Dido and Pa

by Joan Aiken

  The parapet had a stone rail, or coping, on top, supported by a row of fat little stone or plaster balusters, their fatness diminishing to thinness down below; wonder if they’ll hold my weight, thought Dido carefully, shaking one of them. It joggled. She tried another, which seemed firm enough. Returning to the attic, she had one more go at yelling and thumping on the door. Nobody answered. Be blowed to ’em, thought Dido. She removed the blanket from the mattress and poked it through the casement, climbed out, crawled along the ledge with it, and doubled it around the baluster she had chosen, so that the ends hung down on either side; then, holding on to the blanket, she scrambled over the parapet and let herself down towards the end beam. Just as she felt the timber with her feet, the baluster pulled away from its rotten foundation and crashed past her, cleaving the water far below. Dido fell too, but was able to grab the beam when she hit it, and hung on tightly, wrapping her arms and legs round it. She began to slide down backwards, much faster than she liked, unable to get a proper hold of the slimy, slippery, massive timber. Luckily it was not regular in shape, but just a tree-trunk, propped against the end of the house; soon various lumps and bumps on it slowed down Dido’s progress. They also bruised her and banged her. Never mind – she had not been stunned or knocked into the water by the falling baluster, which might easily have happened.

  If this were a fair, thought Dido, they’d charge you a penny and call it the Jungle Glide; and I’ll be tarnal lucky if I don’t get a sousing at the bottom.

  But no: she managed to reach over and grab the rusty fence as she neared the bottom, and then swing across to it, scraping her hands rather badly and getting her trousers soaked in the process. Her feet trailed in the water, and at first, kicking about, she could find no purchase for them; gritting her teeth, she hoisted and dragged herself up by her arms, edged a knee on to the bottom rung of the railing, and so managed to work herself along the fence to its street end.

  ‘Not bad!’ said Dido, very pleased with herself; and she stepped ashore on the green-weedy, cobbled ramp that formed the end of the alley, running down to the river. Her knees felt weak and trembly; she waited for a minute or two, holding on to the fence, until her legs were stronger and her head stopped banging, then set off resolutely, but quietly, towards the landward end of the alley. Passing the steps which she had gone down that morning with her father and Mrs Bloodvessel – was it only that morning? it seemed a very long time ago – she noticed a green and tarnished sign on the rail that said Bart’s Building in barely readable letters. Probably once upon a time the place had been a warehouse.

  She was just tiptoeing, with great caution, past the front door when, to her utter dismay and annoyance, it opened, and her father stepped out.

  ‘There now!’ he said gaily. ‘Now isn’t that a quincidence! Sink – sink – sinkro – nicity. Why, we might have – hic – arranged to meet on this spot by apple-pointment – hic – I never experienced anything so simmle – simmle – simmle-taneoglous. Lily had just said to me, “Denzil, what was that splash in the river? I do show – so hope,” says she, “that wasn’t your dear daughter, our divine Dido, a-falling to her death.” “No, no, my angel,” says I in reply, “our canny little Dido would never do anything so – hic – harumscarum and headstrong, not to say – hic – so downright ungiggle-grateful as to climb out the window. But,” said I, “’tis an excellent thing, my love, you reminded me of our dear little sprite, for ’tis high time I took her along to meet our friend and bigglebenefactor. I’ll step out the door a moment,” says I, “to see if it snows, and then rouse up our little Angle from her slumbers.” And out I steps. And, who should I see, a-coming along the lane, but her own self – all a-ready for our outing, and frisky as a lamprey.’

  Dido could see that her father was the better – or worse – for a good many mugs of Organ Grinder’s Oil. He grasped her tightly by the arm and marched her along the lane at a smart pace, sometimes singing to himself:

  ‘Oh, tooral-aye-ooral-aye-ingle

  Oh tangle and tingle and tea

  A man will live longer if single

  Or that’s what it looks like to me . . .’

  Sometimes he shook Dido’s arm and mumbled, ‘You wasn’t trying to run away, was you, daughter? Not from your own dear diddle-dad as loves you so? No, no, you’d never do a thing like that, stap me, you wouldn’t be so ungiggle-grateful.’

