Tuppenny Times

by Beryl Kingston

  The pony plodded on downhill, steaming gently, and Mr Dibkins regarded her ears and sighed. ‘Poor old ’Orrie. Agony that was. Sheer mortal agony. An’ then Sir Joseph he ups and says, “You was in the way my man. You was culpable.” Culpable, my eye. Savin’ your reverence, ma’am. An’ the long and the short of it was he give him the sack. Him an’ Dolly both. An’ Mr William, who was a good Christian soul an’ mindful of his duties, God bless him, he took ’em both to Chelsea an’ made servants of ’em, where they been ever since. A good man, Mr William. Like don’ always breed like, I’m happy to say.’

  All three children were asleep. For a few seconds, while Nan digested the story, there was no sound except for their soft breathing, the creak of the trap and the pony’s padding hooves.

  ‘We heard he was dead,’ Mr Dibkins said sadly. ‘An’ then we seen you in your widder’s weeds, so we knew, you see. A great loss, ma’am, if I don’t presume to say so.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said equally sadly. ‘It is.’ How many more hidden kindnesses would she uncover now that he was dead and gone and past appreciation?

  It was quite dark by the time they got to the Black Horse, and the children were still only half awake when Dibkins lifted them down from the trap and carried them one by one into the coffee room.

  Nan offered him a threepenny bit for his pains, but he smiled it away. ‘Sir Joseph paid for ’ee,’ he said. ‘Though he don’t know nothin’ of it, which I’m uncommon pleased to say.’

  And then Johnnie woke up and began to grizzle, so that was the end of civilized conversation.

  It took a long time and considerable effort to get all three children to bed. For a start there was no fire in their room and the air struck disagreeably chill. Then when hot coals had been brought in a shovel from the coffee room and a warming-pan ordered, and warm milk arrived for the baby who was screaming so much he was choking himself, Annie discovered that the chamberpot had a gaping crack in it and refused to use the thing for fear of ‘cuttin’ my botty’.

  ‘I’ll get another for you lovey,’ Nan soothed. ‘Don’t ’ee fret.’ And she rang the bell for the fourth time.

  ‘You sure that’s all ma’am?’ the chambermaid said when she had brought them an undamaged chamberpot.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Nan told her. ‘I paid good money for this room and I means to sleep easy in it.’

  ‘I only does the work in this place, that’s all,’ the chambermaid said.

  It was past seven o’clock by the time the room was warm and all three children were finally asleep and Nan could think of dinner. As she went down the stairs dusting the palms of her hands against one another like triumphant cymbals, she realized that for the first time since William Henry had been killed she was actually hungry.

  The fire in the coffee room was well established and giving out the most comforting heat. She sat on the wooden settle right in front of the fender, and ordered a hot meat pie and half a pint of porter. It seemed a very long time since she’d had the luxury of being on her own, warm and resting and about to be fed and, what was more important, with a chance to think. Now that she knew the full extent of her fortunes, or lack of them, she would have to decide what to do next.

  There were three elderly gentlemen sitting on the other side of the fire, two soberly playing backgammon and the third, sitting rather apart and reading a news-sheet. As the waiter returned with her pie and porter, he looked up and smiled and said ‘Good evening’.

  A newspaper, she thought, looking at it as the first mouthful of pie dissolved on her tongue, that’s the style, that’s what I’ll do. There’s money in news, specially now with a war and a revolution all going on. Look how them young fellers was selling ’em during the trial. And she remembered how she’d urged Mr Easter.

  The gentleman caught her thoughtful gaze and responded to it. He stood up, folded the paper, and carried it across to her. ‘Would you care to read the news, ma’am?’ he offered.

  ‘Thank ’ee kindly,’ she said. ‘I would,’

  ‘Reports from France are very grave,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  But it wasn’t the news from France she wanted. That could stay hidden on the inner pages. She was interested in the advertisements, and by the time the pie was half eaten, she’d found what she was looking for.

  ‘An established newswalk to be disposed of that brings in £1.12s a week clear profit; situated in the best part of London, and capable, with care and assiduity, of great improvement; such an opportunity seldom offers for an industrious person. Enquire tomorrow at No 16 Portugal Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields.’

  That’s it, she said to herself, I’ll go there the minute I gets off that coach. I’ll earn my living selling papers.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Ba-ba,’ little Annie Easter said, ‘where is my Papa?’

