Miss Reynolds was in some agitation, her carriage having being surrounded by a mob on its way to the Tower of London to protest against the arrest of George Kelly. Did Mrs Thrale know Mr Kelly, secretary to the unfortunate Bishop of Rochester? He was a popular man afflicted with a frightful irritation of the skin … talking to him was unnerving because of his constant scratching. The cuffs of his shirt were often speckled with blood. She had met him when he had accompanied the Bishop to her brother’s studio in Leicester Fields. Joshua had abandoned the sittings because he too had begun to suffer from an itch and feared for his hands.
‘My coach was stopped too,’ said Mrs Thrale. ‘Fortunately the presence of Queeney secured our safe passage.’
Mrs Salusbury falling into a doze, Miss Reynolds confided it was her third visit to the house in as many days. As she informed Mrs Thrale, with much hesitation and alteration of words, she had grown alarmed … worried … by the behaviour … attitude of the housekeeper, Mrs Mountjoy … and the signs of neglect … lack of care … shown to Mrs Salusbury.
‘I see it, I see it,’ moaned Mrs Thrale, pounding the back of the sofa on which her mother lay and watching the rise and fall of the dust.
Eyeing Mrs Thrale’s monstrous belly, the well-meaning Miss Reynolds assured her she was in no way to blame. ‘What with the problems of the Brewery,’ she murmured, ‘and your present condition—’
‘There is nothing of more importance than the happiness of my mother,’ cried Mrs Thrale. ‘It is my intention to take her to Streatham as soon as the business with the bank is settled. Please be so good as to sit with her while I speak my mind to Mrs Mountjoy.’
She had no sooner quit the room than Mrs Salusbury woke; struggling into a sitting position, she said, ‘Hester means it kindly, but Mrs Mountjoy and I understand one another. We are both past the age at which the shine on a table can bring ease to an ailing body.’
How right she is, thought Miss Reynolds. The pain of existence could not be removed with a dusting cloth.
Having let herself out into the street, Queeney had no clear idea of where she wanted to go, save it should be as far away as possible from Mamma, who had so cruelly taunted her on the subject of worms. Though the rain had stopped, the thoroughfare was pitted with puddles and in no time at all the yellow fabric of her shoes had turned the colour of mustard.
She had been to Dean Street many times, but not for some months, and was astonished at the number of old houses half pulled down and new ones half built up. There were ladders everywhere, and carts full of bricks, and on what had once been the pampered grass of the bowling green a boy was selling flat fish from a stall anchored in mud. At Number 29 the branches of the mulberry tree, snapped by a fallen scaffold, hung in dripping rags. As for the windows of Sir James Thornhill’s elegant house, why, they were quite clouded over and, peer as she might, the parrot with the blue legs was no longer visible on its perch behind the glass.
Mamma had taken her to visit Lady Thornhill one morning in summer. She remembered the occasion because Papa, some days before, had given her an amber necklace, the very same which now lay upon the black lace mantle she wore about her shoulders.
When shown into Lady Thornhill’s drawing room, the parrot had rocked along its perch and squawked out she was a pretty girl. It had been caught in a jungle place in Brazil by a traveller paid to fetch exotic creatures for John Hunter, the medical man who, curious as to what constituted life, was forever anatomising them into death. Even he had admired the fiery plumage of the bird and, laying aside his dissecting knife, allowed Sir James to buy it from him.
Other visitors had tried to get the parrot to talk, but it had opened its beak only for Queeney. This, she reasoned, was on account of her not joining in the general pestering; she herself grew stubborn when put on show. Mamma, of course, had swelled with pride at its croaking declaration of regard, which only proved how ignorant she was, seeing Mr Johnson held that birds saw only colours, not faces.
She was crossing Compton Lane when the rain fell once more. Had she not been wearing her straw bonnet with the scarlet ribbons she would have retraced her steps and returned to Dean Street; the bonnet was new and Mamma would be displeased if it grew sodden. Sighting the arched doorway of St Anne’s, she hurried to find shelter.
