have a bit o’ bread?’

  ‘Fresh bread? D’you think we are aldermen?’ growled Mr Twite. ‘Wai
t till your mistress comes down.’

  The shuffling steps of Mrs Bloodvessel were now heard descending. When she came in, with her hair newly dressed in corkscrew curls and some rouge dabbed about her cheeks, Mr Twite said, ‘Here’s the Slut asking for dinner.’

  ‘Ho, she is, is she?’

  Mrs Bloodvessel unlocked a small cupboard with a zinc mesh across the front, and took from it a tin plate on which lay some stale crusts and half a cold potato.

  ‘There, then, take that and go back below,’ she said shortly, pushing it at the servant.

  ‘Don’t she get no faggot?’ said Dido.

  The Slut gaped at Dido, as if she had said something in Portuguese.

  ‘Meat? For her? Are you daft, girl?’ said Mrs Bloodvessel. ‘Give us another dram of loddy, Desmond.’

  While Mr Twite was mixing the drink, Dido quickly broke her own faggot in half – by no means an easy operation, for it was soft, hot, and greasy – and put the larger portion on the child’s plate, gesturing with a nod that she had better make off with it before anybody noticed. The Slut’s eyes and mouth opened so wide that there was nothing left of her face; staring at the plate as if it held a ruby-studded crown, she slip-slopped out of the room at top speed.

  ‘Best lock her in, Desmond,’ said Mrs Bloodvessel, sipping her ruby drink. ‘Or there’s no saying what she’ll be up to.’

  ‘Dido will do that,’ said Mr Twite. ‘Take the key, Dido.’

  A candle on the hall table was guttering toward its end in a pool of wax. Dido blew out the candle, scooped it and the hot wax together into a lump, and then pressed the key, hard, into the side of the lump. She wrapped this among her bundle of jacket and trousers, which had been left on the stairs, then ran softly down to the basement room.

  ‘You got any bedclothes in here?’ she asked.

  ‘What, miss?’ mumbled the Slut, who was eating as fast as she could.

  ‘Bedding, covers?’

  ‘No, miss.’

  ‘I’ll only make believe to lock up. Then later I’ll see if I can bring you summat.’

  ‘All right, miss.’