  Bessie was filling the copper ready to boil the baby’s dirty clouts. For once she and Annie had the kitchen to themselves, for Mrs Easter had gone rushing out again the minute she’d got back, Mr Dibkins was ‘attendin’ to the fires, drat ’em’, Mrs Dibkins was consequently sweeping coal dust from the stairs, and both the boys had been washed and fed and were now fast asleep in the nursery. ‘Don’t you go a-worritin’ about your Papa,’ she advised, frothing the hot water with a bundle of soapwort. ‘Let’s sing one of our songs, eh?’

  But the child was too anxious to be deflected. ‘No,’ she said doggedly, ‘but where is my Papa? Mama says he live in that house when we went to that house, but I didden’ see him. Only that horrid old lady. I didden’ like that horrid old lady, Ba-ba. Oh, where is Papa?’

  Bessie removed the soapwort, dried her hands on her apron, and sitting on the kitchen stool, took the little girl on her knee. ‘E’s gone ter live with the angels, pet,’ she said.

  ‘When is he comin’ back home?’

  ‘Well, now,’ Bessie said, frowning a little in her struggle to find the right words, ‘when you go ter live with the angels, you don’t come back ’ome. Not as a general rule.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well … I s’pose the angels don’t want yer to.’

  ‘I thought angels was good.’

  ‘So they are lovey, ever so good.’

  ‘They en’t very good if they don’t let Papa back.’

  ‘Well, now,’ Bessie said, holding the child’s hands, ‘I ’spect they won’t let you back, because they gets so fond of you, once you’re there a-livin’ with ’em. They can’t bear ter send you back ter this vale a’ tears, that’s what ’tis.’

  ‘What’s a vale a’ tears, Bessie?’

  ‘It’s where you cry a lot.’

  ‘Like Mama did when she come home from France?’

  ‘Yes.’

  That made some sort of sense, but provoked another worry. ‘Is Mama gone to live with the angels?’

  ‘No, pet. She’s out. Gone a-marketin’ I daresay. She’s a rare lively one, your ma. She’ll live with the angels one day though.’

  ‘Why will she one day?’

  ‘Well … we all goes ter live with the angels in the end.’

  ‘You won’t go ter live with the angels will you, Bessie?’

  ‘Not jest yet awhile,’ Bessie said cheerfully. ‘I’m young yet.’ And then, understanding the anxiety on the little girl’s face, ‘Your Bessie won’t ever leave you, don’t you fret.’

  One of the bells dangling from the painted board above their heads gave a little leap and began to jangle.

  ‘There’s the door bell,’ Bessie said, glancing at it, ‘an’ me with the clouts not washed an’ you all any old how. Suppose it’s yer ma, what’ll she say?’ She felt frightened just to think of it.

  But it wasn’t her ma, it was that funny boy Thiss, all dressed up like a groom and grinning on the doorstep.

  ‘Come ter see the missus,’ he said. ‘She in?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Be long, will she?’

  ‘
Couldn’t say.’

  ‘How about lettin’ me in,’ he said grinning at her. ‘I’m lettin’ all the cold air in ter the ’ouse a-standin’ here.’

  ‘Well …’ she dithered. ‘I dunno. I ain’t supposed to let people in when the missus is out.’

  ‘I ain’t people though,’ he said. ‘You can let me in. She wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said, still dithering but with an expression on her face that showed she was going to give in.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘I’ll say I forced me way in. How’ll that be?’

  So she stood aside to let him in and not knowing what else to do, led the way down to the kitchen. ‘Whatcher think a’ me rig?’ he asked, lifting his arms like a dancing master as he followed her. ‘Smart as a carrot new-scraped, eh?’

  ‘Very nice,’ she admitted, returning to the washing. And then feeling she ought to make conversation. ‘Stables is it?’

  ‘Inn. One a’ the coachin’ variety. The Bolt in Tun in Fleet Street. ’Ard work I can tell yer. You get some cases in the City.’

  ‘Can’t say ’ow long she’ll be, you know,’ Bessie warned. ‘She could be ages.’

  ‘That’s all right. I’ll wait. I got an hour’s leave.’

  Then to her alarm she saw he was eyeing the remains of an apple pie that had been left on the sideboard after last night’s supper.