The interior of the church was dark, owing to brick dust powdering the windows. A dozen candles did little to disperse the gloom and at first Queeney thought she was alone. She didn’t venture in too far, both on account of the darkness and because often such places gave shelter to poor people stricken with disease who had nowhere else to go. Once, taken by Papa to St George’s church, she had witnessed an old man, crazy with the fever, attempting to climb on to the marble lap of a sea captain swooning in the arms of an angel. Too weak to reach his goal, he had slid off and hit his head on the stone step below. Papa said the old man would be taken to a hospital and made well, but she had seen how motionless he lay, chest no longer rising beneath his tattered shirt, and that pool of blood, cherryred, spreading between the angel’s toes.
When she had confided the happening to Mr Johnson, enquiring whether it was not wrong of Papa to tell untruths, he said he had come, late in years and against former prejudices, to believe that it was a father’s duty to shield his children from the horrors of life. Man, he told her, keeps the prospect of death forever in his thoughts, but is comforted by the hope of some future state. In this he differs from the brute, for whom hope is absent and who endeavours to avoid death instinctively, without ever knowing what it really is. ‘Without a knowledge of hope’, he concluded mysteriously, ‘sorrow is unknown. Papa did right to protect you, for the miseries of existence will crowd upon you soon enough.’ After which dismal lecture, dashing his sleeve against the water that threatened to spill from his eyes, he had challenged Harry to a barefoot race across the grass.
She had taken scant notice of his words, it being her experience that even when the sun was a golden orb in the heavens and birdsong girdled the Park, old people took a bleak and melancholy view of the world.
Becoming accustomed to the dim light, she became aware of a figure seated further down the nave, crouched small and still. Dead, she thought, struck down by Providence, at which moment it rose upright and, stepping from the pew, skipped with outspread arms towards the altar. She took the figure to be that of a boy, for its hair was cropped, but when it spun round at the rail and began a jigging return she saw it was a girl, not above ten years of age, her face round as the moon and vacant of expression. One eye was set lower than the other, and as she advanced up the aisle her open mouth emitted gurgling noises, as though she sucked from a cup that could never be emptied.
Queeney wanted to run, yet her legs refused to obey; nor could she avert her gaze from that lopsided countenance. She knew it was ignorant to stare so, but something within her had locked fast and her head wouldn’t shift. I am a pillar of salt, she thought, a pillar of marble … and now she and the idiot were level. From somewhere outside she heard the sound of hammer blows, and at that instant the amber necklace was plucked from her throat. Clutched in that fierce grip the circlet came away entire, then, as the creature put its fist to its mouth as though ready to munch on an apple, the string broke; beads popped from those clenched fingers and bounced like pips upon the stone flags of the porch.
For what seemed an age, heart pounding, Queeney waited in the shadow of the church door. Her fright was occasioned by what Mamma would say when her absence was discovered rather than by her encounter with the lunatic. She made no attempt to pick up the scattered remains of the necklace, and instead thought frantically of how best she might deflect her mother’s anger. Perhaps she could relate, in a dull voice – as though her wits had gone – how, driven from the house by Grandmamma’s sickly aspect, she had crossed the street to wave to her friend the parrot … just as the mob had surged round the corner. Distracted, she had fled in the opposite direction. If she kept her face free of expression, similar to t
hat of the idiot dancing through the church, surely Mamma would quite pass over the matter of the lost necklace and instead spill tears of joy at her safe return.
Full of resolve and practising in her head the persuasive words she would employ, Queeney hurried back to Dean Street, and was standing on tiptoe reaching for Mrs Salusbury’s rapper when the door opened and Mrs Thrale, noticeably animated, swept out.
‘Make haste,’ she ordered. ‘Miss Reynolds tells me Mr Johnson returned last night from Ashbourne.’ Propelling her daughter before her, she leapt with such vigour down the path that her skirt beheaded a foxglove lolling beside the wicket gate.
Mr Johnson lived in Johnson’s Court, off Fleet Street, but a short distance from the house in Gough Square in which he had laboured over his Dictionary.
Mrs Desmoulins opened the door to Mrs Thrale and kept her on the step. She said Mr Johnson was away again, at which moment Mrs Williams, recognising the voice, cried out that Mrs Thrale was most welcome and ushered her into the hall. Mr Johnson was indeed not at home, having gone to his bookseller, but he would be back within the hour; Mr Goldsmith and Sir John Hawkins were already waiting on him in the parlour. Smirking, Queeney trailed behind her mother.
