Dido and Pa (16 page)

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 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.
"

"Did Pa's music really cure that monkey of summat?" Dido asked the doctor, who was now replacing his instruments in the black bag. He gave her a cool glance.

"Yes, miss, most certainly it did; the animal was at death's door with Mishkin's disease—weighed only five ounces, and all its fur had fallen out. I had your father playing to it for twelve hours a day. I hope that information will encourage you to behave to your father with proper respect, which he certainly deserves!" Finster gave Dido another quelling look, then reclaimed his monkey from the head of Mr. Twite (who was not looking particularly respect-worthy) and remarked to the latter in a low tone: "Do not neglect to continue the treatment with his excellency,
whether he asks for it or not!
It is most necessary. At least three hours a day. I cannot overstress the importance of this."

"Aye, aye, aye, I'll not forget," replied Mr. Twite, nodding so many times that his wig, already knocked awry by the monkey, fell off completely. He put it on again back to front. The doctor frowned, stuck out his lower lip, looked as if he thought of saying something more, then sighed, shrugged, and ran downstairs.

Dido had a sudden thought and ran after him.

"Hey, mister!" she called.

Dr. Finster, in the act of stepping into the coach, paused and looked at her impatiently.

"Well? What?"

"Could you go and look arter a boy called Podge Greenaway who's been painting the sign of the Feathers pub, down Wapping High Street? He had his leg kicked by a mobster—could 'a' broke the bone, easy. Anyone'll tell you where to find him; his dad is blind and keeps the apple stall."

"Have you taken leave of your wits, child? Such people are not the affair of a physician such as I am. Let him find himself an apothecary. Good day."

A footman slammed the door, and the horses broke into a trot.

And slumguzzle to
you,
thought Dido, looking after him; then she turned back into the house, shut the door, and began walking slowly back up the stairs.

Maybe I oughta write to the king, she thought. I could
write a note, give it to Wally; he'd give it to Podge; if his leg ain't broke, he could get it to Simon who'd pass it along to King Dick. But would he ever believe it? It's bezants to barleycorns he'd take no heed.... Or he'd fetch in his dear cousin the margrave and ask him about it all; and the margrave 'ud deny everything. "How could you listen to such wicked tales about me?" And then the fat 'ud really be in the fire.

I've got to think of some plan.

But what?

Mr. Twite had retired once again to the frowzy nest he shared with Mrs. Bloodvessel; the exquisite notes of Three Herrings for a Ha'penny floated up the stairs. Too bad the monkey ain't in the house still, that'd make his fur grow twice as fast, ruminated Dido, continuing to climb the stairs. It's right rum that Pa's music does the monkey so much good, while that poor little morsel Is can't stand it.... What was the doctor saying to Pa, just afore he left? Something about his nabs?

Dido came to the door of the Dutchman's room and stood still in wonder.

Van Doon had produced a little set of travelers' dominoes from his baggage and laid them out on the top of his smaller valise. Across this improvised board he faced the Slut, who, cap laid aside, hair combed, face washed, and cheeks pink with interest, squatted like a gargoyle, chin on elbows, studying the pieces. After a moment or two, very slowly and hesitantly, she brought a piece up from the floor and laid it at the end of the pattern.

But it was the Dutch gentleman's face which really riveted Dido's attention. And his attitude. He was watching the little Slut as if she were some long-lost, long-loved book that he had had not a hope of ever reading again.

When she laid down her domino and looked up at him, half proud, half doubtful, he gave her a little smiling nod. Then very gently he leaned across and patted her small head.

The street children were flocking earlier and earlier to the forecourt of Bakerloo House as the days went by. This morning they had come well before daylight, and were playing their games by the light of the gas flares that blazed outside in the King's Road.

It was a freezing, foggy morning, and the snow, by now several inches deep, glowed like dusty gold as the children kicked and pranced and sang their rhymes.

"
Mingle, mangle, mingle,
" they sang, running and criss-ing and crossing, catching and swinging round one another if they met, then loosing and running on again.

"
Mingle, mangle, mingle,
Poor King Dick is single—
Not a chick, not a wife
To cheer his lonely life,
Not a sweetheart, not a friend
To cheer his latter end!
"

Then they all turned and raced for the plane tree that grew by the porter's lodge. The last one to reach it was given the part of King Dick, and sat sorrowfully on the fountain in the middle of the court.

"
Let us choose, let us pick,
" sang the others:

"
Pick a wife for lonely Dick.
Is she nimble, is she quick.
Can she jump over a walking stick?
"

Then they began setting each other a series of trials—leapfrogging, jumping over sticks held higher and higher, balancing along the rails of the fence, turning cartwheels, handstands, and somersaults, until one could be judged the best, suitable to marry the bachelor king. But then, just as one was finally chosen, an outsider arrived, singing:

"
I'm the queen from over the sea,
Before you wed him you'll have to fight me!
"

The two "queens" fought until one of them gave in, and the other was married to the "king" in a mock ceremony. Then it all began again.

One of the children, seeing Sophie at the window, waved vigorously and held up a hand with something white in it. Sophie ran down to the front door and met the child, a round-faced cheerful little girl of not more than seven or eight, with untidily braided tawny hair and a great many freckles.

"'Tis a letter for the lady Sophie—from Podge. When's your birthday? Mine's sometime in June."

