Tattycoram (6 page)

Various relations came to dinner, but with one exception I didn't know any of them well enough to form an opinion. Cook said Mr. Dickens's father was a trial and he expected too much from his son, but then, she said, now that he was famous, the whole world had its hand in his pocket.

“Is he very famous, Cook?”

“Oh Lord, yes, and gettin' famouser by the minute. And him such a young man, too, not yet thirty.”

On Sunday Mr. Dickens went to chapel at the Foundling; Mrs. Dickens accompanied him if she felt well enough. One day he invited me to go, for Mr. Brownlow had told him I liked music and sang in the choir. I thanked him but told him no. I had no desire to go back through those iron gates until the obligatory visit the next Whitsuntide.

“I am concerned about your spiritual health, Harriet.” I felt that he was teasing me.

“I read my Bible, sir, and I say my prayers.”

“Wouldn't you like to go for the music?”

“No, sir.” (Even so, it was the one thing about the place I missed, and I often sang quietly to Charley or to myself when I was in my room.)

On my half-day I put on my new bonnet and shawl and went out of Doughty Street and into the wide world, the fat boy in his ridiculous livery whispering, “Oh yes, we knows
you
,” from where he sat on his stool. I always walked on the other side of the street as I passed the hospital and headed for Southampton Row. I did not dawdle, but I observed everything — the multitudes of men and women hurrying along, going from somewhere to somewhere else, the carriages of the fashionable ladies, the nursemaids in Russell Square chatting to one another as their precious charges ran about on the paths, the hawkers of fruit and vegetables, of oysters and pies. The boardmen along Tottenham Court Road advertising chop houses, plays, patent medicine. Once I even saw a procession of huge portmanteaux and boxes proceeding down Oxford Street, followed by a group of laughing boys. I thought for a minute I had lost my senses, but it was really a parade of men with only heads and legs sticking out, advertising a trunk maker. The boys were abusing them, shouting at them and shoving, trying to knock them over. The sight was comical in the extreme, but the boardmen did not look happy; I never saw one that did. They could not stand still, like the costermongers or flower sellers, but had to be forever on the move.

Always I looked for Jonnie; I felt sure I should recognize him if I saw him, even after all this time.

Sometimes men spoke to me, but something in my manner must have dissuaded them from following.

There were many beggars, often dressed in bits of soldiers' apparel, but Cook told me she'd eat a fish head if any of them had done service anywhere but in a pub.

I walked miles and miles, sometimes as far as Kensington Gardens, sometimes down to the river, always listening for the church bells so I would not be late returning home. I never went to the very poor areas around Seven Dials; Mrs. Dickens had warned me that no girl should enter such places alone.

“Mr. Dickens goes, but he is a grown man. Nevertheless, I even fret about him sometimes, although I know he must because of his work.”

The freedom to move about, the freedom not to be one drab child in a host of drab children. On washdays, when I helped the washerwoman with the family wash and my hands became rough and raw from the soda and scalding water; on days when Charley had been fractious and I had to sit up half the night with him and still be up before dawn to light the fires and heat water; on days when nothing seemed to go right — then I grumbled a little to myself, but really, I felt so free compared to my prison life at the hospital that my grumbling did not last long.

One person, however, could always rub me the wrong way and reduce me to smouldering fury.

My single extravagance was stationery, for every fortnight I wrote a letter home to Father and Mother in Shere, describing my life on Doughty Street and the wonderful sights that I saw on my walks through London. I told them how well I was treated and how I prayed for them both every night and for Sam and Jonnie as well.

Until the penny post came in, I had to save enough to pay for the delivery of the letter, for I knew they would go without to pay the postage if I didn't.

I told them how noisy London was, once you got out into the crowded streets, and how often I thought of the music of the Tillingbourne as it rushed along and the song of the lark in the clear air. Sometimes my tears smeared the letters by the end, for I did sorely miss them and always would.

Mrs. Dickens had a young sister named Georgina. She was just a little girl, no more than ten or eleven when I first went into service in Doughty Street, but she had a sharp tongue and made pronouncements as though she were much older.

