Tuppenny Times

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Tuppenny Times Page 35

by Beryl Kingston


  ‘Nan! Nan! Have you no sense at all? Deuce take it, there could be an invasion at any hour. The weather’s right for it, the tide’s right for it, there are sixty thousand French troops in Boulogne waiting the signal. Deuce take it, how could you run such risks? We’ve been fighting mock battles up to our waists in sea-water for the past week. I wrote and told you. Why d’you not read my letters? Oh, whatever possessed you to come here now?’

  ‘I thought you would be pleased to see me,’ she said, shaken by the violence of his attack.

  ‘I was pleased to see you. I am pleased to see you. I just don’t want to see you dead, can’t you understand? You must go home on the very next coach.’

  ‘No man tells me what to do, Calverley Leigh,’ she said, holding up her chin at him because he was frightening her. ‘Now I’m arrived I mean to stay for at least a week.’

  ‘A week!’ he roared. ‘One night is danger enough. Go home! Go home! D’you wish to be caught in a battle, you impossible woman, with your legs shot from under you, or your breast full of grapeshot, or your head blown off by a cannonball?’ The dark path was full of distorted shadows and the town below them seemed to be holding its breath.

  ‘Boney won’t invade,’ she said, brazen-faced with deliberate boldness. ‘They been a-saying he’ll invade for years and years and he en’t landed yet.’

  ‘He could land at any time,’ he said with exasperated fury, ‘and if he does, there will be a bloody battle right here on this beach, in this town. We will take as many people away from it as we can, but there will be killing. We’re at war, Nan. Don’t you understand? At war with the French, and the French are no respecters of persons, let me tell ’ee.’

  ‘I seen the French in Paris in ’93,’ she said stung. ‘Cutting off ears they were, drunk as lords. Hacked two men to death, right in front of my eyes. Killed my husband in cold blood. There en’t a thing you can tell me about the French.’

  He put his arm round her shoulders and held her tightly, and now he didn’t shout. ‘Then promise me you will go back to London on the very first coach. For I could not abide it if you were to come to harm.’

  His sudden gentle affection was more moving than all his shouting had been. ‘Do you love me so much?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye, my charmer, I do,’ he admitted. ‘So give me your promise, I beg ’ee.’

  ‘If I go,’ she said, softened to better sense, ‘’twill be because I have business to attend to in London. I en’t a coward, I’ll have you know.’

  ‘You are brave and beautiful and utterly foolish,’ he said, kissing her hair and adding quickly before her anger could erupt again, ‘which is why I love you and why you must go.’

  They walked arm in arm down the ghostly road, passing another straggle of fleeing shadows as they went, and now they could see the shape of the promenade below them, black as pitch and edged with a shifting tremor of sea foam. The sight of it made her shiver.

  ‘Time you were warm within doors,’ he said. ‘Where do you stay?’

  ‘The Red Lion,’ she said. And then, feeling that they had recovered sufficiently for teasing, ‘Where do you?’

  ‘Well, as to that,’ he said, and even in the darkness she could see that his eyes were tender, ‘I have been detailed to stay with you all night I do believe. But only for your protection, of course.’

  ‘Course,’ she said, holding up her face so that he could kiss her.

  That night, in her low-ceilinged room in the Red Lion they made love more tenderly than they had ever done. And afterwards, instead of falling into his usual satisfied sleep, he told her how dearly he loved her and made her promise yet again that she would leave for London on the first coach out of Weymouth in the morning.

  ‘If they invade,’ she said, shivering at the thought, ‘you will be in the thick of the fighting.’

  ‘Like enough,’ he said easily. ‘’tis what we are paid for.’

  ‘Oh, my dearest,’ she said, ‘you must promise me to keep out of harm’s way. For I couldn’t abide it if you were to be hurt.’ She couldn’t even bring herself to suggest that he might be killed, but that thought was there too.

  ‘Well now, as to that,’ he told her gently, ‘that ain’t a thing I could either do or promise. It ain’t a soldier’s business to look out for his own skin.’

  ‘But …’

  He put his hand on her lips to silence her. ‘I will give you a true promise, my charmer.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘I will come to Chelsea to visit you just so soon as ever I may.’

  ‘I wish this war was over,’ she said.

  ‘If wishes were horses …’ he said, stroking her bare shoulder. ‘Come, let’s have no more talk of war. I’ve to be on duty again at six.’

