Dido and Pa

by Joan Aiken

  The Slut sounded doubtful; probably she did not believe Dido meant what she said.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘I dunno, miss; sometimes ’e calls me Is.’

  ‘Is? Is that a name? When’s your birthday? Mine’s March first.’

  ‘I don’t think as I’ve got a birthday, miss; what is a birthday?’

  ‘Oh, never mind,’ said Dido. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

  She left the door unlocked and went back up the stairs rather slowly.

  Mr Twite and Mrs Bloodvessel, having finished their meal and taken several more drams, he of Geneva, she of laudanum, became cheerful and talkative over pipe and cigar.

  ‘If what the costermonger said is true, Dido will be a gold mine to us, my amaranth,’ said Mr Twite, looking fondly at Dido. ‘“A gold crown in her hand,” he said – sure as I stand here.’

  ‘Maybe he meant a crown piece,’ said the lady, yawning and swaying tipsily, dropping a great worm of cigar ash down her muslin frills.

  ‘You are as shrewd as you are beautiful, my dove, but no: I am convinced he didn’t. A royal crown was what he meant. Hooraluyah! Think what that must mean!’

  ‘Hark,’ said Mrs Bloodvessel, ‘I hear St Paul’s strike. The lollpoops’ll be along, you go down, Twite, and take their fardens; I feel nohowish. If any of ’em want to lie flat, it’s a ha’penny. Remember that. And don’t forget to lock both doors when they’re all in.’

  ‘Couldn’t Dido do it?’ suggested Mr Twite hopefully.

  Mrs Bloodvessel shot a sharp glance at Dido. Though her face was jollier looking now, being flushed with food and spirits, the three-cornered eyes were keen as flint arrow-heads; there was something in their survey which reminded Dido of the Margrave.

  ‘Her take the money? Not on your Oliphant. We’d not see her for dust.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said Mr Twite discontentedly; he selected another pair of keys from the bunch, and departed for the basement, swaying rather as he walked.

  He had not been gone a couple of minutes when there came a sharp peal at the front doorbell.

  ‘Now what?’ grumbled Mrs Bloodvessel. ‘Don’t tell me as how those little monsters expects to be let in at the front door now, like quality? Go answer it, you, what’syername, and send ’em down smartly to the area. With a flea in their ear. Here’s the front door key.’

  On the way to answer the front door, Dido took the opportunity of pressing the key into the other side of her lump of wax. Come, we’re making progress, she thought; all we want now’s a locksmith.

  ‘Who is it?’ called Mrs Bloodvessel from the inner room. ‘Is it a lollpoop?’

  ‘No it ain’t,’ called back Dido. ‘It’s three men.’

  They stood in a silent row on the doorstep. Two of them wore long caped black coats and three-cornered hats, like the watchers at the street corners. The third one, who stood between them, had his head entirely wrapped in bandages, with two small holes cut for eyes.

  4

  THE NEW KING had dropped in to take a cup of after-dinner tea with Simon and Sophie. He was in very low spirits.

  ‘Och!’ he sighed. ‘Three o’ my dearest freends drooned in one fell plunge! Yon was a dooms crushing blow. And then, late this e’en, what do I hear? Lord Raven, anither o’ my cullies, crushed to death under a falling wall, puir mon. Whit gar’d him walk past a building that was aboot tae fall doon? Aweel, aweel, we’ll never ken. I speer I am the unluckiest mon in London this nicht.’

  Sophie could not help thinking that Lord Forecastle, Sir Percy Tipstaff, the Dean of St Paul’s and Lord Raven were unluckier still, but she was too kind-hearted to utter this thought aloud.

  ‘If it were not for you, my dear Battersea,’ said the king, drinking another large jorum of tea, his fourth, ‘and bonnie Lady Sophie here, I’d have nae freend tae my name in this weary city.’

  ‘Never mind, sir. We’ll soon introduce you to plenty of people that you can’t help liking,’ said Simon comfortingly. ‘I know a coach-maker called Cobb – he and his wife are the best people in the world; and there’s Dr Furneaux, the President of the Chelsea Art Academy – he’s a great gun – and some of the students are real good fellows too –’

  Sophie, looking out of the window, said, ‘Indeed, I see one of them now, crossing the forecourt. But perhaps your majesty would rather not meet any strangers just at present? I can send Fidd to say that we are engaged.’

