Dido and Pa (2 page)

Sophie gave her mare's bridle to a groom, and went thoughtfully into the big empty house.

On the same day that Simon met Dido in Sussex, but several hours earlier, two other people had been talking about them.

In the great brick forest of London there is a district called Wapping. It lies a long way from Chelsea, eastward of St. Paul's and Tower Bridge. Wapping, north of the river Thames, was once a dank region of mud creeks and sandbanks. As the city stretched eastward it became a maze of little narrow streets and alleys, twisting and turning in every direction between wharves and jetties, docks and creeks, inlets and boat basins. Keels of boats rubbed against doorsteps; masts and chimneys sprouted side by side. Warehouse gables and cranes hovered in the fog above the looped sails of schooners and the crates and bales on their decks. On this particular day the ancient dwellings, the granaries and storehouses, were hardly to be seen against the thickening sky, which promised bad weather before nightfall.

Among the countinghouses there were still to be found a few mansions from an earlier time when rich gentlemen had pleasure houses by the river, among the marshy fields.

One of these, known as Cinnamon Court, had been very grand indeed: a huge brick palace built by a merchant knight in the days of the first King James. Surrounded by a high brick wall, it still owned a spacious garden running down to the Thames; and it was still in private hands, owned by one single gentleman who lived there with his servants.

This man was not a native Londoner but came from Hanover; he was the Hanoverian ambassador to England, a nobleman of immense wealth and vast properties in East-phalia and Saxony. His name was Wolfgang von Eisengrim, margrave of Nordmarck, landgraf of Bad Wald, Baron Blitzen-burg, and first cousin to Prince George of Hanover.

Just now the margrave was taking his lunch. He sat to do so, with his bare feet buried in a deep basket of flower heads—roses, carnations, violets, sweet peas—goodness knows what they must have cost. His doctor had told him this was good for the circulation. The lunch consisted of thirteen oysters, laid out like a clock face on a Dresden plate, garnished with parsley and lemon wedges and a thin slice of black bread. By the plate stood a tall, narrow, green-stemmed glass of white wine. Glass and plate were on a small round table of rose-colored marble.

The margrave swallowed his frugal meal slowly, in tiny sips and nibbles. He wore jacket and knee breeches of black velvet and had a snowy muslin napkin tucked under his chin. The room was papered with red velvet and had a black marble fireplace. The sound of music, played on violins, hoboys, and spinet, came from the next room through an open door.

A wherry under sail crept past the dining room window, which looked onto the river. The boat was low in the water and was evidently sinking. Voices shouted for help.

The margrave turned his head slightly, and called, "Play louder!"

Immediately the music doubled in volume.

Behind the margrave's chair stood a servant, also dressed in black. With a slight gesture his master directed him to go and look out of the window. He did so—opened the window, leaned out, closed it again, and walked back, all in silence.

"Well?" said the margrave, having dispatched his thirteenth oyster. "Did the ship sink?"

"It sank, my lord, with all on board."

"Very good. That is very good. We have now disposed of Lord Forecastle, Sir Percy Tipstaff, and the dean of St. Paul's."

The margrave took a dried plum from a box the servant handed him, and thoughtfully nibbled at its black, wrinkled skin.

"So convenient for us," he murmured, "that King Richard is a stranger to most of his subjects. His having spent so much time abroad, hunting in foreign lands, is a decided advantage. Let me see, now, who remains to be dispatched? Bring me the list, Boletus."

With a kind of pecking bow, the servant lifted down a scroll that hung on the crimson-papered wall, and laid it on the table in front of his master.

"And the ink, Boletus; and a pen. Aha; there still remains the archbishop; and the lord chief justice—no, that was Tipstaff; the home secretary, Lord Raven; and the valet—what is his name?"

"MacTavish, my lord."

"He must certainly go. Now, who are these? Battersea—who is Battersea?"

"The duke, my lord; he is master of the king's garlan-dries; I am informed that he has been at various times in conference with his majesty—"

"
Ahem
," said the margrave coldly.

"I ask your pardon, sir; I should say, with the Pretender."

"Indeed. Then he must be disposed of. And who is this Dido Twite? The name
Twite
is faintly familiar—"

"Er—excuse me, your excellency. Your lordship's chapel-master, Herr Bredalbane—"

"Ah, so. Who, then, is Dido? A connection?"

