King Dido

by Alexander Baron

  He could sit and watch the baby for hours. At first he felt no positive emotion; only a stirring of his senses, dulled by the years and now breathed upon by the presence of fresh life. Sometimes Grace put the baby into his arms. Secretly he was afraid to handle her. Grace had told him that the baby’s head was soft and he was obsessed by the idea of the tiny creature’s fragility.

  Her face seemed to smooth out with each feed. Within a week all the creases and the pallor had gone. Her cheeks, which he sometimes touched gently with the back of a finger, were of an incredible softness like the surface of warm milk and they bloomed with the subtle rosy flush of a petal. He was fascinated by the wondering wide gaze of her eyes which saw him now, and by their ineffable pure blue irises. With her down of golden hair she was like a little living doll.

  And each day the strange, undirected stir of emotion changed into something more positive. At first he only knew that when he came in and shut the door behind him and sat down near the cot, he felt peaceful at last. Then, sitting there, his peace was disturbed by vibrations of tenderness that did not even translate themselves into thought; until the time came when Grace, wanting to prepare a napkin, gave him the baby to hold, and at the first feel of the tiny warmth and weight cradled against him he was swept by a wild flame of attachment. It was blind, still untranslated, but the most profound emotion he had ever known. It was in fact the first time that passion had ever swept over him; something far different from anything he had ever felt with his mother or with Grace, whatever he had unconsciously sought from them; and because it was the first time it was all the more fierce and consuming.

  What pierced his heart was the helplessness of this little scrappet. The anguished tenderness that as a small boy he had felt for his suffering mother was far surpassed by his need for this tiny creature which needed him. It could do nothing for itself but wail if it was hungry or uncomfortable. It had to be picked up and put down. Nourishment had to be put into its mouth. It had to be most gently washed and wiped. It would die if its mother did not care for it and he was responsible for mother and child. It was the most vulnerable to hurt of all human creatures and he alone could protect it.

  And in time thoughts smote him with astonishment. It will know me. It will love me. It will call me “daddy”. A strange yearning came to him for his own lost childhood. He saw himself small and innocent before all the awful unwanted things had begun; and the child was himself reborn, a new start for him, a clean blank page. Oh, he would protect it. He would look after them both.

  For in this strange dream of contentment in which he dwelt, a world in a small bedroom and nothing beyond, Grace had her part. He liked to sit in silence and watch while she fed the baby. She always turned away modestly but he was fascinated in the shadowy room by the outline of her lowered face, by the baby’s face pressed in a scowl of effort against the breast which was hidden by her hand and by the fold of her opened blouse. He found her beautiful at these times. He was amazed at the natural expertness, absorption and patience with which she fed and handled the child. He felt closer to her; a sharer with her.

  He talked to her more. It was beyond him to tell her the truth. But he told her of his plans, which were a simple extension of the lie he had told her. His ambition now was simple. It was to make a reality of his lie. Then she would never know that he had lied. His trips with Tommy Long had given him a taste for the totting game. A few pounds behind him and he could set up with his own pony and cart. For a few shillings a week he could rent a shed up Dalston way and his business would be a reality.

  Thus with a good conscience he now went on telling his tale to Grace; but now he believed it. He need not merely scrape a wretched living like Tommy Long. It took an expert eye to know the value of the innumerable articles that were collectively called “rags” and after living with mother all these years he had that eye. He would comb all the boroughs of north-east London for old rags, he would go into partnership with his mother, cutting out the profits of the dealers who sold to her and himself selling on an ever-growing scale through the outlets which she already had.

  He did not mind starting in a small way. He liked handling a pony, he liked being his own master and he liked being out on his own all day. As Grace became eager at his stories he grew eager, too, for the future he would carve out in one of those nice districts beyond Dalston, with their little girl going to a school where clean and well-dressed children went and growing up to be happy, prosperous, educated and respected.