  ‘Then we should sleep,’ she suggested comfortably, knowing they would do no such thing.

  ‘And miss what little time we have together?’

  ‘’Tis mortal quiet tonight.’ There was no sound from the inn or the town, but they could hear the sea hissing on the beach below them.

  ‘The tide has turned,’ Calverley said. ‘’Tis on the ebb.’

  ‘Then we are safe for an hour or two.’

  ‘Safer,’ he said. ‘He could invade on an ebb tide if he’d a mind to, but ’twould give us the advantage, so it ain’t likely.’

  ‘Then how shall we spend the time?’ she said, turning in his arms to kiss him. Oh, it was bliss to be with him again, even if there was an invasion threatened, even if they were to be parted so soon, even if he might have to fight the French. To be kissed by that soft, urgent, insistent mouth, to breathe in the lovely sweet-salt smell of his flesh, to be held breast to breast, thigh to thigh, warm and opening. ’Twas worth any risks.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  It was odd that such a fleeting, tempestuous visit should be so sustaining. But just as well, for Nan’s return to Chelsea was a return to hard work and difficulties. She took a flyer to the Strand to see how her business was faring and found Thiss there supervising the distribution of the evening papers. He was surprised to see her but made no comment on her early return.

  ‘Evening, Mrs Easter,’ he said, tying the latest bundle firmly together with a length of string.

  ‘There was an invasion scare at Weymouth,’ she explained. ‘There en’t a soul left in the town. How is Mrs Dibkins?’

  ‘Worse, mum, I’m sorry ter say. I reckon she’s a-goin’, if the truth be told. She’s mortal bad.’

  Nan looked out of the office window across the Strand to where one of Her newsboys was standing beside one of her green and gold carts busily selling the evening papers to all the home-going crowds. I sell the news all over this great city, she thought, but I can’t protect my lover from an invasion nor save my servant from a day’s pain. ‘Have you got the pony-cart?’ she asked Thiss.

  He had. ‘Then straight home, if you please,’ she said.

  Bessie was looking out for her husband’s return. She ran into the hall as soon as she saw Nan stepping down from the cart. ‘I’m ever so glad you’re home mum,’ she said. ‘Mrs Dibkins is ever so bad. I never seen ’er as bad as this.’

  ‘Where are the children?’ Nan asked, for the house seemed unnaturally quiet.

  ‘Annie took the boys out fer a walk,’ Bessie explained. ‘I thought it ’ud do ’em good ter get out the ’ouse fer a bit, what with Mrs Dibkins so bad an’ Mr Dibkins gone funny an’ all.’

  ‘Gone funny?’ Nan asked. ‘Mad, do you mean?’

  ‘You’d best go down an’ see, mum,’ Thiss said, deftly rescuing his wife from possible impertinence.

  So Nan gave her coat and bonnet to Bessie and she and Thiss went downstairs to the Dibkins’ little cramped room beside the kitchen.

  It was dark down there and evil-smelling with the cloying sickliness of approaching death. Old Mrs Dibkins lay on her back among her stained pillows. She was barely conscious and groaning in extreme pain. There was an empty feeding-cup on the table, besi
de a double-headed candlestick covered in wax droppings, and Mr Dibkins sat in the corner of the room clutching a laudanum bottle to his chest and glaring with anxiety and grief.

  ‘’E don’t reckon she should ’ave no more,’ Thiss whispered.

  But the old man’s hearing was as acute as his sorrow. ‘’Twould be the finish of her,’ he said, fiercely, ‘’Twould kill her, the state she’s in. How could I face that, Mrs William ma’am? I couldn’t, could I? No, no, she’s had more than enough in all conscience, these last twenty-four hours. Best leave well alone, that’s what I says.’

  ‘She’s dying, Mr Dibkins,’ Nan said as gently as she could. ‘She’s dying and she’s in mortal pain. Give her the laudanum for pity’s sake.’

  ‘Shame on you, Mrs William, to say such a thing,’ the old man said, tears oozing from the corners of his eyes. ‘She ain’t a-dyin’, no she ain’t. I shan’t have it said. You’ll pull through, won’t you Mother?’

  ‘She’s in mortal bad pain, Dib,’ Thiss said. ‘Give ’er the laudanum, fer pity’s sake. It ain’t Christian ter let her suffer.’

  ‘You are right, Mr Dibkins,’ Nan said, changing direction, because she could see there was no point in trying to persuade the poor man. ‘We cannot give her too much. But half a dose would do no harm.’