  Dido, angry and thwarted, said nothing; if only, she kept thinking, if only I hadn’t waited a minute by that fence, if only I’d run off directly, I’d have got clear away before Pa ever came out. What a clunch I was! Another time I’ll know better . . .

  At the corner, Mr Twite stopped. There was a man standing on the pavement, under a street-lamp. His face, shaded by the wide brim of his three-cornered hat, was not visible, but he and Mr Twite evidently knew one another. They nodded.

  ‘See that cove, daughter?’ said Mr Twite, as they walked on.

  ‘What of him?’ growled Dido.

  ‘He’s the Margrave’s watchman. He’s set there to keep – to keep an eye on the neighbourhood. Once he sets eyes on you, you’d get no farther than you could throw a cushion – not unless you was with me.’

  To this, Dido made no reply.

  At the next corner – where there was another watching man in black cloak and hat – Mr Twite stopped, hiccuped several times, and said, ‘Daughter!’

  ‘Well, what, Pa? Where are we going?’

  ‘To visit our friend and protector. Our champion, guardian, patron, supporter, de – hic – liverer and libbler-ator.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Eisengrim. He’s the Margrave –’

  ‘What’s a Margrave?’

  ‘– The Margrave of Bad Nordmarck.’

  Dido could not decide whether her father was frightened or angry. He had become rather quiet, stopped singing, and frowned a good deal. Holding Dido’s arm in a punishing grip, he said, after a few more minutes’ walking, ‘Now listen to me, my chickadee!’

  ‘Yes, Pa, what?’

  ‘Where was you a-running to, just now?’

  ‘That’s my business, Pa.’

  ‘Were you a-running to that friend Simon of yours? Because – you take my word for it, my blossom, you better not. I told you that was my friend the Margrave’s man back there. You’ll see a-plenty of ’em around here. And they’ll see you. Wherever you go, it’ll be known. You go to your friend Simon, he’ll be eels’ meat afore he’s a day older. You know what happened to King Dick’s friends – Fo’castle and Tipstaff and the Dean? They’re a-floating down the river to Gravesend at this very minute on their backs, nibbled by dace. And there’ll be others to follow ’em. Lord Raven’s next on the list. And your friend Simon’ll be the one after, sure as you’re alive, if you go scampering off to him. See? If you want to keep him walking about and eating bread-and-butter – if you know what’s good for him – you’ll stay with me. Comprenny?’

  Dido was silent.

  ‘There’s a job for you to do here,’ Mr Twite went on. ‘When that’s done, then we’ll see.’

  ‘What’ll we see, Pa?’

  ‘Why, we’ll see whether it’ll be safe for you to go and visit your friend Simon.

  Simple, simple Simon,’

  sang Mr Twite,

  ‘Met an apple pieman

  Bought a pair and et them there and –’

  ‘Pa?’

  ‘Yes, my diggle-duckling?’

  ‘What is this job? How long will it take?’

  ‘Isn’t that just why I’m taking you to our benefactor? That’s where you will hear all about it. All about it,’ repeated Mr Twite, walking much faster now, practically dragging Dido behind him round several corners, almost all of them guarded by the Margrave’s watchmen.

  As they went along, Mr Twite embarked on what seemed to be a rehearsal of his intended conversation with his patron, muttering different phrases over to himself experimentally.

  ‘This is my little chick-chi
ld, excellency. Look at her with wonder – use her with tact and tenderness. You will not find her like in the whole of – Margravia. Or even in Belgravia. Not this side of Habakkuk Corner. She is a veritable chip off the old block – an unbidden, unchidden spirit –’

  ‘Unchidden, Pa?’

  ‘Hold your hush, will you!’ snapped Mr Twite, and dragged Dido still faster.

  He was a most awkward person to walk along the street with, as he moved neither to the right nor left, choosing a way for himself, but taking no account of whether Dido was obliged to hop over obstacles, or round people coming in the other direction, or over holes, or through puddles.

