Dido and Pa Read online

  Guess that old Margrave keeps tabs on the whole neighbourhood, thought Dido. Why? Don’t he trust Pa? Or is it to keep an eye on the Dutchman? It can’t be just to stop me from scarpering.

  She walked by a whole series of silent boat-basins. The tide was low, the black, weed-coated piles were veiled by flying snow-flurries. A few anchored ships lay on the mud, waiting to be loaded or unloaded.

  At the corner of Wapping High Street, yet another black-coated watcher was stationed. Dido saw that it would be extremely difficult to run off unobserved – unless she jumped into the river and swam across the Pool of London.

  In the High Street there were small shops, many stalls, and more people about, buying provisions. The stalls, Dido noticed, were almost all minded by children.

  She virtuously bought bread, cheese, milk, and ham; she also slipped into a locksmith’s shop, left her wax moulds, and was told to come back for the new keys in five minutes; she found the Feathers pub and saw a tall plump boy up a ladder, busy painting the new sign; but how to attract his notice without being spotted by the Margrave’s men?

  Dido strolled on along the pavement, looking casually about her.

  The stalls along by the edge of the footway sold rhubarb, spices, combs, nutmeg graters, crockery, dog-collars, pies, pictures in frames, lucifer matches, shrimps, boiled puddings, razor-paste, pea-soup – almost anything a person might need. The stall-keepers, or younger boys and girls employed by them, were calling their wares: ‘Orang – es, two a penny! Cut flo – wers, penny a bunch! Dom – in – oes, tanner a box. Hot taties, all hot! Hot murphies only a ha’penny!’

  Halfway along the street, very conveniently, Dido found a coffee-stall, which sold, as well as mugs of steaming brown liquid, sandwiches, packets of coffee-beans, and ready-ground coffee.

  ‘Just what I needs,’ said Dido grinning at the cross-eyed boy behind the stall. ‘Give us a quarter o’ your best Jamaica, ground up, matey – and make sure there ain’t too perishing much grated carrot in it. And my birthday’s still March the first!’

  ‘The Java’s better than the Jamaica, miss; you’d best have that,’ said the boy seriously. ‘And I’ll mix it up for you special.’

  ‘Ta, chum. I’m just a-going in over there to pick up a pair o’ keys,’ Dido said, nodding towards the locksmith’s shop diagonally across the street. ‘Shan’t be more’n a couple o’ minutes, then I’ll be back.’

  She rolled an eye significantly, as she said this, towards the Margrave’s black-coated watcher, and then slipped across to the locksmith’s shop. Wally, behind the coffee-stall, proved, as she had hoped, lightning quick to pick up her hint; not more than a moment or two later the tall boy who had been painting the pub sign also dropped into the locksmith’s establishment.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, young ’un,’ he murmured, joining Dido at the back of the shop, where she was gazing with awestruck admiration at an elaborate warehouse lock, advertised ‘Safe & Proof Against the Most Malignant & Experienced Cracksman’.

  ‘I mustn’t stop too long in here,’ said Dido, ‘or I’ve a notion that one o’ them sooty-jackets’ll smell a rat and come fossicking arter me. What’s the row? Are you Wally’s brother?’

  ‘That’s right, love. My name’s Podge. And I’m a friend of Simon and Sophie.’

  ‘You are? Oh, that’s prime.’ Dido’s face broke into a joyful smile. ‘Oh, I wisht I could see them. But – here, stoop down, wallses have earses and you’re such a beanpole –’ She whispered in his ear: ‘My pa said as – as Simon might get drownded – same as old Lord Fo’castle – did I try to see him. So I just dassn’t! It’d be too dangerous!’

  ‘Aha!’ Podge nodded. His bright grey eyes were very intelligent. ‘I reckoned it might be summat o’ that sort. So did Sophie. She’s as shrewd as she can hold together, Sophie is!’

  ‘I wisht I could see Sophie,’ Dido said wistfully. ‘She was real decent to me, when I were younger.’

  ‘Heart of gold, Sophie has.’ A fond, tender look spread over Podge’s kind, plain face. ‘Anyhow she sends a message; they both do; hope to see you as soon as it’s safe for you.’

  ‘It ain’t me I’m feared for, Mr Podge, it’s them,’ Dido said earnestly. ‘I’ll come when I can, sartin sure. But what was it you wanted to axe me?’

