King Dido

by Alexander Baron

  He woke up at six in the morning. For a moment in the October gloom he had no recollection of what was afoot; only a puzzlement at the unfamiliar surroundings. Then remembering, he listened and heard only a low tranquil murmur of women’s voices above. He got up, slipped into trousers and shirt and sluiced his hands and face at the wash-stand. He left the room quietly, not to awaken Shonny, and went upstairs.

  He tapped at the bedroom door; something he had never done before. His mother opened it. She bewildered him; for the first time since his childhood she put her arms round his neck and he had to stoop to be kissed. She said, “Oh, Dido! Come and see.”

  The midwife had gone. Grace was awake, covered to the chin, one arm round a bundle wrapped in a shawl. A tiny face peeped up at him out of the bundle. He had thought that newborn babies were red but this little face was of a lifeless white. Its eyes were closed and it had an aggrieved, discontented expression. It was so puckered, so like the face of a tiny old man, that he was astonished to hear his mother’s reverent murmur, “Isn’t she a darling, bless her?”

  All this time Grace was gazing at him, not with any expectation or readable meaning, but with eyes calm and neutral as mirrors. She turned her head and looked at the baby, and smiled a little, privately.

  Dido felt nothing but awkwardness. He wanted to make some gesture but all he could do was put his hand on Grace’s shoulder and say, “All right, gel?”

  She turned the faint smile up at him. Then she looked past him, at his mother, and said, “Give him his breakfast.”

  As she followed him downstairs his mother said, “It was an easy birth. She was lucky, the first is usually the hardest. Mine was. You took a long time coming. I was in agony.” She spoke fondly. All her griefs against him seemed forgotten. “She’s a lovely healthy baby. Seven pounds. The doctor’s looking in later, just to see. I’ll fry you some sausages.”

  She disappeared into the kitchen. He went out to the yard for he would not eat until he had shaved. When he came in the sausages sizzled appetisingly. He sat down. His mother said, “I haven’t fried any onions with them. I can cut some up in a minute.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “A man must be fed. The baby came very quick. Grace was lucky. Mrs Trewitt said she’d never seen such beautiful clean linen.” She put Dido’s sausages and fried bread before him. “Of course I’d had it all ready for weeks — Oh, Dido —”

  His mouth full already, he looked up at the sudden thickening of her voice and saw her eyes brimming with tears. In a moment she was weeping freely. She cried, “A beautiful little girl. Seven pounds. Like a little doll. My own grandchild.”

  Dido ate stolidly. His mother found a handkerchief and mopped her face, radiant while the tears brimmed out. “Are you glad it’s a little girl? Did you want a boy?”

  “All the same to me.” Dido’s words implied a surliness that he did not intend. He had no feelings yet. He added, “A nipper’s a nipper, ain’ it?”

  Mrs Peach made the first effort to check her tears. When she had blown her nose, she said, “She’s a good girl, Grace. She bore it wonderful. I shall look after her. I shall, Dido. She’ll always have a good mother in me. I think this has brought us all together, don’t you?”

  He looked up, his grey eyes clear. She said, “I was silly. I shouldn’t have carried on at you. You should have gone away before now.”

  “I couldn’t. Could I?”

  “You must now. As soon as you can. For baby’s sake.”

  He looked directly at her and said, to test her, “Lucky I got a bit o’ money, isn’ it?”

  Her eyes were innocent. “I couldn’t feel more for Grace if she was my own flesh and blood. That lovely baby. It seems a miracle having another little one to hug.” She laughed. “I don’t know. The time does go. It doesn’t seem no time since I held Shonny in a shawl. And you —” Suddenly she burst into fresh weeping, still smiling but with gasps of anguish in her throat. “It all comes back. I can see you as little as that one upstairs. Oh, why can’t they stay little?”

  He made himself look at her, warily. She said, “You must go away. You must think of your baby. I shouldn’t have gone on at you. I don’t understand, really I don’t. All that money, I can’t understand such things. As long as you do the right thing. I wish you’d, I wish you’d pray to do right. You used to pray when you were a little boy. Next to your bed kneeling down. I’m only thinking of the baby. Dido, all I want is for you to be a good man.”

