The Journal of Dora Damage (7 page)

Soon I reached the church of St Mary-le-Strand, which marked the junction with Holywell-street. The traffic was at a complete
standstill here, for the Strand branched into two strandlets, one of which was the narrow, dark Elizabethan lane of Holywell-street
and its tortuous mesh of alley-ways, where I was headed. I could not see above the suited backs of the crowds ahead of me,
so I raised my eyes heavenwards, to the overhanging tenements, the lofty gables and deep bay windows, under which hung wooden
shop signs and figures, including a large carved half-moon which betrayed the mercery past of the street. The old lath-and-plaster
houses huddled and skulked just like the people below, deprived of light and air but rich in dirt and disease.

At one junction with a fetid alley-way leading off into an unwelcoming labyrinth, I had to wait at a lamp-post to let people
past. A notice was glued to it announcing the imminent demolition of Holywell-street and a blessed proposal of a new, straight
thoroughfare to blast through the meandering pestilence and decay of this metropolitan anachronism, and bring order and circulation
to the unregulated, crumbling relics of a bygone age. A gap appeared in the crowd, but before I started to move on again,
I noted the sign was dated ‘July ’52’. It was the first sign I had of quite how tenacious Holywell-street was, how long it
would hold out against the city-planners’ drive for light, air and hygiene for all, how it determinedly clung to its own filth.

At another pause in my journey, I spotted a small grey plaque marking the site of a holy well, which once provided succour
for pilgrims bound for Canterbury, its curative water giving them a taste of the holy wonders to await them at their destination
and in the next world. As I inhaled the stale air I thought ruefully of my mother’s death, and I fingered her hair-bracelet.

The signs intrigued me: ‘Shampooing – Hats Ironed – Shaving – Books’; ‘Boot Depot – Books – Sole Entrance’; ‘Hawkers – Suppliers
to the Trade’, ‘Removed Opposite’, ‘Punch – Almanacks – School Books’, ‘St Clements Stores Merchant – Books’; ‘French American
Spanish LETTERS’; ‘Bears’ grease, freshly killed’, and I shrieked as I came face to face with a very subdued bear – a real,
live, breathing, hairy bear with a dry tongue – chained miserably to the railings outside the barber’s, as if he knew he would
be next.

Soon the crowds started to thin, and eventually I no longer needed to look up, but could scan across, into the windows. But
straightways I wished I hadn’t, for the first shop window stopped me directly in my tracks. Despite myself and my own feminine
cross-glance, I looked directly through the small panes of glass of the narrow shop window, where the cobwebs were lit by
gas-light, and the shop beyond lay gloomy and nefarious. Waiting for my perusal were lithographs, mezzotints, daguerreotypes,
call them what you will, but their subject matter was plain: a girl greeted the morning sun in nothing more than her crinoline
and chemise; another young lady laughed while gaily ironing an indeterminate item of clothing which she no doubt would presently
put on; another made lemonade in such a manner that it was necessary to display her ankles; another shucked oysters with bare
arms; ballerinas stretched their limbs along with their morals. I pulled away from the window, flushed, and saw a gentleman
with yellow whiskers smiling at me, at my betrayal of interest, my forthright and shameless looking. My mother would have
wept.

I stumbled on, averting my gaze and checking the card in my hand with purpose. I had taken it from the workshop this morning,
and it read:

Mr Charles Diprose, 128 Holywell-st, London.

Purveyor to the Professions –

Importer of French and Dutch Specialities –

Books Bought.

Fortunately the subsequent windows between that print shop and Mr Diprose’s establishment were less compelling: stacks of
old and new books, prints of city streets and rural idylls, medical and scientific pamphlets, periodicals and broadsheets,
second-hand clothes, old furniture. Many of these, like the print shop, I could not avoid, but now for more physical reasons:
the shops tumbled forth their wares on to the pavement, and I had to step around crates of old books and dodge the swaying
lines of old clothes.

I finally spotted the sign ‘Diprose & Co.’ swinging on its hinges underneath a small carved wooden figure of a negro sucking
on a long pipe, wearing a wavy grass skirt and matching wavy gold crown, a gaslight directly beside it. I was at a loss to
tell what it represented, but was relieved to see in the windows no arresting engravings. It was a smart but small shopfront,
with a bright brass bell, on which I rang. It was quickly answered by a young man who enquired after my business.