  ‘Full dose ’ud kill her,’ Mr Dibkins said stubbornly.

  ‘Half a dose,’ Nan said firmly. ‘Half a dose would do no harm. Give me the bottle and I’ll pour it for her.’

  ‘No you won’t,’ Mr Dibkins said, still clutching the bottle to the brown fustian of his jacket. ‘If ’tis to be done I shall do it myself, savin’ your reverence, Mrs William ma’am.’ And he eked a meagre teaspoon into the feeding-cup. But then he seemed to have forgotten what he’d done it for, and set the cup on the bedside table and looked at it curiously, like a man demented.

  ‘She’ll need a mouthful of sugar water, to take away the taste,’ Nan said.

  ‘Yes, yes, to be sure.’

  ‘Shall I get it for her, or will you?’

  ‘No, no, I’ll get it.’ But it was still several groaning seconds before he got up and shuffled off into the kitchen next door.

  ‘Quick!’ Nan said to Thiss, as soon as the old man was through the door. ‘Double dose. Don’t bother measuring, just pour it in.’

  ‘Will it kill ’er, mum?’ Thiss asked, pouring the drug into the feeding-cup.

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ Nan said re-corking the bottle. ‘But what’s the odds one way or t’other. She can’t go on in pain like this.’

  ‘That’s true, mum,’ Thiss said, lifting Mrs Dibkins with one arm under her shoulders. ‘Come on Mother Dibkins ol’ dear, soon ’ave you comfy, eh?’

  They dribbled the drug into her mouth, but she was too far gone to know she was drinking, although she swallowed noisily.

  ‘Tha’s better ol’ gel,’ Thiss said, as Mr Dibkins returned with a little sugared water in a cup. ‘Give it ’ere, Dib.’

  ‘No, no,’ the old man said. ‘I must do it for her, Thiss. Thank ’ee kindly, I’m sure. She wouldn’t want no one else, would you Mother?’

  The laudanum took effect within ten minutes, but Nan stayed with her two suffering servants until she was quite sure that Mrs Dibkins was drugged beyond pain. Then she went upstairs to see if her children were back and to eat what dinner she could.

  The old lady slept with her mouth open, snoring noisily, and as the evening progressed, the noise got steadily worse until by ten o’clock it was a prolonged and ghastly rattle.

  Towards midnight it woke the children, who went creeping fearfully down the stairs to their mother’s room to find out what was the matter.

  ‘’Tis Mrs Dibkins a-dying,’ Nan told them, when they’d climbed into her bed and tucked their cold feet under the eiderdown. ‘That’s all ’tis.’

  ‘Does everybody make that noise when they’re a-dying?’ John asked. Death was a very serious business to him now that he was eight and he wanted to glean as much information about it as he could.

  ‘Some do, some don’t,’ Nan said, remembering the deaths she’d seen as a child in Fornham. ‘Some dies easy, some dies hard.’

  ‘Poor Dolly Dibkins,’ Annie said, her pale face full of pity. ‘She’s been ill such a long time, Mama.’

  ‘She has,’ Nan said. ‘But now ’tis nearly over. She en’t conscious and she’s more ’n half-way gone already.’

  ‘Does she know she’s making this row, Mama?’ Billy wanted to know.

  ‘No,’ Nan said. ‘’Tis part of God’s mercy that she don’t hear nor see a thing. And now you must go back to your beds and try and get some sleep. ’Twill all be over by morning, you’ll see.’

  But it was nearly twenty-four hours before the snoring stopped and by then the sudden click into silence was even more dreadful than the death rattle had been.

  Except to Mr Dibkins. ‘There you are Mother,’ he said with great satisfaction, ‘a nice peaceful sleep’ll make all the difference to ’ee. You sleep, me dear. Soon have you well again, eh?’

  He was horribly determined that she hadn’t died. When the undertakers arrived he refused to let them pass, standing at bay in the doorway with his stumpy arms akimbo and his scrubbing brush hair standing on end like a fighting cock’s comb.

  ‘Now what are we to do?’ Nan said to Thiss, as the undertakers coughed and hesitated and looked to her for guidance.

  ‘Leave this one ter me, mum,’ Thiss said, to her relief, for she could hardly have hauled the poor old man out of the way. ‘If you’ll jest take the gentlemen upstairs an’ tell Mrs Jorris ter keep the kitchen door shut fer a bit.’