Mrs Thrale tolerated John Hawkins and thought Oliver Goldsmith clever and absurd by turns. Hawkins was dry and reserved, Goldsmith showy. Both men inhabited the room according to their character, the former remaining rigidly upright, stiff as the sofa he perched upon, the latter posturing at the fireplace, breeches strained across his nether parts.
It was in Mrs Thrale’s nature to put a company at ease, for she could not abide an atmosphere. Within minutes she had softened John Hawkins by kissing him on both cheeks and assuring him of the delight felt by his friends at the recent knighthood conferred upon him by the King. She was not being false; though a bore, Hawkins was an honest magistrate and a musical man to boot. As for Goldsmith, she coaxed him out of his affectations by appealing to his droll sense of humour. In no time all three laughed a great deal and imagined themselves the best of friends.
Mrs Desmoulins, seated in a corner of the room and saddled with the child, could not take her eyes from Mrs Thrale. The woman’s wit and intelligence, so often remarked upon by Mr Johnson, were not strikingly evident, for her conversation consisted entirely of gossip. Speaking of Joshua Reynolds, whose unfortunate sister she said she had been with earlier that morning, she brought up the perishable nature of the colours it was rumoured the artist used, and quoted an epigram told her by Arthur Murphy.
The art of painting was at first designed
To bring the dead, our ancestors, to mind,
But this same painter has reversed the plan
And made the portrait die before the man.
The gentlemen applauded, which Mrs Desmoulins considered cruel, seeing both had been the recipients of Sir Joshua’s famed hospitality. Nor did she think Mrs Thrale good-looking, her complexion being far from clear, her eyelashes sparse and her upper lip adorned with a scar. And yet … and yet, there was no denying she possessed a certain winning intensity of manner capable of seducing the onlooker. Sir John and Mr Goldsmith, wearing foolish smiles, could fairly be described as spellbound. Mrs Desmoulins felt her own mouth curving upwards, and despised herself for it.
Soon Mrs Williams ushered in Frank Barber carrying the tea urn. Queeney didn’t care for Mrs Williams, who, dressed in a scarlet gown fashionable in a previous age and wearing a lace cap showing two stiffened wings of hair at the temples, appeared old and pale and shrunken. It wasn’t nice being stared at by someone who couldn’t see; it made Queeney feel as though she herself had disappeared.
She had never encountered Frank Barber before, though she knew he was servant to Mr Johnson. He had come on errands to Southwark many times, but always at night, which made him difficult to be seen from the nursery window. As a child, at Mr Johnson’s expense, he had been educated at a school in Bishop’s Stortford. He hadn’t proved to be clever, but Mr Johnson loved him all the same. When he let go of the tray she saw the palms of his hands were the colour of her damp shoes.
Just as Barber was leaving the room, a fearful scream rang out from below stairs. Sir John, guiding Mrs Williams to a chair, jerked in alarm. ‘It signifies nothing,’ Mrs Williams said. ‘It is only Poll Carmichael.’ She gave no further explanation and commenced to pour out the tea, the tip of her little finger dipping into each dish to ascertain the level of the liquid.
Mrs Desmoulins made an effort to be cordial to the child, Queeney, whom Mr Johnson spoke of as a prodigy. The little Miss was very much the offspring of her mother, being both plain and mightily assured in spite of her limp bonnet with its bedraggled ribbons. When addressed she responded politely enough, but her eyes were mocking. On being asked if she had enjoyed her visit to town, she said, ‘Very much, thank you. Grandmamma is soon to die, but I am prepared for it.’
Presently Mr Johnson returned. He came in clutching a twist of bloodstained newspaper. On Mr Goldsmith observing it was a strange parcel to bring back from a bookseller, he said his errand had been concerned with victuals for his cat; he did not wish Frank Barber to demean himself scurrying about on behalf of a quadruped. Mrs Williams, chin in the air as though scenting smoke, told Mrs Desmoulins to take the entrails down to the scullery.
Mr Johnson fussed over Queeney, patting her hand and expressing the hope he found her well, before turning to his other guests. He embraced first Goldsmith, then Hawkins, after which, without looking directly at her, he bowed to Mrs Thrale. Queeney, watching her mother, noticed how pale she became and how she played with her gloves, first crumpling the fingers, then smoothing.