“
Who
is that girl?” I heard her say, shortly after I arrived. “Surely that is not the new housemaid?”

Mrs. Dickens said yes, that was indeed who I was.

“She looks like a gypsy, she looks like a girl not to be trusted.”

She liked to call me Coram, unlike the rest of the household. Early on Mr. Dickens had suggested that I might prefer not to be called by the name of the Foundling's father and that I might prefer to be addressed as Harriet or Hattie.

Georgina was in and out of every room, always criticizing her older sister, digging at her in little ways, almost mocking her now that she was heavy and slow with her pregnancy. When I brought Charley down, she would grab him and say, “Thank you, Coram, you may go,” as though
she
were the lady of the house.

And when Mr. Dickens was around, it was plain that she worshipped him. Of course he liked that and never really saw her other side. I had known one or two girls like her at the hospital, girls who took pleasure in criticizing others in subtle ways, goading them into bad behaviour or tears; girls with a
mean streak, telltales as well, but who could be all sweetness and light when it suited them. They were usually favourites with the more gullible adults.

Twice Georgina nearly cost me my place. Mrs. Dickens could be slow and forgetful, whereas Miss Georgy was swift and clever and as keen on order as her brother-in-law. Once, when she came upon her sister crying (Mrs. Dickens had forgotten to do something important — decline or accept a dinner invitation — and this had led to some awkwardness), she said, “For heaven's sake, stop that crying. You know how Charles hates it when you cry. What's done is done, and crying won't make it any better.”

A proper little madam, she could be. Very unchildlike.

One afternoon, she called me back just as I was leaving the parlour.

“Oh Coram, would you stop a moment please? I wish to ask your advice about something.”

Sensing a trap, I returned reluctantly and stood in front of her. Mrs. Dickens smiled encouragement as she peeled an orange and fed slices of fruit to her son. He struggled to get down when he saw me come back; Charley and I got on very well. I shook my head at him and told him I would be back for him later. Miss Georgy watched this exchange with a little smirk. She removed a length of brown material from a large paper parcel by her chair.

“I have been invited to a fancy-dress party at the end of the month, and I decided it would be great fun to go as a Foundling Girl. Mama has bought the material but we have no pattern. I wonder, do you still have your old uniform by you?”

“No, Miss Georgy. I left it at the hospital.”

“What a pity, but never mind, you can describe it for me
instead. I could ask Charles when he comes in, I know he goes to the chapel every Sunday, and he is so observant, but I do not like to trouble him with so trivial a matter.”

I remained silent; I couldn't believe my ears.

“Well?” She had taken out a writing tablet and a pencil.

“I don't remember, Miss Georgy.”

“You wore that outfit every day for ten years and you don't remember?”

“Yes, Miss Georgy.”

She looked me full in the face. How she was enjoying this! My cheeks burned.

“I don't believe you.”

I stared straight at her — insolent servant! — and said nothing. I may even have shrugged.

“Georgy,” Mrs. Dickens said, “leave it, dear. You can ask Charles. He'll be down soon.”

“I will
not
ask Charles. I will ask Coram, who for some strange reason refuses to reply. The material is already bought, as you can see, and I am determined to use it.”

At that moment Charley reached for his mother's teacup, which she was just raising to her lips, grabbed it and would have tipped it over her frock if I hadn't darted forward and taken it from him.

“Kate,” Miss Georgy said, “pay attention to what you are doing.”

That was too much — this high and mighty little baggage with her superior airs. In my anger and frustration, and barely conscious of what I was doing, I threw the cup at the wall. Then I ran out of the room and up the stairs to the very top, to my room.

How dare she! To pose as a Foundling Girl at a party; to
wear once, and as a kind of joke, what I had had thrust upon me for ten years. And now I would be dismissed, I knew it, sent back to the hospital without a character, fit only to be a scullery maid or worse. And Matron and Mr. Brownlow, my family as well — disgracing myself before all those who had believed in me. I sobbed and sobbed.