‘I should like to talk to Mr Charles Diprose, please,’ I said sweetly.

‘On what matter?’ he asked, with a wobble of his head and a swagger not unlike mirth in his voice. Like Jack, he was a red-head,
but his was that insipid washed-out orange colour one finds at the tips of a newly picked carrot, not the rich woody-coppery
tones on Jack’s bony skull, and his curled lips and the freckles stippling his skin were of the same pallid hue as his hair.

I was not prepared for interrogation at this stage. I had steeled myself for the actual encounter with Mr Diprose, and had
not expected to fall before even offering my hand. I stuttered and stammered the words Damages – bookbinders – husband – business
– Mr Diprose – at which the grinning assistant pulled back the bolts, delighting in my discomfort.

‘He is out, but he will return presently. You may wait.’ He ushered me in to the stuffy room, where two men were being served.
I hesitated at the sight of them, but the assistant gestured to a chair in the corner on which I seated myself. The men raised
their hats to me, exchanged a glance with each other, then returned to the books on the counter.

‘But these are . . .’ the man paused to look back at me, as he chose his words carefully, ‘
artistic
anatomy books.’ I squinted and was able to make out the gold-tooling on the spines: John Rubens Smith’s
A Key to the Art of Drawing
the Human Figure
, and Pieter Camper’s
Works on the
Connexion Between the Science of Anatomy and the Arts of
Drawing, Painting, and Statuary
. We had previously bound copies of both in the workshop when money was tight and expediency temporarily superior to principles,
though of course Peter had never let me peruse them; I knew they were unseemly.

‘The Camper is a fine edition,’ the shop-keeper argued. ‘A reprint of the 1794 English translation from the Dutch.’

‘But I require
medical
anatomy.’

‘Ah,
medical
anatomy, of course. I have several copies of Quain’s, and a splendid edition of the Gray’s, quite the modern thing. Or if
Aristotle and his
chef-d’oeuvre
would be more to your liking . . .’

‘Young man . . . Have you no sense of . . . I have never . . . ! Good day!’

And thus the two men turned to leave, raising their hats to me again, as another gentleman appeared hurriedly from within
the shop behind the brown curtain. He was a paunchy, round-shouldered man with a purple face and black beard. Both his skin
and hair were shiny, and his silk hat greasy; even his sombre black frock coat seemed damp. I would have said he was trying
to be a gentleman, and knew enough of them to have influence on him.

‘Who were they, and why did they leave?’ he said, in clipped, hushed tones as he removed his hat.

‘Proper ones,’ mouthed the assistant.

Just then, the purple and black man caught sight of me. He half-turned to the assistant, while continuing to look at me, as
if trying to ascertain my station and purpose there, and what response of his would be appropriate.

‘This is Mrs – Mrs – ah . . . Damson? Damsel?’ said the assistant.

‘Mrs Damage,’ I said.

‘Mrs Damage?’ the gentleman repeated, more warmly, but still with reservation. ‘Mrs Peter Damage?’ I nodded. ‘Mrs Damage,’
he said again. ‘Charles Diprose.’ He took my hand, and kissed it. If I had been a lady, and wearing gloves, I would still
have been able to feel through the kid that his hands were clammy. The kiss left a trail on my skin like a snail. He gestured
to his assistant to bolt the door.

‘I have not had the pleasure of meeting your husband, but I know of his work, and his contribution to the unions.
Il se
porte bien
?’

He must have assumed my delay in replying was due to my not understanding French, rather than my uncertainty as to how to
answer, so he asked, ‘Is he in good health?’

‘Passing good, sir,’ I finally said. ‘Yes, sir.’ The assistant was standing by the window, peering out into the street, as
if keeping watch.

‘And his apprentice, Jack. How fares he?’

‘Passing well, sir, yes, sir. Jack is a fine apprentice.’

‘And of course, Sven Ulrich.’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘I hear he is no longer with you. Hard to keep, the Germans. They are so very precise, such fine craftsmen. One cannot keep
them without paying the price.’

I looked at him but found no answer; my jaw was slack with horror. What else did he know? What had he heard from others in
the trade? Of course they all talked to each other; they all knew each other’s business. He must have known how rude and surly
Peter Damage had become; how no one wanted to work with him any more; how his standards of work had deteriorated and that
he was no longer fit to call himself a Master Binder; that he was facing bankruptcy, and poverty.

