‘A man indulges his imagination while it is pleasing’, he replied, ‘till at length it overpowers his reason.’ Brushing the crumbs from his mouth he left the room. Was there ever such a man for weighty pronouncements, she wondered, and was obliged to follow him.
Once on the gravel path, he said, ‘There is something of mine in the bottom right-hand drawer of my desk which I wish you to take into your care … it is for your eyes alone. Nor do I wish you to refer to it on my return … or indeed at any other time … not unless I broach the subject.’
‘What is it?’ she asked, but he only entreated her most solemnly to swear she would never divulge his secret, a secret which soon she would share.
‘I give you my word,’ she said, perspiration darkening the armpits of her gown.
Seizing her hand, he covered it with kisses, looking up at her all the time with such distress in his eyes that immediately she forgot how troublesome he was and remembered only in what affection she held him.
When at last he had gone – the groom was sent back twice, once for his wig, and again for the basket of peaches left in the porch – she went into his chamber. A wasp was burrowing into the flesh of an over-ripe fig on his pillow. On his desk lay a single sheet of paper festooned with orange peel.
With difficulty, for his handwriting was disordered, she read – Madmen are all sensual in the lower stages of the distemper … but when they are very ill, pleasure is too weak for them and they seek pain. Beneath this was a space and then a single line of Latin, scored through – De pedicis et manicis insana cogitatio.
Thrusting open the window – the departed occupant of the room held to the notion that fresh air belonged on the outside – she hurled the orange peel into the stifling day, then, half alerted to what she would find, pulled out the bottom drawer.
To Miss Laetitia Hawkins,
2 Sion Row,
Twickenham
Dec. 3rd, 1807
Dear Miss Hawkins,
I am at a loss to know how best to reply to your most recent letter without causing offence. Believe me, my dear Miss Hawkins, I have no wish to incur your displeasure, but it cannot be repeated too often that circumstances surrounding my early life were such that certain events cannot be recalled without grave disturbance of spirits.
For that reason alone I must pass over your first two queries, and supply but a sketchy account of Mrs Salusbury’s supposed sighting of a ghost in the vicinity of the lake at Streatham Park. She had, so I was told, fled into the Park after a disagreement with my mother, and was therefore understandably prone to fancies. Her emphasis on the halo of fire surrounding the apparition was later ascribed by Dr Johnson to a trick of the light, the illusion being caused by the rays of the sun striking the amulet – given him by Queen Anne when he was touched by the scrofula – worn on a chain about his neck. That same night, woken by what I curiously took to be the sound of a violin, I crept down the stairs and was leapt upon by my mother. She, as I afterwards learnt, jealous of my father referring to one of his guests as an orchid of the rarest kind, underwent a storm of the brain and, accusing me of stealing a button from his coat, set about me most roughly.
As you rightly observe, my mother was indeed diligent in regard to the education of her children. The weight of such instruction fell most heavily on myself, my brother Harry being less compliant. I have come to believe that my studious disposition as a child arose not so much from natural curiosity but rather from a fear of the whip.
Dr Johnson often remarked that endeavouring to make children prematurely wise was useless labour. Suppose, he said, that they have more knowledge at five or six years than others of that age? What use can be made of it?
In his own early years he read very hard, and held it was a sad reflection, but a true one, that he knew almost as much at the age of eighteen as he did at fifty. I fear he was right, for it does not seem that I have learnt anything new these last thirty years.
I have no very strong opinions on the character of David Garrick. As a child, the animation shown on his face, and its quick changes of expression, confused me. One was never sure as to his exact feelings. He could make one laugh, but tears were not far behind. I believe that on stage he was considered natural, simple, affecting; it was only when he was off that he was seen to be acting. It was also said that he hated lending Dr Johnson a book, for it was always returned in an unreadable condition, the pages turned down and the print discoloured from the juice of oranges. That he continued in the lending of them says much for his generosity of spirit.
I am sorry to hear of the death of your aunt. Generations, my dear Miss Hawkins, are but like leaves, and we now see the faded leaves falling about us.