It was Fred who tapped on my door an hour later.

“Hattie, Mr. Dickens wants to see you in his study.”

I had never been in Mr. Dickens's study before; no one was allowed in unless invited and I assume he did the dusting himself. I was too upset to take in much, but I saw him look up from a table covered with slips of blue paper.

“Ah, Harriet. Come here, please. I understand you, ah, you broke a teacup.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I had not thought of you as clumsy.”

“No sir, I am not, as a general rule.”

“Then how came the teacup to be broken? Did you really throw it against the wall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you care to tell me why? I understand you rescued it from Charley. Why rescue it if you were going to destroy it a moment later?”

I did not wish to answer; it would be Miss Georgy's word against mine, a servant against a sister-in-law.

He moved a little china monkey from one end of the table to the other, back and forth. “Look at me, Harriet.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have nothing more to say on this matter? You are not going to try and defend yourself. Whine or cry?”

I shook my head.

“You know, I must write to Mr. Brownlow soon, for I gave my word I would keep him informed. What am I to say to him?”

I could feel the traitor tears beginning, but I dug my nails into my palm and forced them down.

“Very well. You may go.”

A tear slid down my cheek, but he pretended not to notice.

“Go where, sir?”

“Why, back to work. What on earth did you think I meant?”

At this the tears poured down; I could not stop them. I searched blindly for the door, but he got up and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Listen to me, Hattie. Never be ashamed of where you came from, never. But mind your temper. If something provokes you — and I suspect Miss Georgy did not mean to provoke you — count to two and twenty before you begin smashing the china. Will you promise me that?”

I couldn't speak; I could only nod.

“Two and twenty, remember?”

I nodded again.

“Say it.”

“Yes, sir. Two and twenty.”

“Good girl.”

Cook told me later that she had eavesdropped behind the parlour door and that I had caused a great uproar. Miss Georgy wanted me dismissed and “sent back to where she came from,” but Mrs. Dickens defended me and said how good I was with Charley, how much she had come to depend on me. She said Miss Georgy must have touched a nerve when she brought up the subject of the Foundling uniform, that perhaps I had taken the whole thing too much to heart. She and Mrs. Dickens had
quite a set-to about it, but then Mr. Dickens came in and agreed with his wife, that I might have felt mocked or made fun of. He was quite severe with Miss Georgy, much to Cook's surprise.

“But you minds how you goes, my girl, you've made an henimy of that one. And I don't think as Master will be so forgiving a second time.”

That evening I went to apologize to Mrs. Dickens.

“We will say no more about it, Hattie, but remember that Mr. Dickens likes a smooth-running household. He doesn't take kindly to disorder or disruption.”

That night I prayed hard that God would help me to be a better person, and I vowed I would count to four and forty, eight and eighty, even, before I would ever be tempted to do such a thing again. I had had a very narrow escape.

No one ever mentioned the incident afterwards, but one day, when Miss Georgina was putting on her bonnet in the hall and I had just come in from my half-day off, she stopped me.

“Tell me, Coram, do you understand whom you are working for? Mr. Dickens is a very unusual man, a genius. The whole world will soon be talking of him. He can't stand uproars; he
must
have peace and quiet. Sometimes I don't think my sister understands that as well as I do. And now with another baby imminent.”

She gave a dramatic sigh.

“He's a
genius
, Coram, and don't you ever forget it.
Your
feelings don't count, your little moods.”

“Yes, Miss Georgina.”

I wanted to ask her if she had enjoyed the fancy-dress party, but I counted to two and twenty and carried on up the stairs.

Mary was born on the sixth of March, 1838. I hadn't known about the screaming; I thought my mistress was going to die. Mr. Dickens's mother, who was staying with us for the confinement, came down to the kitchen, where I was sitting with Cook and Charley and warming soft cloths by the stove. I had carried up can after can of water, hot and cold, with Mrs. Dickens lying in the big bed, all the colour bleached out of her face. Even her lips were white.