My father, she wrote, has the utmost dislike of crowds and noise, and will be only too glad to remain in Tapton, though being the most indulgent of fathers, he was prepared to sacrifice his pleasure to mine and take me to town. A neighbour of ours, a Mr. Henry Darnley, who is travelling to London next week, has offered to take me in his chariot, an invitation which my father has allowed me to accept, the two families having long been on friendly terms, provided that our housekeeper, Mrs. Botherby (daughter of the housekeeper at our friends’ the Ingoldsbys), rides in the dickey with Mr. Darnley’s man. I therefore expect, dearest Fanny, to be at your door in Queen Street next Wednesday at about half after three. To embrace you again and to hear of your many Norfolk conquests is the dearest wish of your ever affectionate Emily Dacre.
P.S. Mrs. Botherby will, of course, not remain with me. She is to spend the night with a niece and return on the following day by the coach.
P.P.S. Mr. Darnley is, I believe, acquainted with your brother, Mr. Ned Harcourt, of whom you have so often spoken to me. He was at Magdalene College and is, like your brother, devoted to aquatic exercises. It is indeed to take part in some rowing match that he is coming to London. What will you think of him, I wonder, my dearest Fanny? And what does your Emily think of him? Ah! ask me not! Thine, E. D.
‘As if I should think anything at all of this Mr. Darnley,’ said I to myself, tossing my head as I refolded Emily’s letter. ‘Another of Ned’s horrid, fast rowing friends, I have no doubt, Emily is welcome to him, with all my heart.’
How often do we utter in moments of lightheartedness sentiments which riper experience bids us forswear! Had I known then — but which of us knows what lies before him?
It was a fine forward spring. The chestnuts were in full bloom by the first week in May and the strawberry crop promised well. Sadly, yet not without a feeling of pleasurable anticipation, I bade farewell to each favourite nook in garden and field. On the evening before we were to take our departure my father sent for me to his library, a summons I attended with some trepidation, for rarely did a visit to that sanctum mean anything but misunderstanding on Papa’s part and indignant tears on mine. I therefore entered prepared to defend myself, whether guilty or innocent. Papa’s first words were not calculated to reassure me.
‘Well, Fanny,’ he began, ‘I suppose you will be needing some fine new gowns to see the Queen, though what the devil you misses want with all these frills and flounces I do not know. You will only be squeezed and flattened in the crowd and no one a penny the wiser of what you are wearing. I dare say I shall have a swingeing bill from your modiste, or what-the-devil-d’you-call-’um, in Norwich for all those balls you went to last winter.’
‘Indeed, sir,’ I replied, ‘I did but have the one new dress, the pink silk with the trimming of rosebuds which Colonel Sparker so much admired. The others were but turned and refurbished, and certainly no one could be more studious of my Papa’s purse than I am.’
Here injured pride reduced me to loud sobs.
‘There, there, my girl,’ said my father, giving me one of those hearty kisses which are so destructive of filial affection; but my dutiful feelings as a daughter towards my Papa were restored in full when he presented me at the same time with a twenty-pound note for purchases in London. My gratitude may be imagined; and escaping with what grace I could from his affectionate embrace, I sought my room, where my fancy was able to run riot in silks, blonde, mousseline de laine, bonnets with ribbons and marabout, kid gloves, and all the attractions of fashion.
At length the long-looked-for day arrived. My father and myself entered our coach, and with no mishaps arrived in London, my father vowing at every jolt that he would purchase in town a barouche which would be more commodious and also convenient for our country visitings. It was already growing dark when, at about half-past nine o’clock in the evening, we entered the great metropolis, which I had already traversed more than once in going to and returning from Cloisterham. I must confess that my impressions were not altogether pleasant. A strong wind was blowing which filled our coach with dust, straws, and pieces of paper. The noise of coaches, cabs, and drays, was overpowering, and the brilliance of the gas lighting produced an effect almost of terror. As we drove through the streets my father kindly pointed out the principal objects of interest to me, but as it was some twenty years since he had visited London and it was now almost dark except for the gas, and many improvements and changes had been made since that time, his attempts to act as cicerone resulted in a total confusion and loss of temper, so that I privately resolved to make myself acquainted with the public buildings and places of historical celebrity in the company of my dear Emily, when my Papa was otherwise engaged.
