But the centre of all this happiness was the child. Harriet was a year and nine months old: autocratic, wilful, and so solidly sure of everyone's love and attention that she gave off happiness herself as the sun gives off light. Her father, Frederick Garland, Webster's nephew, had never seen her, for he had died in a fire on the night she was conceived; and if he'd lived, Sally would be Mrs Garland, and Harriet legitimate. Sally's love for Frederick had been hard won and given without stint. What she felt for Harriet was as deep as her blood, as deep as her life itself. She'd never loved anyone or anything as much, never known it was possible. At first, after Frederick's death, when their business lay in ruins, she felt she didn't want to live, but when she felt the stubborn life inside her she knew she did, and knew she must. And apart from the terrible gap that Frederick had left, life was good now - as good as it ever could be for an unmarried mother in Queen Victoria's time; better by far than for plenty of women trapped in unhappy marriages. She had money and independence and friends, and a home, and interesting work, and she had her precious Harriet.
She plucked two figs, newly ripened, and took them over to the orchard. Sarah-Jane was sitting on the treeseat Webster had built, sewing something, while Harriet was helping her toy bear Bruin climb a rope to get some imaginary honey. Sally joined Sarah-Jane on the seat.
"D'you like figs?" she said, handing her one.
"I love them," said the nurse. "Thank you."
Sally could see past the side of the house to where someone was consulting a paper at the front gate. He opened it and came through, moving out of sight as he made for the front door.
"Hattie-face, come and share the fig," she said.
Harriet, seeing food, dropped Bruin and came at once. She looked suspiciously at the soft red flesh packed with tiny seeds. Sally took another bite.
"Like this," she said. "If you don't try it, you won't know what it's like. Bruin will have some."
They fed Bruin, and then Harriet nibbled the fig, and then she wanted all the rest.
"She's growing so fast," said Sarah-Jane. "Look, I can't turn these petticoats down any more. They'll do this time but then she'll need new ones."
"We ought to measure her," said Sally. "Draw a line on the wall. Shall we do that, Hattie? See how tall you're getting?"
"Fig," said Harriet accusingly, holding out her hand for Sarah-Jane's. "Fig, please."
Sally laughed. "No, that's Sarah-Jane's. Look, here comes Ellie with a visitor."
Harriet, proprietorial, turned to see who had come to pay court to her this time. Ellie was making her way down the lawn, followed by the man from the front gate. He was slight and middle-aged, as far as Sally could tell, and he wore a shabby brown suit and bowler hat. He was holding a large white envelope.
"Miss Lockhart," said Ellie uncertainly, "this gentleman says he's got to see you in person, miss."
The man raised his hat. "Miss Lockhart?"
"Yes?" said Sally. "What can I do for you?"
"I am under instructions to give this into your hands, miss."
He held out the envelope. Sally saw a red legal seal on it. Automatically she took it from him. It's very hard not to take things people hand you; politeness is an easy thing to take advantage of.
The man doffed his hat again, and turned to go. Sally stood up.
"Wait, please," she said. "Who are you? And what's this?"
"It's fully explained inside," he said. "As for me, I'm a process-server, miss. I've done my duty, and now I must be on my way, else I shall miss my train. Beautiful weather for the time of year. . ."
With a nervous little smile, he turned and set off back up the garden. Ellie, after a troubled glance at Sally, hastened after him.
Harriet, disappointed in the visitor's poor taste, turned back to Bruin and the honey. Sally sat down. She was conscious that she might have made a mistake in accepting the envelope so tamely: couldn't you refuse to accept a summons, or something? Didn't you by accepting it admit that there was a case to answer. . .? Oh, it was bound to be nonsense anyway. Someone had made a mistake.
She tore open the thick paper and pulled out a long, carefully folded document. The Royal Arms was embossed at the top, and paragraph after paragraph of legal copperplate stretched out below. Sally began to read.
It was headed In the Probate, Divorce and Admiralty Division of the High Court, and it began:
On the 3rd day of January, 1879, the petitioner, Arthur James Parrish, was lawfully married to Veronica Beatrice Lockhart (hereinafter called "the respondent") at St Thomas's Church, Southam, in the County of Hampshire.
Sally gave a little gasp. This was ridiculous. Veronica Beatrice was her own name - one she'd never answered to since, a strong-willed child like Harriet, she had informed her father that she was Sally, and refused to answer to anything else. But . . . married? Someone was claiming to be married to her?
She read on:
The petitioner and respondent last lived together at 24, Telegraph Road, Clapham.
The petitioner is domiciled in England and Wales, and is by occupation a commission agent, and resides at 24, Telegraph Road, Clapham, and the respondent is by occupation a financial consultant, and resides at Orchard House, Twickenham.
There are no children of the family now living except Harriet Rosa. . .
Sally put the paper down.
"Oh, this is stupid," she said. "Someone's playing a joke."
Sarah-Jane looked up. Sally saw the question in her face.
"I'm being sued for divorce," she said, and then laughed. But it was a short laugh, and Sarah-Jane didn't smile.
"It's an expensive joke for someone to play, going to all those lengths," she said. "You'd better read the rest of it."
Sally took up the paper again. Her hands were trembling. She read on with increasing disbelief through several more paragraphs of legal language, and came to a long section headed Particulars.
