by Joan Aiken
‘Penny allus was fond of cats,’ said Dido thoughtfully.
15
DURING THE NIGHT after the Tunnel Ceremony the Margrave of Nordmarck suffered from such a fearful series of spasmodic attacks tht Dr Finster, having bled him, drenched him by means of a clyster, attempted cautery, applied a cataplasm, and nine or ten leeches, was next proposing to go on and try lithotomy or dririmancy, when there came a violent knocking at the bedroom door.
‘Do not disturb his excellency when he is in such an evil case!’ angrily shouted Dr Finster, who had not been at the palace reception and knew nothing of the Margrave’s disgrace. He himself had been out attending a meeting of the Royal Society and had arrived home very late, to witness his master’s collapse.
‘He has to be out of this house by dawn,’ replied one of the Officers of the King’s Household.
‘Who the deuce are you? Are you mad? Leave my master in peace!’ exclaimed Finster, flinging open the door. ‘Go away! Take yourselves off! I cannot imagine by whose leave you are here, but you must be able to see that his excellency is a seriously ill man, he is in no –’
‘We are here by order of his majesty King Richard.’
Finster gazed at them in utter astonishment. He had no notion of the turn events had taken.
But he knew his business as a doctor, and said severely, ‘King Richard or no, what you say is quite out of the question. Look at the man! He lies at death’s door. See for yourselves!’
The Margrave was indeed a ghastly spectacle as he reclined against his heap of silk pillows – his face waxen, streaked with sweat, his lips blue, his eyes sunken. The sheets were dabbled with blood, where Dr Finster’s phlebotomy had gone a little wild, there were burnt holes in the pillow cases where the red-hot iron had slipped; leeches crawled about looking for their pond, and various green, black and yellow splashes showed where medicinal draughts had missed their mark. Dr Finster was at his wits’ end.
‘You his doctor?’ one of the officers said. ‘Well, fetch the bloke back to life. And make haste about it. He has to be oot o’ the country before sun-up.’
Here the Margrave, roused by the voices, murmured, ‘Bring me my Chapelmaster. Music – music – that is what I need.’
‘Well, for Fingal’s sake, let the Chapelmaster be fetched if that is what the man needs! Where is he?’
That was the problem. Bredalbane had already been sought through the whole mansion, but he was not to be found; the porter had not seen him come in.
His players were roused from their beds; they came yawning, glum and startled, and Finster savagely demanded of them where their leader had got to. ‘He has no right to absent himself at such a time as this!’
‘Well he was a-coming along after us, that’s all we know,’ sullenly muttered one of the flautists.
‘Play without him! Play something – anything!’
Nervously the musicians broke into ‘Three Herrings for a Ha’penny’; but, without their leader their playing was ragged, off beat and off key; their instruments were only half tuned; they made a horrible noise.
With a face of anguish, the Margrave pressed his hands to his ears.
‘No good! No good! Must have Bredalbane –’ he groaned. ‘Air! Air! Open window and give me air. Air and Bredalbane!’
‘The air is much too cold for you, sir,’ Finster said anxiously. ‘And Bredalbane is being urgently sought – he will be brought as soon as possible –’
‘Air – must have air!’
Very reluctantly, Finster opened one of the large casements. A dark red dawn now mottled the eastern sky, indicating the probability of more snow. The air that rushed in was colder than the wing of a Valkyrie. Something else came in too: a seagull, dazed and frantic from the excruciating cold. It swung and veered wildly about the room, knocking over the lamp with a flap of its wings, breaking the mirror, beating down the bed-curtains.
‘Get it out! Get it out!’ shrieked the Margrave. ‘Get it out of here!’
Even the stolid Scots guards were startled by the arrival of the gull.
‘Och, ’tis an orra thing!’ they said to each other, and tried to catch the bird, dashing about with towels and bandages. At last one of them succeeded in lassoing it with his plaid; by this time a good deal more damage had been done, various Meissen toilet articles broken, a gold ewer knocked out of shape, orange-water and seagull-droppings trodden into the Persian carpet. As the bird was finally hurled out of the window – ‘Wring its neck!’ gasped the Margrave; – ‘Na, na, ’tis a fell unchancy deed tae kill a seagull,’ one of the guards said firmly, closing the casement – a timid tap was heard at the door.
