“If you make a shallow well in the centre, Hattie, your cake will rise evenly.”
As we waited for the cake to bake, Mrs. Dickens sat down at the big kitchen table, just as though she were one of us, drank a cup of tea from a kitchen mug and helped herself to the tarts Cook had baked that morning.
“I shouldn’t,” she said. “I’ll get thick in the waist.”
There was the lovely smell of cake and the sound of rain falling outside the kitchen window. Mrs. Hogarth had come early to supervise in the nursery, and Mr. Dickens and Fred had gone out on some family business. The three of us sat together in a little island of peace.
“What is she like, Hattie, your foster mother?”
“Small,” I said, smiling. “I am now much taller than she is. She has grey hair, although she is still not old, and freckled skin. When we were little and grew restless, she would sit us down and ask us to try and count the freckles on one arm. Since we could never count beyond ten, we would have to begin all over again.”
“We?”
“Her son Jonnie, ma’am, my foster brother. And then there was an older brother as well, Samuel.”
I was still smiling as I said this, but the tears stood in my eyes as I thought of Sam and Jonnie.
She laid her hand upon my arm.
“Mr. Brownlow told Mr. Dickens something of your brothers’ history. I’m sorry, I had forgotten. Perhaps it will all come right in the end.”
“Perhaps.”
“You were very happy there?”
I nodded. “Very.”
When the cake was done, tested with a straw and declared to be perfect — the whole kitchen full of its fragrance — we put it in the larder to cool, and Mrs. Dickens and I went up to relieve her mother of the children. Miss Georgina was coming to tea, alas, but since her mother would be there, and her older sister Helen, I did not expect any pert remarks when I brought the children down to the parlour. I was to leave the next morning for Shere, and what with the lovely interlude of cake-baking and the thought of my coming journey, I was in the happiest of moods.
Charley, at fourteen months, was a wriggler and hated being confined in fussy clothes. He would lie on his face on the nursery rug and refuse to sit up. It was all a game, really, and I had learned that if I ignored him and started to dress Mamie, muttering, “Oh dear, what a pity Charley isn’t going down, and there are butter tarts for tea,” he soon came round. Mamie was different right from the start — a smiler. You could do anything with Mamie.
Charley did not want to hold on to me as we went downstairs, but the stairs were steep and I insisted, muttering, “Oh dear, oh dear, butter tarts and jam sponge,” and refusing to go on until he did as he was told.
Miss Georgina had arrived; I could hear her voice as we descended the last flight.
“You spoil her!”
My mistress’s voice was low, so I could not hear her reply.
Then Miss Georgy again: “She is a servant, Kate. You have no notion of how to treat servants.”
My mistress laughed. I knocked and brought the children in just as she said, “Well, you’ll have some of your own one day, and then you can play the lady.”
Charley headed straight for his mother and claimed her lap so there would be no room for Baby. I went over and, placing Mamie on the sofa, whispered in Charley’s ear, “Oh dear, oh dear, butter tarts and jam sponge,” whereupon he promptly got down and went over to his grandmother.
“What a nice big brother you are,” Mrs. Hogarth exclaimed, and I left the children to the adoring women, after making sure that the tea trolley was set up and all that was needed was boiling water.
While the kettle boiled in the kitchen, I wrapped the cake in parchment paper and then again in heavy brown paper, ready for the morning.
Mothering Sunday being the fourth Sunday in Lent, Mr. Dickens said he had discussed it with his wife and they both thought I should be given the Monday off as well, so that I could have my three full days away, arriving back in London on the Tuesday evening.
I rose very early the next morning and tiptoed down the stairs to the kitchen in my stockinged feet, having left my shoes and my outer things on a chair there the night before. I quietly made up the fire, removed the cake from the larder and put it in my basket. My mistress had given me a lovely broad blue ribbon to tie around it once I got home. Cook, who came out of her closet just as I was leaving, handed me a packet of bread and cheese, an onion and a stone bottle of ale. She warned me not to talk to strange men. I was so happy I kissed her, which surprised us both.