  ‘It’s all to do with the same kettle of fish,’ whispered Podge. ‘You went to see His Nabs, t’other day, didn’t you?’

  ‘How the pize did you know that?’ demanded Dido, astonished. Then she recalled the red-headed page. ‘Aye, I did; why?’

  ‘He’s up to a power of mischief round here. Folk’s mortal feared of him – ’specially the barrow boys and the small shopkeepers. It’s the Cover Game, you see. If we could only find out what his main lay is – bring him to book, or get him sent back to Hanover –’

  ‘He’s a – hey!’ said Dido. ‘Lurk!’ She had caught sight of the black shape of a watchman standing in the street doorway looking into the dark interior of the shop.

  Podge, who seemed well acquainted with the place, nodded, slipped away along an aisle all lined with keys, and vanished out of some rear entrance. Dido walked over to the counter and was given her two keys. She paid for them out of her own dwindling store of cash. When she turned to leave, she found that the watcher had moved away from the door and was now farther along the street.

  Dido returned to the coffee-stall where Wally had her blue paper bag of coffee ready for her. ‘Like a mug o’ hot, miss?’ he said blandly. ‘It’s on the house – or I’ll toss you for it!’

  ‘I can’t stop now, cully – got to get a foreign gent’s breakfast,’ said Dido. ‘But I’ll take you up on that some rainy day – and then I’ll tell you all I can,’ she added in a low voice, with a meaning nod. Wally nodded back; then his crossed eyes, looking over her shoulder in different directions, narrowed, and he added under his breath, ‘Best mizzle, now, love! I see trouble coming this way!’

  Dido moved on carelessly along the street, glancing at an interesting display of Royal Love Letters and another, less interesting, of Religious Tracts. Then, quickly turning her head, she saw a gang of half a dozen large, burly boys, dressed in black leather, with leggings, slouch hats, and metal caps on their boots, surround and overturn Wally’s neatly kept stall with its gleaming tin urns, brass taps, oilcloth canopy and dangling mugs. They smashed the mugs and flung the loose coffee about. Wally stood aside, with arms folded, and face impassive; he could not possibly have taken on all the attackers, there were far too many of them, all twice his size. But his brother Podge, with several companions, carrying brickbats, and staves, came tearing along the street to his rescue. Podge was shouting, ‘Costers! Costers! Come and help smash the Bowmen!’ A few other stall-holders joined them; but more, Dido noticed, stood undecided, or looked in the other direction. Farther along the street she saw that several other stalls had been knocked down and their contents scattered.

  In another hasty look, Dido saw Podge tackle the leader of the black gang and hurl him to the cobbles, using a very neat hip-throw; but then she saw a metal-tipped boot connect with Podge’s shin, and he, too, fell, his feet knocked from under him. If that haven’t broke his leg he’s lucky, thought Dido angrily. It’s a shame such scaff and raff can come and spoil those poor chaps’ trade like that. And then she wondered: is that what Podge meant when he talked about the Cover Game? Those peevy coves don’t come and just do that out o’ the blue, someone has told ’em which stalls to wreck, and pays ’em, too, I’ll lay; dibs to dumplings it’s the Margrave behind it.

  She noticed more of the leather-clad boys, carrying mugs filched from Wally’s coffee-stall, walking arrogantly along the street, calling out, ‘Bowmen’s dues! Bowmen’s dues!’ The stallholders, reluctantly, with looks of fear and anger, were dropping silver money, crowns and half-crowns, even gold half sovereigns, into the mugs.

  It’s a right wicked game, thought Dido indignantly. And I’ll bet every penny of that money goes into His Nabs’s f
at purse, and that’s how he can afford all them velvet carpets and that glittery furniture.

  I better get outa here afore somebody drops on me.

  She made her way quickly through the crowd, looking busy and preoccupied with her basket of provisions, and so back into the less crowded ways through which she had come. Nobody followed her. The watchmen were still guarding their corners.

  That Margrave must have a packet o’ money already to afford all these watch coves and bully boys, Dido thought. So now what does he want? Podge wants to know what his main lay is. I wisht I knew. One thing’s for sure; whatever it is, Pa’s muxed up in it too.

  Back at Bart’s Building she banged on the knocker, not wishing to advertise the fact that she now possessed a front door key of her own. Mr Twite let her in.