‘Perhaps that is Bredalbane,’ cried Finster. ‘Come in, whoever you are!’
It was not Bredalbane, but one of the pages. He tremblingly bore in his hands Bredalbane’s ivory-and-ebony conductor’s baton.
‘If you please, your excellency, a couple o’ Bow Street Runners are downstairs. They just – they just brought this. They was given it by the constable who patrols around St James’s Park. The constables – the constables found it – they found it –’ The boy gulped, and came to a halt. He could not go on speaking with the Margrave’s burning eyes fixed on him.
‘Come, speak up! Where did they find it?’
‘There – there’s a skellington what the wolves left, sir –’ blubbered the terrified page. ‘They found this in its hand; and this was lying beside the – beside the bones –’
For a long moment the Margrave stared at the two articles: the baton, and a little gold-and-onyx snuff-box with the Eisengrim crest on it which he had once given to Bredalbane as a token of esteem.
Then he let out a wail – a long, terrible, howling, keening, lamenting ululation – such as one of the wolves themselves might have given, robbed of its prey. ‘No-o-o-o! Oh-o-o-o-o-oh! He is dead, he is dead! I have lost his music. Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah!’
And before their aghast eyes the Margrave began to shrink, to shrivel and dwindle; the lips pulled back from the teeth, the jaw fell open, the eyes glazed and filmed; with a final rattling gasp, which sounded like a wild ironic cackle, the patient writhed from head to foot and lay lifeless on his bed. And not merely lifeless: from the appearance, the chill, and the dreadful dank odour of the body, anyone just arriving in the room would conclude that the person lying there had been dead for several days, if not weeks.
‘Gudesakes!’ muttered one of the Scots guards, horribly shaken. ‘What’s come to the mon?’
‘He has passed on,’ coldly replied Dr Finster.
‘Well – och, maircy – at least that saves us an errant. Best give him decent burial without delay. We’ll grant ye an extension o’ twenty-four hours tae see tae that. Then the rest o’ ye’s to be oot and awa back tae Hanover where ye belong.’
Shivering, Dr Finster drew the coverlet over the staring face of his dead master. Outside, on the frozen river, the wolves howled in lugubrious chorus.
In the courtyard of Bakerloo House, the children had piled up a stockade across the gateway to keep out the wolves. They danced and sang:
‘Heigh, ho, walk it slow
Rub your eyes and cry
Today’s the day of the funeral
You’ll see us passing by
You and Willie, me and Lily
Hold the coffin high
All the ones that knew him
When he was still alive
Come, come to the burial
This afternoon at five.’
Several of them solemnly carried one of their number who lay limp and pretended to be dead. But then, all of a sudden, the ‘dead’ person, yelling ‘Sticks, sticks, sticks!’ would leap from the arms of the mourners and go chasing after them. The first one to be caught played the next dead person.
They were very serious about it and played it for hours until each in turn had played the part of the corpse. The words they sang went to Mr Twite’s tune, ‘Raining all the Day’.
Every man of the king’s tr
oops was now engaged in fighting the wolves; London was a besieged city with streets infested. Wolves made their way into Westminster Abbey, into the Law Courts, into Harrods, into Madame Tussaud’s, into Astley’s Amphitheatre, into Almack’s Assembly Rooms. A wolf was hauled snarling out of the crypt of St Paul’s, another found its way into the inner courtyard of the Tower, where it was set upon and pecked to death by ravens.
A Day of National Mourning came and went.
At last the weather improved and the wolves were on the run. They retreated to outlying suburbs – Primrose Hill, Putney Heath, St Johns Wood, Wandsworth Common. In dim sunshine, through melting snow, Simon, Podge and troops of mounted fellow-warriors followed and worried and harried and hunted them down.
On the day when they had finally fought their way as far as Blackheath Waste, Simon and Podge, without speaking to each other, rode faster and faster. They said nothing – yet both were dreading what they might find.
At last: ‘Suppose – suppose there’s no one left alive?’ croaked Podge.