I am obliged for your felicitations concerning my forthcoming marriage to Admiral Lord Keith, and remain, for one month more,
Yours sincerely,
H. M. Thrale
I believe I do remember Mr Goldsmith showing me how to play Jack and Jill with two bits of paper stuck to his fingers. Alas, I never liked him, his posturing being so extreme.
1772–3
SWEETING n.f. (from Sweet)
1 A ſweet luſcious apple
2 A word of endearment
Trip no further pretty ſweeting;
Journies end in lovers meeting.
Shakeſpeare’s Twelfth Night
The child ran out into the gardens beyond the stables and, fleeing some way towards the mud banks of the river, whirled round with such vigour that her bonnet flew off. Cross, she wanted to put the world in a spin; if she twirled fast enough she might be rid of the image of her mother, spoon digging into a breakfast egg, the scar, caused by a fall from a horse, reddening above her top lip. When Mamma was in a temper the mark became prominent; sad, it whitened.
For two weeks their departure to Streatham had been delayed. Mamma had promised they would leave at the beginning of June, but only that morning she had announced it was out of the question on account of Sophy having sprouted a boil on her neck.
‘It needs to be lanced,’ she’d said, belly bulging against the table, tongue flickering out to lick the egg yolk from her chin. ‘I’m advised it would be foolish to undertake a journey, however short.’
‘Then I advise you to leave Sophy behind,’ Queeney had retorted, ‘for you have abandoned me often enough,’ and jumping up from her chair had fled the room. She knew she was in the wrong, but it was hard to be polite when Mother thought so little of keeping her word.
For a full month the atmosphere within the house had been discordant. Mamma spent most of her time closeted in the counting offices with Perkins, the chief clerk, or else sitting at her writing desk scribbling notes to Mr Johnson, who was away in Ashbourne staying with Dr Taylor. Not an hour passed without Mamma commenting on how sorely he was missed. She didn’t miss Papa, who hardly ever came home, not even for church on Sundays. New Nurse said he was too busy playing cards and living the gay life.
Outside, though the air still hung heavy with the sour-sweet odour of fermenting grain, the thunderings and clatterings of the yard had stopped, and now, where once a dense head of steam had billowed to the city skies, only a thin scribble of vapour rose from the giant coppers of the Brewhouse. Even Papa’s barges had ceased to move with the tide; empty of merchandise they sat idle upon the black jelly of the Thames.
Dizzy from spinning, Queeney sank to her knees and tugged pettishly at the grass. She did not care for Southwark; there were few trees to climb and the kitten Grandmamma had given her had chewed off its blue ribbon and turned into a wild cat, who now stalked the barley stacks in pursuit of rats. There was no one to play with, not of her own age and interests, and the Italian teacher, Mr Baretti, whom Mr Johnson had found for her, had not yet begun to give her lessons. Mr Baretti had a gruesome past – he’d been had up for murder by a stabbing with a fruit knife after undergoing the provocation of having his testicles tweaked, and had only cheated the hangman through the intercession of Mr Johnson and his friends.
C
urious as to what it would be like to be hanged, she put her hands about her throat and squeezed as hard as she was able. It had little effect, for her chest continued to rise and fall.
Soon, she knew, someone would come in search of her. Found, she would be lectured on insolence, then kissed, then, like as not, slapped. Mamma was contrary in all things. Sometimes Mr Johnson held it was because she had so many things to worry about, at others that she had not enough to occupy her. Once, during some disagreement over the correct treatment for Lucy’s ears, he’d likened her to a rattlesnake – because she hissed so. When I am grown, the child thought, I shall coo like a dove.
Presently, engaged in making little nests out of grass, she heard Muggeridge calling her.
She had been christened Hester, after Mamma, but was always known as Queeney. Mr Johnson, her teacher, often addressed her by another name, one which showed his tender esteem – she was his Sweeting. He’d told her it was an old endearment, one first used when she was but an infant on the crawl.
‘How?’ she had asked, for the past mattered to her. ‘Where … at what time?’
‘On the stairs at Southwark,’ he replied, ‘as a sunbeam pierced the window.’
‘Did I understand?’ she had wanted to know.
‘But, of course, Miss,’ he said. ‘You winked.’