‘So, your business here?’

‘Peter – Mr Damage – sent me.’ Regardless of what this man knew of our circumstances, I had to try, at least. ‘He would have
come himself but, well, he’s been laid up with a hurt leg and cannot walk. He has given me his full consent for coming here;
nay, it was his very suggestion. His hands are fine, though, you see. He can still get the books up.’

Diprose was smiling at me. I had to keep going. I thought that he vaguely resembled William IV, although not so much that
one might accord him any more than a modicum of respect.

‘I couldn’t help noticing, sir, that a few weeks ago you sent your card to my husband, but I fear you received no reply.’
His smile didn’t flicker. ‘At least, I assume you received no reply. It’s our errand boy, see, proved difficult and, frankly,
unreliable, and . . . Well, whatever your purpose was with the card, he would like to help. If it’s work you’re wanting us
– him – to do, he still can.’

Diprose pulled a chair up, and sat down. I noticed he had some difficulty bending at the waist, so he eased his trunk down
to the point at which his knees would bend no more, then toppled backwards into the chair, with a grunt. He folded his arms,
and said nothing, but gestured to me to continue.

‘Is it work? Or, or maybe it’s nothing any more.’ I was uneasy now, and could not stop my mouth from overworking. ‘Pardon
my troubling you, sir, it’s just that, he doesn’t like to ignore his customers, and seeks to provide a tip-top service to
booksellers and libraries and purveyors, who furnish him with, with . . .’

Diprose held his hand up, and turned his head stiffly away, while holding my gaze with his eyes. I bit my lip as I watched
him gesture to the assistant, who leant over to receive a whisper in his ear before disappearing behind the counter into the
back room. Mr Diprose was still looking at me, arms folded. Unnerved, my eyes flitted across the wood panels and display-shelves,
as if they would help me know what to do next. I smoothed my skirts, and had just about decided to stand up and slip away
into the anonymity of the London streets, when the assistant returned with a fat manila envelope.

He handed it to Diprose, who gave it directly to me. It was surprisingly heavy. I looked down at it on my lap, then back up
at him, and then down again.

‘A Bible,’ he said.

‘A Bible? I thought you did medical books.’

‘We
do
all sorts of books in here, Mrs Damage,’ he said, mocking me. He had his head on one side, as if he were trying to measure
me. ‘Do you know Sir Jocelyn Knightley?’ I shook my head. ‘I mean, do you know
of
him? Have you not read, in the papers, of his triumphant sojourn amongst the tribes of Southern Africa?
Ma chère
, he is an eminent physician:
un
peu
scholar;
un peu
scientist;
un peu
adventurer. His dramatic exploits on the dark continent have caught the attention not only of the scientific community, but
also of the Church. The Bishop of Reading, no less, has proposed the establishment of a mission amongst these savages. Which
is why Sir Jocelyn has commissioned from us a new manuscript, printed first in Latin, then scribed
à la main
in the local tongue, to present to the Bishop, in honour of his support. Tell Mr Damage to give me something simple, classic.
Shall we say, a representation of God’s bounty in tropical climes. He has three weeks.’

‘Thank you. Yes, sir.’

Diprose clutched the arms of his chair and leaned forward as if he were about to rise, but his body stayed firmly on the seat
of the chair. I thought he was again having difficulties with the manoeuvre, in reverse. But he opened his eyes wide at me,
as if to engage me in his actions; I realised he was expecting me to stand up first, so he could too.

But still I sat. ‘Sir. I am unfamiliar with the usual procedures involved, but . . . In order to pay for the best materials
for the commission . . . Would you perhaps see yourself towards advancing Mr Damage a small sum?’

‘
Je vous demande pardon
?’

The man was no more French than I was; my audacity grew in direct proportion to his persistence in a tongue he believed I
did not understand.

‘You must pay him first.’ Was that my mouth from which those words escaped? I did not like the man, but I desperately needed
his custom. I could feel something clamour in me like a workhouse bell, and I struggled not to reveal my desperation. ‘Three
weeks is a long time before payment.’ I felt my cheeks flush. ‘I presume the Bishop will require the finest morocco, and substantial
gold-work.’