At the landmark where, rounding a corner of coppice, they came in sight of Penelope’s barn, they slowed to a halt and waited, looking at one another. The barn stood silent and snowcaked in the mild sun; not a sound came from it. But a thread of smoke lifted from the chimney.
‘There must be someone alive to light the fire,’ said Simon hoarsely; he kicked his horse to a canter, crossed the open space, dismounted, and thumped on the door.
‘Open up, it’s safe to come out now, we’ve driven all the wolves away!’ he called.
‘Took your time about it, too, didn’t you?’ snapped Penny, throwing open the door. ‘We might have starved to death in here for all the help you gave us!’ And she was going on to give Simon a tremendous telling-off when, staring past her, with starting eyes and stammering tongue, he gasped, ‘D-Did-Dido! And Wally! You’re alive! Why – why – you were given up for dead weeks ago. A Day of National Mourning has been held for you!’
‘Go on!’ said Dido, coming past her sister and giving Simon a warm hug. ‘You’re gammoning! You gotta be gammoning?’
‘No I’m not. King Richard decreed it. Because you uncovered the plot that would have done for him. We believed the Margrave had you and Wally drowned.’
‘Oh well; he meant to, and he would have, for sure,’ said Dido, ‘if it weren’t for Wally’s da’s apple stingo. Just fancy, Wal, the whole country’s been a-mourning for us. What’ll they do now, when they sees as how we ain’t dead after all?’
Wally grinned, his eyes crossing more than ever. ‘Maybe they’ll find the price of a new coffee-stall,’ he said. ‘I bet somebody half-inched my old one by now. I lay Dad’ll be pleased to hear we’re still kicking around. I’d best get to him fast.’
‘He’ll be pleased sure enough,’ said Podge, and thumped his brother on the back. Then he saw Sophie, sitting at the far end of the barn, diligently sewing at one of Penelope’s creatures. He turned pink, began to shuffle his feet in the snow, and pulled a little shell box from his pocket.
Dido’s gimlet eye observed this, she grabbed Podge’s arm and dragged him away round the corner of the building.
‘Don’t give that box to Sophie!’ she hissed. ‘She don’t want it!’
Podge was horribly taken aback.
‘Wh-what do you say? She don’t want it?’ He gave Dido a hangdog look. ‘Wh-what does she want then?’
‘She wants you, you clunch. You can give me the box, if you like.’ Dido took it from his limp hand. ‘Now, take her out on the heath and ask her – and don’t come back till she’s said yes!’
Podge gave Dido a dazed, radiant look and disappeared into the barn.
‘Dido,’ said Simon. ‘I’ve got something dreadful to tell you.
The troop had brought sacks of food with them, to distribute to farmers and cottagers who had been under siege for weeks from the wolves. With some of these supplies, Penny and Is began to prepare a large and nourishing stew, helped by the convalescent van Doon.
‘You’re getting to be a right helpful little critter,’ Penny remarked absently to Is. ‘Reckon I’ll miss you both when you’re gone.’
A worried look came over the Slut’s face.
‘I’ll be sorry too, ma’am – but I gotta get back and find my Figgin.’
At this moment Podge and Sophie came walking back out of the wood. Both of them were radiant now; they seemed to be walking six inches above the ground. And their arms were round each other’s necks.
‘We’ve fixed it up!’ Podge called. ‘We fixed it up, Sophie and I. She’s going to be Lady Sophie Greenaway!’
Everyone cheered, and there was a lot of laughter and hugging. In the midst of it Dido, who, though she had hugged them warmly too, was looking a little sad and withdrawn, suddenly said, ‘What’s that row? Not a wolf come back?’
‘Oh, lord, I forgot!’ And Podge, looking guilty, ran to his horse, which was tied to a tree, and brought back a basket which had been attached to the crupper. This he handed to Is. From inside it came a loud and furious wauling.
‘Found him when I went back to Bart’s looking for Dido and Wally,’ he explained. ‘Knew you’d be wanting him.’
‘Figgin! It’s Figgin!’
