Tuppenny Times

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘My dear wife,’ William Henry had written. ‘I write this to you, not, you must believe me, with the purpose of causing you distress, for that is a sin I would never willingly commit, but so that you may be informed of those things that are needful to be done, in any eventuality. For I must confess I am not at all sanguine about a happy outcome to this trip abroad. Mr Tewson, of Lothbury in the City of London, is both my banker and executor, who will, I feel sure, give you such help and advice as are needful. Would it did not behove me to consider such things.

  ‘Howsomever, my dear little wife, I would earnestly entreat you to betake yourself with all speed to Ippark, which is my family seat, as you know, and there to cast yourself and our three dear children upon the mercy of my mother and my father, Sir Joseph and Lady Easter, who will, I am sure, be certain to sustain and support you. How could they do otherwise? I have given them great sorrow, I fear, and have been a most unworthy son, but they are good Christian souls and mindful of their family obligations.

  ‘Dearest Nan, my dear little wife, I have loved you most dearly these six years, and I am most sensible of the benefits to me of your dear affection and your tender care of our three dear children. If you read this, I fear we shall only meet again in Heaven, which is a most profound sadness for me to contemplate. I can write no further. Hie you to Mr Tewson. He is a goodly man.

  This with my fondest love, William Henry Easter.’

  ‘Ho, Mrs William-dear, don’t you go a-crying,’ Mrs Dibkins said, gratified and distressed by her mistress’s tightly closed eyes. ‘He was a good man. We all got that to be thankful for.’ But Nan wasn’t crying. She had no more tears left to shed.

  ‘He was, Mrs Dibkins. A very good man.’ Oh how was it that she hadn’t noticed his goodness? She’d been so careless, pushing him away and making him wait for the smallest favours. And now he called her his dearest wife, and sent her his fondest love. From the grave.

  She rubbed her eyes with brick harsh fingers, wiping away her weakness. ‘Come now, Mrs Dibkins,’ she said, ‘there’s work to be done. He wouldn’t want us to waste our time, howsomever we might be feeling, that I do know.’

  ‘A dear, good man,’ Mrs Dibkins said. ‘I’ll fill the copper, Mrs William-dear, shall I? A dear, good man.’

  But not a very provident one, as Nan discovered after another week of nightmares, when her mourning clothes had been sewn and her cloak dyed, and suitably clad, she went to Lothbury to call on Mr Tewson.

  Mr Tewson wore a blond wig which was so ridiculously artificial that it made her want to giggle, and beneath it, a professionally caring expression which was so condescendingly artificial that it made her want to provoke him, but he produced a file full of papers that had been left by Mr Easter and assured her that of course she would inherit, as next of kin and with children well under age. ‘A straightforward case, my dear Mrs Easter,’ he said unctuously. ‘We must be thankful for such small mercies as the Good Lord sees fit in His wisdom to …’

  ‘How much?’ Nan said.

  ‘A comfortable income I feel sure, dear lady.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Well as to that ’twould take a little while to ascertain, as I am sure you appreciate.’

  ‘Then take a little while, Mr Tewson, pray do.’

  He was disconcerted by such bluntness. ‘I will write to you with all details in a day or two, ma’am.’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Now.’

  So although he shook his head as if in vague remonstrance at such an unseemly request, another file was sent for and figures consulted and finally he steeled himself to divulge the total amount of her inheritance. It was two hundred and eighteen pounds, seven shillings and sevenpence farthing.

  The sum didn’t please her. ‘Is that all? He had a deal more than that when we married.’

  ‘Your husband sold his holding in the sugar company, as I daresay you know, ma’am, and he has – er – had been rather eating into his capital of late, Mrs Easter. But this is a fair inheritance, given all considerations. With careful management and sensible economy you should be able to live in modest comfort.’

  She snorted. ‘Time that money was put to work,’ she said.

  ‘It is doing very well in two per cent Consuls, ma’am, which are the most dependable shares upon the Stock Market, as I am sure you appreciate. In any case this is hardly the sort of sum to warrant other investment,’ he said, too smoothly, his eyes disparaging her presumption. ‘If you will take my advice …’

  ‘I shall give it thought,’ she said. ‘And now good afternoon to ’ee.’

