Charles Palliser (46 page)

I said proudly: “Through the clerk at the London General registry-office.”

She looked at me oddly as if about to say more. Then she exclaimed: “But you have come a long way and must be hungry! Let me give you something.”

“Miss Quilliam,” I said, looking round and unsure how to express myself on this delicate point, “I see you are not in prosperous circumstances and as for us, why, we are beggars. We have but four-pence in the world.”

UNDERSTANDINGS

211

“Then I am much richer than you.” She smiled and added: “By nearly two hundred and forty times, for I have three sovereigns and some shillings. So I have wealth enough for all of us.”

I looked at my mother, weary and hungry after the day’s exertions but now animated by an impulse of hope in our newly-rediscovered friend, and I ceased to protest.

Leaving my mother on the window-seat Miss Quilliam rose and began to cross the room, and I now saw how thin, how very thin, she was. Then to my alarm, after she had taken just a few steps, she staggered slightly and only just managed to return to her seat.

She winced, but seeing our expressions of dismay, forced a smile and said: “I have been ill, but I am so much stronger now that I forget my weakness.”

“I will make the tea,” I said. “Tell me where everything is.”

She consented and so, under her direction, I boiled a kettle in a corner of the vast fireplace where a few coals were gathered, and while the tea was mashing, toasted some slices of bread. This was all there was to eat or drink except for a small jug of milk and another stone jug.

Later, while we ate, my mother and I, at Miss Quilliam’s prompting, began a condensed version of our history, omitting nothing of importance — except that neither of us seemed to think it necessary to mention that we had a document which others were anxious to obtain. I felt a little guilty at not confiding fully in our friend but it seemed prudent to mention the codicil to nobody.

I noticed that Miss Quilliam consumed very little, but while my mother and I were still eating, she said to me: “Will you be kind enough to bring me that jug by the chimney-piece and the glass beside it?”

I did so and she poured herself a measure saying: “I find it restores my strength a little.”

She offered some to my mother who glanced at me timidly and declined.

When we had finished, Miss Quilliam asked some questions which were pertinent without being in the least prying.

Then she said: “You say you are penniless, but I know that you have at least something of value.” My mother looked at me in alarm which vanished when Miss Quilliam went on: “I refer to the clothes you are wearing, which would bring several pounds.”

“If it comes to that we have something much more valuable …” my mother began.

Fearing that she was after all about to mention the codicil I quickly said: “Yes, indeed we have. Mother, show Miss Quilliam the locket.”

“Not that, please, Johnnie,” my mother said.

Her face showed that she was struggling, while Miss Quilliam looked from one to the other of us in surprise.

At last, however, my mother reached for the locket round her neck and showed it to our hostess: “If necessary,” she said, “I could raise money by this.”

“Yes,” said Miss Quilliam examining it with interest. “That would assuredly fetch several pounds.”

My mother restored the locket to its place with a reproachful glance towards me.

“Now as to the future,” Miss Quilliam said, “I will help you as best I may. But as I wrote in my letter, I fear that I am almost destitute myself. Of course you may stay here as long as you wish, for anyway this room is far too large for me.”

212 THE

MOMPESSONS

“That is very kind of you,” my mother said.

Miss Quilliam looked up at her: “Not at all. I have been seeking to underlet it, so I am happy to have you as tenants. There is a bed” (and she indicated a straw mattress in one corner) “and Johnnie may sleep in the little closet.”

“How much should we pay you as our share of your rent?” I asked.

“Oh, Johnnie,” my mother said. “Miss Quilliam did not mean that.”

“Of course she did,” I insisted.

“I only wish,” Miss Quilliam said, “that I could let you have it for nothing. But let us say, two shillings?”

“That is very little,” I said. “But it may still be too much for us for I don’t know how we will earn any money.”

“You said you did plain-work for that woman,” Miss Quilliam said to my mother.