  ‘Took your time,’ he said peevishly. ‘Lil’s woken up and reckoned she’d hardly get her breakfast before dinner time.’

  ‘Tough turkey!’ retorted Dido. ‘There was trouble in the street – some rapscallions breaking up poor devils’ barrows and stalls. The beaks oughta be told about them; they oughta be locked up in the Pongo.’

  ‘That is no affair of ours,’ said Mr Twite quickly. ‘I – I trust you did not – did not t-take part in any f-fracas, daughter?’

  ‘Nope,’ snapped Dido. She dumped the food on the mantelpiece; Mrs Bloodvessel was out of sight behind a Chinese screen, washing, by the sound of it.

  ‘Did you tell that gal to bring me some laudanum?’ she called.

  ‘No, my dilly.’

  ‘You’ll have to go out later, then.’

  Mr Twite muttered something vexed under his breath.

  Dido slipped a piece of bread and ham to the Slut, who was sweeping the front hall, and said, ‘You might come and give a rub-over to the foreign gent’s room when you’ve done that. Or lend me the broom. The dust’s thick as sheepses’ wool up there.’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ mumbled Is through the bread and ham.

  ‘And you doesn’t have to call me miss! Dido’s my name.’

  The Slut looked as if she had never heard of such a word, and could no more use it than she could play a bass viol.

  Dido ran up the stairs to the Dutch gentleman’s room and tapped on his door, which he had locked, but he came and opened it. She had brought kindling to light his fire, but was interested to see that, from his portmanteau, he had a small traveller’s fire-pot, which was already alight, with a brass kettle steaming on it comfortably. While Dido lit the fire in the grate, and toasted the cheese, Mr van Doon made a pot of powerful black coffee, cupfuls of which he administered to himself with a dram of schnapps, and to Dido who took it without the firewater; even so it was stingo stuff.

  Meanwhile they talked.

  ‘Mister,’ said Dido, ‘are you sure that His Nabs –’

  ‘Whom do you speak of thus, child?’

  ‘Up at the end, don’t forget, mister – child – so –’

  ‘Child; I thank you –’

  ‘D’you really reckon the Margrave means well by King Dick?’

  ‘Means well by him?’

  ‘Don’t mean to hurt him?’

  As the Dutch gentleman still seemed bewildered, Dido burst out impatiently, ‘Well, blimey, he’s fixing you up to be the exact copy of the king. Don’t it ever come into your brain-box that maybe he plans to do a swap – a switch, a dicker,’ she explained, as he still seemed perplexed. ‘Put you in the king’s place. Then what’d you do? You couldn’t hardly cry rope – they’d think you was mad. Or it’d be your head they took and chopped off.’

  Scowling to emphasize her point, she stared hard at van Doon. It was not easy to read his expression, because of the bandage across the middle part of his face, but his brow was furrowed, as if with difficult thought.

  After a moment or two he said, ‘His excellency the Margrave has told me the king may be tired; may wish for a holiday, to go and stay in peace on an island for a short time – then I would take his place and his excellency would instruct me –’

  ‘Mister,’ said Dido with pity, ‘you must come from Greenland if you believe a tale like that. He’s had you for a flat. Don’t you see?’

  It took some time for van Doon to understand her. Then he said in a troubled voice, ‘But his excellency the Margrave is a good man. He has rescued me from starvation – he has been most kind to me –’ He looked shaken, but obstinate.

  This Dutch cove really must be a simpleton if he truly reckons the Margrave to be kind, thought Dido. Any six-year-old would know better. How the dickens can I shift that notion he’s got so fixed in his silly noddle?

  There came a timid tap at the door, and the Slut edged her way into the room, carrying the birch-broom and a handful of dirty cleaning-rags. There were two new bruises on her face, and a cut, which bled.

  ‘Who done that?’ demanded Dido fiercely. ‘Did my pa do it?’

  ‘No, it were her. For taking the cover. ’E didn’t stop her, mind. She’s allus twitchy in the mornings. But I didn’t care about it,’ said the Slut stoutly, ‘not wi’ that great bit o’ ham in me belly.’ She wiped away a trail of tear, snuffle and blood with her elbow and got down to sweeping.

  The Dutchman was staring at the Slut as if petrified.

  ‘You see!’ Dido was beginning angrily. ‘What kind o’ –’ when there came a ring at the doorbell.