  ‘I s’pose there ain’t a slice a’ that there going begging?’ he said, grinning that awful grin at her again.

  ‘I can’t give yer that,’ she said horrified. ‘What ’ud she say?’

  But he was already reaching for the plate. ‘She’d say “feed the poor lad afore he drops dead a’ starvation”, that’s what she’d say.’

  He was bewildering her. She didn’t know whether to believe him or not. ‘She wouldn’t, would she?’ But he was cutting himself a slice of pie, for all the world as if he owned it. Oh my lor!

  ‘Do you know my Papa?’ Annie asked, coming to stand beside their visitor as he devoured his impromptu meal.

  ‘I’ve met ’im, Sunshine. A good man, your papa.’

  ‘Gorn ter live with the angels, ain’t ’e?’ Bessie suggested quickly, before he could say something else he shouldn’t.

  ‘My! This is a pie an’ a half!’ he said. ‘D’you want some?’

  ‘She ain’t s’posed to eat cold pie, on account of ’er stummick,’ Bessie tried to point out.

  But he ignored that. He ignored everything she said. It was most alarming. ‘Goes down a treat,’ he told the child. ‘’Ave a bite.’

  They finished the pie between them, despite Bessie’s warning grimaces, and then as the clouts were boiled he offered to turn the mangle, and empty the copper, and hang the little napkins on the clothes horse to dry. And they were just polishing the inside of the copper when the dining-room bell rang.

  ‘That’ll be the missus,’ Bessie said, jumping with alarm. ‘Must a’ come back. I never ’eard the door. That’s all the row you was makin’. Oh lor, what’ll she say?’

  ‘I’ll go,’ he offered. ‘Give ’er a nice surprise.’

  ‘She’ll be cross,’ Bessie said, ‘as sure as eggs is eggs.’

  Nan was still in her black cloak warming her hands before the fire. ‘Well, well, well,’ she said. ‘Alexander Thistlethwaite or I’m a Dutchman! How good to see you again. I see you got yourself a job,’ she said.

  ‘I’d still rather work fer you, ma’am. Inns is all very well, but it ain’t like workin’ fer a fam’ly.’

  ‘Um,’ she said thoughtfully, removing her bonnet. ‘If that’s the way the wind blows, you’d best hear what I got to say. Go you and tell the others I wants to see ’em.’

  ‘Now,’ she said, when he’d shepherded Bessie and little Annie and the two Dibkins into the room and she’d taken the child on her knee and they were all sitting uncomfortably on the dining-room chairs, because that was what she’d told them to do. ‘I got something to tell ’ee. Mr Easter en’t exactly left us with a fortune. I been to his family like he said, and they en’t exactly left us a fortune neither. In fact they’re a pack of ol’ misers and they don’t mean to part with a penny piece.’

  ‘Which don’t surprise me none, Mrs William-dear,’ Dibkins said. ‘Savin’ your reverence.’

  ‘So what I done is this. This afternoon I bought a news-walk, and a note in hand for seventy five pounds worth of news-sheets, and I means to make money selling papers. Now what you needs to consider is this. ’Twill take a while afore I see any sort of profit. One month, two, so long as six maybe. I’ve money for coals and money for food but little else. In time I shall earn plenty, make no mistake on it, but for the moment wages en’t within the bounds of possibility. I can give you food and shelter and nothin’ else. Now you’ll need a bit of time to consider, that I do know. There’s enough for a week’s wages in hand if ’ee wants to leave me and try elsewhere. I shall give ’ee the best of references. That’s what I had to say.’ She was pleased by the way she’d told them. Even Mr Easter couldn’t have done it better, although he would certainly have done it.

  ‘Mrs William-dear, how could ’ee think it of us?’ Dibkins said. ‘When we come here along a’ your dear husband, God rest his soul, we come for good, so we did. An’ where’s the good in us if we ups an’ runs at the first sign a’ trouble? That ain’t the way of it at all. I say we stay, don’t we Mother?’

  Mrs Dibkins was in such an emotional state she couldn’t say anything, but she screwed up her mouth and nodded her head in such a way as to indicate agreement.

  ‘’Twould mean no wages for a mortal long time,’ Nan felt she had to warn again. ‘I’d make it up to ’ee later. You wouldn’t lose out, I give ’ee me word. But nothing now.’