  The ways they passed along, at first narrow, black, and murky, gradually became wider and more respectable. But this part of London was notably quiet. Perhaps it was the unseasonably early snow, or the time of day, but hardly a soul was to be met in the street, not a passer-by, not a chaise, not a wagon, not a tumbrel. A few of the Margrave’s cloaked and hatted guards stood in their places or went about their business, whatever that was. There were no women to be seen, no children. Where did all the lollpoops go, Dido wondered, who lodged nightly in Mrs Bloodvessel’s basement? Did they take themselves off to livelier parts of the town, to make their living in the streets?

  ‘Who is the Margrave of Bad Thingummy, Pa?’

  ‘He’s a Great Man, daughter – that’s what he is. His anciggle-hic-ancestors go all the way back through history – all the way back to Adam. He’s an Aristocrat. And – what’s more to the purpose – he’s a Musician. He values music as he ought. Got more of it in his little finger than old King Jamie had in his whole corpus. And if – and if matters fall out as hoped,’ said Mr Twite, hesitating for a moment and then going on rapidly, ‘if ciggle-circumstances fall out prosperously for us, then your old da will be conducting the Phiggle-harmonic Orchestra, and will be appointed Musician to the Royal Bedchamber and Master of the King’s Music. How about that, my chickabiddy? Us’ll have a mansion in the Strand, a carriage-and-four, and twenty footmen to open the door when you come in outa the street. And a page in buttons for your very own.’

  Dido found and held the brass button in the pocket of her sheepskin coat.

  Did that boy carry my message? she wondered. And then felt an icy chill of fear as she recalled her father’s warning. Even if I do manage to scarper off, I better not go near Simon. Pa really meant what he said, I’m sure of that.

  Reckon I’d better stay with Pa, and do this job, whatever it is?

  At the end of a fairly wide street, Mr Twite and his daughter stopped in front of a handsome brick mansion, approached by a noble curving flight of brick steps. A porter, who stood in a box by its impressive pair of iron gates, stepped out, inspected a card that Mr Twite showed him, then nodded and gestured them in. Another man, at the double front doors, inquired, ‘Name?’

  ‘You know me, Fred!’

  ‘Name?’ repeated the man impassively.

  ‘Bredalbane, for Habakkuk’s sake! And this is my little chick-child.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Dido – I told you that I dunnamany times!’

  ‘Mr Bredalbane and Miss Dido Bredalbane!’ bawled the doorman, and they ascended another flight of stairs. Rows of pages, dressed in black velvet suits, stood on either side, looking at nothing. Boring for ’em, thought Dido. The house was very grand, with crystal chandeliers, gilt chairs, marble statues, and thick velvet carpets. Dido, cold and dripping in her wet midshipman’s trousers, began to feel out of place. Still, it’s warm here, she thought; that’s one blessing.

  They turned off the main staircase and Mr Twite led the way along a gallery, down more marble steps, and into a little black and white music room. It was circular, with a white marble floor and columns, and two rings of grey-velvet-covered benches. Four musicians sat waiting for Mr Twite. From their patient look, they had been waiting for a long time. One sat ready at a harpsichord, two held hoboys, and the last one had a fagott. Mr Twite nodded briefly at them, picked up another hoboy which was lying ready on a music stand, gestured with it, and they all began to play.

  Dido glanced about her. Wet as she was, she did not think it right to sit on one of the grey velvet seats, so she settled herself crosslegged on the white marble steps that led down to the musicians’ plinth in the middle.

  Wisht I had a bite to eat, she thought, sighing – for she knew full well how long her father and his mates were capable of going on, once they all got to playing together.

  After a few minutes, though, the sheer beauty of the music made Dido forget her need for solid nourishment. Pa really can toss it out, she thought happily and dreamily. She was interested, though not at all surprised, to see that, as soon as he began to conduct, the last traces of alcoholic fuddlement dropped away from Mr Twite, and he became wholly intent on the matter in hand. Dido felt certain that the music the group were playing was his own, for she recognized several themes in it – the one she had once used to call ‘Calico Alley’; and ‘Black Cat Coming Down Stairs’, and another one which she remembered without a name; it was very sad . . . They were all cleverly knit together, like strands in a piece of woven material, so that first you heard one of them, then another, then they twined round each other to make a new strand, then that crossed over yet another and showed itself in a different character, cheerful instead of gloomy, or dark instead of bright. It’s like that thing you look through, with mirrors, and the pieces all slide about, thought Dido, remembering a peep-show at the Battersea Fair. If this Margrave of Bad What’shisname can get Pa made Master of the King’s Music, then it’s no more than he deserves. Pa’s music is the best I ever heard; and I reckon he ought to have a house in the Strand with twenty footmen . . .