  He drank his mug of tea in a long draught. All her courage left her. She stood in front of him, a small creature mopping the last tears from her lowered face. He looked down at her with a long, worried frown. He sighed and went out of the room.

  Grace opened her eyes when he came in. He returned her smile and went to glance down into the cradle which stood between the bed and the wall. He said, “Asleep. You feelin’ better?”

  “A bit tired. I’ve forgotten it, really. Funny.” Her voice was normal but weak. “I’m afraid I shall be in bed a few weeks.”

  “I don’t want you gettin’ up till you’re fit. Understand?”

  “What did mother give you?”

  “Pork sausages.”

  “Did she fry you up some onions?”

  “I told ’er not to.”

  “But you like onions.”

  “She must ’a’ been tired after last night.”

  “She could have got some sleep. The midwife was here.”

  “She reckoned she ought to stay by you.”

  “Yes. She means well. But she does fuss so.”

  “It’s a new life for mother. ’Avin’ the baby.”

  Grace smiled. “It, was me that had the baby, not her.”

  He sat down at the bedside. “Well, she’s been through a lot in ’er time. The baby’ll do ’er good. You rest now.”

  She reached out and took his hand. “Stay with me.”

  “Shut your eyes, then.”

  She obeyed. He said, “That’s right. You rest. I’m here.”

  When her hand relaxed, he took his away gently, got up and went round to the cradle. It was a little nest of frilled muslin in blue and pink dots. It stood on a low stand of polished walnut. He gazed down at the baby.

  “She’s got your hair.” It was Grace, her eyes open.

  “You rest,” he said. She shut her eyes contentedly. The baby’s eyelashes were long and dark but there was a floss of fair hair on the front of its head, just visible within the shawl. He was fascinated by the face, it seemed so tired, he saw so much human grief and experience in it; all his own sufferings in this tiny offshoot of himself. He could not formulate this idea, he could only stare, while a strange sensation went through his veins, the recognition of this scrappet of life as a small himself. Vague feelings drifted in him, of identity with it, of pity for it.

  He heard Grace say, “I suppose you’ve been thinking what to call her?”

  He did not answer. In the instant that Grace spoke the child opened its eyes. They transfixed him. They seemed to see everything and to see nothing. They looked directly up at him and held him without acknowledging that they saw him. They were like two tiny blue flowers, nothing in them but beauty; pure Me, unspoiled by experience. “You must have been thinking about it,” Grace said. “I’m sure other people talk about it all the time. Names for boys. And for girls. I often wondered if you were thinking about it. Only you’re so wrapped up in your business.”

  He barely heard her. The baby’s eyes held him in the same spell as the white cavern of a coal fire in which one discerns all one’s own visions.

  “Dido,” Grace protested. “You must have thought about it.”

  It required an effort of the attention to turn away from the baby and sit on the edge of the bed once more with Grace. Among all his recent troubles Grace had only been a shadow; at night a silent bulk next to him in the bed. Another and fearful world outside had filled his mind and now he did not want to think about it. He said at random, “Emm
a.”

  “After your mother.”

  “Please the old lady.”

  Grace assumed a stubborn, slightly sulky expression. “I’m not saying anything against Emma. It is very ordinary, though, I thought of Lydia Evelina.”

  He was remote from her. He made himself talk. “Is that after your auntie?”

  “No, I made them up. Well, from books and things.”

  “A bit la-di-da, isnt it?”

  “I’m only thinking of the future.” She made of this remark a manifesto, looking at him directly. He sat in thoughts of his own and she said, “Didy, talk to me.” She reached for his hand and he let her take it.

  He said, “Doctor ought to be comin’ soon.”

  “Oh, bother him. When are we going to move, Didy?”

  “Soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Soon as you’re well.”

  “I’ll be up in a few weeks. Can I come with you and look, Didy? I have looked already. I did tell you. I know all the nice districts.”

