Dido and Pa (4 page)

Dido, however, at this burst of musical activity, eyed him a little more respectfully.

"Are you making up some new tunes, then, Pa?"

"I am always at it, my euphorbia. But, bless us, yes, my mind is at present engrossed—
mgrrrr-osssed,
" he repeated, giving the word a slightly guttural, foreign accent. "I am engrossed in a suite for a Royal Progress."

"Like, you mean, when the king goes from St. James's Palace to Hampton Court?"

"Just so, my poppet. I plan to call my suite The Royal Tunnel Music."

"Why Tunnel Music, Pa?"

"Why, my chicken, you probably may not be aware, having been absent for so long on your travels, but the old king, King James, had, while he was alive, put in hand the work for a tunnel to be dug under the river Thames, running from Shadwell to Rotherhithe. This tunnel was, in fact, all but completed when he died, and the new king, King Richard—that is—ahem!—will open it at a grand opening ceremony shortly." Under his breath Mr. Twite murmured, "And then, just won't there be fireworks! Oh, butter my whiskers."

"So, is your Tunnel Music a-going to be played at the opening ceremony, Pa?"

"Well, my lovekin, that remains to be seen. But I hope so, I certainly do hope so."

And Mr. Twite gave several very emphatic nods, dislodging his mustache entirely. Dido thoughtfully picked it up from among the rushes and handed it to him.

Their carriage, having turned eastward and passed the Tower of London, now plunged into a maze of narrow streets that lay close to the docks—winding, slippery streets, their cobbles littered with orange peel, fishheads, and straw.

Children sailed boats in the filthy gutters, despite the worsening weather; ragged old women picked over dirt heaps, looking for bones or rags or bits of rusty iron; groups
huddled round breakfast stalls, blowing the steam off mugs of coffee; little slattern girls carried baskets of watercresses or shrimps, and shrilly called their wares.

"Juststopaminnit," croaked Mr. Twite, running all his words together, as the carriage rolled past a corner tavern called the Two Jolly Mermaids; and he tapped on the panel and called out, "Jarvey, jarvey, I say! Morel! Pull up, pull up. I
have
to wet my whistle."

"His excellency gave me no instructions about stopping," replied the driver.

His excellency? thought Dido. Who the pize can his excellency be, when he's at home?

"His excellency don't want a cove to die of thirst," retorted Mr. Twite, hastily ramming his mustache back into place. "You stop here, and you can have a mug of organ grinder's oil for yourself."

"Oh, very well; tol-lol."

The two men dismounted, the driver giving the reins into the hand of a boy who was pushing a wheeled coffee stall along the road, presumably from its night quarters to its daytime position.

"Here, you! Mind these for a couple o' minutes and I'll give you half a jim."

Dido made to follow her father, but he checked her.

"You'd best not come in, my dove; it's a sailors' tavern, not suited for your youthful innocence. I'll bring you out a mug of hot purl."

Dido was about to protest that she had been in far wilder places during the course of her travels, but then it occurred
to her that she might, while Mr. Twite was in the public house, turn the time to good account. Accordingly, as soon as the two men had gone into the tavern, she stuck her head out of the carriage window, and said to the boy holding the horses:

"Hey, cully! D'you want to earn a brown?"

"I'd sooner a tanner," retorted the boy, eyeing her shrewdly. "Let's see the color of your blunt."

He was a stocky, round-faced boy, wearing a pair of leather smalls, rather too large for him, and over them a smock frock which he had belted up with a dog collar. His blue eyes were somewhat crossed, which gave him a carefree appearance; one of them looked hard at Dido, the other one stared over her shoulder. He was very freckled. Dido noticed that his coffee stall looked neat and clean, and the brass urn was brightly polished.

She had a little money with her and was able to pull a silver sixpence out of her pocket and hold it up.

"Boil me! A real silver Simon. What d'ye want me to do?"

"You know the way from here to Chelsea?"

"Do I know my granma's patch box?" retorted the boy scornfully. "Well?"

"Go to Chelsea, and ask for the dook o' Battersea's house."

"
Now
who're you gammoning? Go to the dook's house? He'd turn me over to the traps, sure as you're born. Who'd do that, even for a Simon?"

