Dido and Pa (17 page)

"Have they hurt you badly?" Simon asked her. "Can you walk? If so, you had best get inside. I'll just chase away the last of those beasts."

But the woman seemed unable to walk, whether from fright or injuries; so he picked her up and carried her into the hut. This proved to be a roomy place, as big as a barn. Indeed, a donkey was stabled at one end. Simon deposited the woman in a hammock, which was slung across a corner.

"I'll just fetch in my horse, too, by your leave," Simon said. "Else the wolves are likely to attack him, tethered as he is."

The woman made some faint sound of agreement. "Were you fetching water?" Simon asked, remembering the bucket. "I'll get you some." He had noticed a wellhead and stone trough outside.

Several of the wolves, which had gone no farther than the edge of the cleared space, were now on the attack again, creeping back toward the terrified Lochinvar. Simon, who had reloaded his guns, was able to dispatch another two wolves; the others, giving up, loped away into the wood.

Returning with the horse and pail of water, Simon discovered that the woman had managed to pull herself together, get out of the hammock, put brushwood on a fire that smoldered in a brick hearth, and light a lamp.

"Do you live here all alone, ma'am?" he asked.

"I'm obliged to," she replied shortly. "I've got nobody."

As the light burned brighter Simon observed two things with surprise. One was the enormous number of toy animals, arranged on shelves, which covered one entire wall of the cabin. They were of all sizes; some of them had plaster heads, some china, some waxen, some
papier-mache;
the bodies were mostly made of cloth, or fur, and were standing, sitting, or lying on the shelves; there were foxes, bears, rabbits, leopards, dogs, cats, sheep, besides more exotic creatures, lions, tigers, crocodiles, polar bears—some of them very fancifully shaped, but all made with great skill.
Their glass eyes gleamed in the firelight; the whole wall seemed to be looking at Simon.

The other thing that surprised him, surveying the woman he had rescued, was the discovery that she was by no means as old as he had first thought her; she was skinny, her face was lined and weather-beaten, and she walked with a limp, but after a minute or two he began to think that she was hardly out of her thirties, and then, as she went on talking, he decided that she must be younger still.

"It was a bit o' luck for me that you come along when you did," she remarked briefly; and then, after a moment or two, in a more doubtful tone, "
maybe,
" as if, reconsidering, she were not so certain about the luck. This was all the thanks she gave Simon; but she filled a kettle from the pail of water he had brought in, and offered, "You'd best have a dram of tea. It's only mint. I can't afford the real."

"Thank you. I'd like that. Did the wolves maul you at all? Were you hurt?"

"No; they only tore my dress." She sniffed. "It warn't much before. Anyhow it'll tear up for stuffing." She gave a sour smile. She was sharp-faced, with a bad scar over one cheekbone. Her hair, which might once have been pale yellow, was now a yellowish gray, pulled back in a knot.

"Did you make all those?" Simon asked, sitting down on a tree stump that did duty for a stool and looking at the display of toy animals.

"Who else?" she snapped. "You see any factory hands round here?"

He shook his head.

"O' course I made 'em. Winters I works on 'em; the heads are fashioned in Hamburg and I buys 'em from Whites, in Houndsditch; and the wax and pappy-mashy in Barbican; then I molds and stuffs the bodies myself; I've a book with pictures"—she nodded toward an old, tattered natural history book on a shelf; "and in the summer I sells 'em around Knightsbridge or Stuart Park. I used to hire a feller to do so, but he was a cheat and robbed me of a whole summer's takings; so now I do it myself."

She poured hot water onto a bundle of crushed mint leaves. Then, with an acute glance at Simon's handsome silver-mounted muskets, well-polished boots, and well-fed horse, she added wheedlingly, "Have you any young ones, sir? I've some real fancy toys in stock—poodle dogs, lambs with real wool. Think how their little eyes would light up if you brought 'em home one o' those."

And she waved a hand toward the wall glittering with eyes.

"No, I haven't any children. I'm not married," said Simon hastily, taking the cup of mint tea she handed him. "Do you never make dolls?" he asked.

"No," she snapped. "I don't care for people. Animals are better."

