by Avi
Nevertheless, my father stood looking into the fireplace. Since there was nothing to observe there, I had no idea what he was pondering, though now and again he whistled that tune of his, “Money Is Your Friend.”
I sat on the bed and waited. All I learned was that the bed was hard.
At length my father—his back to me—said, “My dear John, I wish to tell you, upon my honor as a gentleman and your devoted father, I owe no such debt to this O’Doul fellow.”
“Yes, Father, I’m sure.”
Something in my voice caused him to look about and consider me with his clear blue eyes. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” I replied, for as God as my witness, I truly wanted to believe him.
“I am, of course, not without … some small debts, due the next quarter.” He waved a hand in the air as if brushing away cobwebs. “Trifling. My pay at the Naval Ordinance Office is more than enough to cover them. Of course, dearest boy, debt is perfectly common. Part of a gentleman’s life. Indeed, society expects it of a gentleman. As for this O’Doul fellow … no.” He shook his head with an air of bewilderment. “No truth to it. Not a jot. I owe him nothing of the kind. I swear. Truthfully, I would hardly know the man if we were face-to-face and proper introductions had been made.”
I stared at my shoes, wishing he would stop referring to “truth.” It rang in my ears too much the opposite. “Then who is he?” I asked.
“A man … whom I do not like. No one likes him. A foreigner.”
I lifted my eyes and gazed at him. “But, Father—do you, then, know him well enough to not like him?”
My question brought a slight flush to his cheeks. “Very slightly,” he said, turning from me.
“Sir,” I asked after a few moments of silence, “how could this have happened?”
He shifted about, put his hands in his pockets, and pursed his lips as if to whistle but instead replied, “I … really don’t know how to explain.” There was such frank simplicity in the statement, I found it hard not to believe him. “As for this O’Doul business,” he insisted anew, “I repeat, it’s a deep mystery to me.”
I said nothing.
“Of course,” he said momentarily, “that said, I shall make certain he removes this writ against me. I’ll do so immediately. Well, tomorrow. In fact, I’m considering bringing a claim upon him for false arrest.”
“But, Father … if you don’t know him, how shall you find him?”
“I … I shall make it my business to.”
“And you’ll really do so right away?” I urged as much as asked.
“John, a father’s word is …” His voice faded.
“If you don’t,” I felt obliged to say, “you’ll be in prison. We’ll be ruined. Mr. Tuckum spoke of … Australia.”
“Aus—! Nonsense! Such a thing cant—wont—happen.”
But, as if to make a point, our candle remnant flickered, then guttered away. I felt very much in the dark—in more ways than one.
“John,” I heard my father say in the gloom, “as you know, I gain great pleasure from acting on the stage in amateur theatricals.”
That much was true: I had seen his performances and enjoyed them. Being someone else seemed to give him energy.
“Was it not the great Shakespeare who spoke of us as being merely players on the stage of life?”
“If you say so, Father.”
“Well then, in this matter I am … merely a player. Though a fair critic, too, John. For there is always … judgment.”
Having nothing to add to that, we sat for a while in the shadowy chill until he said, “John, I fear I must call upon you for some … small assistance.”
His hesitation made me tense. “Of what kind, Father?”
“Perhaps you have heard me speak from time to time of Lady Euphemia Huffam.”
“Your grandfather’s younger sister.”
“Exactly. The very one. My great-aunt. Your great-great-aunt.”
“The one who inherited all your family wealth.”
“And wrongly so! John, heed me: It is as immoral for family money to go to a woman as it is to a child.”
“You’ve often said so.”
“I would never …!” exclaimed my father, as if he were in a position to act upon his words. Then, perhaps realizing he could not act upon them, he dropped into another silent space.
I waited, uncomfortably aware he was leading someplace distasteful.
“Young John,” he finally resumed, “this difficulty in which we find ourselves … most unfortunate. A mere misunderstanding … very cruel for your good mother. And sister. And me, of course…. But you and I, being gentlemen … Still, the short of it is, dear boy, the honor of the family is at stake and …” He paused, and I heard him take a deep breath. “John,” he said at last, “I need you to go to Lady Euphemia Huffam and apply for a loan.”
“Me?” I cried.
“Better you than me.”
“But why?”
“Some time ago my great-aunt and I quarreled. A small matter really. Incited by another. Truly. It would be so much better if you went.”
“But I have never even met the lady!”
“Precisely why you are the one to speak to her. She can, at least, harbor no prejudice toward you”
“Must I?”
“As you love me, John. Besides, as Mr.…”
“Tuckum.”
“Exactly. As Mr. Tuckum said, I’m not allowed to leave this place.”
I sighed. “What shall I ask of her?”
“A short-term loan merely. And you must say it’s only a loan. Upon my honor as a gentleman.”
“For how much?”
“Oh … say … three hundred pounds.”
“Three hundred pounds!”! cried.
“I assure you, John, it will be nothing to her,” my father said in haste. “She’s a very wealthy woman. Immensely so. Mind, she used my inheritance to invest in these new railroads that are all the rage … or so I have been reliably informed.”
“Who informed you?”