  ‘Board an’ lodgin’s all we ask, Mrs William-dear. You’ll make a success, sure as eggs is eggs,’ the old man said, squashing the top of his scrubbing-brush hair with the flat of his hand in his agitation.

  ‘Bound to,’ Mrs Dibkins managed after considerable nodding and winking.

  ‘I’m obliged to ’ee,’ Nan told them, and she meant it, for the house had to be run, and she would have precious little time for housework now. ‘Bessie? What say you?’

  The news had put Bessie into a panic. Did it mean she would have to look for a new position? Supposing she couldn’t find one. Or they was cruel to her. Some places they was ever so cruel. No wages was a bad thing, she knew. How would she manage without? But then again she’d given Annie her word. This very morning as ever was. And the child looked towards her, squinting with anxiety, her forehead wrinkled.

  ‘I couldn’t leave the babies, mum,’ Bessie said, smiling at her charge. ‘I’ve give ’em me word. Besides this is the only ’ome I’ve ever ’ad. You’re like family to me, as you might say. I’ll stay if you’ll have me.’

  ‘Appreciated,’ Nan said. ‘I’d ha’ been hard put to it to care for the children and go selling. So now it’s only you, Thiss. What you got to say? I could give you work a-plenty, but I couldn’t pay you for it.’

  ‘Then I’ll tell yer fair an’ square, ma’am,’ Thiss said, grinning at her, ‘a bird in the ’and’s worth two in the bush. I shall stay with the Bolt in Tun, rough trade an’ all. I needs me drinkin’ money.’

  ‘Well that’s a frank answer in all conscience,’ Nan approved. ‘I think none the worse of you for that.’ There was an honesty about this boy that was very appealing despite his ugly face. ‘Come back when I can afford you, eh? I should like to employ you after all you did for me in Paris.’

  ‘Depend on it, missus,’ he said, standing up. ‘My respects, but I got ter be off now. I only begged an hour’s leave, an’ that’s up long since.’

  ‘Show him out then, Bessie,’ Nan said, and she walked across the room to Mr Easter’s writing desk and unlocked it. ‘We’ve all got work to do, eh?’

  So they dispersed to their various chores, and Nan took out her husband’s account book, drew a neat line beneath his last entry, an
d began her own accounts. It was an undeniably pleasant moment.

  ‘She’s a one, our Mrs William,’ Dolly Dibkins said admiringly, when Nan set out with her new cart to collect the papers at five o’clock the next morning.

  ‘You got to hand it to her,’ Mr Dibkins agreed, walking downstairs with two full chamberpots to empty on the midden at the end of the garden. ‘She don’t give in, poor woman, which I daresay she’d like to. ’Tis a hard world fer a woman alone to make her way in, an’ that’s a fact.’

  ‘You mind you don’t slop them chambers, Horrie,’ his wife warned. ‘I got enough to do without that.’

  Bessie was half way up the second flight of stairs on her way to the nursery. ‘I think she’s ever so brave,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t like to be her, I tell yer straight.’

  Nan would have laughed out loud if she could have heard them. For their sympathy was entirely wasted. She had set out that morning warm with excitement, ready to conquer the world. For the first time in her life she was entirely in charge of her own affairs, with money to use as she pleased, and a new job to challenge her, and she was splendidly happy.

  It was still quite dark and the air smelt of soot and excrement and sulphur and rotting vegetation, a dank emanation of river mist and congealed smoke and the palpable stench from the middens. But what of that? By the time the sun rose and the air cleared she would be in Mayfair selling the news. The river path was slippery underfoot but she paid little heed to that either, for her mind was busy estimating the number of papers she could expect to clear that day.

  Yesterday afternoon when she’d bought the walk, she’d been too excited to make accurate estimates. She’d examined the map on the wall of the news office, and listened while the solicitor delineated the bounds with one fat, ink-stained finger, ‘You have half the territory that now occupies the site of the old May Fair,’ he said, ‘from Bond Street in the west to Poland Street, Windmill Street and the Haymarket in the east, and from Pall Mall in the south to Oxford Street and the Tyburn Road in the north. A goodly walk, Mrs Easter, and well worth the expenditure, for as you see, you have one of the great squares, St James’ Square, and Golden Square which is lesser, but contains a good clientele. I would defy anyone not to make a profit in such a milieu.’