Her scowl at his reply was so very familiar that he cried out in astonishment, "
I
know who you are! You're Penelope Twite! I
thought
I recognized your voice! Aren't you Penny? Dido's elder sister? Don't you remember me? Simon, who used to lodge with your father in Rose Alley?"

She was so taken aback that she dropped her own cup of mint tea, and it smashed on the cobbled floor.

"There!" she said crossly. "Now look what you made me do."

"But aren't you Mr. Twite's elder daughter Penny? Dido's sister?"

"What if I am?" she said dourly. "
That
ain't going to put any diamond rings on my fingers."

"Do you never see your father?"

She shook her head.

"Not since I left home."

Simon then vaguely recollected that she had run off with a buttonhook salesman.

"I heard tell as how Ma died," Penelope added, without any display of grief. "Is Pa still alive, then?"

"So far as I know; your sister Dido said she had seen him recently."

"I guess he'll be up to his usual goings-on in that case," she said indifferently. "What's Dido doing?"

"She—she has been traveling. She is staying with your father in Wapping."

"
Traveling
?" Penelope said bitterly. "Some folk have all the luck."

"What happened to—? Were you not married?"

"Oh! Him! He left me flat. Years ago. Took all my savings. I had a baby—but it died," Penelope said in a toneless voice. She fetched a brush and swept up the fragments of broken mug. "You won't be wanting to spend the night
here," she said. "Luckily you won't have to—which is just as well, for I've no extra grub. Some chaps'll be coming past about midnight. Surveyors."

"Surveyors?"

"Summat to do with that new Thames tunnel and the procession," she explained without interest. "They been planning the way it's to go, and working out how long it takes. They said they'd be by tonight, and one of 'em agreed to bring me a parcel o' piece goods from Chislehurst. The carrier leaves 'em for me there. Mostly I walks over—but with the wolves it's getting too dangerous."

"I should think so," said Simon. "It's lucky I came along when I did, or you'd not be needing that parcel."

He could not avoid a feeling of relief that he need not spend the night with this crabbed creature. Still, he felt sorry for her.

"Wouldn't you be better living in a—in a place that wasn't so lonely?"

"Why?" said Penny. "I don't like folk. I do well enough here—if the wolves hadn't grown so pesky. I ain't keen on being bothered. This procession coming past here is going to be a blame nuisance."

"Maybe you can sell some of your animals?"

"Hah! Not on your oliphant! In town's the place to sell toys. Coves in processions don't want 'em."

"No, I suppose not."

Penelope sat down and began sewing the whiskers on a stuffed kitten with small fierce stitches.

"Shall I—would you like me to send a message to your father, or to Dido, telling them where you are?" suggested Simon uncertainly.

"Why?"

"You might like to see them? They might be glad to see you?"

"Fish! Why'd they want to see me? Anyhow, I don't want to see
them.
" She snapped a thread, rethreaded her needle, then added, "You'd best have a nap. Talking's tiring. And there's no point in it. You can doss down in my hammock till the men come."

Simon saw that it would be kinder to do this than to sit asking questions. He lay in the hammock and thought that he would never fall asleep, but in fact he did drift off after a while.

He was roused by Penelope shaking him, quite sharply.

"Hark! There's horses coming."

"Your ears are quicker than mine," Simon said, getting out of the hammock.

"Comes of living alone," she said. "Weeks go by when I hear nowt but my own voice."

A few minutes later there were shouts beyond the door; with trampling and jingling of bridles and snorts and whinnies, a parry of horsemen drew up outside. Someone banged on the door, calling:

"Passel o' dry goods for Missus Curd—anyone in?"

"There's a chap here wants to ride to Rotherhithe with you," Penelope said, opening the door and receiving the parcel.

"And welcome. He can ride the chain horse."

Stepping out, Simon explained that he had a horse of his own, but it was lame and could only go at a slow pace. He was assured that he might use the cob which carried their tools and measuring equipment; without a rider his own mount would probably be able to keep up well enough.

Simon said good-bye to Penelope. He bought a stuffed mouse from her, thinking that Sophie would be able to find some child to give it to. Penelope stuck out her lower lip but accepted his money.

"There's nothing I can do for you—send you?"