  All this life in his mind had become, as he sat staring into the fire’s glow with Shonny and Grace murmuring in the background, his real life. He had almost persuaded himself that the menace no longer existed. It is the human way; under a persisting threat fear dulls and dies away. After all, Keogh had been back for nearly a month and he had done no more than brag in his pub. It wouldn’t be surprising if a spell in jail had cooled him off.

  Shonny didn’t want to wake up but three glasses of pop before bedtime was asking for trouble. He kept his eyes shut for a long time. He stuck it out while the distant clocks of the City struck two quarters. In the end his bladder hurt so much that he had to get up. He did a long jimmy riddle in the chamber and he felt better.

  The trouble was, now he felt hungry. He always did when he woke up in the night. He was sleepy and wanted to crawl back into bed; but just as the pain had tormented him before so now he was tormented by an exquisite taste in his mouth, the taste of his favourite delicacy, a thick slice of fresh bread heavily smeared with beef dripping and sprinkled with salt. The longer he held out the more his mouth watered. The more his mouth watered at the beloved taste, the more famished he felt.

  There was nothing for it, he’d have to go down. He often did. Mother didn’t mind. Nor did Dido. Dido was strict. (Only to be expected from a hard man like that.) But Dido and mother always said, there was plenty of food in the house, thank goodness, and the boys were always welcome to it. As long as they didn’t make a noise. Funny Chas being away. Shonny had got used to it but sometimes in the middle of the night when he woke up it seemed strange that Chas was not there.

  He opened the door cautiously, stole out of the room and crept downstairs. He was coming down to the half-landing when a faint noise made him pause. The noise came from the kitchen. His heart skipped with fright. He called himself a charlie for being frightened of the dark but he started down the last flight of stairs even more quietly, and stopped once more; this time with terror.

  The back door to the yard was open. He thought he could hear faint scuffling sounds from the kitchen — or were they from the shop? He clung to the banisters, dizzy, the throb of terror rapid in his chest. He was afraid to go down. He was afraid to wake Dido, perhaps for nothing.

  The door from the kitchen to the passage opened. In the same moment that a faint acrid smell came to Shonny’s nostrils he saw a human figure in the slot of lesser light made by the open door. The figure flitted out like a shadow. It was small and slight and as it came into the area below the stairs where the light was even paler because of the open yard door, Shonny recognised Cockeye. But already behind Cockeye had appeared another, massive bulk; his father, Keogh.

  Intent on escape neither of them looked up. Shonny was paralysed and could not utter a sound; until there escaped from his throat a terrified, croaking, “Ah — ah —” and the two in the hall below glanced up, and in a sudden burst of running steps that thudded in the hall and scuttered outside, bolted.

  Shonny stood hanging on to the banister, gasping, managing to force a shout out of himself, “Dido! Dido!”

  He ran down to the kitchen door and there, through two open doors, he looked into the shop and saw a glimmer that as he stared in terror became a ragged red line running along the shop floor. Shonny could only scream, pouring out the one word again and again pell-mell like a child awakened from a nightmare, “Dido! Dido! Dido! Dido! Dido!”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  White smoke rolled along the floor and the
stench of charred rags rose up the stairs. Shonny was in the doorway to the shop, coughing, yelping, “Dido! Dido!” In an attempt at action he emptied the washing-up bowl over the fire. The line of tiny flames three feet long at the base of a pile of sacks vanished in a hiss and a new choking white billow, then reappeared defiantly as a thread of embers out of which burst once more small tongues of fire. Coughing — “Dide! Dido!”

  He was thrown aside. He glimpsed Dido, dishevelled, in shirt-tails, plunging past him into the shop, heard his shout, “Buckets, you ninny” — then to his astonishment the shop door slammed in his face.

  In the darkness of the shop Dido choked, his lungs racked by the thick, stinking smoke. With the door shut to stop the draught, he pulled down sacks and flung them on to the nibbling line of flames. He threw one upon another, stifling the fire, and pressed his own weight down on them. He sprawled on the sacks, trying to hold his breath against the smoke.

  He staggered to his feet, opened the door and lurched into the kitchen, drinking air. He focused on Shonny’s staring face, seized a bucket which Shonny held out and shouted, “More!”