“There are some good souls in the room across the landing who give me such work, and it may be that they can find some for you as well. Mr Peachment is a slop-tailor and he and his wife have been very good to me. For some months I have been keeping myself with my needle by helping them to do out-work for a slop-shop. I owe them a great deal, for they saved my life. You see, shortly after arriving here, I was taken ill and Mrs Peachment nursed me. I will take you to meet them tomorrow in the hope that they will be able to offer you some work — at least while the Season lasts.”

“You are very kind. But have you given up hope of finding employment again as a governess?” my mother asked in surprise.

Miss Quilliam appeared not to hear and my mother did not repeat the question, for there were many others to be asked and answered on both sides.

After a short time, however, since my mother and I were tired, it was settled that we should retire to bed. The unpacking and disposition of our two bundles of possessions took but little time and the vast room looked hardly any the less bare for the new additions.

I made myself comfortable in the closet, which was, in effect, a small chamber off the larger one as is often found in houses of that period. Miss Quilliam gave me a mattress of quilted straw on which I spread a sheet and then crawled under one of our two blankets.

I heard the voices of the two women murmuring together until I fell asleep. Once when I awoke — or half-awoke — I thought I heard someone sobbing and the sound of a gentle voice rising and falling. I slept badly for there were noises from the street and on the stairs and in the other parts of the building all through the night: loud arguments and drunken singing and once someone hammered at the barred door and tried to get in.

Secret Benefactors

The next morning Miss Quilliam took us to meet the Peachments. As we entered their chamber I had the impression of crowdedness in contrast to the emptiness of Miss Quilliam’s and realized that this was because, although it was no larger, it had to serve as kitchen, bed-chamber, living-room and workshop for the parents and no less than seven children ranging in age from near full-grown to an infant in arms — all of whom were now present. Yet it was clean and neat for all that. Moreover, it was made even smaller by an arrangement of faded and threadbare Turkey-carpets hung from ropes hooked to the walls (putting me in mind of a dingy tent from the Arabian Tales) which served to separate one corner.

Although it was not yet seven everyone was busily at work: a number of little girls and boys were cutting out pieces of felt and sewing them into the shapes of dolls, while their elders were stitching pieces of cloth and button-holes under the direction of their parents.

Mr and Mrs Peachment were friendly and their soft West-country speech fell gently on my ear after the insistent rise and fall of London speech.

“I can spare ye some work from the slop-master,” Mr Peachment said to my mother when the situation had been put to him; “like I’ve been doin’ for the other young lady, for this is the busiest time o’ the year.” My mother thanked him and he added: “But ’tis unpossible to say how long ’twill endure. When Parlyment rises and the Season ends then there shan’t be a mite o’ work no more.”

“We’ll not deceive ye,” said his wife with a kindly smile. “If there’s but little work it must go first to our own.”

“It’s hard to scratch a living here,” her husband said reflectively. “Lunnon folks is so mortal ’cute.”

As he spoke he laid one finger along the side of his nose, and he repeated this phrase a number of times in his conversation and always with the same gesture as if it indicated that, sharp though they might be, he had the measure of them.

The question of what I should do was also resolved for it emerged that the Peachments’ eldest boy, Dick, who was a year or two my senior, and who earned a few shillings a week by selling in the streets the dolls made by the 213

214 THE

MOMPESSONS

younger children, had been offered an opening in the “costermongering line” as his father proudly expressed it. And so it was suggested that my mother and I should buy the tray and the current stock and that I should assume his function.

The negotiations were protracted and made difficult by the commercial attitudes of the two parties:

“Why,” Mr Peachment kept saying, “we don’t want to take more than a fair price of you.”

“What would that be, do you reckon, Mr Peachment?” speculated his wife.

Here Dick, scowling at us, said something to his father in an undertone who shook his head, upon which the boy walked away angrily to the other end of the room.

However, with the mediation of Miss Quilliam it was at last settled that I would pay five-pence a week for the use of the tray, purchasing the dolls at four-pence and letting them go to the public for a shilling. And, moreover, it was agreed that Dick would take me out that very morning in order to initiate me into his mysterious art.

When Miss Quilliam had paid over the money on our behalf, I strapped on the heavy tray and Dick and I left the house.

