Tuppenny Times

by Beryl Kingston

  The next day heavy snow began to fall in London too, and it fell intermittently for the next week, a crisp, cold cover to newly-cleaned pavements and mud-ridged pathways, cesspits and vegetable gardens, roofs and window-sills. And on the tenth day, when it lay so thickly it reached the top of the Reverend Hopkins’ boots when he trudged out to fetch the midwife, Annie’s second baby was born.

  It was another boy and a very pretty one, with large, dark eyes and the dearest little snub nose and a dusting of golden down on the crown of his nice, round head. His parents greeted him by his chosen name, which was Daniel, but his brother, who was allowed to tip-toe in to see him before he went to bed instantly called him Beau. And Beau he remained, the newest and prettiest member of the Easter family.

  It wasn’t until he was nearly one week old that Nan realized he had been born on the very day she had chosen as her wedding-day. And she still hadn’t heard a word from Calverley. But perhaps I am being unfair to him, she rebuked herself. For very few letters were getting through to the City, and the weather in Scotland could easily be worse than the weather in England.

  But not much worse. On the day after Annie completed her fortnight’s lying-in, Matthew Howlett came running to the house, wild with excitement because the Thames was frozen.

  ‘Solid all the way from London Bridge to Blackfriars,’ he said, puffing with the exertion of his run. ‘Notices up every which way you look. Safe to cross, it do say, Mrs Easter. I never seen the like. There’s folk a-skating and a-walking all about right where the river was. I never seen the like.’

  Nan put on her hat and coat at once. ‘Come you on,’ she said to her family. ‘Here’s a sight you don’t see but once in a lifetime. Bessie, bring the children. Oh, what sport!’

  So they left little Beau sleeping in the warm with a parlourmaid to watch over him, and bundled themselves into all the clothes they could find and swathed their heads in mufflers and packed their feet in woollen stockings and heavy boots, because it was several degrees below freezing outside and the wind was sharp as a cut-throat razor, and off they all went, along with half their neighbours.

  And it really was an extraordinary sight, to see their great, wide, perpetually-moving Thames now held completely still, its waters frozen into a solid blackness, and yet, amazingly, still ridged by waves as though it had all been frozen in an instant. The coal barges and river boats were stuck fast, their timbers groaning under the pressure of the ice, and on every bank people were gathering, like a great flock of starlings, all a-babble and a-chatter, milling and moving beside the unaccustomed stillness. London Bridge was empty and looked forlorn, the City was deserted, and above it all the dome of St Paul’s shone blue against a grey sky. It didn’t seem real.

  ‘Come you on!’ Nan said. ‘I en’t never walked on the Thames before and now’s the time to try.’ And she lead Tom and Pollyanna out onto the frozen waves, her breath streaming before her. Two seconds later they were all tumbled on the ice in a shrieking heap, Nan flat on her back and giggling, Tom on his knees, crawling and slithering and Pollyanna sitting where she’d fallen, red-nosed and white-cheeked but laughing with excitement.

  ‘You need skates, mum,’ Thiss said, staggering up to rescue them.

  ‘So we do,’ Nan agreed, as he hauled her to her feet. ‘We had some once, I remember, when the Serpentine froze.’

  ‘They’re in a box in the corner-cupboard in the kitchen,’ Bessie said, dusting the snow from her son’s greatcoat. ‘Lawks-a-mercy, look at the state a’ yer.’

  ‘What sport!’ Nan said. ‘Hie you home this instant, Thiss, and fetch ’em.’

  Johnnie and Billy had retreated to the bank too and were happily hurling snowballs at each other, but Annie and little Jimmy were several yards out and still on their feet, sliding cautiously along with James stooping beside them, stalking like an anxious heron. ‘Look look!’ the little boy called. ‘Walky on de water!’

  It became the family clarion call. ‘Walky on de water!’ they would say as they came shivering down to breakfast in the snow-white morning, ‘Walky on de water!’ swathing their heads and shoulders with thick shawls, ‘Walky on de water!’ hanging their bone skates over their shoulders. It was colder than any of them could remember, pumps were frozen and food in short supply, London was snow-bound and completely cut off from the rest of the world, but they were going to the Ice Fair.