  ‘Oh, blister it, now what? I’d best go and see who that can be, you stay here, Is, with the Dutch gent – give her a dram of your coffee, mister, why don’t you?’ said Dido, and ran downstairs.

  Mr Twite was nowhere about. Perhaps he had gone out for more laudanum. Mrs Bloodvessel reclined on her sofa gazing dreamily at the cracks on the high ceiling. She did not trouble to bring her eyes down when Dido addressed her.

  ‘Listen, missus. It was me as took that quilt! And if you knock that young ’un about any more, I’ll tell the beaks, and they’ll put her in an orphanage.’

  ‘She is not an orphan,’ replied Mrs Bloodvessel coldly, still studying the ceiling. ‘Nobody can take her. I have a perfect right to punish her. And you best watch out, miss!’ she added, suddenly staring at Dido with venom. ‘I am a very old friend of his excellency. I can settle your hash, if you don’t stop meddling in what don’t concern you – he’d have you dropped in the Pool like a tiddler –’

  The doorbell rang again, peremptorily.

  ‘Go answer that,’ ordered Mrs Bloodvessel, turning on her side. ‘And don’t bother me.’

  Angry, nonplussed, Dido went to open the front door. Outside stood a youngish pink-faced, fair-haired young man, respectably dressed in top hat and frock coat, carrying a black doctor’s bag with – most unexpectedly – a grey monkey sitting on his shoulder.

  ‘Dr Finster,’ he announced himself briskly – she could see he was not pleased at being kept waiting. ‘Where is my patient?’

  ‘Your pa –?’ Dido had been gaping at the monkey. ‘Oh – the Dutch feller? He’s upstairs.’

  Without waiting to be shown the way, Dr Finster brushed past her and ran up the stairs while Dido shut the door, observing that a grand coach, with a coat-of-arms (a black fist with a hammer on a gold shield), on the door, waited outside, the coachman walking the horses to and fro to keep them warm. The doctor must be sent by His Nabs, Dido thought, following Dr Finster up the stairs. As she reached the landing, a second slam of the front door and a flurry of hoboy notes announced the return of her father.

  ‘Who came in the carriage, daughter?’ he called up the stairs, with sharp alarm in his voice.

  ‘The Crocus,’ Dido replied.

  ‘Oh, him,’ Mr Twite said in evident relief. ‘I’ll just give this to Lil – tell Finster I’ll be up in a trice.’

  By the time Dido entered the Dutchman’s room, Dr Finster had removed the facial bandage from his patient, studied the inflamed area that lay below, applied cooling lotion, and was now preparing to put on a new dressing.

  ‘That goes on well,’ he said, approving hi
s own handiwork. ‘In two days more the bandage may come off. I shall inform his excellency.’

  All the while he had attended to his patient, the monkey had remained on Dr Finster’s shoulder, clinging to his velvet collar with its fingers and toes. The Slut watched from a distant corner, astounded, halfway through her cleaning operations.

  Now the air of ‘Calico Alley’, growing louder, preceded Mr Twite up the stairs. Is turned pale and looked as if she would have liked to escape, but there was no way she could do so. Whereas, at the sound of the hoboy music, the monkey became filled with energy and joy; he bounded from the doctor’s shoulder and began to spring and caper about the floor, waving his arms, leaping high in the air, sweeping his long tail from side to side, and chattering shrilly in time to the music. The Slut shut her eyes and covered her ears with her fingers.

  ‘The monkey remembers well what cured him, you see,’ observed Dr Finster to Mr Twite, as the latter entered the room, still playing. Indeed the monkey, with evident recognition and delight, darted across the floor, ran up Mr Twite as if he were a tree, and sat chattering on his head.

  ‘It is a most interesting case and demonstrates to the full the truth of my theory on the medicinal powers of music – especially yours,’ pronounced the doctor, studying the monkey with great self-satisfaction. ‘Do not neglect to play to Mijnheer van Doon, also, for at least two hours a day; that will assist the healing process better than my lotion.’

  ‘Sartin sure, I’ll – I’ll play to the poor sufferer,’ replied Mr Twite, who appeared to have been dosing himself downstairs along with Mrs Bloodvessel. ‘Now, if you’d be so ob – obliggleous as to remove this little monster off of my noddle –’

  He began to sing:

  ‘Dr Finster met a monster,

  In the merry month of May –

  First he rinsed her, then he minced her

  All for half a guinea pay –’