  He might have been a good man but he frittered that money away, she thought sadly as she walked down Grace-church Street towards the Thames. Still, at least I knows what I got. That’s something. And there’s still them ol’ Easters to visit. Not that she had any real hope of help from that quarter.

  Nevertheless, she wrote a letter to her father-in-law that afternoon, informing him as politely as she could that his son was dead, and that she would like to come and see them, ‘since that was your son’s request, as revealed to me in a letter which I will show you should you wish.’ And three days later a letter arrived from Ippark, written in a wavering hand, flamboyantly sealed and giving her permission ‘to attend us on Monday, at three in the afternoon.’

  ‘Nothing venture, nothing gain,’ she said to Bessie, as the two of them washed the children and dressed them in their new mourning clothes ready for the journey.

  ‘Where we going?’ Annie said.

  ‘To see your grandpa and your grandma, and ride on a coach. You’ll like that, won’t you?’ Nan reassured her, for the child was looking doubtful. ‘Now stand you still while I brush your hair. We all got to look our best.’

  ‘Wish you luck, mum,’ Bessie said. ‘Here’s the basket with baby’s two titty-bottles. One thing, the milk won’t go off in this cold. They might let yer warm it when you gets there. ’E don’t like it cold. You ’ave ter take the chill off. Oh lor, I hope ’e ain’t sick, mum. There’s a nice thick cloth on the top in case. An’ their night gowns. An’ three sugar sticks. One each. An’ a little bottle of laudanum, if the worst come ter the worst an’ ’e won’t settle. Oh lor, I hope it all goes off all-a-right.’

  ‘Don’t you go worrying, Bessie,’ Nan said, ‘He’s much better behaved these days. ‘He won’t play tricks with me.’

  He screamed and flung himself about all the way to Petersfield, refusing his bottle and finally being sick all down his sister’s new black cape. At the Black Horse she booked a room for the night, and the landlady provided a dull meal for the children and warmed the baby’s milk for her. By now she was so distraught she added two drops of laudanum to the mixture before she made another attempt to urge it down his throat. After that the combination of drug and exhaustion finally silenced him. She wound him tightly in his shawl, bundled him in a blanket and packed him in the basket. Then she swung the basket across her shoulders, took her two apprehensive toddlers by the hand and set off to walk the three miles to Ippark.

  It was farther than she thought and took longer than she’d planned, for Annie and Billy walked slowly over the uneven tracks. By the time they turned in at the lodge gates and there was a gravel path under their aching feet, they were all cold and tired and sorry for themselves.

  The great square house was overpowering, such a military red against the meek pallor of the sky, such aggrandisement after the unassuming modesty of Cheyne Row; the home of people born to rule. She felt quite put down by it, but she put on a brave face and marched up the front steps chin in the air. ‘This is where your papa lived,’ she told the children. ‘You got every right to be here.’

  But they clung to her skirts in their nervousness, and gazed up open-mouthed at the imposing personage who had condescended to open the door. Which was hardly surprising seeing it was a butler in old-fashioned livery, curled wig and all.

  ‘Yerse?’ he said and the disdain and superiority he managed to conv
ey in that one slurred syllable was truly remarkable.

  But Nan was more than equal to him. ‘Mrs William Easter and children,’ she said coolly, ‘come to visit her mother and father-in-law, Sir Joseph and Lady Easter.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ the apparition conceded. ‘Follow me, if you please.’ And he stood aside to allow them to enter the hall and then led them through an ornate door into a room so huge and so dazzlingly gold and white it felt as though it had been especially designed to overpower them. The sight of it annoyed Nan so much that she scowled despite herself, lifting that stubborn chin.

  ‘If you would care to wait,’ he said, giving the sick stains on her cloak one last disparaging glance.

  She couldn’t bring herself to answer him, and was annoyed that Annie and Billy were still gazing at him open-mouthed with awe. ‘Shut your mouth up, Billy,’ she warned her son as soon as the butler was out of earshot.

  ‘Are we to sit down, Mama?’ Annie wanted to know.

  The chairs were upholstered in white damask. That’ud mark soon as look at it, she thought. ‘Better not,’ she said. ‘He won’t be long, you’ll see.’