  By the time they all went home for dinner on that first day, the surface of the river had become a public thoroughfare called, with the cockney’s cheerful humour, Freezeland Street. What else? On the second morning Nan bought a sledge padded with fur, and a thick fur rug, so that baby Beau could join them, snuggled into it, right down in the warm, where the icy air couldn’t mar his tender lungs, and she and the children and Thiss and Bessie, and Johnnie and Billy, when they’d done what little work they could, spent the whole day on the ice on their skates and played for as long as there was daylight.

  At around noon on that second day the peddlers and hawkers arrived with hot pies and brandy balls and gingerbread and chestnuts and oysters, and very welcome they were. By mid afternoon stalls were being set up on either side of the new thoroughfare, crowded close together for warmth and trade, butchers and pastry cooks, barbers and bakers, toyshops and skittle alleys, ballad-mongers and balloon-sellers, gin-sellers and beer-sellers, and furmety booths. And by the third day the printing presses followed them down. Nan opened her own tent half an hour later. It was green and gold, of course, and clearly labelled ‘A. Easter – Newsagent’ above a sign which proclaimed ‘News hot from the press’.

  She did a phenomenal trade. It was such a novelty to buy a paper at an ice fair, even if there wasn’t much in it except news of the freeze. But that was exciting enough. On the fifth day the Lord Mayor organized an ice feast and roasted an ox, right in the middle of the river, and all work stopped in the capital so that everyone could enjoy the great event. Nan set up two more tents immediately and set Billy and Johnnie to man them, on their bone skates of course.

  ‘The family firm on ice,’ Billy said happily, as bulky skaters hissed up to buy. ‘Ain’t we a team, Ma?’

  ‘To be proud of,’ she agreed. And so they were. ’Tis a fine firm I’ve founded, she thought, and ’twould be folly to let anyone change it, no matter how much I might love ’em. The fog had cleared from her mind too and now, in this frozen air, she was seeing things with inescapable clarity.

  The next afternoon Mrs Jorris and the kitchen-maids slipped home early to prepare a goose, and a fine, sweet bird it was and made very good eating. And when the meal was done, the entire family retired upstairs to the drawing-room to sit about the fire, as they usually did of an evening, drinking port and brandy and roasting chestnuts on the hob. They piled cushions by all the doors and windows to keep out the draughts, and they heaped the coals half-way up the chimney, and they set their chairs and sofas in a half-circle round the hearth. A charmed circle, Nan thought, as they relaxed into warmth and well-being after the biting air and physical effort of the day.

  They sat at such ease in the golden light of fire and candle, their cheeks reddened and their faces glowing, their movements as slow and gentle as weed under water, and they talked in the intermittent drowsy way of the well-fed, fatigued and satisfied.

  Billy was lying on the second chaise-longue, with one foot propped on his brother’s knee and his head a mere inch away from Nan’s shoulder. ‘I hope the freeze goes on and on for months and months and months,’ he said, tossing a hot chestnut from hand to hand to cool it.

  ‘Mr Weatherstone would have a hard time of it if that were the case,’ James said, mildly. Mr Weatherstone was his curate, who was currently doing all the work at Rattlesden, and just the thought of him made poor James feel guilty.

  ‘Mr Weatherstone is a good man,’ Annie comforted, leaning over the arm of her chair to pat him. ‘He will understand that you cannot command the weather, my love. We could not travel home in this cold, not with Jimmy and l
ittle Beau.’

  Jimmy was lying on the other chaise-longue beside his grandmother, half asleep with his head on her lap, and right in the middle of their circle. Nan stroked his fine hair lovingly. ‘You may stay here as long as you please,’ she said. ‘’Tis an uncommon fine thing to have my family all about me.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Johnnie said, turning his head to smile at Annie, but keeping his body still, for baby Beau was lying on his chest, fast alseep. ‘If we are to be marooned I can think of no better company.’ And he kissed the baby’s soft head.

  ‘What if the war were over,’ James said. ‘It could be, for aught we know.’

  ‘Then ’twould be over and we none the wiser,’ Billy said cheerfully.