I walked through the quiet London streets, still shining from yesterday’s rain, and over the bridge to take the coach to Guildford. After that I would walk the six miles home. Because it was Sunday, there was not much traffic and we made good time. The coachman set me down just outside Guildford and pointed me east towards Shere. Mr. Dickens, who was a great walker himself, had consulted a gazetteer and drawn me a little map so I should not get lost. He advised me not to tell “the ladies” I intended to walk part of the way — “You know how ladies are.” He also gave me fourpence to stop at a public house, should I become thirsty on my travels.
The March sun was warm, not hot, just right for walking, and I disturbed no one as I walked along, smelling the sweet smell of the ploughed fields after rain. During my long years in London, I had forgotten what country air smelled like, and I breathed deeply as I walked along, drinking it in like cool water. And country scenes: young lambs in a meadow, a hare sitting up in a field, an old white horse which trotted slowly up to greet me over a fence. As I walked, I was accompanied by the piping and the warbling of a blackbird. The road was not straight but curved along below the rounded hills of the North Downs, and I felt as though London were a hundred miles away, not less than thirty.
There were times when I seemed to feel the presence of someone beside me, a small girl in a faded blue dress, tugging impatiently at my shawl, enticing me to throw down my basket, rid myself of my shoes and come running across the fields with her to see what we could see. And oh, it was tempting, but I was a grown-up now, or nearly, with a situation and responsibilities; that little ghost-girl was no more than a dream of long ago.
Two tramps raised what was left of their hats to me, but they did not bother me or ask for money. However, I went on a bit before I spread my shawl on a dampish rock and stopped to eat my breakfast. I knew I should probably share — that would be the Christian thing to do — but I wanted to be alone, I was so enjoying my solitude. I thought to myself, “At this moment no one knows exactly where I am. No bells will ring save church bells, and should I meet any little children, they will be someone else’s.”
After my meal, I did not have too far to walk before I rounded a corner and I was there. Past the Lodge and a new, handsome house nearby, past the Pound House and the cottage next to it . . . nearly running now . . . down Rectory Lane and across the stream at the ford (oh blessed, blessed music of that fast-flowing water) and into Lower Street, where our small cottage stood.
The bells of St. James began to ring just as I rushed through the open door. “Mother! Mother! I’m home” (even in my excitement, being careful to set down my basket with its surprise). “Oh Mother! Mother! Mother!”
She turned to me with a look of such joy it set me weeping as we ran to one another. “I’m home,” I murmured, kissing the top of her head, “I’m home.”
Hand in hand we made our way to the church, with Father, for once, following close behind. I was re-introduced to the Misses Bray, who were gracious and asked questions; the rector shook my hand, and the women of the village — many, on this special Sunday, with daughters home — gathered round to greet me.
I looked carefully at the other girls, a few of whom were already married with a baby in their shawls, but most of whom were domestic servants in the big houses in Shere, Gomshall, Peaslake and Albury. Although their manners might be rougher than mine, and their speech also (living with Mr. and Mrs. Dicken
s had done wonders for my speech), I envied them their nearness to their families.
I saw the grave of my dear grandfather and spent a few minutes with the little dead babies, especially Hannah, whose place I had taken.
Back home, my mother exclaimed over the simnel cake and declared she had never seen anything so beautiful — it looked too good to eat.
I laughed. “Father and I will eat it then.”
I gave her the new collar and cuffs, which of course looked “far too good for the likes of me,” and gave my father a twist of tobacco, for Mother had told me he’d taken up the habit after Grandfather’s death.
Mother kept wiping her eyes with her apron and saying she was being silly, then wiping her eyes again. She was overjoyed to hear I could stay for two nights.
“This must seem very small to you,” Father said that evening, “this house, this village — after London.”
“No, oh no. This is where my heart is. This is home.”