  She sat rapt, with her elbows on her knees and her chin propped on her doubled fists; almost an hour had passed before a slight noise behind caused her to turn her head. She saw that a large, rather fat man, grandly dressed in a velvet suit, had come in and sat himself down in a gilded chair with silk cushions that stood on a small marble platform by itself. Mr Twite continued conducting the music, regardless of the new arrival, but the other four players hesitated a moment, and the rhythm was lost. The Margrave – for Dido guessed that it was he – gestured them to go on playing, so they stopped, went back a few bars, started again, and finished the piece.

  ‘Bravo, gentlemen,’ said the Margrave. ‘That was most pleasing. I am obliged to you.’

  He had a light, high voice.

  Pleasing, thought Dido, it was a lot more than pleasing. A whole lot more.

  ‘Now you –’ the Margrave nodded imperiously at the harpsichordist, the hoboy and fagott players – ‘all of you retire. I wish to speak to Bredalbane.’

  The players bowed and retired with silent speed.

  ‘No doubt, Bredalbane, this is your daughter?’

  The Margrave’s eye rested coldly on Dido.

  ‘Dido!’ hissed her father. ‘Make your curtsy to his excellency!’

  How’s a person going to curtsy when they’re wearing sopping-wet middy’s breeks? thought Dido crossly. Instead she got up and ducked her head politely at the nobleman, then sat down again, despite her father’s reproving scowl and warning gesture.

  ‘Yes, my lord – this is my little Dido – the neatest little craft as ever sailed along Battersea Reach.’

  Pa’s allus silliest when he’s scared, thought Dido; what is there in this fat fellow to scare him so? Why don’t Pa stand up to the Margrave of Thingembob?

  She lifted her eyes and met those of the Margrave. Blimey, she thought – now I see what has got Pa so rattled. This man is like – what is he like? He’s like summat I’ve seen somewhere not so long ago . . .

  Chasing the memory, which slipped away from her like a fish in dark water, she studied her father’s patron. The Margrave of Nordmarck was tall, and fat, but not immensely so; his black hair appeared to be dyed, but there was quite a lot of it; his colour was high – maybe from rouge – and his sk
in was shiny; he carried himself with a kind of carefree dignity, as if everything he had ever tried turned out successfully. He wore stays: Dido could hear them creak, just a little, when he breathed. His velvet suit was of deep, dark blue, and his snow-white shirt had ruffles at throat and wrist; diamonds flashed on his fingers and in his ears and ruffles and the buckles of his shoes.

  He’s wicked, thought Dido; wicked clean through and through.

  Then she remembered what his cold, unmoving eye had recalled to her: once, when she was aboard a whaling vessel, she had been allowed to go out in a rowing-boat and a huge shark had followed and rubbed its great spine along the keel of the dory, observing the crew of the boat with a chill, passionless, round eye, showing its rows of ghastly teeth as it rolled; this man is like that shark, Dido thought. He’d swallow you and never notice he’d done it.

  ‘Your daughter appears to be wet,’ said the Margrave gently.

  ‘She fell in the river, my lord . . .’

  ‘She had best change her attire,’ the Margrave continued, observing with distaste how Dido was dripping on the white marble steps. ‘My steward will find her something –’

  He nodded towards the door where a man in black jacket and striped trousers waited.

  ‘Go with Boletus, my love,’ said Mr Twite hastily. ‘His excellency is so kind as to –’

  Dido went with the steward and was swiftly fitted out with a page’s uniform of black velvet, muslin collar, and gilt buttons.

  ‘Not bad at all,’ she said, regarding herself carefully in the glass.

  ‘His lordship does not care to be kept waiting.’

  ‘All right, I’m a-going –’

  Indeed Mr Twite was anxiously pacing about the entrance to the music room, while his master remained seated in the gilded chair.

  ‘Now, my angel, tell his excellency how you met the Pre – how you met King Richard.’