  He pulled away the sacks. The ragged line of fire at the base of the stack had been stifled but the black line of ashes was quivering with heat and would burst into flames once more if he could not douse it in time. The indoor tap which thanks to Grace they now had was in the passage only a few steps away and Shonny appeared at once with a full bucket which Dido emptied along the ashes. Shonny ran back and forth and Dido poured water continuously over the lower sacks. Kitchen and shop were filled by the strong sharp smell.

  He put down the bucket and stepped into the kitchen to ease his lungs in the draught which came through a broken windowpane. It was only then as he stood tired and breathing slowly, that he heard his mother’s faint cries from the landing. He went out to her. She whimpered, “Come upstairs, Dido. Quick.”

  He followed her upstairs. On the top flight Grace sat doubled up. He stooped and raised her head. Her eyes stared dark and unfathomable into his. She whispered, “What was it? What was it, Didy?”

  He helped her up to the top landing then gathered her up in his two arms and took her to their bed. Behind him he heard his mother’s plaint, “She must have fainted. She shouldn’t have got up. She’s not strong enough yet.” He put Grace into bed and over her agitated whispering he said, “Nothing, love. All over now. Go to sleep.”

  He turned away. His mother was fretting, “What was it? Dido — was it —?”

  He said, “Stay with her,” and went downstairs. The baby slept.

  The intruders had with professional quietness broken a pane and opened the back window of the kitchen. Cockeye had crawled in and opened the yard door from the inside. Keogh had joined him, they had gone into the shop, poured paraffin (Dido found the empty can) at the base of a pile of sacks and set light to it.

  The gas was lit in the kitchen. Dido made tea. The charred stench still hung in the air. The shop floor was sodden. Dido checked Shonny’s chatter and prowled about, silent, looking around him as if making some mental tally.

  Doors, stairs, floorboards, the house was a shell of dry wood more than two hundred years old. If Dido had not killed the fire at birth, if he had come a few minutes later or if he had done the wrong thing, the whole ground floor would have been ablaze, flames roaring up as from the bottom of a furnace to engulf the family upstairs.

  Shonny cried, “Dide, we’d all ’a’ been burned in our beds.” Dido did not answer. He walked to and fro on noiseless bare feet, silent as a cat, the glitter of his eyes harbouring secrets.

  Shonny thought that he would never sleep for his mind was seething, but as soon as he climbed back into bed he dropped into oblivion; and then Dido was shaking him. It was an hour before his normal getting-up time but Dido told him to dress.

  He followed Dido downstairs. Without explanation Dido set him to work helping to remove all traces of the attempt. All the ashes and those sacks which were in the least charred were taken out to the yard. Dido even sniffed at sacks to make sure that none remained which smelled of smoke. All the charred rags were stuffed into the boiler to be burned just as rags were burned every morning. The sacks which were merely soaked were dumped near the mangle; just like any other wet rags.

  They had to hurry because Dido wanted to finish before the hired boy came in. Dido lit the boiler. They went indoors. Dido scrubbed the shop floor so that the soaked patch was no longer conspicuous. Windows were opened to let in fresh air and Shonny sprinkled carbolic all over the house to cover the ashy tang. Dido took the empty paraffin can under his coat to Tommy Long’s dump and came back with a pane of glass which before breakfast he had puttied into the window.

  Then he and Shonny had their usual vigorous morning wash and Dido, without waiting for mother, prepared a handsome breakfast of fried bread and bacon for Shonny.

  The boy was mystified. He had not imagined that Dido would go to the police but he could not see any reason for his brother’s clear determination to arrange things as if the incident had not happened. Dido moved about like an animal following a scent, hardly aware when Shonny ventured to speak.

  The hired boy came and Dido sent him out at once with the barrow. Mrs Peach came down. She was struck dumb, bowed and shrivelled so that her size appeared diminished.

  She sat down and took in silence the cup of tea that Dido gave her. He sat at the table between the two of them. He said, “Now listen. Nothing happened.” Shonny said, “But why —?”