In the spring of 1839, Mr. Dickens told me there was to be a grand concert at the Foundling to celebrate the one hundredth anniversary of the hospital. He and Mrs. Dickens and the Hogarths were taking tickets, and, he wondered, could he purchase a ticket for me?
“I know you sang in the chapel choir, Hattie, and Fred hears you singing in the nursery and in your room at night. I thought you might enjoy the concert; it will be selections from Messiah.”
I did not hesitate. “Thank you, sir, but no.”
“If you are worried about the children, Fred is not going, and since the concert is in the afternoon, he would be happy to keep an eye on them, I’m sure.”
“I would rather not, thank you, sir.”
I could see that he was not pleased with me, and I did not know how to explain without seeming ungrateful. My stomach churned just to think of going. It was not that I now thought of myself as above the children in the hospital — how could I? — but I tried not to dwell on my life there or why I had been admitted. Each time I reported to Mr. Brownlow at Whitsun and had to walk through those heavy gates, I was in such a state of agitation that I thought I would faint. It was ridiculous, I knew, for I was not really mistreated there and indeed had been a favourite of the sewing mistress. Perhaps I was afraid that once in, I would not get out again.
I felt so deeply about the place that still I always walked on the other side of the street on my way to Southampton Row. Sometimes I glanced across, briefly, at the statue of Thomas Coram, which towered over the entrance, and felt I owed him an apology for such revulsion. After all, I might have died in the workhouse if I had lived at all. So as much as I longed to hear the glorious music of Messiah, and to see my old choirmaster, I could not bring myself to go, even at the risk of offending Mr. Dickens.
I stopped at home and listened instead to the rumble of carriages down Guildford Street, the sound of horses’ hooves, and cursed myself for a fool. Mrs. Dickens told me later that the concert had raised thousands of pounds for the hospital and that the singing was superb.
“There were carriages all the way down Southampton Row. We were fortunate that we could walk.”
Miss Georgy had come back for tea. I heard her say something about the number of foundlings at the hospital, and how it never seemed to diminish, but she supposed there was some advantage to that, since it ensured a plentiful supply of servants, whatever it said about the stupidity of Woman.
“Ah, Georgy,” said Mr. Dickens, “I don’t think fallen women are to be considered some sort of natural resource for the supplying of servants to the well-to-do. That is a horrible thought and quite beneath you.”
She was not used to being criticized by her brother-in-law and hastened to absolve herself.
“You are quite right; I was flippant. These women are more to be pitied than anything else, and the children must carry forever the mark of their mothers’ shame.”
“And fathers’, Georgy, and fathers’.”
“Oh, of course, and fathers’.”
And then, as though seeing me for the first time (I was gathering up the plates and cups and saucers), she raised her finger to her lips and with a slight tilt of her head in my direction, said, “Shh, poor Coram is listening. We don’t want to hurt her feelings.”
(Two and twenty . . . two and twenty . . . two and twenty.)
6
Katie was born at the end of October. Once again, the delivery was hard and Mrs. Dickens recovered slowly. It was a fortnight before she came downstairs, and I could see that both her mother and Mr. Dickens were concerned about her. She had sudden fits of silent weeping and did not, for a while, express much interest in any of the children. I think Mamie sensed this and clung more and more to her father, when he was available. Charley, who was now rising three, did not seem to care much one way or the other. What he liked best was to ride his rock-inghorse on “adventures” or set up spirited battles with his box of lead soldiers. Occasionally Mr. Dickens would put him up on his own big horse and, with the groom on one side and himself on the other, walk him slowly up and down Doughty Mews. I was always commanded to come along and applaud. He had been promised a pony when he was old enough.
One day Mr. Dickens left his study door open and Charley ran in. I, of course, ran after him. I was amazed at the number of books on the shelves, and, forgetting that I was never to venture inside unless summoned, I was examining their titles when Mr. Dickens let out a roar behind me.