As we approached Oxford Street we were stopped by a great concourse of coaches and chariots, with much noise and shouting. In vain did I implore my dear father to bid Bevan (the name of our coachman) turn the horses’ heads into some quieter street and so reach our destination; the mere hint of a wish from me was enough to set him off in one of his contrary moods, and letting down the window he halloo’d to Bevan, as though hunting his favourite the fox, telling him to drive on as quickly as possible, that he might see what they had been doing in London. Upon this a couple of very vulgar young men began to quiz him, calling out as nearly as I can reproduce their horrid speech, that he was ‘vun of the snobs.’ Then, looking most impertinently in at the coach window one of them put his finger to the side of his nose and winked at me, saying:
‘Don’t you take no manner of notice of Bill, miss. He’s only a warmint. You wants a genteel cove like me.’
Luckily, just at this moment one of the new policeman came up and laying a hand on the speaker’s shoulder told him to ‘move on’, upon which both young men ‘dispersed themselves’, as Mr. Charles Seaforth’s Irish servant says. I would willingly have thanked him for his prompt help, but at this moment the obstacle, whatever it was, was removed. I heard some one say in the crowd that it was a poor man fallen down in a faint from hunger, which is very shocking, but others said that it was a horse down, and that its driver had been forced to light some straw under its belly to make it get up. However this may be, our coach was now able to move on. By this time my spirits were so fluttered and exhausted that I had no wish to see any more of the London streets. I was sensible that the coach moved more easily over the pavement of Oxford Street, a fact which my father explained by telling me that the street was now paved with wood, a circumstance which, being a novelty since his younger days, seemed to fill him with rage. At last the coach drew up at the door of 25 Queen Street.
Here a respectable middle-aged person in black, whom I discovered later to be our landlady, Mrs. Bellows, opened the door, and with many curtseys led us to our apartments. We found ourselves in possession of a well-furnished sitting-room on the first floor, looking out into the street, with a dining-room behind it. On the second floor Emily and myself shared the front bedroom, while my father slept at the back, and there was a third bedroom for Ned or any other visitor we might choose to invite. Bevan was to sleep in the mews where the horses were stabled and the coach put up, while Matthews, the footman whom we had brought with us, was comfortably disposed in a closet somewhere under the stairs, and my maid Upton somewhere in the attics.
Candles were quickly lighted and Mrs. Bellows inquired whether we chose to take any refreshment. But as it was by now late and my head ached sadly, I refused, merely begging for a cup of tea. The urn was accordingly brought, and seldom was the sound of the boiling water, hissing from the heater, more grateful, as I revived my flagging spirits with hyson and pekoe. My father had intended to pass the first evening at his club, White’s, but I dissuaded him, alleging the lateness of the hour, though in reality my reason was that he would probably return very late and certainly not in a state of complete sobriety. So ringing for my maid, I betook myself to my bed.
On the following morning I was awoken by the sound of voices below my window. At first I thought I w
as in my own bedroom in Norfolk and that some of the indoor and outdoor servants were indulging in their own form of merriment. As by degrees my senses grew clearer I perceived that I was in a strange bed and all came back to me. The noises must clearly come from the street below, and being naturally of an inquiring disposition I sprang from my bed and hastily throwing a wrapper round me (did a thought of our young Queen on the day of her accession cross my mind at this moment? Reader, it did!) I ran to the window, drew the curtains, and flung up the sash. Below me an individual in a fan-tailed hat and very dirty red-plush smalls was talking over the area railings to a servant girl whom I took to be the kitchen maid, a small wizened sort of creature. As she was directly below me I could not see her features, but her voice was of that peculiar kind which distinguishes the real Cockney.