  Mrs Peach only stared, haunted. Dido said, “Nothing happened — Shonny, you ’ad a bad dream. Like when you were a little boy. Neighbours’ll know nothing. Might ’ave ’eard you shouting. Or seen the kitchen light on. Nothing else. You ’ad a bad dream. Anyone asks you what, you can’t remember. Understand?”

  Shonny could not speak. He nodded. Dido said, “Brought you down to the kitchen, give you a cup of tea. That’s all. Don’t say nothing else. Anything else, just say, you don’t know.”

  Shonny managed, “But who? — tell who?”

  “Anyone asks. That’s all. Mother — you understand? Nothing else. Nothing else at all.”

  Her eyes stared at him in terror. She nodded.

  Dido took a tray upstairs with some breakfast for Grace. She was sitting up. He put the tray in front of her and said, “All right?”

  She nodded. He felt her brow. “Still hot. Brought the fever back a bit.”

  She spoke as if her lips were slightly swollen. “I’ll be all right.”

  “Keep to your bed day or two.”

  Her stare was searching. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. Shonny had a bad dream. Made him yell. Used to be like that when ’e was a kid. I went down, give ’im a cup of tea. Put ’im back to bed.”

  Her stare did not waver. “Someone ran away. I heard them.”

  He said slowly, patiently as to a child. “Nothing happened.”

  Some expression — fear perhaps — passed across her eyes. “Then you’re not going to call the police?”

  He put both his hands on hers and moved closer. He looked into her eyes and spoke again. He was deliberate, backing the words with an unspoken message, an appeal. “Nothing happened. Shonny had a bad dream. Nothing else. Do you understand, Grace? Nothing else.”

  She was silent. He stood up. “Eat your breakfast. Go back to sleep.”

  He went out. She stared after him. Her mind was alive with fears and questions long suppressed. Someone had been in the yard last night. Dido was afraid to call the police. He was mixed up in something. As on that first frightening day when she had returned from her honeymoon and that terrible man had fallen down on the pavement in front of her eyes, she was seized by a dread of things kept from her.

  Mrs Peach had nerved herself for speech by the time Dido came down. She said, “Dido, what are you going to do?”

  He turned to Shonny. “Get out in the yard, son. You’re on the boiler today. See all that stuff is well burned. Give the
ashes a good poke. You forget last night. Bad dream, that’s all.” Shonny went out. Dido said, “Any more tea in the pot?”

  His mother poured. “Dido — you can’t stay. Not another minute.”

  He looked up at her and his eyes struck her silent. For the rest of the day she shuffled about bowed in fearful quiet. Grace stayed in bed. Dido went up to the bedroom and sat down by the cot. His back was to Grace and they did not speak to each other. The baby woke and slept; she was lifted from her cot, fed, cleaned, dressed, laid down. Dido did not lean over her or touch her or take her or react to her sounds and smiles. He sat stiffly on a chair at the foot of her cot. His eyes followed her; that was all. His hands in his lap were laced together as if each were striving to crush the other. He looked at his child for hours but no softness came into his expression. His face was hard, muscles lumped behind the mouth, his eyes set close with points of light in them as if they were intent upon an adversary in a deadly arena. He sat for hours looking at his child, whose life had been threatened.

  He went out after breakfast to tell Tommy Long not to wait for him. He lingered for a while in the stables before coming back to the house. All day he pottered about the house. He was calm but he seemed so far away in his own thoughts that neither Grace nor his mother spoke to him except to utter commonplaces.

  At ten in the evening he went up to bed. Grace watched sleepily as he poured for her the nightly glass of port which the doctor had prescribed to restore blood. He gave it to her. “Tired?”

  She nodded. “The more I sleep the more I want to.”

  He moved quietly about the room, folding his clothes with care. By the time he was undressed Grace was fast asleep. He went to the window, pulled the curtain aside and looked out at the yellow haze thickening as it now did almost every night into brown fog. He nodded. He padded back to the bed, looked down at the sleeping Grace and nodded again with a slight smile. He climbed into bed and fell asleep.