  ‘Na, na,’ said the king. ‘Dinna deny your good-selves on my account. I’ll be fain to meet anybody recommendit by such a pair of fine, trustable friends as I know ye to be. Let your friend be admitted.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Simon, and walked to the door, putting his head out to call, ‘Tarrant! Tell Fidd that his majesty would like to meet Mr Greenaway. Bring him into the library, will you? And bring a few nuts, too, and a bottle of wine, there’s a good fellow.’

  In consequence of which, after a moment or two’s startled silence outside, just enough time for somebody to run a quick comb through their hair and hurriedly re-tie their neckerchief, the elderly Tarrant limped in, lurched to one side, and announced, ‘Mr David Greenaway!’

  The person who followed Tarrant was about twice his size, in all directions: a tall, plump, quick-moving, light-brown-haired young man, with a round, good-tempered face and shabby, paint-stained clothes. Just now he looked startled to death, quite round-eyed with wonder, at suddenly finding himself in the presence of the king, and he made so deep and long a bow that Sophie began to wonder anxiously if he would ever manage to get himself vertical again; certainly he was somewhat red in the face when he did so.

  ‘Your majesty,’ said Simon, ‘allow me to present to you my friend Mr David Greenaway.’

  ‘Any friend of yours, my dear Battersea, I’m blythe to meet,’ said the king ‘Let alane one who bears my ain name – for myself I’m Davie Jamie Charlie Neddie Georgie Harry Dick Tudor-Stuart.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, your majesty,’ said Sophie, smiling, ‘his close friends have all somehow fallen into the habit of calling Mr Greenaway Podge – I do not quite know how it comes about –’

  ‘Och weel,’ said the king, ‘in that case he shall be Podge for me as well. I am happy to make your acquaintance, Mr Podge. And whit manner o’ trade or profession do ye follow?’

  Sophie felt that it was very polite of the king to ask this, for anybody might have guessed the answer from the condition of Podge’s clothes.

  ‘Faith, sir, I was a fellow student of Simon, here, at the Chelsea Art Academy,’ said Podge, grinning and blushing. ‘But, as folk didn’t run too fast to buy my paintings when I left the school, I thought it best to go out and look for my own customers; so I travel around London painting inn-signs. I have just come from painting the sign of the Wig and Fetter in Chancery Lane.’

  ‘Have ye so?’ said the king. ‘Now there’s a fine, practical trade. Even during my short stay in this city I hae seen many a tavern that could use your services – auld signs, foul signs, fadit signs – ye have a life’s work ahead of ye, Mr Podge.’

  ‘Just like your majesty,’ said Podge, who, once his first surprise and confusion had abated, was settling down for a comfortable chat just as he might with any landlady in an ale-house.

  ‘Aye, that’s so,’ agreed the king laughing heartily. ‘And did your dad, like mine, follow the same calling afore ye, Mr Podge?’

  ‘No sir, my father (who is still alive I’m glad to say), is a foreteller. That’s his gift. But by profession he is a coster-monger.’

  ‘An apple-seller. ’Deed, and there’s a trade even more ancient than mine; it goes, I dare swear, all the way back to Adam! In fact, now I come tae think aboot it, the word costard, signifying an apple, proceeds from the word coste, meaning a rib; nae doot of it, there is some connection with Adam’s rib.’

  ‘You have me there, sir,’ said Podge. I’m not educated. I know nothing of those clever propositions. I leave that kind of thing to Simon and Sophie her
e – they are the ones for riddles and acrostics and book-learning. Or my brother Wally – he’s another sharp one.’

  ‘And in whit trade is your brither Wally employed?’

  ‘Nay, he’s only a nipper, your kingship – only ten. Still, he does have a trade; he has a coffee-stall. And he mixes coffee.’

  ‘A blender? He blends different kinds of coffee?’

  ‘Not different kinds, no, sir; he mixes coffee with all manner o’ different mash – beans, peas, broken corn, potatoes, acorns, horse-chestnuts, lupin seed, earth, brickdust, sawdust, dog-biscuit, tan – why, in your common pound of coffee, your majesty, you’ll be lucky if you ever come across two ounces o’ the regular bean; the rest’s makeweight. Otherwise, you see, the poor folk couldn’t afford it.’

  ‘Thank my stars I prefer tea,’ said the king, shuddering and drinking another cup that Sophie had just poured for him. ‘But ’tis a black peety the puir folk should be obleeged tae drink sic a clamjamfry of adulterated nasty stuff, and this mun be seen to; aye indeed, and afore I’m a month older.’