‘Dustman!’ cried the servant girl, ‘vill you grant me vun pertickler favour?’
The gallant dustman, bending over the area railings, made answer:
‘Vy, yes, ma’am, it’s unpossible to refuse vun of the soft sex, so I’ll consent, pervising as you don’t ask me to do nuffin but vot’s up right and down straight.’
‘I vish I may go to blazes,’ returned the servant, with some spirit, ‘if it ain’t as right as a trivet. Our dusthole ain’t been emptied this week — so all the stuff is running into the sile and stopping up the shore, and it’s gallus hard lines as ve should be obligated to have sich a muck, and missus isn’t on the rampage about it, oh no, not half!’
‘Well, miss, it’s this way, d’ye see,’ answered the dustman. ‘I’m one of them they calls the flying dustmen, and the reg’lar dustmen are all flummoxed and desp’rate ’cos they count as how we takes their reg’lar dust and makes a profit that ought to be going into their pockets. Howsomedever, to oblige a lady, I don’t mind emptying your dusthole, hoping that the reg’lar coves aren’t anywhere on this beat.’
While this conversation was going on I had observed the stealthy approach from the other end of the street of an individual in his shirt sleeves, wearing a dirty white apron. Just as the first speaker was preparing to descend the area steps, the fellow in the apron gave a shrill whistle, at the same time grappling with him. Upon this there appeared round the corner another fellow wearing a full-bottomed fantail hat, breeches of blue plush adorned with mother-of-pearl buttons, red gaiters, and a yellow neckerchief knotted round his neck. He was followed by one of our new Guardians of the Law, who moved in an imposing way, refusing to be hurried in the exercise of his duty.
Seeing that the fellow in the apron was attempting to struggle with the red-plush dustman, the policeman slightly hastened his majestic pace and separating the combatants asked ‘what the game was?’
‘Vy,’ said the personage in blue plush inexpressibles, ‘this here consarn is the wery first hoffence as we’ve been able to conwict this here waggerbone on, but I’ll bet a farden cake as he’s been a-coming this here horspicious game of dust prigging, till us poor cripples vot follows the dusting line is almost total ruinated.’
His complaint was cut short by the policeman, who requested him ‘not to give him a very long story’.
‘Now, my man,’ said he to the red-plush dustman, ‘you stand there, agin the railings and don’t try to give me the slip or I’ll run you in. And now, you two others, what’s this here precious game?’
‘Vy, constable,’ said the blue-plush fellow, ‘ven ve finds these here dust-priggers a-taking away the dust vot is lawfully ours, vy, ve naterally laid awake for the criminal. So vot does my matey do this werry identical morning, but voshes the sut bang off his wisage and claps on a clean vite apron, for to gammon as how he vos a vaiter, or summut of that ’ere sort — and then he plants hisself bang again the corner of the street and keeps a sharp look out for the depredating warmint. Veil, he hadn’t been there more ’an a minnit from this here present moment of time, ven he cotches this here werry hidentical himperent hindiwidual in the howdashioustest himperentest way as nobody never seed, go slap up to the gemman’s dusthole and try to fill his bag-full of the gemman’s stuff, vich should rightly be mine and my mates’. My matey gives me the office, and I bolts out, and he bolts out, and just like vinking ve lays hold of this here werry warmint as stands — Vy, strike me lucky if he ain’t vanished!’
And so, indeed, he had. While the policeman was listening to the blue-breeched dustman’s tale of woe, the red-plush fellow had taken to his heels and was by now well round the corner of the street. The policeman, feeling it below his dignity to run in chase of such a ‘warmint,’ contented himself with going to the corner and looking round, after which he returned to his beat and left the two regular dustmen to lament their injuries. I must have laughed with injudicious loudness at this episode, for the policeman, as he passed under my window, looked up and grinned at me, which so shocked me, being caught looking out of a window in my wrapper, that I hastily slammed down the window and rang the bell for Upton to help me to dress.