  He was more than a quarter of an hour, and the room got bigger and more impressive by the minute. There was so much light there and so many reflections, she didn’t know where to look. She would have liked to ease that heavy basket from her shoulders and set it down on the carpet, but the carpet was the most delicate of tapestries, all pale blue and gold, and she was afraid she might make it dirty. She would have liked to sit beside the great fire blazing in the hearth at the far end of the room, but that would have meant trailing all across the carpet too and their feet were wet with walking. So she stood on the polished surround with her children beside her, where the butler had left them, and tried to avoid the reflection of their black unsuitability in the long pier glasses between the windows. Outside the central window, white stone steps lead down to a shaven lawn, and beyond the lawn the green fields spread and spread. Such limitless land, she thought, wondering whether it all belonged to the family, and knowing that that was what she was supposed to wonder. What a mercy Johnnie was still asleep.

  But eventually the butler reappeared and led them through the room, being ostentatiously careful to keep them off the carpet. They passed through yet another door into yet more splendour.

  Where the first room had been like sunshine, all gold and white lucidity, this one was heavy with all the colours of fire. The walls were covered with thick crimson paper patterned with leaves and flowers, two ornate pier glasses filled the space between the tall windows with reflected colour and convolutions of gilt, the ceiling was heavy with a bas-relief of golden vines dropping clusters of purple grapes, and dangling low from the central rose was a chandelier that was bigger than she was, containing more candles than she could count and dropping lustres like fat tears to catch the sunlight streaming in from the south-west window. And sitting beside the fire in red damask chairs padded with cushions were a very old gendeman and an even older lady, two of the oldest and oddest people she had ever seen.

  They were both dressed in the old court style that must have gone out of date at least thirty years ago, the gentleman in a full-bottomed grey wig, and a long brown satin coat set with buttons from neck to hem, and damask breeches unbuttoned to release his belly and ribboned at the knee, the lady with a high pink wig piled above her face and a wide gown of embroidered silk ruched on either side of her pink petticoat, propped erect by her long stays and a rigid yellow stomacher. He was red in the face and fast asleep, she was powdered white as flour and very wide awake.

  The butler smoothed himself out of the room, and the lady turned a nose as sharp as a quill and looked at her visitors. Her eyes were dark grey and piercingly shrewd in the white mask of her face. She had called this wretched servant gel to Ippark to put her in her place once and for all, and it pleased her to think how easily it could be done.

  ‘Yes,’ she said abruptly. ‘What is it you want, eh?’

  ‘If you please, ma’am,’ Nan said, startled into servility by the old lady’s attack, ‘your son instructed that we was to visit you. Your son, Mr William Henry Easter.’

  ‘Tomfoolery!’ the old lady said. ‘Why on earth should he imagine we would wish to see you? Always was a fool.’

  ‘What’s’ at?’ the old gentleman barked, waking with a jolt that shook all three folds of his belly.

  ‘William Henry. Said he was a fool.’

  ‘Qui’ right,’ her husband agreed. ‘Good seat on a hoss though, damme.’

  ‘That was Joseph.’

  ‘Qui’ right,’ grunting back to sleep again.

  ‘Died in France you said?’ milady asked, gimletting back to her visitors. ‘Don’t surprise me. Always was a weakling. What did he die of?’

  Nan straightened her spine in fury. ‘He died in Paris,’ she said with some pride, ‘pertecting a young woman and her child. They was – were being attacked by the sans culottes.’

  ‘Humph!’ his mother said. ‘An ungodly city. What was he thinking of to visit such a place?’

  ‘He asked me to come here,’ Nan said, firmly steering the conversation back to its original direction, ‘to show you his children. Your grandchildren.’ And she gave the two toddlers a push so that they had to step forward in front of her. ‘This is Ann, the eldest, she’s three and a half. Make your curtsey Annie. And this is William, who is nearly two. And this,’ swinging the basket from her shoulders and setting it down before the fire, ‘this is John Henry, who is but seven months old, and a mite young to be an orphan, I should say.’

  Milady gave them a perfunctory stare. ‘’Tis all one to me,’ she said.

  ‘Your grandchildren,’ Nan insisted, glaring at her. ‘En’t you got no care for your very own grandchildren?’