"That I do not know. But I understand, my lord, that she is a young person who was—who was in some way involved in halting the St. Paul's plot; furthermore, she spent some time with the ki—— ...with the Pretender, and carried his train at the ceremony."

"Humph! Where is Bredalbane?"

"At hand, my lord."

The servant assisted his master to put on a pair of gray
silk stockings and shoes with diamond buckles. The margrave flicked a crumb from his velvet lapel and strolled to the window.

Cinnamon Court, built in an L shape, had one wing at right angles to the river, and the garden lay in the el. The margrave could see spires, chimneys, cranes, and masts, appearing like the tips of trees out of the fog. Tide-borne barges went silently past; the tide was full and ran swiftly; the rattle of a chain could sometimes be heard—the clang of a ship's bell, the creak of an oar, the long hoot of a wherry. A distant boom came through the fog: St. Paul's clock, striking one.

There was no sign of the wherry that had sunk.

Boletus, having left the room for a moment, returned.

"The young person Twite, my lord, set out for Petworth in the county of Sussex the very moment the coronation ceremony was finished. And it seems that the duke of Battersea, having learned that she had done so, went after her."

"Ah. And Bredalbane?"

"Is here, your worship."

By the time that Simon and Dido had reached Petworth, dark had fallen, but the little town was a blaze of light, with bonfires on the outskirts, lanterns flaring, fireworks snapping and thudding, and dozens of voices raised in song.

"Reckon they're all a-celebrating," said Dido. "Well, the new king seems a decent sort o' cove; likely they'd 'a' done a sight worse under that Bonnie Prince Georgie that my dad
and his pals were so set on bringing over from Hanover.
I
say, why not make do with the king you got? Why fetch another in from furrin parts—as probably talks some peg-legged lingo that no one understands?"

"I did hear," said Simon, guiding his horses with care through the narrow, sparkling streets of Petworth, where people were reeling about with ale mugs in their hands, children were dancing ring-a-rosy by torchlight, and hot-cockle sellers were doing a roaring trade, "—I did hear from Dr. Furneaux, the head of the Chelsea Art Academy—he's just back from Pomerania—that Prince George of Hanover was mortally ill of an octagonal fever, and not expected to recover."

"Oh, well, poor devil, if he dies, that'll tie a knot in my dad's plots; he and his mates'll have to settle down and make the best of King Dick.... Where in mussy's name are you taking us, Simon, we've rid clean through the town."

"I left my horses at a little inn on the outskirts. These are a job team. Mine should be rested by now, I reckon. While I have them put to, we can take a bite; we'll get served faster here than in the middle of town."

Even at this small tavern, the Cow on the Roof, a humble thatched building at the junction of three roads, there were large numbers of festive customers. They had spilled out-of-doors, and were singing and dancing in the pub garden and on the green beyond. The joyful sound of pipes and fiddles could be heard.

Simon drove his carriage round to the rear. Trestle tables had been set up across the inn yard, where an ox was being
roasted over a bonfire, and great slices of beef were being carved and served to all comers.

"Here, Dido—why don't you sit at one of those tables and order us some beef," said Simon. "Wrap my jacket round you—I'll find you something warmer directly—" and leaving her he went off to make arrangements about the horses, returning soon with two brimming mugs of ginger jub in one hand, while in the other arm he had a thick sheepskin jacket with brass buttons.

"There you are, girl; that ought to keep out the weather."

"Why, Simon—it's
naffy!
" exclaimed Dido in delight, snuggling into the thick warm garment and fastening its buttons. "How the blazes did you come by it so quick?"

"Saw a boy wearing it, offered him a couple of shiners for it," replied Simon, beginning to tackle the enormous plateful of beef that Dido had secured for him while he was gone.

"Croopus, Simon, are you as rich as King David now you're a dook?"

"I've enough to get by," he replied cheerfully.

"Fancy! I can remember when all you ever had for dinner was a bit o' bread and a penn 'orth of milk from Aunt Tinty."

"And
you
used to eat most of that."

"Things warn't bad, though, after you came to live in Rose Alley," Dido said slowly, remembering. "D'you mind how you and Sophie took me to the fair? And how all the Hanoverians used to come to Rose Alley and plot away with
Pa, and drink organ grinder's oil; and after they'd left, Pa used to play tunes downstairs on his hoboy—and you and me, upstairs, used to make up words to 'em?"