"No he wouldn't," said Dido earnestly. "He's a right decent cove, the dook—his name's Simon too—and he'll be
glad to get word of me. You give him—" she searched her person for something that she could send as a token, finally pulled off one of the brass buttons from her sheepskin coat. "You give him this here button," she said, "and tell him it's from Dido Twite; that I'm with my pa on an urgent errand; I'm here in—where is this?"

"Wapping."

"I'm here in Wapping, and I'll come to Chelsea as soon as I'm free. Got it?"

"I go to the dook, I tell him Died o' Fright's with her pa, an'll come to him as soon as she kin."

"Right."

"Let's have the mish, then."

Dido handed over the sixpence; the boy took it, bit it, nodded sagaciously, and stowed it away among the folds of his breeches.

"Mind," he said, "I can't leave the coffee barrer long enough to git all the way to Chelsea—that's a fair step, that be—but someone'll get it there."

"What's your name?" asked Dido, wondering doubtfully whether she could really trust him, and wishing she had paper and pencil so that she could write Simon a note. How long would this business with her father take? Was he speaking the truth about this mysterious sick person? Did her father ever speak the truth?

Dido sighed.

"Name's Wally Greenaway," the boy said, eyeing Dido with care, first out of one eye, then the other. "Everyone round here knows me—my dad has the apple stall yonder."

He nodded to a barrow along the road, piled with russet apples. A tall, large-boned man stood behind it. Despite the cold wet morning he wore only a check waistcoat over shirt sleeves and drab breeches and a red belcher neckerchief. His hair was pale gray, almost white. Dido thought that he was blind.

"Reckon I'll buy one of his apples," she said, and scrambled out of the carriage. "Pa's being mighty slow with that mug o' purl."

A sign on the stall said 4
APPELS
Id. On close inspection the apples looked rather wizened, but Dido was hungry and thirsty. Besides, if she bought the father's wares, the son might be more likely to do her business. Remembering a piece of advice that a sailor had once given her, she said to the boy:

"When's your birthday? Mine's the first o' March."

When you talk to a savage or a native,
Noah Gusset had said,
always tell him some secret about yourself—your birthday, your father's name, your favorite food; tell him your secret and ask him his. That's a token of trust; soon's you know each other a bit, then you can be friends.

The question certainly had an electrifying effect on the boy Wally. He gaped at Dido as if she had told him, that she was the queen of Japan. He did not immediately answer.

Meanwhile Dido turned to the stall owner. "I'd like one o' your apples, please, mister. Can I take this one with the leaf, in front?"

"They're four for a yenap, daughter."

"I only want one."

At that moment Mr. Twite and the carriage driver emerged from the tavern, wafting strong fumes of Geneva spirit.

"Hey, cockalorum, what's this?" demanded Mr. Twite, in tones of strong disapproval, as he advanced. "M'daughter hobnobbing with all the scaff and raff of London in the public street? That won't do, no it won't, by bilboes! Giving money and—and tokens to barrow boys and crossing sweepers—chatting up louts and cads! Where's your sense of pride and propriety, child?"

And Dido's father, who must, she realized with dismay, have been watching through the tavern window, suddenly pounced on Wally Greenaway, shook him till his teeth rattled, and removed from him the button and the silver sixpence. Mr. Twite pocketed the latter, and gave the former back to Dido, wagging his finger at her admonishingly and saying, with a knowing wink, "Mustn't give coins and tokens to young lads in the streets, stap me, no, you mustn't! That's
flighty,
daughter, and owdacious—can't have ye demeaning the name of Twite; no, damme, we can't. Come along, come along now—bundle back in the carriage and look sharp about it."

"
Hey
—leggo of me, Pa—" Dido began furiously, but the driver was plainly prepared to assist Mr. Twite in bundling his daughter into the carriage; she saw that resistance would be a waste of time and undignified as well.

But she was very angry indeed, affronted at being shamed in front of the boy and his father. Resolving to bide
her time and to get away at the very first opportunity, she bit her lip, and climbed back into the stuffy conveyance.

The driver jumped back onto his box, and Mr. Twite was preparing to follow Dido when a voice called,

"Wait a minute! Wait just a minute, mister! You forgot something!"

It was the apple seller calling after them—in a surprisingly loud, deep, resonant voice.

Mr. Twite turned, startled and not pleased.