  ‘Then my brother Wally will be out of a job, sir.’

  The king sighed.

  ‘Fill one pitcher, ye empty anither,’ he said. ‘Government is no’ sic a simple affair, I’m finding.’

  ‘But, sir,’ said Podge, ‘and indeed I’m happy to come across you like this at Simon’s house, for you might say that in a way it’s an errand of government I’ve come here on –’

  ‘Och, maircy, an arrant o’ government? Weel, tell me yer mind, my mannie, speak on!’

  ‘Well, sir,’ said Podge, settling himself comfortably, hands on knees. ‘You’ve been crowned such a short time, you’ll likely not yet have heard of the Birthday League.’

  ‘Nay, I havena.’

  ‘The Birthday League,’ said Simon, ‘I never heard tell of it either, Podge. What is it for?’

  ‘I have heard of it,’ put in Sophie.

  Podge beamed at her. ‘I’ll lay you have, Sophie dear! There’s not much passes you by as concerns the kinchins – the children, that is, sir,’ he explained, noticing the king’s look of puzzlement. ‘The Birthday League is a kind – a kind of a union, ye see, sir; a union of homeless children, or those with parents missing.’

  ‘Eh, puir bairns,’ sighed the king.

  ‘There’s more than ten thousand of them, they say, here in London –’

  ‘Man, ye canna mean it!’

  ‘But I do mean it,’ said Podge. ‘For all I know, it’s more. And, as times are so hard, they’re fair bothered, most of ’em, to get a bit of bread; so they formed this league to help one another, not to fight for what takings there are.’

  ‘Losh,’ said the king admiringly. ‘Oot o’ the mouths o’ bairns – And whit connection do ye have with this league, Mr Podge?’

  ‘Why,’ said Podge modestly, ‘’tis not I, your worship, but my young brother Wally; he’s the Conductor of the League. ’Twas his idea, in the first place; he’s a clever one. And the reason why I dropped over this night to see Simon and Sophie –’

  At this moment a shriek from the courtyard distracted Sophie from what Podge was saying.

  ‘Oh – if you will excuse me, your majesty – I see one of the children has fallen from the fountain – he seems to be bleeding rather badly.’

  She picked up a basket full of bandages, scissors, ointments, lotions, and court plasters; it was plain that she was accustomed to dealing with such emergencies. With a nod to Podge she slipped from the room.

  ‘Yes, Mr Podge,’ said the king. ‘Ye were saying –’

  But now, to Simon’s great surprise, a very grand carriage rolled to a stop outside the main door of Bakerloo House. It was drawn by four white horses and had a crest with a fist and a hammer emblazoned on the door, which a footman jumped down to open.

  ‘Good lord!’ exclaimed Simon. ‘What a lot of company we are having this evening. Who in the world can it be this time? Forgive me, your majesty!’

  He went into the ante-room of the library, where Tarrant told him in an undertone: ‘’Tis the Margrave of Bad Scrannery, him as calls hisself the Hanoverian Ambassador.’

  ‘Humph,’ said Simon thoughtfully. ‘I am sure that man is no friend to his majesty. I wonder what we had best do?’

  ‘Let King Dick decide for himself; there’s a cove as don’t lack for sense,’ said Tarrant with rusty approval.

  ‘Yes, you are right.’ Simon returned to the library and said, ‘Your majesty, it seems that the Hanoverian Ambassador has come to call on us. I cannot imagine why! He has never been to this house, and is no acquaintance of ours. Is it your pleasure that – that he should be invited in?’

  ‘What’s your mind on this, Battersea?’ the king asked Simon. ‘Shall we see the man? Although he’s a cousin – of a sort – he’s no freend of mine; he’s aye been hand-in-glove with my cousin George of Hanover, that dee’d this week. Maybe now puir Georgie is nae mair, the Margrave has decidit tae cut his losses and make friends with the conquering side.’

  ‘I think it would be sensible to see him, sir,’ Simon agreed. ‘Then perhaps we can discover what is in his mind.’

  This, though, he thought a few minutes later, would be no easy task. He had never met a person whose mind was so wholly concealed from other people as the smiling Margrave. He professed unbounded delight and amazement at finding the king in Bakerloo House.