“Her solicitor, Mr. Nottingham,” to which he added, “a man who delights in tormenting me.”
“Why should he?”
“Oh, I wrote some trifling critique of his acting abilities. He took it ill. A man should be willing to learn from his failings.”
Not wishing to engage in that topic, I said, “What is your great-aunt like?”
“Of middling height, rather stout, a pale complexion—”
“I mean, is she kind? Is she pleasant?”
“Well, actually, I haven’t seen her for a year. As for being pleasant, I should certainly think so—to you in any case. Does not everyone dote on you, John? Does not Mr. Tuckum favor you? Forgive me. I heard what he said to you.
“Rumor has it that my great-aunt is mostly bedridden. Considering her age, I imagine she might expire any day now. It would be a terrible waste if …” He did not complete his thought out loud.
How I wished I could have seen my father’s face! But there was just his melancholy voice.
“Father, where does she reside?”
“Great Winchester Street. I shall give you the number presently. I have it somewhere.” I heard—but I could not see—him pat his pockets. “Will you go?” His voice was soft, pleading.
“Do you truly think she will listen to me?”
“How could she refuse such a smart, upstanding, earnest young fellow as yourself? What has our Brigit dubbed you? ‘Our dreamy angel.’ Dear John, Lady Euphemia will want to help you. You are the last of the Huffams. The best! I don’t doubt it. That should count for something. She will beg you to take her money. She will throw money at you! So you will go, old fellow, won’t you? It’s … necessary.”
“Yes, Father, I will.”
“Good. Excellent. Well done! Only one bit of advice, John: If thatlawyer, Mr. Nottingham, is there, best avoid him. A most unpleasant man and a bad actor.
“But I’ve n
ot the slightest doubt,” he continued, “that you shall be successful with my aunt. Between my dealing with Mr. O’Doul and your speaking to her—depend on it—this vexing financial difficulty shall be ancient history in … hours.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Enter!”
Mr. Tuckum put his head in. “Oh my, it’s quite dark, isn’t it? Never mind! With compliments,” he said, “dinner is on the table.”
My father, seemingly glad of an excuse to depart, left the room immediately.
I remained behind for a few moments, sitting in the shadows. Perhaps it was best that I had not seen Father’s face. I suspected I would have observed only embarrassment. I was glad we’d been spared that.
In any case, I followed him to dinner with but one thought: Was it in any way believable he did not know this Mr. O’Doul?
Oh, sad truth that lets a son discover his father is not an honest man!
CHAPTER 8
I Receive More Requests
A small roast chicken, cold to the bone, had been set upon the table—by whom, I never knew—along with stale bread, pallid potatoes, limp leeks, and some wine to drink. (Since the recent outbreak of cholera, no one with any sense touched London water.) The size of the chicken left much to the imagination and little to assuage hunger. But then, as it turned out, it was just my father, the bailiff, and I at the table for dinner. My mother and sister refused to partake, or so I was informed.
“May I bring them some food?” I asked.
“What a good, old-fashioned fellow your son is!” exclaimed Mr. Tuckum, beaming at me while reaching over and chucking me under the chin with a greasy hand. “As kind as he is sensible. Food for the ladies. Egad, sir,” he said to my father, “he does you great honor!” The bailiff proceeded to tear off a chicken wing and a leg from the carcass and set them, along with some bread, on a chipped platter.
I carried the meager meal up the steps and to the room where the rest of my family was lodged. I knocked. When Brigit let me in, I glanced about. Mother lay prostrate on the bed, a cloth over her eyes.
“Is that you, John?” she whispered.
“Yes, Mother. I’ve brought some food.”
“I couldn’t possibly eat,” she whispered. “Give it to the others.”
No sooner said than my sister, like a starved hound, fell upon the plate and ate rapaciously in a corner. I do not know what Brigit consumed—if anything.
“John,” my mother called weakly, beckoning. “Come here.”
I approached as if she were on her deathbed. “Yes, Mother.”
“John, heed me.” She did not remove the cloth from her eyes.
“I am listening, Mother.”
“Your father is a fool. An incompetent wastrel. You are the only one with any sense in this family. I do believe he thinks he’s performing a play with a happy ending. I must leave it to you to work out this matter.”
“But, Mother, I’m only—”
“John,” she murmured, “do your best. For my sake.” She waved me away with some feeble finger movements.
There was nothing for it but to leave. Brigit came out of the room with me.
“Master John,” she said as she closed the door behind her, “a word with you.”
Though weary of these private conversations, I prepared myself to listen.
“It surely pains me to be saying so, Master John,” she began in an undertone, “but your mother spoke the truth. It’s you and only you who can save this family from destruction.”
“Brigit,”! said, “I am but fourteen years of age.”
“Now, Master John, you know the years I’ve been with the Huffams. You’ve become my family. Your sister and you, are you not like my own children? As for your father and mother, whom I surely and dearly love, they are perhaps—despite their years—somewhat … imprudent. No, Master John, only you can save us.”
“But how?” I asked.
“You must insist your father solve his problem.”
“I already have.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked me to visit—tomorrow—his great-aunt, Lady Euphemia.”