  ‘What a blessing it would be, to be sure,’ Annie said.

  ‘I have such plans for the firm once the fighting’s done,’ Nan told them. ‘We do so well in London, tis time we expanded. I’ve a mind to sell pens and paper in my shops, as well as the news.’ The lack of any letters during the freeze had made her aware of their importance.

  ‘Capital idea, Mama,’ Billy said, nibbling.

  ‘Will trade increase in peacetime, think ’ee?’ Johnnie asked.

  ‘If it don’t,’ Nan said, ‘then we shall have to see to it.’

  Smiles, ease, agreement, a sense that they would achieve their intentions, no matter what. We are a great firm, Nan thought, Billy is right, a great family firm. And it occurred to her, watching them as they sat within the barrier of their close half-circle, arm against arm and head to happy head, that they were a human barrier too, a barrier against all harm, all comers, all eventualities. She had spent two months in their company now and she’d enjoyed every moment of it. And she knew too that a part of that enjoyment was because she could always be honest with them. There had been no need to hide her feelings or prevaricate or refrain from comment as there so often was when she was with Calverley. With her family she could speak her mind without fear or favour. Even to Johnnie. We are cut off from the world and none of us care, she thought. And she looked from one to the other of them, loving them all.

  And even though the snow lay thicker than ever next morning and there was still no letter from Calverley, she didn’t care about that either.

  By this time they were all so accustomed to skating about all day that it seemed the natural way to move. Which was just as well, for the extreme cold was to last for another six weeks. Snow fell every single day and fresh vegetables were in parlously short supply and all coach journeys were abandoned, but the high jinks continued unabated. It suited Nan Easter as though it had been arranged to please her. She could enjoy her family’s rumbustious company without restraint, there was no need to think about her wedding, and the Ice Fair kept her happily and rewardingly busy.

  She was quite disappointed when the weather improved and the now familiar ice began to crack. But then just as the stalls were being packed up and warning notices posted, the first mail coaches began to arrive, with a letter from Calverley dated January 6th, saying he might have to stay in Scotland ‘for a little longer’ and, what was more important and immediate, dispatches from Spain with the news that Wellington had won a great victory and that the British army was in France.

  ‘I do believe we could travel home now, my love,’ Annie said to her patient James.

  ‘We could and we should,’ he said. ‘I have left Mr Weatherstone to bear the burden quite long enough.’

  So they left two days later and the house seemed horribly empty without them. But Nan had little time to miss them, for the very next morning Mr Walter had a dispatch from his correspondent with the army, telling him that Russian and Polish troops had reached Paris and ridden through the Champs Elysées in triumph, and that the French Senate had declared the Empire at an end. Napoleon was to be handed over to the allies and the war concluded.

  The relief was as extraordinary as the freeze had been. Church bells rang all morning and people ran out into the streets to hear the news and tell one another how wonderful it was. It was as if the capital had been besieged, by long war, long winter and long freeze, and now at last it was April and springtime, the snow had melted and the sun was shining.

  ‘Go you at once,’ she said to Billy and Johnnie that afternoon, ‘and buy me threescore pens and three reams of writing paper from such as offer the best quality and a reasonable price. Start with Mr Ebros in the City Road. There’ll be a deal of writing now to spread this news, so let us be ready to take the trade. I will visit all the shops in the City and tell ’em what we propose.’

  She was so happily busy it was almost a surprise when she came home for dinner that afternoon to find Calverley waiting for her in the drawing-room, sitting in the big armchair before the fire. She kissed him warmly enough but her senses recoiled from him, for he smelled of horses and muddy roads, and he was travel-stained and strange, almost as though he were a foreigner.

  ‘My heart alive,’ she said. ‘Are the roads clear at last then?’

  ‘’Twas a parlous journey,’ he said, smiling at her most amorously. ‘Say you ain’t glad to see me!’

  But she didn’t say it, even though she could have done.

  They had dinner together on their own, for the boys were still busy in the City, and they talked of travel and the weather and the new baby and the Ice Fair, and in the middle of the meal Bessie came in to Nan with a letter from Annie.