"You forgot her apple!" called the stall keeper, and he took an apple from the front of his stall and tossed it toward Mr. Twite, who, more by luck than judgment, caught it in his left hand.

"Mister! You better watch out for that liddle maid!" called the apple seller warningly. "She be a rare 'un, she be! I can see crossed sparkling lines over her head, an' a whole shower o' lucky stars. I can see a gold crown in her hand, look so, and a velvet carpet under her foot. So take good care of her, do-ee; or else the luck'll turn inside out for 'ee, and the shining lines'll turn to flint stones and sharp fangs, as'll strike and batter ye to the heart. There's a warning plain and clear for them as'll heed it!"

"Godblessmysoul!" ejaculated Mr. Twite, looking quite pale and shattered at this unexpected harangue. Dismayed, he stared at the apple, then at the apple seller, then, shaking his head from side to side as if wasps were buzzing round it, he clambered into the carriage and slammed the door.

"What next, I'd like to know?" he grumbled. "Blind costermongers roaring out warnings—who the deuce do they think we are, King Solly the First and the queen o' Sheep's Head Bay?"

But just the same, Mr. Twite gave Dido a narrow, appraising look, as if wondering, perhaps for the first time, whether there might be more to her than met the eye; and he sat frowningly regarding her as the driver cracked his whip and the horses began to move once more.

"You better give me my apple, Pa, I'm hungry, and you never brought me that jossop you promised," said Dido, and he absently handed her the apple. Noticing with interest that it was the very one she had asked for, the one with a leaf from the front row, she carefully polished it on her sheepskin sleeve and bit into it. I never paid the blind cove for it, nor did Pa, she suddenly thought; soon's I can, I'll find out where he lives, or come back to his stall, and pay him a farden. I reckon he done me a good turn.

How
good a turn, she did not realize.

But she did notice that the boy Wally was running alongside the carriage. Despite the inconvenience of his bunchy, belted smock and too-large trousers, he ran well, easily keeping pace with the horses as they broke into a fast trot.

Catching Dido's eye, he shouted something.

"What did the young ruffian say?" asked Mr. Twite mistrustfully.

"He said his birthday's the ninth of December."

"And what's that to the purpose? Why in daisy's name
should we wish to know the birthday of a young guttersnipe like that? Does he expect us to send him a remembrance on the day?" peevishly demanded Mr. Twite. Then, forgetting the boy, he stuck his arm through the handle, as the carriage gathered speed, and sat morosely observing his daughter as she munched her apple.

"He saw a gold crown in your hand—was that what the fellow said? How the plague could the blind rogue do that?"

"How should I know, Pa?" said Dido, nibbling speedily round the core of the apple. "But that's what he said, sure enough. And a velvet carpet under my feet. Maybe he means I'll go into the furnishing trade."

By now the boy Wally had fallen behind the coach, but he shouted a word to another boy, a towheaded crossing sweeper, who promptly dropped his broom and broke into a run.

"Remember that song you used to sing, Dido?" pensively remarked Mr. Twite. "Back in the dear old days in Rose Alley when we all lived together in previousness and happy harmony, when your beloved ma was still with us?"

Dido's chief recollection of that time was that her ma used to feed her on cold fish porridge and thump her with the fish-slice if she dared to grumble; that her clothes had been too short and too tight, so that she was often obliged to stay in bed for days on end because she had nothing to wear.

"Which song was you thinking of, Pa?"

"Ah, many's the time we sung it together," went on her
father with gathering enthusiasm. "You a-sitting on my knee and a-beating time with a pickle fork in your tiny fist. Didn't the words go:

"
Oh, how I long to be queen, Pa,
And float in a golden canoe
Playing a pink mandoline, Pa,
All up the river to Kew!

Was not that how the song went? I remember our voices used to mingle in it so happily!"

"The words didn't go quite like that, Pa," said Dido, biting the last edible shred off her apple core and tossing it out of the carriage window. It was pounced on by a skinny ginger-haired boy who had replaced the towhead. "But near enough, I daresay."

"Perhaps those words foretold a Tremendous Truth!" exclaimed Mr. Twite, on whom the organ grinder's oil taken in the tavern had plainly worked a beneficial and reviving change. He gave Dido a tremendous smile, showing two sets of teeth the color of Dutch cheese, then leaned forward and tapped commandingly on the panel once more.