Brigit seemed taken aback. “I was sure his great-aunt broke off all connection.”
“Brigit, I don’t know anything about that except he’s asked me to go to her and beg a loan of the three hundred pounds. I don’t want to go.”
“Will you?”
“Do you think it wrong?” I asked.
“Master John,” she said, “do you know what’s happening in Ireland?”
The question took me by surprise. “No. Should I?”
“There’s a terrible famine there. People—like my family—are dying by the thousands. The thousands.”
In truth, I knew Brigit had come from Ireland, but when and under what circumstance, I had no notion. Apparently, then, she did have family: mother, father, sisters, brothers. It was the first I’d ever heard of them. As for the famine, to my young ears, there were always problems in Ireland.
“I’m sorry,” I offered. “I didn’t know you had other family.”
She fixed me with eyes that I thought uncommon fierce. “I do, Master John, and to live, a people will do whatever they need to do.”
“I’m sure,” I said, hardly knowing what else to say.
“You must insist your father raise the money as best he may. That alone will be the saving of us all,” she said. “All of us,” she repeated. Abruptly, she reached out and hugged me only to push me away and run back into the room. She clearly was as upset as my mother.
My appetite roaring, I returned to the dinner table just in time to see the last of the chicken being consumed, a little heap of bones serving as an alabaster memorial.
Mr. Tuckum lifted a glass to my father, and my father, putting aside the bone he was sucking on, returned the compliment. The bailiff made a toast: “To your prosperity, sir, your abundant prosperity—may it come apace.”
My father turned toward me and smiled weakly.
In that smile I could read his regrets. My thought was: A father’s regrets are his sons shame.
After dining on a slice of bread and leeks, I again slept poorly. At one point I was sure I heard someone walking along the balcony. There were voices, too, muffled and indistinct.
Though I wished to see what was afoot, I was sorely in need of sleep. And I was dreading the next day.
CHAPTER 9
I Go Out at Dawn
Next morning I woke quite early but remained abed alongside my sleeping father. I could not help but be weighted down by the fact that he, my mother, Brigit, and even Mr. Tuckum were all convinced that only I could keep Father out of debtors’ prison and thereby protect the family’s name and fortunes, such as they were.
Why—I asked myself—could they not have asked my sister, Clarissa? She was seventeen, three years older than I. Of course, just to think of Clarissa was to contemplate an unhappy mix of great anxiety, like my mother, added to an inability to do much about anything, like my father.
In short, though convinced I must fail, I accepted that there was no help for it: I must at least try to solve our problems.
Sighing at the realization, I slipped out from beneath the blanket onto the cold floor, pulled on my shoes, and went outside to the balcony. It was barely dawn on a raw, blustery day, with a wind that shook the Halfmoon Inn as if to wake it from its antique slumbers.
Briefly, I recalled the voices I’d heard the night before. Presumably, they had come from this very spot. Needless to say, at the moment no one was about, neither on the balcony nor in the courtyard below. I dismissed my concerns as the product of uneasy dreams. Or people going to the privy.
I made my way down to the main room. There, in the cheerless light, I found the table strewn with dirty dishes, walnut shells, half tumblers of sherry, and crumbs of food, as well as congealed puddles of spent candle wax. It was all one with the inn’s air of dingy decay.
A scattered deck of cards su
ggested that after I had gone to bed, my father and Mr. Tuckum had been up late. (My father had taught me a few games, explaining that a gentleman must know such amusements.) I wondered what they had played, consoling myself with the thought that—since my father, by his own admission, had no money—he had at least not gambled. Hungry—for I’d eaten little the previous night—I picked at stale bread crumbs. But when I saw a rat deftly ascend a table leg for his breakfast, I decided to go out and take some air.
Halfmoon Alley was murky with the morning’s cold, clammy fog. It made me hesitate at the door, fearing my jacket, though wool, would fail to keep me warm, it being short at the wrists. Then I reminded myself that in all likelihood I would not have to go to school and deal with Sergeant Muldspoon. That thought provided enough warm cheer to get me moving. Pushing the hair out of my eyes, I set off.
As it happened, I had taken just a few steps down the court when, out of the shadows right before me, a girl leaped up, ran straight away from me, then out onto Halfmoon Street. Such was my surprise, I could do little more than take in a vague impression of a raggedylooking girl dressed in a long skirt and a boy’s cap too large for her head.
My first thought was that my appearance had caused her flight. Then I chided myself on the absurdity of such a notion. No doubt the girl was late for work or school. Our near collision at that moment was only a coincidence. Besides, if one took note of all the ragged girls in London, the day would never end. I had been taught to ignore them.
Putting the urchin out of mind, I continued down the alley, passing the curiously named Green Dragon Yard, where, I confess, I looked but saw no monsters. I pressed on—mindful that I must not lose my way in the labyrinth of unfamiliar streets.
Though it was yet early, a fair number of people were abroad. Still, I hardly expected to see anyone I knew, for I was far from my regular neighborhood. But as I rambled along the street, not to any great purpose other than to keep warm and use up time before I could wake Father, I suddenly recognized someone I did know: It was none other than my sister’s particular suitor, Mr. Farquatt.