“What are you doing in here!”
“Charley ran in, sir, the door was open.”
“Nonsense. I never leave the door open.”
“Yes, sir.”
Charley kicked against me, wanting down.
“Was it really open, Harriet, or did you just want to see the lion’s den?”
“No, sir. It was open.”
“Very well, I believe you.” He smiled. “I see you have been looking at my books.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you like a book to read? From the way you were gazing at my books, I assume you are passionate about reading. You can read, Hattie?”
“Yes, sir. All the children at the Foundling are taught to read.”
“How seditious. Will our servants remain content to do our drudgery if we teach them to read? What if they start to think for themselves?”
He smiled as he said this, so I knew it was a jest.
“I expect your taste runs to romance.”
“Taste, sir?”
“Yes. What sort of reading do you fancy? Adventure, tragedy, romance, drama? Ah. Here.” He handed me a book.
“Be very careful with this book. Keep it clean and out of the reach of this young man, who is a little too fierce with his own picture books, and never turn down the corners of the pages. When you finish that, come to me and perhaps I’ll give you another.”
I was so fatigued at night that my habit had been, except on my half-day off, to do a bit of tatting, say my prayers and fall asleep immediately. Now, no matter how tired I might feel, I lit my candle, and with a shawl around my shoulders I stayed up for an extra hour reading the wonderful book. It was Robinson Crusoe. I was amazed at how the hero contrived to exist on that hostile island, and so involved in the story was I that when Crusoe found the footprint in the sand, I actually cried out in terror and Fred came knocking on my door to see what was the matter.
When I finished that book, he gave me another and another and another. (But never, at that time, one he had written.)
One afternoon he said to me, as he handed me my latest book — A Journal of the Plague Year, also by Daniel Defoe — he said, “Hattie, how do you feel about children?”
“How do I feel about them, sir?”
“Yes. Do you like them?”
“I like them well enough. I’m particularly fond of the babies.”
“I, too. I’m particularly fond of the babies. What a pity they can’t be shot and stuffed before the age of five.”
And once he said, “Do you think it odd, Harriet, the life I
lead?”
“Odd, sir?”
“Yes, odd. While you are carrying cans of water up and down the stairs, dressing the children, managing the mangle, running errands, I sit shut up in my study, a man in his prime, making marks on slips of paper, or talking to myself, or pulling faces in the mirror. Do I appear to you as some sort of hermit, deliberately walled up here while life goes on outside?”
“No, sir.”
“No, sir, what?”
“You do not seem a hermit.” (I said nothing about “odd.”) “And you come out of your cell in the afternoons.”
“I come out of my cell in the afternoons! Oh Lor’, that’s wonderful. And then I greet real life head on, eh?”
“Yes, sir. And besides that . . .”
“Besides what?”
“Everyone knows you’re a genius.”
He positively bellowed with laughter, but I was used to him now; he didn’t frighten me.
“Everyone? Who is this everyone?”
“Mrs. Dickens, sir. Her new maid, Cook, William Topping — everyone.”
“Even the babies?”
“I’m not so sure about the babies.”
“No, I wouldn’t be so sure about the babies; I wouldn’t count on those babies for endorsements in the genius department. In the providing of toys and sweets department, maybe.”
After he dismissed me, I could hear him laughing and talking to himself. “I’m a genius. Everybody says so — Kate, the cook, the maid, the groom. But she’s not sure about the babies. Oh wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.”
Childlike himself, in so many ways. On Guy Fawkes night, just after Katie was born, he disappeared down to Southampton Row and persuaded a group of boys to let him black his face and join them. He went up and down the streets with them crying, “A penny for the Old Guy, a penny for the Old Guy.”
“What larks,” he told us later, “what fun.”
He had had a leaning towards being a professional actor, he said, but on the day of his audition a sore throat had laid him low, and that was that. Now he entertained at dinner and convulsed everyone with laughter.
Tattycoram Page 6