Out of the basket shot a furiously disapproving black form; but when Figgin recognized his owner, all his rage turned to ecstasy; he purred so loudly that, as Dido said, you couldn’t hear the stew bubbling.
Now there were three radiant faces.
‘I always did want a cat,’ began Penelope thoughtfully. ‘The fieldmice round here are something chronic; eat you out of house and home, they do.’
‘If I stay, and Figgin stays,’ said the Slut, looking her hard in the eye, ‘Mr van Doon gotta stay too.’
‘Who’s standing in his way?’ said Penelope. ‘He can make himself useful, I daresay.’
Simon said to Dido, ‘You’ll still come and live at Bakerloo House, won’t you, Dido? And, and perhaps – now that Podge and Sophie are fixed up – perhaps you’d think about being Duchess of Battersea one day?’
But at that, Dido burst out laughing.
‘Me a duchess? A likely notion! I ain’t half old enough – and I ain’t half grand enough. You do all right as a dook Simon – you do fine – you was born to it, that’s why. But I was born Dido Twite; I ain’t cut out for parties at the palace and noshing with nobs. No, no, it wouldn’t suit me a bit. I’ll be your friend, Simon, from here to Habakkuk, like I’ve always been, for you’re a real decent cove; but when you want a duchess you gotta look somewhere different. No hard feelings?’
‘No,’ said Simon sadly. ‘I was afraid you’d say that, Dido, but I shall ask you again, by and by.’
Penelope called them: ‘Come on, you two, dinner’s ready.’
After dinner, while Wally was telling the story of their escape from the ice-boat, and Simon was telling the story of the Margrave’s awful end, Podge said to Dido, ‘Dido, I’m really sorry about your father.’
Dido looked at him, biting her lip. She said, ‘He was a real bad lot. I know it’s best he’s gone. But it’s – it was – his music; now that’s all gone too –’
She had to stop; her voice dried up inside her.
‘Have you ever thought, Dido, that perhaps you could make up tunes?’ Podge suggested. ‘You’re his daughter, after all.’
Dido sniffed and wiped her eyes and said, ‘No. I can’t. I tried ever so many times. But it ain’t in me. All I can do is make up tales. That’s different.’ Suddenly for some reason she remembered telling a story about keys to the Slut. ‘No,’ she repeated. ‘Pa’s music is gone. It’s gone. That’s all there is to it.’
But over by the fire the Slut was singing,
‘I love little Pussy his coat is so warm
And if I annoy him he’ll chew off my arm –’
and Penelope, stitching away at a penguin, was absently putting in an alto part.
About the Author
JOAN AIKEN, who di
ed in 2004, came from a family of writers: she was the daughter of the American poet, Conrad Aiken; her sister, Jane Aiken Hodge, is also a novelist.
Joan Aiken wrote over a hundred books for young readers and adults and is recognized as one of the classic authors of the twentieth century. Amanda Craig, writing in The Times, said, ‘She was a consummate storyteller, one that each generation discovers anew.’
Her best-known books are those in the James III saga, of which The Wolves of Willoughby Chase was the first title, published in 1962 and awarded the Lewis Carroll prize. Both that and Black Hearts in Battersea have been filmed. Her books are internationally acclaimed and she received the Edgar Allan Poe Award in the United States as well as the Guardian Award for Fiction in this country for The Whispering Mountain.
Joan Aiken was decorated with an MBE for her services to children’s books.
Also by Joan Aiken:
The Wolves of Willoughby Chase sequence:
The Wolves of Willoughby Chase
Black Hearts in Battersea
Night Birds on Nantucket
The Stolen Lake
Limbo Lodge
The Cuckoo Tree
Dido and Pa
Is
Cold Shoulder Road
Midwinter Nightingale
The Witch of Clatteringshaws
The Felix trilogy:
Go Saddle the Sea
Bridle the Wind
The Teeth of the Gale
The Whispering Mountain
(winner of the Guardian Award 1969)
Short Story Collections:
A Handful of Gold
Ghostly Beasts
Young Fiction:
The St. Boan Trilogy
In Thunder’s Pocket
The Song of Mat and Ben
Bone and Dream
DIDO AND PA
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 409 02480 4
Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
A Random House Group Company