  ‘There is to be a grand victory ball in the Athenaeum on Saturday,’ she wrote. ‘Pray do leave your work for a day or two, Mama, and come down and attend. We could have a victory party, could we not, and you could announce the new date of your wedding to all the world. Think how appropriate and romantic ’twould be.’

  Nan smiled wryly at that. ‘’Tis from Annie,’ she said and she told her lover about the victory ball. But she didn’t say anything about a new date for their wedding. ‘Should I attend, think ’ee?’

  ‘You should,’ he said. ‘’Twill be a grand occasion.’

  ‘Shall you join us?’

  ‘Oh, indeed I shall.’

  So when the meal was done and the two of them had returned to the drawing-room, she wrote back to her daughter, accepting her invitation. ‘We will all attend the Ball and I will throw a victory dinner for the family on the same evening. Mr Leigh is returned and sends his regards to you. I would consider it a great kindness if you would buy tickets for me and Mr Leigh and your brothers, and for Thiss and Bessie and Mr Teshmaker too, as well as yourself and James. Tell Bessie she is to order the best dinner possible, no matter what it might cost, and ask her if she and Thiss will be so kind as to join us at table. I trust you are all well, I will tell you all my news at our victory dinner. I have such plans for the firm now that the war is over.

  Yr ever loving mother, Nan.’

  ‘Now,’ she said, when she’d sent the letter to the Post, ‘how shall we spend our evening?’ The boys were still out so they had the place and the time to themselves.

  ‘I’m off to White’s, my charmer,’ he said. ‘Catch up with the news, renew old acquaintance, that sort of thing.’

  She ought to have been disappointed, or hurt, or aggrieved, but she wasn’t even surprised.

  ‘We will talk when I return,’ he said.

  ‘If you en’t too late,’ she answered.

  ‘I will be back before midnight,’ he promised.

  And so he was. But only just. The boys were home and fed and asleep. To her great relief they had made no comment when they heard of Calverley’s return, for they had other matters to occupy them now, like the price of good quality writing-paper and whether or not they should stock writing-ink as well as quills, even though all three of them knew that a decision would have to be made. Now she waited for him and that decision, sitting cool and calm and alone beside the drawing-room fire, where she’d sat at ease within the charmed circle of her family just a few days ago.

  He came up the stairs as light-footed as a cat, and strode across the room on tho
se long, lithe legs to bend from his handsome height to kiss her. He still smelled like a foreigner to her and he was amorous with brandy. ‘Ah what it is, to be with you again, my charmer,’ he said. ‘Now we must choose another date for our wedding, must we not?’

  She gave him a long, cool look, as he left her side to pour himself a brandy from the decanter on the side-table. He was so confident. ‘After all these years,’ she said. ‘I cannot see the need for it.’

  He was put out by her lack of enthusiasm. ‘You gave me your word, don’t ’ee forget,’ he said, still holding the decanter.

  ‘Under duress,’ she said, and she turned away from him and looked at the fire, her spine very straight.

  ‘How now,’ he said, teasing her because he was alarmed. ‘What’s this? Maidenly doubt? That ain’t my Nan.’

  ‘We en’t neither of us young no more,’ she said seriously, ‘and you en’t a-telling me there’s a deal of passion left between us either.’

  ‘I love ’ee to distraction,’ he vowed, coming to sit before her in the other armchair. But the words sounded false, even to him.

  She grinned at him. ‘You do talk a load a’ squit sometimes, Calverley. More than four months you’ve been away from me, I hope you realize. That don’t look much like passion to me.’

  ‘’Twas the weather,’ he said lamely.

  ‘Mr Hopkins travelled to London in a blizzard to be with my Annie.’

  ‘Well then, he was fortunate,’ he said scowling.

  ‘No, my dear. He was driven by love. That’s how ’twas. They couldn’t abide to be parted, neither one on ’em. Whereas you … You were happy enough in Scotland with a new light o’ love.’

  For a second he wondered whether to deny it, but her face was so stern he decided to brazen it out. ‘Come now, Nan,’ he said, smiling his most charming smile. ‘You know my character. ’Tain’t in my nature to live alone.’

  ‘Nor would you, were we to marry,’ she said shrewdly.