  “You get well.”

  “Mother can mind baby. We shall want two rooms at least. And our own kitchen. If we had another room we could make a nursery.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “And if there’s a garden — well there must be, and we must have use of it.”

  “Put the pram out on a nice day.”

  “Yes. I believe in fresh air.”

  “Best if we’re near a park. Victoria Park. Or Hackney Downs. Take her for walks.” He was smiling and truly interested now. His hand in Grace’s warm clasp, he felt unwontedly close to her. He had no overt consciousness of their greater intimacy but it was for him a new degree of marriedness. Talking like this made him feel secure. It excluded other, unpleasant realities from his mind.

  “Didy,” she said. “You know what I want you to do as soon as I’m up. I want you to take me out.”

  “Take you out again. Course I will.”

  “No. Not just for a bus ride. Get some nice clothes. Go to a restaurant for supper. Well you ought to get used to it, Dido. It’s how people in business live.”

  “We got no money to burn, Gracey. Not if we want to move.”

  “We could go to the Pop in Piccadilly. It doesn’t cost much. I used to hear all about it from girls. There’s a balcony and a band. Dancing. It’s ever so smart and it doesn’t cost much. I wouldn’t waste your money, Didy. I’m not extravagant.” She paused and said, “How is the business?”

  His throat went dry. “The business?”

  “I do save. I’m very good at economies. But we’re not hard up for a penny, are we? You don’t tell me anything about the business really. Is it going all right? With this man and all that, in Dalston?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Goin’ all right. Only a bit slow at the start. Always is.”

  “Well of course. I’m no fool. You have to put the money back in a business.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m not so green as I’m cabbage-looking,” she said. “I know all about you.”

  “About me?” He was taken by surprise. She looked so calm. He hardened himself for the attack.

  She let go his hand. “You open that.”

  She was pointing at the drawer in the base of their wardrobe. He went and opened it. She said, “Take out the parcel. You open it.”

  He took out a large brown paper parcel tied with coarse string. He was looking at her all the time, a keen, trapped expression in his eyes. She said, “I know what’s in it. Well I am your wife, aren’t I? I don’t think I was being nosey. I just like to know if there’s things to keep clean and all that.”

  The parcel lay open at the foot of the bed. In it were folded his old working-clothes, stained and patched; and on top of them a pair of big boots, clean but creased, scarred and scuffed by much scraping. He had not worn them since his last day on the wharf. Grace said, “You used to go out to work, didn’t you?”

  “Anythin’ wrong in it?”

  “Well it wasn’t very nice work. I can see from the clothes.”

  “On the wharves.”

  “I thought something like that. You are a silly.”

  “What for?”

  “You never told me, did you? Were you ashamed?”

  “You’ve never been short of a sovereign.”

  “I didn’t say I had. It was silly to be ashamed of your past. Same as you exaggerated. Well, when you met me. All about the business. Anyone would have thought you had dozens working for you. I didn’t mind when I found out.”

  “Found out what?”

  “That you were just working for mother. You’ve certainly made it pay. You’re right, my goodness we’ve never been short. And now you branching out. Didy, I’m not ashamed of your past. I’m proud of you. A man should be proud of bettering himself.”

  He was doing up the parcel. He turned to put it back in the drawer. She said, “What on earth do you want to keep it for?”

  He paused. “I don’ know.”

  Then she laughed, “Oh well they’ll do for gardening or something. I shan’t be satisfied till we have our own garden. I know you’re going to get on, Didy. You have got me behind you. And baby now. She is going to be a lady — Didy, I know what. Lydia Emmelina. That’s what we’ll call her. Emmelina. After your mother, that should please her. Lydia Emmelina for the christening. And we shall call her Lydia.”

  He closed the drawer and straightened up. “You rest,” he said. “Sooner you get well, sooner we can move.”

  “Oh I can save,” she said. “Don’t you worry about me, I mean look at the cradle.”

  He said, “I did give you money. I told you to get everything you wanted.”