It was easy to follow, next to impossible to take in. It related the story of a marriage that had never existed; it told how Sally and this Mr Parrish had married, settled in Clapham, had a child, Harriet (whose birthday, at least, was accurate); how Sally had persistently and wilfully treated her "husband" with cruelty, his business associates with scorn and their guests with contempt, until he found it impossible to bring anyone home and be sure she would receive them in a decent and civil manner; how she had taken to drink, and appeared drunk in public on more than one occasion (details provided, witnesses named); how she had mistreated the servants, forcing three separate maidservants to leave without notice (names and addresses provided); how she had misused the money her "husband" had settled on her, and insisted against his wishes on setting up in business on her own; how he had attempted to reason with her, and live with the situation, and treated her with every consideration; how, shortly after the birth of their child, she had deserted the family home, taking the child with her; how she was not a fit person to have custody of the child, because she was currently associating with persons of doubtful morality, sharing a household with two unmarried men (names provided); and there was more. There were five closely written pages, but she had to push the document away after scanning only two of them.
"I don't believe it," she said, hardly in control of her voice. She thrust the paper at Sarah-Jane and stood up blindly. While Sarah-Jane looked at it, Sally walked to the end of the orchard, plucked a twig off the apple tree, and shredded it to pieces. She felt as if someone had crept into her life and befouled everything in sight. That anyone could write such a pack of filthy lies about her - but it was impossible. She couldn't take it in.
There was worse to come. She heard Sarah-Jane gasp, and turned quickly.
Sarah-Jane was holding out the last section of the document. It was headed Prayer.
Sally took it and sat down. She felt unable to stand.
The page read:
The petitioner therefore prays:
That the said marriage be dissolved.
That the petitioner be granted the custody of the child,
Harriet Rosa, with immediate effect.
That -
It was enough. Sally wanted to read no more. Someone, someone unknown, this Parrish, a liar, a madman, wanted to take her child away from her.
Only a few yards away Harriet sat on the grass, teasing out the end of a piece of old rope Webster had given her and seeing how it wanted to twist together again. Bruin lay forgotten beside her. She was utterly absorbed, concentrating fiercely on the extraordinariness of things like rope. Sally got to her feet and ran to her and caught her up in a hungry embrace, aware of her own strength and trying not to hurt her, but wanting her as close as she could get.
Harriet submitted to it patiently; embraces had to be put up with. Finally Sally let her go and kissed her, and put her gently down on the grass again. Harriet picked up the rope and carried on.
"I'm going to the city," she said to Sarah-Jane. "I've got to take this to my solicitor. It's nonsense, of course. The man's mad or something. But I must see him at once. The case is -"
"A fortnight," Sarah-Jane said. "In the Royal Courts of Justice. That's what it says."
Sally took up the document. She didn't like touching it. She put it back in the envelope and kissed Harriet once, twice, three times again, and went to get ready for the train to London.
Extracts from
DICKENS'S DICTIONARY
OF
LONDON ,
1879.
AN UNCONVENTIONAL HANDBOOK.
During the 1870s the son of Charles Dickens, who was also called Charles, compiled a fascinating guide to Victorian London, which Philip Pullman found invaluable when writing The Shadow in the North.
Costumes, Artists'. - Most of the respectable theatrical cos-tumiers provide correct costumes of almost every period; and in addition to these, Mr. Barthe, of 4, Limerston-street, Fulham-road, gives special attention to this class of business.
Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly. - This building has long been celebrated for excellent entertainments, such as those of Albert Smith, Artemus Ward, and "Mrs. Brown". For some years the principal hall has been successfully occupied by Messrs. Maskelyne and Cooke's Entertainment.
Lyceum Theatre, Wellington-street, Strand. - Has recently passed into the hands of Mr. Irving, who has for some years past been the leading actor and principal attraction there. It is one of the prettiest houses in London, and, while large enough to enable the poetical drama, even in the case of the heaviest Shakespearean play, to be effectively mounted, it is not too large for the requirements of a modern audience. It may be noticed that evening dress is more commonly in vogue in the stalls and dress-circle here than at other theatres, but there is no absolute rule. It is worth notice, too, that the Lyceum, occupying a perfectly isolated position with a street on each of its four sides, offers special facilities for egress in case of alarm, whilst the saloon and lobby accommodation is on an unusually handsome scale, only equalled by that of Drury Lane.
Music Halls. - The music-hall, as it is at present understood, was started many years ago at the Canterbury Hall over the water. The entertainments proving popular, the example was speedily followed in every quarter of the town. Ballet, gymnastics, and so-called comic singing, form the staple of the bill of fare, but nothing comes foreign to the music-hall proprietor. Performing animals, winners of walking-matches, successful scullers, shipwrecked sailors, swimmers of the Channel, conjurors, ventriloquists, clog-dancers, sword-swallowers, velo-cipedists, champion skaters, imitators, marionettes, decanter equilibrists, champion shots, "living models of marble gems", "statue marvels", fire princes, "mysterious youths", "spiral bicycle ascensionists", flying children, empresses of the air, kings of the wire, "vital sparks", Mexican boneless wonders, "white-eyed musical Kaffirs", strong-jawed ladies, cannon-ball performers, illuminated fountains, all have had their turn on the music-hall stage. The word "turn", as understood in the profession, means the performance for which the artist is engaged, and frequently comprises four or more songs, however much or little of pleasure the first effort may have given the audience. Furthermore, as many of the popular performers take several "turns" nightly, it is undesirable to visit many of these establishments on the same evening, as it is quite possible to go to four or five halls in different parts of the town, and to find widely diverse stages occupied by the same sets of performers. The hours of performance at most music-halls are from about 8 till 11.30, and the prices of admission vary from 6d. to 3s.
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First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2016
This electronic edition published by Scholastic Ltd, 2016
Text copyright (c) Philip Pullman, 2016
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eISBN 978 1407 18012 0
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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