“Me mam and dad is green,” he said sullenly, breaking his silence only as we reached the end of the street. “They could have got more of you than they done.”

I noticed that his speech was already more London than Dorsetshire.

“Fair price!” he snorted. “I told ’em a fair price was what you’d pay. I told ’em, but they wouldn’t take no heed.” He kicked a loose paving-stone.

Encouraged by his volubility, I asked him several questions about my new profession, but he said nothing. And so we walked on in silence — I having to struggle to keep pace with him since he was unencumbered — until we reached the corner of fleet-street and Chancery-lane, where even though it was long after eight, crowds of people were still hastening to work.

“This here’s your walk,” he said. “But you have to be here earlier than this or you’ll lose it.”

“And what do I do?” I asked.

To my astonishment he suddenly seized one of the articles of sale and, brandishing it ferociously above his head, shouted: “Dolls! Buy my dolls!”

Then he banged it back in the tray: “That’s what you do. And be ready when the traps’ deputies pull you up for their blunt.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Lor’! Ain’t he green!” he exclaimed to an imaginary auditor. “I ain’t got all day.

You’re up to the game or you ain’t.”

With these words he walked away without looking back.

Now that I had to make my entry onto the stage of commerce, I found it extremely difficult to raise my voice and shout, convinced that I would be ridiculed if I tried. At last I managed it and to my surprise the foot-passengers — far from pausing to jeer at my feeble screech — continued to hurry past without looking at me. I shouted louder and directed my attentions towards particular individuals, but during the course of the morning I succeeded in selling only one doll.

There was a puzzling incident when, after about an hour, two men came up to me, one lean and sharp-featured, the other with a bland, shiny face.

SECRET BENEFACTORS

215

“Cut away, young ’un,” the thin one said. “This here’s our pitch.”

“What do you mean?” I demanded.

“We keeps the streets hereabouts,” the one with the fleshy features said confidentially;

“and anyone what wants to work ’em has to square us.”

“But that’s not right!” I cried. “These streets are free to anyone.”

He lowered his face to within a couple of inches of mine and said: “Hook it or it’ll go the worse for you.”

They walked away and, indignant at this threat to the native liberties of an Englishman, I continued to sell. I soon forgot about the incident for I had discovered a serious problem in the form of street-boys who ran up, grabbed my wares, and hurried off until I learned to watch out for them and turn my tray to the wall until they had gone.

Early in the afternoon, a policeman came up to me and said: “Move along, young shaver.”

When I protested that I had acquired the right to this walk from its previous occupant, he smiled perfectly affably and said: “Why, you surely don’t believe he didn’t pay for the privilege, do you?”

“Then I will, too,” I said.

He nodded judicially and walked away.

A little later his deputies re-appeared and, when I assured them that I had sold only one doll, agreed to accept a mere tuppence on the grounds that I was only a beginner.

I sold no more that day and returned home exhausted and dispirited to find my mother and Miss Quilliam stitching furiously.

“Isn’t it time to stop now?” my mother asked Miss Quilliam when she had greeted me.

“Heavens, my dear, not yet.”

“Mrs Isbister let me stop at seven or eight,” she protested.

They worked on while I fetched and prepared a meagre supper of herring and cold potatoes, and then at last Miss Quilliam declared that it was time.

My mother and I drank porter with our meal, but Miss Quilliam poured herself a tumbler from the stone jug, and then added a few drops of dark liquid from a small bottle.

They resumed work while I explored her library (three battered volumes) and read a few pages of one of Sir Walter Scott’s historical romances.

Seeing this Miss Quilliam, whose spirits had lifted, cried: “I shall teach you, Johnnie.

It will be quite like the old days with Henrietta. I love to teach.”

We thanked her and my mother exclaimed: “How can you bear to live like this when you could be a governess again?”

Miss Quilliam looked up and coloured. After a moment she said: “I think you said yesterday that you learned of my former lodging at Mrs Malatratt’s house from the registry-office in Wigmore-street?” We nodded and she glanced from one to the other of us uncertainly. “I don’t know what lies about me you may have been told …” she began, and then broke off.