  “I did,” she said. “But look how I saved. I bought it for a penny. A banana crate, all round, just the right shape to rock. It’s all padded out and covered with lovely muslin and I bought the little mattress. Baby couldn’t have had better if I’d bought her a Moses basket.”

  “What’s a Moses basket?”

  “Oh, it’s what people with money have.”

  “I gave you money.”

  “I wanted to save. I’m not extravagant, Didy.”

  “You didn’t ’ave to put our baby in a banana crate.”

  “It’s lovely. You didn’t know. How would you ever know?”

  “I gave you the money. You didn’t ’ave to.”

  “Oh you are potty.”

  He stood at the foot of the cradle looking down at the baby’s infinite eyes. “Didn’ ’ave to put ’er in a banana crate.”

  “Everyone does.”

  “I’m not everyone. You ought to know that by now. Nor is she. What did you call it? What you said just now.”

  “A Moses basket. Why?”

  “You get some rest. I want you up as soon as you can.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get one. Where d’you think?”

  Grace said, “Give him another glass.”

  Dido left his chair by the fire and poured another glass of fizzy kola for Shonny. He said, “You’ll bust if you ’ave any more.”

  The boy loved drinking pop. Grace liked to have him by her now that she was up. She lay on the sofa propped by velvet cushions and sometimes while she talked to him she touched his cheek affectionately as if he was another child of hers. Baby was asleep in the bedroom. Mother was downstairs ironing napkins.

  It was late evening. Two weeks had passed. Grace was still officially an invalid but she dressed in the evenings and was brought into the parlour by Dido to have her supper on a tray. Against the window the yellow gloom lay thick as a blanket, shutting them in cosily. It was a sign of approaching winter; even when there was no fog, the season’s fog hung dispersed to darken and chill the air. The gaslight thrummed palely in its small, flowered globe and the mahogany table gleamed with the greater, purer light of a handsome oil-lamp. The coal fire in the grate was cheerful. Dido sat close to its warmth, warmed too by his thoughts while the voices of the
other two murmured outside his attention.

  Day by day, imperceptibly to himself yet bringing him to a state of which he could not help being aware, the last two weeks had changed him. The train of his thoughts, the subterranean flow of his feelings, had undergone a kind of chemical change.

  Even on that first day when he had gone to the baby outfitters’ for the new cradle, new impulses had governed him. He had walked briskly to the Kingsland Road, his steps jaunty with a new elation. The shop, crowded with baby carriages, cots, toys and displays of pretty linen, had intoxicated him, redolent with the warm cosy smell of fabrics and teddy-bears’ fur. Although until this day he had been hoarding the money that he needed to get away, he bought a wicker cradle on rockers, a toilet basket, a parcel of rattles and toys and a tiny quilt of pink sateen sprigged with forget-me-nots. He had been fascinated by the big, stately perambulators. He had imagined his baby riding in one of them. His feelings for the child only a few hours after its birth were still unformulated but its coming into the world had provided a tangible shape to his own egoism. There it was in the cot, his own possession and future. It was himself that he saw enhanced, his own pride fortified, his own future bodying forth in a series of pictures that became ambitions; the first clear ambitions he had recognised. His pleasure on that first day was all in himself. Lydia Emmelina. It was the right sort of name for his child. Grace who could think of such a name was the right wife for him. He saw her in nice clothes pushing a high, splendid baby carriage, with its springs and silvery fittings and gleaming panels and lining of softest white leather. But he could not take such a carriage back to Rabbit Marsh. It belonged to another setting. And he saw a quiet road lined with leafy plane trees and neat houses fronted by scrubbed steps and new painted railings. At Grace’s side he walked; a different himself.

  As day followed day he spent more and more of his time indoors. At first it was because he preferred not to think of the menace outside; but in time the menace became unreal. When he was with Grace and the child he could pretend that he was a man like others, a man unthreatened; and then he did not have to pretend for indoors he was able to forget that there was an outside. Perhaps it was this that drew him all the more quickly to his child: its power to give healing forgetfulness.