Upton when she arrived was in no very good temper, complaining of having been disturbed in her slumbers by creatures of whose existence I had heard, but whose forms I have never, I am glad to say, viewed. I therefore told her to make her complaints to Mrs. Bellows and not to me, and descended to the dining-room for breakfast.
Mrs. Bellows was in attendance to see whether I required anything, so I mentioned to her the occurrence I had just witnessed, and asked her the meaning of it. She then told me that the regular dustmen were much annoyed in their work by the piratical behaviour of unlicensed men, known as ‘flying dustmen,’ who, making themselves acquainted with the houses where the dustholes had not been lately emptied, offer to remove the unpleasant accumulation for the householder, an offer which is gladly accepted; for the servant’s statement about the refuse getting into the sewers, or shores as she called them, was, so my informant told me, perfectly correct.
‘And what we would do, miss, without the flying dustmen, I really couldn’t say,’ added Mrs. Bellows. ‘They are a blessing in disguise, look at it which way you will, and then those police have to come interfering as if this wasn’t a free country.’
I then learned, which surprised me excessively, that the regular dustmen sometimes make vast fortunes out of the refuse that they collect. They carry it away to some piece of waste ground and there go through it for what valuables they may find, selling bones, fat, and such kitchen offal, which always find a ready market (though for what purpose I cannot conceive) and finding purchasers, strange as it may appear, for rags, old paper, and the thousand things that are thrown away in the kitchen. I could not help thinking as I reviewed the scene of the morning and the surprising facts narrated to me by Mrs. Bellows, what a story this would make for Mr. Dickens. He, who is so fond of the oddities of London life and so well portrays low characters, might find excellent material in the life of one of these dustmen who turns refuse to gold.
Mrs. Bellows, I found, was but too ready to gossip on any subject. She said she was housekeeper to a nobleman till her marriage, when she bought this house — from her savings as she says, but I cannot but suspect that the nobleman in question made her a handsome wedding present — and took in lodgers. Queen Street has had more than one householder of doubtful respectability, it appears, in spite of its fashionable situation and the houses of the aristocracy which surround it on every side. Mrs. Bellows had already dropped dark hints about a certain family called Dubochet, who exercised the trade of stocking mending, which have excited my lively curiosity. I must learn more about this family, several of whose members appear to have been intimately acquainted with the most exclusive members of the aristocracy at the time when Mrs. Bellows first came to Queen Street.
Chapter Three — Oxonian And Cantabs
My first and natural impulse was of course to go out and view some of the sights of London, but my father being engaged on business all day, and my own feelings of propriety telling me that though he would be none the wiser if I went out in his absence, I might lose my way
, or be exposed to some such annoyances as I had experienced in the coach on the previous day, I resolved to stay in our lodgings, and Upton still being in the sulks, I employed myself in writing to my dear mother and looking out of the window at the equipages and the passers-by. Mrs. Bellows coming up with some message and finding me thus engaged, asked me whether I were not afraid of catching cold.
‘Indeed, no, Mrs. Bellows,’ said I, ‘the air is warm and nothing can be more pleasant than to see what is happening in the street. Look, for example, at that gentleman, who is now walking up the opposite side of the road. He must be one of the famous dandies!’
Mrs. Bellows approached the window and looked out. The gentleman whom I had pointed out to her appeared to be of about thirty years of age. Though formed in manly mould his face was of an interesting pallor. Black clustering curls escaped from beneath his hat, and his dress was of the highest elegance, from his lavender gloves to his varnished boots. His attention had doubtless been attracted by the sound of our voices, for as he passed in front of the house he looked up. His large and expressive eyes seemed to pierce my very mind, and I thought that a faint sneer of contempt curled his finely chiselled nostril. He then averted his gaze, resumed his saunter, and was presently lost to view.
Coronation Summer Page 3