  ‘La, child, I have thirteen grandchildren. What are three more, or less? Of no account I tell ’ee. There are grandsons a-plenty to further the line. Be off with ’ee. Beggars ain’t welcome.’ The quill-sharp nose turned towards the fire, and now Nan could see that in profile the long nose and upward tilting chin were little more than an inch apart, and she thought of Mr Punch throwing the baby downstairs and screeching, ‘That’s the way to do it!’ and her anger rose against this callous ugly creature sitting before her and she stamped forward, to tell her what she thought of her, lady or no.

  ‘The meanest ol’ pole-cat look after her young, let me tell ’ee. There en’t a crittur alive what ’ud turn their own young away. Not one crittur. You ought to be ashamed, so you ought. I don’t wonder them ol’ sans culottes went killing the gentry. Hard hearts make hard hands, or en’t you never heard that?’

  Milady was unmoved by the outburst. First she raised the white skin that would have been her eyebrows had they not all fallen out long ago. Then she pulled the bell rope.

  ‘And don’t you go thinkin’ you’ve heard the last,’ Nan roared on, ‘because you en’t. You ought to be ashamed, and so you will be one of these days, make sure on it. I never imagined for one minute that such as you would help such as us. No I never. Not for one minute. We shall help ourselves, that’s what.’ The butler had arrived and was walking across the room towards them. ‘And one day, I shall come back to this place, and buy you all out, that’s what. You just see if I don’t.’

  ‘This person,’ milady said to the butler, ‘is leaving.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Nan said, swinging the basket onto her shoulders again and taking the two children firmly by the hand, ‘I’m leaving. And I’ll be back!’

  ‘What’s’ at?’ Sir Joseph said. ‘Tea is it?’

  Nan was still hot with fury when the front door slammed behind her. ‘Come you on,’ she said to her children. ‘We’ll show them dratted Easters a thing or two!’

  ‘I’s tired,’ Billy complained as she hauled him down the steps.

  ‘Are we going ’nother long walk?’ Annie said, wearied just to think of it.

  ‘It won’t seem so far this time, you’ll see,�
�� their mother told them briskly. ‘Sooner we start, sooner we’re there.’ And she pulled them along the path towards the laurels.

  And a face appeared from among the dark leaves and hissed at them. ‘Psst! Psst! Mrs William! Round by this way if ’ee don’t mind, ma’am.’

  It looked a friendly face, if a little anxious, and there was something about it that seemed familiar, so they left the path and tip-toed round the laurel to see what it wanted.

  ‘Name a’ Dibkins, ma’am, brother to Mr William’s man at Chelsea. I got the pony an’ trap a-waitin’ for ’ee, if you’ll jest come this way. They don’t know. I done it off me own back.’

  ‘We’re much obliged, Mr Dibkins.’

  ‘Can’t have our Mr William’s little uns a-traipsin’ all them rough roads this time a’ day, with darkness comin’ on an’ all. Petersfield, was it, ma’am?’

  The trap was waiting for them in the stable yard, with two thick blankets to tuck about their knees and waterproofs to cover their shoulders. It was a very welcome sight. ‘Now jest let’s get you all aboard,’ Dibkins said. ‘Nice an’ comfy? Anythin’ else you need ma’am? No? Then off we goes! Walk on, Jezebel. Easy does it.’

  ‘You are very kind, Mr Dibkins,’ Nan said when they’d left the lodge gates behind and were safely hidden by the woods on either side of the track to Petersfield.

  ‘Think nothin’ of it ma’am,’ he said cheerily. ‘Least I could do, when all’s said and done, after all your late husban’ done for my family. You heard a’ that, o’ course.’

  ‘No, Mr Dibkins, I don’t think I have.’

  ‘Ah well, ’twas all a mortal long time ago,’ he said soothing away her ignorance. ‘Harvest time. Good year. Weather on the turn, so we was all hard put to it, you might say. Steady on, Jezebel! Easy now ol’ gel, easy! I daresay that was how it come about. Being hard put to it, you see ma’am. Anyhow, the long an’ the short of it was poor old ’Orrie he got his foot in the way of a scythe. Weren’t no one’s fault you understand, ma’am. Jest in the way like. ’Orrible deep cut, that was. Near enough took his foot clean off. Oh, they done their best, with dressin’s an’ white of egg an’ all, but ’tweren’t no use. Bein’ so deep you see, ma’am. Had to come off come the finish. Poor old ’Orrie.’