He liked her better than her three sisters, of that she was sure. Lucy was quite ugly and cried incessantly from a discharge of both ears, Susannah was clumsy, and Sophy, in spite of her boil, too young to be of interest. As for little brother Harry, why, he was in fear of Mr Johnson because of the noises he made when deep in thought. Mamma had assured him that such whistles and groans were common to men of intellect, but he had nightmares in which Mr Johnson, hooting like an owl, pursued him down a dark tunnel. Besides, everyone knew it was Harry who, leaping downstairs too boisterously and colliding with Grandmamma, had bumped her into the cancer.
‘Miss Queeney,’ Muggeridge shouted again. He had been employed at the Brewery in her grandfather’s day. When young he had worked in the mill house as a grinder of husks; now old, his nose blue and corrugated, he emptied chamber pots, trimmed candles and trailed children.
At his approach – he was dangling her bonnet by its strings – Queeney cried out imperiously, ‘Go away, I shall come back in my own good time.’ Then, watching his shambling retreat, she remembered Mr Johnson’s observation that no one lowly or lacking in education was ever treated with disrespect except by the truly ignorant. Belatedly, she called out, ‘Please.’ She wasted her breath, for his hearing had gone.
A half-hour later, fully expecting chastisement, she returned to the house to be met by New Nurse, who said that if she would be a good, silent girl the Mistress was prepared to take her across the river to visit Mrs Salusbury.
‘I will be good,’ the child babbled. ‘Very, very good and very, very quiet.’
The rosy prospect of time spent with Mamma free of the younger siblings scratching round her like chicks about a hen filled her with such joy that she stood perfectly still and uttered scarcely a squawk while New Nurse wrenched the tangles from her hair.
It was raining when they drove out of the gates of the Brewery. Such were the potholes in the road on the approach to Pitt Bridge that by the time the toll house was reached the windows of the coach were splattered with mud. Nothing could be seen through the pock-marked glass save for a glimpse of grey river beneath a rind of weeping sky.
Aware that earlier in the day there had been a falling out between Queeney and herself – though for the life of her she couldn’t recall the precise cause – Mrs Thrale endeavoured to engage her in conversation.
‘Mr Johnson’, she said, ‘is thinking of buying you a cabinet in which to store curiosities, such as animal bones and shards of pottery. There is a monkey’s paw, mounted on a base of silver …’ Here, noticing Queeney’s hand peculiarly clamped over her mouth, she anxiously enquired if the girl was afflicted with the toothache. Queeney shook her head, but kept her hand in place.
‘Grandmamma has the paw in safe keeping’, Mrs Thrale continued, ‘and does not care for it. It would look well in a collection … Mr Hogarth gave it me … for sitting still while he painted my portrait.’
She was met with silence, and tried again, this time seeking a considered estimation of young Harry’s intelligence. Queeney’s opinion, in spite of her tender years, was not without weight. Why, when she was but six summers in age, having been tested on the works of Dryden and Pope, no less an authority than the headmaster of Abingdon grammar school had acknowledged that if the examination had been conducted in Latin she would have qualified for a degree from the University of Oxford.
‘To my mind,’ Mrs Thrale prattled on, ‘Harry lacks concentration. His pursuit of knowledge takes second place to his sword fights with the stable boys. You’, she flattered, tapping her daughter’s knee, ‘veered towards books from infancy … though it must be admitted you sometimes tore at the pages.’
Still Queeney uttered not a word. Mrs Thrale’s heart fairly thundered in her breast. Heaven help me, she thought, I am intimidated by my own child.
She said, ‘It’s as well we are not at Streatham Park. I am informed that the dust rising from the building of Papa’s library would silt up one’s lungs. The feathers of my bantams are turned grey and the goat is heard sneezing.’
Eyes like winter glass, Queeney stared straight ahead.
Losing patience, Mrs Thrale tugged away the hand covering the girl’s mouth, and, after administering a spiteful squeeze to the fingers, kept silent for the remainder of the journey.