"Yes, I remember that," said Simon, remembering, too, how queer it had seemed to him that such an out-and-out villain as Mr. Twite, who neglected his children, told lies easier than he breathed, and never stopped plotting to do away with the king, should yet be able to make up such beautiful music and play it with such feeling on his hoboy.

"D'you mind one of his tunes?" Dido went on. "You once put words to it that went:

"
Oh, how I'd like to be queen. Pa,
And ride in my kerridge to Kew,
Wearing a gold crinoline. Pa,
And sucking an orange or two.
"

She stopped munching beef for a moment, swallowed a dram of ginger jub, and then sang out the words in a clear, true little voice, pronouncing them with great and ladylike care, as Simon had taught her long ago.

Just at that moment there chanced to fall a brief lull in the general uproar, and her voice rang out into the silence; several people turned in surprise to glance at Dido, and one man in the crowd looked at her with particular attention; then he spun on his heel and walked off at a hasty pace into a shadowed corner of the yard.

"Yes, I remember that one," said Simon, laughing. "Another verse of it went:

"
Oh, how I'd like to be queen, Pa,
Watching my troops at review.
Sucking a ripe tangerine, Pa,
And sporting a sparkler or two—
"

"No, no, you're clean out there," corrected Dido authoritatively. "It didn't go like that, it went:

"
With slippers of crimson shagreen, Pa,
And all of my underdose new!
"

"My word, Dido, how much better you sing than you ever used! I can remember how you used to croak out the words, hoarse as a crow. Now you carol away like a young throstle!"

"Guess it was all the whale oil they poured into me," said Dido, gruff, pink, and shy under his commendation.

"What
is
all this about
whale oil.
Dido? And how in the world did that lead on to your carrying the king's train at his crowning this morning? How in the name of Habbakuk did you get to
know
the king?"

"Why—it was this way—" began Dido, but at that moment an ostler lad tapped Simon on the shoulder.

"Beg pudden, master, but one o' those grays o' yours 'pears to be precious lame. D'you want to come take a look at him?"

"Plague take it!" said Simon. "1 suppose that means I'll have to leave him here. I'll not be a moment, Dido; have some more beef, do."

And he followed the ostler toward the stable.

Dido sat peacefully where he had left her, with her elbows on the table. She could not possibly have eaten any more; she felt full of beef, and very snug in her thick sheepskin jacket, and wonderfully happy. Just fancy me being here, she thought; and this afternoon I didn't think I had a friend in the territory, I can't hardly believe it; and she looked round at the crowded inn yard, fitfully lit by the bonfire, full of people eating and dancing and shouting "Long live King Dick!" Great yellow chestnut leaves drifted down from above, sailing over people's heads like birds joining in the rejoicing. Who'd 'a' thought it, mused Dido, Simon coming to find me like that, and him being just exactly the same as ever?

And she recalled how kind Simon had been to her during the time when he lived at her parents' house as a lodger, when she was several years younger, and often miserably ill, since neither her mother nor her older sister Penelope ever spared any pains to look after her.

Simon used to bring me a hot posset and make a fire in the grate and tell me stories about the wolves in Willoughby Forest, she recalled. And sometimes Pa's music used to come up from the room below, so beautiful: when Simon wasn't there, I used to lie in bed and hearken to the music and pretend that Pa was playing it for me. O' course I knew that he wasn't; Penny was allus his favorite; now and again he even bought hair ribbons for her, which he never ever did for me. But even for Penny he'd not play on his hoboy. I recollects her begging him: "Play The Blue Bells o' Battersea, Pa,
do!" but the more she'd wheedle, the rustier he'd get, and tell her to shab off, or she'd get a clump on the lughole. Once in a blue moon if summat had put him in a good skin, he'd play for her, but not if she asked. Never if she asked.

And he never, never once played for me. And, oh, his music was so sweet! There was that tune I called Calico Alley, acos of the words I put to it—As I went dancing down Calico Alley; and the one that went to Three Herrings for a Ha'penny; and the one I called Black Cat Coming Down Stairs, because it sounded so solemn; and the one I thought was about rain, quick and tinkly. But the best of 'em all was Oh, How I'd Like to Be Queen, Pa ... Funny how that tune keeps a-going round and round in my head; and yet I haven't given it any mind for dunnamany years.... I could almost think I hear it now.