"Thank you, my love. I'm the lady Sophie and my birthday's in April. The tenth. Have you no father nor mother, my poor child?"

"Nary a one! But I manages! In summer I sells cresses, and in winter pincushions."

"Bring a pincushion next time you come and I'll buy it," Sophie promised as the small creature raced back to her companions.

"My dear Sophie," said the letter from Podge:

I am sorry not to come and see you myself, as the sight of your pretty face is like a Tonic. But wished to lose no time in telling you that I have seen your friend Dido & she is well & living with her Dad in Wapping. She said she feared she could not visit you as it wd be too Dangerous (as you & I thought). Her father is working for You know who (also as we thought). Hope to see you in a Day or two, but have a bad leg just at present.

Yr very affct friend,

D. Greenaway.

Sophie ran upstairs with this epistle to find Simon pulling on his boots. He was already dressed in riding costume. Mogg was greasing his flintlock.

"Oh no!" said Sophie in dismay. "Must you go out after wolves again?"

"I fear I must, love. The king has asked me to most particularly. Blackheath and Dulwich are quite overrun; poor old ladies are being pulled out of their beds and children devoured on the way to school."

"Then can't I come too?" eagerly demanded Sophie.

He said reluctantly, "I don't think you ought. What about the poor king? One of us should stay at hand to cheer him up, don't you think?"

Sophie made a face at her brother.

"Besides, it is quite dangerous," he went on apologetically. "I got this gash on the arm, and one of the brutes bit clean through my boot yesterday—you are safer here in Chelsea. But, of course, if you really insist on coming..."

She sighed.

"No, you are right. Just do me a favor and don't get eaten!"

"I'll be home late again—probably long after you have gone to bed."

"I daresay you will.... Simon, Podge writes that he has seen Dido. Is not that good news?"

"Oh, famous!" he said, his face brightening wonderfully. "Where?"

"In Wapping."

"I will find some way of getting to see her," he said. "In disguise, perhaps. The very minute that we have these wolves under control...."

Half an hour after Simon had gone, another note arrived from the margrave.

My dear Battersea:

I am reluctant to make a second call upon your time, knowing how busy you are; but I have a small point regarding the Royal Route that needs confirming. I am wondering if I can tempt you to a recital of Tea Music by my excellent chapel-master this evening, at eight?
We
could have our small chat, and then I can promise you a rare musical treat. Dare I hope to see you?

Your friend,

Eisengrim.

"Oh, drat the man," muttered Sophie, chewing the end of her quill pen as she considered what her answer should be. "I wish Simon had not gone off. Or that Podge didn't have a bad leg; then I could get him to escort me."

She decided that she must accept, and penned a polite note to that effect.

Simon and his companions rode across Chelsea Bridge, east through Lambeth village, and so on up to the wooded hills of Kent—Streatham Hill, Sydenham Hill, Forest Hill, Hilly Fields, Blackheath, Shooters Hill. All these forested summits were now infested by wolves, which, singly, might not have been dangerous, but they ranged in large packs and, ten or twenty together, could easily bring down a horse and man.

The weather made hunting them more difficult. Snow fell continually, blinding the huntsmen and their mounts,
giving good cover for the wolves to slip away among ancient oaks and thickset hazel and thorn coppices.

Toward midafternoon, somewhere in the region of Blackheath Edge, when the light was already beginning to fail, Simon became separated from his companions. His horse had strained a fetlock, stumbling on a concealed rabbit hole that was masked by snow; it limped badly and could not keep up with the others. Soon Simon was alone, among great barricades of thorn trees.

Plague on it, he thought. I had best turn for home. At this pace, Lochinvar won't get me back to Chelsea before dark. Where can the others have got to? Will they have the sense to know that is what I have done?

It was a desolate, silent region where he found himself. The gnarled ancient thorn trees grew close together. He had not passed a house for miles. London seemed far away, though he knew that the villages of Greenwich and Deptford must lie somewhere in the valley below and to the north.

"Hold up, poor old fellow!" he said as Lochinvar stumbled again. "I'd better lead you through all these tangled thorn trees. It's lucky there aren't any wolves about."

During the day the hunters had accounted for several hundred of the creatures, and their mates, limping, bleeding, and cowed, had been driven southward and eastward.

Simon had no sooner dismounted, however, than he heard a faint scream ahead of him, and the familiar, ominous sound of snarls, growls, and high-pitched howls.

Cursing the flutter of snow that obscured his view, he struggled on, tugging the reluctant Lochinvar after him, and came out into a small clearing where there was a wooden cabin. In front of the building he could see the black, ragged shapes of six or seven wolves, leaping, crouching, and darting as they attacked a human figure that tried to defend itself with no weapon but a metal pail.

The faint cry came again: a thin, despairing sound.

"Hold on! I'm coming!" Simon shouted. "Get away, you brutes!" he yelled at the wolves, who took no notice.

Simon did not dare discharge his loaded gun, for fear of accidentally wounding the wolves' victim, so he flung Lochinvar's bridle over a thorn bough and crept closer, until one wolf spotted him and turned; then he was able to shoot it at almost point-blank range. The rest, frightened by the report, reluctantly retreated; Simon was able to kill two more of them, one with his second musket, the second with the short sword, called a Save-All, which every hunter carried.

Then he turned to assist the person he had rescued who, all this time, was crouched trembling in the snow. She seemed to be an elderly woman.