  ‘What a joyfully fortunate chance. What a surpassing pleasure! What an enchanting surprise! You might think I had been inspired! Why not drop in on those charming Batterseas, thought I, for I happened to be driving through Chelsea, and I have so long wished to make your acquaintance, my dear duke – I heard so much about you from that delightful Sir Percy Tipstaff, now – alas! – drowned beneath the gliding tide of the Thames –’

  ‘Will you take tea, your excellency?’ suggested Simon.

  ‘Why, thank you, my dear duke – perhaps, if you had anything a touch stronger – a mouthful of Canary – cognac – aquavit – or any such thing –’

  While Simon gave orders to Tarrant, the king very civilly condoled with the Margrave on the death of Prince George of Hanover; and Eisengrim, quite as politely and very much more effusively, expressed sympathy with his majesty on the loss of his four friends.

  ‘Well, well, we must support one another, my dear sir, that is all we can do!’ he sighed. ‘Perhaps a memorial service for all of them together in St Paul’s Cathedral, would that be a good scheme, what do you think?’

  But the king said, in a rather constrained tone that the cathedral was not, after the regrettable mishap at the coronation, when it had tilted sideways, yet in a fit state for large public services; he did not think this would be a possibility.

  ‘No, no, of course you are right, my dear sir,’ exclaimed the Margrave. ‘Our grief must be a private affair, we must shed our tears in seclusion. I stand corrected.’ And he pulled out a large white handkerchief, embroidered with a gold hammer, and delicately dabbed at the corners of his eyes.

  Simon found himself uncomfortable in the presence of this large, self-possessed, genial person. – He could not like the Margrave. And he wondered why the man kept watching the king, all the time, so very closely and attentively, listened so extremely hard whenever the king said anything. He paid little attention to Simon, none at all to Podge, who had withdrawn, bashfully, to a distant corner of the room. For some reason he reminded Simon of a cat, head thrust forward, alertly keeping watch by the entrance to a mouse hole.

  ‘I am cognisant that in the past,’ went on the Margrave, after a good deal more eye-dabbing and sighing, ‘in the past our beloved Prince George did not always – his interests were not quite identical with those of your majesty – or your majesty’s father before you.’

  ‘Ye could say so,’ agreed the king. ‘Indeed the callant was forever plotting to hist my dad off the throne of England, and set himself upon it.’

  ‘But now, he and his plans alike are laid to rest! And
it is my devout hope, your grace, that all such small past differences shall be forgotten in the happy, happy sunshine of your majesty’s new administration?’

  ‘Tush!’ said his majesty. ‘For my part, ’tis all water under the bridge. De mortuis, and so forth, since the puir deil is dead and gone, I’ll not be girning against him, providit his followers will be content to hold their peace and rest quiet in their homes from this day on.’

  And he gave the Margrave a fairly sharp look which the latter parried with one of smiling, bland amiability.

  ‘My dear sir, that’s of course! Of course Prince George’s erstwhile followers know on which side their bread is buttered – and honeyed too! I am quite certain that not one of them has the least intention of taking arms against your majesty.’

  ‘Aweel, aweel,’ said the king. ‘I am blythe tae hear that news. And now my dear Battersea, I believe I’ll be taking maself off to my ain palace and bed, for I’ve a lang day tomorrow and a wheen tasks tae perform. I will wish you gude e’en, and thank ye kindly for the fine drap of tea; ’tis a muckle sight better than they make in St James’s Palace. Pray give my regards to Lady Sophie when she returns from her ministrations. I shall be here to take anither cup very soon, I warn ye!’

  ‘Your majesty cannot call too often for us,’ Simon told him. ‘You are welcome to drop in whenever the fancy takes you.’

  ‘There was just one trifling matter –’ put in the Margrave, ‘before your majesty leaves – not that I was in any expectation of finding your majesty in this house, no indeed! It was the most felicitous of coincidences that brought me under this charming roof at the same moment as your good grace. But since we are together, I cannot forbear to mention –’

  ‘Aye, aye, come awa’ then,’ said the king, a little impatiently. ‘Speak yer mind, man, let us hear whit ye have to say.’

  ‘I believe, sir,’ said the Margrave, ‘that your majesty’s father, your royal and much loved father –’

  Except by the Hanoverians, thought Simon.

  ‘I believe your majesty’s father had arranged for some kind of triumphal procession at the opening of the new tunnel under the Thames between Shadwell and Rotherhithe, which is to take place in the not too distant future?’