  ‘Now come along, Dad,’ he said to Mr Dibkins when they were on their own. ‘This won’t do. We got ter let ’er rest poor soul. Ain’t she suffered enough?’

  ‘You ain’t to put her in no coffin,’ Mr Dibkins said furiously ‘She ain’t dead, Thiss. She’ll be up an’ about in no time, you’ll see.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Thiss agreed easily. ‘So I tell yer what, we ought ter set the room to rights, all nice an’ clean for ’er. Shipshape an’ orderly. She wouldn’t like ter see it in a mess.’

  That was undeniable and Mr Dibkins didn’t deny it.

  ‘If we lift ’er out the bed, gentle-like,’ Thiss suggested. So they lifted her between them and very stiff and awkward she was. ‘We’ll jest put ’er in this box, jest fer the meantime, eh?’

  ‘That ain’t a coffin, Thiss?’

  ‘No, no,’ Thiss lied. ‘That’s a nice comfy old box. Jest the ticket. Now you nip off ter the linen cupboard, an’ I’ll get a bucket. We’ll ’ave this done in next ter no time.’

  Which was true enough. For even with Bessie sent to the linen cupboard to encourage and delay him, the undertakers had only just carried the coffin out of the house, when the old man returned. And then his grief exploded into a rage that was quite terrible to hear. And Nan escaped, discreetly and thankfully, to the less arduous task of running a newsagents.

  He wept and raged until the day of the funeral, but then to everybody’s relief he came out of his room as meek as a mouse and allowed himself to be led to the church and sat through the service and the interment without saying a word.

  ‘Thank heavens for that,’ Nan said to Thiss as they stood beside the grave. But their relief was short-lived. The old man went home, still subdued, but then he walked straight down into the kitchen and locked himself in the broom-cupboard, announcing that he would stay there ‘till Dolly comes home’.

  ‘But he’s seen her buried,’ Nan said. ‘He knows she en’t coming home.’

  ‘’Tis grief, poor soul,’ Bessie tried to explain. ‘’E ain’t quite right in hisself jest yet a-while.’

  ‘Then we must leave him there, I suppose,’ Nan said resignedly. ‘In the meantime we got a house to run and no housekeeper and no general man neither.’

  ‘Except me,’ Thiss said, ‘an’ I’m more partic’lar than gen’ral.’

  It was the r
ight moment to make an offer, Nan thought. She’d been considering what she would do ever since Mrs Dibkins took ill. ‘How if you were to be my housekeeper, Bessie?’ she said. ‘Twenty pounds a year and all found.’ It was great deal more than Mrs Dibkins had ever earned, but Bessie would be worth it.

  Bessie’s mouth fell open with surprise. ‘Me, mum?’

  ‘Could you do it, think ’ee?’

  ‘Course she could,’ Thiss answered for her. ‘Couldn’t yer, Goosie? Why you been doin’ it al-a-ready, all these weeks.’

  So it was agreed, although Bessie was still fearful enough to ask whether she would be expected to deal with Mr Dibkins.

  ‘No,’ Nan said. ‘Leave him to me. He’ll come to no harm in the broom-cupboard for a few days. Then if he don’t recover, we shall see.’

  But that night when she’d gone to bed, she heard his pathetic weeping in the cupboard below her, and she was torn with pity for him and decided to allow him to stay where he was for as long as he liked.

  The next day she had a letter from Calverley. ‘No invasion, you will be pleased to hear. Howsomever, the mild weather continues, more’s the pity of it. We are all still on alert, although the fishermen report no movement on the other side of the Channel. Howsomever, there is no leave for anyone, no matter how strongly we urge it. I miss you to distraction. Pray for bad weather my love, and I will be with you within the day.

  Your own Calverley.’

  It was uncommon disappointing. Especially as the weather continued fair despite her prayers.

  Fortunately there was a great deal of work to attend to, which in many ways was a relief to her, for it kept her out of the house and didn’t give her time to think. A new street of houses was being built on the Lamb’s Conduit Fields so there was a concession to be negotiated and trade to be canvassed, and Mr Teshmaker was of the opinion that the firm could withstand another newspaper shop in the city.

  ‘You spend a deal of time on my business, Mr Teshmaker,’ she said, on the day the concession was finally granted, ‘which I appreciate.’

  ‘’Tis my pleasure, Mrs Easter.’ Which was true, for he followed the affairs of A. Easter – Newsagent with particular attention.

 

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