Their progress to Dean Street was hampered by the number of troops patrolling the streets in response to an alleged Jacobite plot involving the Bishop of Rochester. Twice the carriage was halted, once by a fresh-faced upholder of law and order – his mouth was damson coloured and his manner offensive – and next by a ruffian with a patch over his eye. Of the two, Mrs Thrale was inclined to think the latter more human, for, pulling open the carriage door and observing Queeney, hand yet again guarding her mouth, One-eye had promptly stepped back and ordered the coach to roll on.
Mrs Salusbury’s house had a front garden surrounded by paling. The border flowers, foxgloves and the like, were sadly neglected, and cow-parsley ran riot. In the window boxes, primroses wilted.
Entering, Mrs Thrale found her mother lying on a couch in the downstairs room, the dog, Belle, enthroned on a silk cushion, curled across her feet.
Mrs Salusbury claimed that though poorly she was not in pain. ‘It is one of my good days,’ she asserted, albeit in a weary tone of voice.
Distressed, Mrs Thrale pulled the bell for the housekeeper. The room was cold due to the fire having sunk to embers. When her summons was answered, she ordered the scuttle to be filled with coals and that a basin of warm water be fetched; the corners of Mrs Salusbury’s lips were encrusted with spittle.
Queeney stood at the window, face pressed into the curtain. Last year Old Nurse had given up the ghost, along with Didcot, the under-gardener, and a kitchen maid who had purged herself too strenuously in an effort to do away with an unwanted child.
Mamma had taken her to see Old Nurse in her wait to be transported to the grave, lying in her burial shroud in high summer on a trestle table in the storeroom at Streatham Park, a bluebottle spiralling above the black wart on her chin. Breath stopped, Old Nurse was but an empty vessel, cracked in places like the broken vase that nudged the scant hair on her shrunken skull. Past mending, Mamma had murmured, though she was referring to the pot rather than Old Nurse.
‘Kiss Grandmamma,’ Mrs Thrale urged. Reluctantly, the child approached and pecked the air above the sick woman’s cheek; then, falling to her knees and seizing the dog in her arms, she smothered its snout in kisses. Belle smelt sweeter than Grandmamma, whose odour was that of death.
There followed a conversation between the two women concerning bank loans and chemical liquids. According to Mrs Thrale, Mr Perki
ns had behaved in a most exemplary manner, instructing the men to stop work until matters were taken out of Mr Thrale’s hands entirely. It was Mr Johnson’s considered opinion that but for Perkins’s prompt grasp of the situation they would all be facing ruin. Things were bad enough, but at least the ludicrous attempt to brew beer without the addition of either malt or hops had been brought to a halt:
‘Such a foolish enterprise,’ sighed Mrs Salusbury. ‘One wonders what possessed Mr Thrale to go along with such a notion.’
‘Perkins has also insisted on the immediate sale of the land in East Smithfield purchased for the benefit of that wretch Humphrey Jackson and his costly experiments—’
‘I never cared for him,’ Mrs Salusbury said. ‘His wife was an exceedingly vacuous woman.’
‘Indeed she was,’ agreed Mrs Thrale. ‘Had Perkins or I been consulted we would have argued from the start that the preserving of bottoms by such means was doomed to failure—’
She was interrupted by Queeney, overcome by giggles. Exasperated, yet pleased the child was in a less sullen mood, she said, ‘The bottoms I am referring to, Miss, are those of ships attacked by worm … and it is scarcely a laughing matter, for the scheme has brought your deluded father to the edge of bankruptcy.’
Still Queeney snorted.
‘I would have thought’, her mother said, ‘that you, more than most, would not find worms a fit subject for mirth.’
Mortified at the mention of her affliction, the child turned scarlet. Dr Sutton held she got too close to animals and that she should not let the goat eat from her hand or the cat lap from her cup, but what did he know? Whenever Mamma caught her squirming on her chair she dosed her with senna, which only succeeded in giving her an unpleasant taste in the mouth and a looseness of the bowel. When I am grown, she thought, I shall see-saw as much as I like.
At that moment there came a knocking at the street door, and shortly Miss Reynolds was shown in. Amid the exclamations of surprise and delight, the kissing and exchanging of compliments – a trifle forced on Mrs Thrale’s part, owing to the food stains on her mother’s gown and the dull aspect of the furniture – no one noticed Queeney sidling into the hall.
According to Queeney Page 5