She sniffed. "Not as I can think on."

"No message for your father? Your sister?"

"I never cared for Pa. And that Dido used to be a right plague. They don't care if I'm alive or dead."

"I wonder! Well, good-bye. And thank you for the tea." He remembered the cup she had dropped, and added, "I'll bring another cup, next time I come by."

"
You
won't be coming here again."

Abruptly she turned her back on Simon and paid the man who had brought her parcel. Simon led out Lochinvar and mounted the survey troop's chain horse.

"What the deuce was the dook o' Battersea doing in this nook-shorten spot?" asked the man who had brought Penelope's parcel; he bit her sixpence to make sure it was a good one.

"Him?
He
ain't no dook," said Penelope scornfully.

"Then that's all
you
know!"

Whistling, the man swung onto his horse and kicked it
to make it catch up with the others. Penelope stared after the group, her usual sour look replaced by one of real amazement, before stepping back inside and bolting the door.

The survey group rode down Blackheath Hill and through Deptford.

"Come through the new tunnel if you wish, sir, we have the key of the gate," said the leader of the troop, a burly, cheerful, redheaded man with a feather in his hat. "You may ride to Chelsea as well north of the Thames as south of it."

The route south of the river was more direct, but Simon, curious to see the new tunnel, accepted the offer. After all, he thought, I am going to be home so late that an hour or two won't make all that difference. Sophie will be long in bed.

The approach to the new Rotherhithe tunnel began among docks and warehouses half a mile away from the river itself, and plunged steeply downhill between massive walls built from great granite blocks.

"It's a grand piece of work," said Simon, greatly impressed. "Pity the old king didn't live long enough to see it completed and join in the celebrations."

"All this junketing—bands, flag-waving, processions—that's a waste o' public money if you ask me," grumbled the surveyor. "Foolish too. Suppose the river floods into the tunnel?"

"Is that likely?" asked Simon, startled.

"Not to say
likely,
" the man admitted. "But there were a
great flood in my granda's granfer's day; a mort o' folk drowned in Deptford and Rotherhithe. If there were a sudden flood coming downriver—from rain at Henley, say—and that were to meet with a high tide coming up—"

"Well let us hope there is not," said Simon with a shiver, as pulling out a bunch of large keys, the surveyor unlocked the massive iron gates which barred the entrance to the tunnel. The gates slid back in a track, the party passed through, and then the leader closed up again and locked the gates behind them.

"That way, no wolves can get through to Shadwell," he remarked, striking a phosphorus match and lighting a tar-soaked torch, which he held above his head. The rest of the troop did likewise.

"The gas lighting don't come on till next week, day before the opening," he explained. "But these do well enough."

The tunnel's high arched dome was lined with brilliant white tiles, which reflected the orange light of the torches and threw back eerie echoes as the horses clattered nervously along the paved footway; the margrave's idea of two processions moving in opposite directions would be, Simon saw, perfectly possible, for the road was wide enough to accommodate two coaches driving abreast. Yet now that he was down here, the scheme had lost its appeal for Simon: this was such a terribly gloomy place in which to have a public event take place. It is just like that creepy margrave, thought Simon, to plan that the most important action should happen underground where no one could see it.

Except the people taking part, of course.

The surveyor unlocked the Shadwell gate and let his troop out into the snowy night.

"We have our depot and stables in Tower Hill, sir," he told Simon. "Can you manage to get home from there? Or would you like to borrow our horse for the night?"

"Oh, I can get a hackney carriage from Tower Hill, thank you. I'm much obliged to you for your help."

"Gloomy, doomy sort o' place, that tunnel, though, ain't it?" said the surveyor, echoing Simon's thought as they rode up the enclosed slope from the northern entrance. "Useful enough, I don't deny—not that there ain't enough bridges, if you go westward; myself, I'd sooner take a ferry. I'd enough o' tunnels when I were a lad; trap opener in a Kentish colliery half a mile underground—ugh! I'll stay above ground for the rest of my life, thank you."

"I quite agree with you," said Simon as they rode along Wapping High Street. "Good heavens, what a lot of carriages—some of them very handsome; where can they be coming from in these parts, so late?"