Mr Johnson’s conversation had to do with the hospitality he had enjoyed at Dr Taylor’s, who had once been his schoolfellow at Lichfield. Dr Taylor had deer in his paddock, pheasants in his menagerie, the largest horned cattle in England and possibly the biggest bull in the world.
‘He is, by all accounts, a man of eccentric habits,’ Sir John said. ‘Proceedings in Chancery found his moral character not entirely consistent with his profession.’
‘Pff!’ Johnson snorted. ‘I take him as I find him, and like what I find, though it is true, Sir, that he and I disagree on most subjects.’
‘How can that be?’ asked Goldsmith. ‘One cannot form a true friendship with someone who has likings and aversions dissimilar to one’s own.’
‘It would be difficult—’ began Mrs Thrale.
‘Why, Sir, it is simple,’ scoffed Johnson. ‘You must shun the subject on which you disagree. For instance, I can mix well enough with Burke …’
‘He is indeed an extraordinary man,’ put in Mrs Thrale, and was again cut short.
‘… for I love his knowledge, his genius, his diffusion of conversation, but I would not talk to him of the Rockingham party.’
‘When people disagree on matters not to be mentioned,’ argued Goldsmith, ‘they will surely arrive at that situation in the story of Bluebeard, You may look into all the chambers but one.’
‘I am not saying that you could live in friendship with a man from whom you differ as to some point,’ shouted Johnson, ‘I am saying only that I could do it.’
‘Will anyone take more tea?’ asked Mrs Williams, and received no reply, not even from Mr Johnson, who had been known to drink fourteen cups at a sitting.
After some moments of silence, Mrs Thrale remarked, ‘Your stay with Dr Taylor does not seem to have rested you, Sir.’
‘Madam,’ he retorted, ‘it was not rest I sought, simply diversion, and was not disappointed. Dr Taylor’s generosity far exceeds that of any one I know.’
Queeney was startled at this implied criticism and even more surprised at its effect on her mother. Far from appearing crushed by such rudeness, she ceased fiddling with her gloves and gazed at him with the utmost composure, and now it was he who seemed unsure of himself; turning away, he gave a bellow of laughter, of the sardonic sort, and banged his fist repeatedly against his breast.
Before he departed, Goldsmith stuck two bits of paper on to his thumbs and waggled them about for the benefit of Queeney. She giggled her appreciation, but was not diverted, being of the opinion that a game of Jack and Jill was best suited to those still in the nursery. Also, she did not like sitting next to a man whose parts bulged so obtrusively.
When the playwright had left, Sir John Hawkins said, ‘He is a great one for argument.’
Mr Johnson said, ‘Goldy talks so much merely lest one should forget he is of the company.’
‘For my part,’ countered Sir John, ‘I like well to hear him talk away carelessly.’
‘Why yes, Sir,’ Mr Johnson agreed, ‘but he should not like to hear it himself.’
When Sir John too had taken his leave, Mrs Thrale pressed Mrs Williams to take Queeney to seek out the cat. ‘She is very fond of cats,’ she enthused. ‘She has one in Southwark and three at Streatham Park.’
‘I prefer dogs to cats,’ Queeney said. ‘They are less independent and do not grow up so fast.’ She did not want to go off alone with old Mrs Williams, who was possibly a witch, but she could tell Mamma wanted her out of the way. She had the curious conceit that there was no ceiling to the room, and above that no roof to the house, and that she sat beneath a sky whose whirling clouds constantly changed shape. Mr Johnson stood at the fireplace, head swinging from side to side as though trying to clear his mind; Mamma was smiling. Neither spoke, yet thoughts passed between them. On the floor, like fairy footsteps, Mr Goldsmith’s bits of paper pointed to the door. Defeated, Queeney rose from her chair and reluctantly followed Mrs Williams into the hall.
The stairs to the basement were narrow and twisted. Mrs Williams descended the steps sideways, one hand stretched out, gown whispering as it brushed the wall. Mrs Desmoulins was in the kitchen below, seated at a table opposite Frank Barber, who was scraping mud from a pair of boots, a lit candle at his elbow. In the fireplace corner an old man crouched coughing on a three-legged stool.
According to Queeney Page 6