London (151 page)

She and Edward had been too busy with her sisters and their children to take much notice of the young man before the meal, though she had vaguely thought that he seemed a nice-looking boy. She realized that she must be only two or three years older than he, but there was a world separating a young wife and a youth, however handsome, who was only just out of school. She noticed that he had accepted a second glass of white wine with the fish and she wondered how, without offending him, she could suggest that he should not drink too much.

She found him very agreeable: his manner was quiet and polite, but not at all shy. His eyes, she noticed, had a delightful way of lighting up as he spoke of the things that interested him. There was, she realized quickly, a fineness about him lacking in the others at the table. She asked him about his time at school and what things he liked to do. He admitted to being a good athlete and extolled the joys of hunting. But under a little closer questioning he confessed modestly but without embarrassment that he liked poetry and was fascinated by history.

“Should you not consider going to university then, Mr Meredith?” she asked.

“My father is against it,” he replied. “And to tell the truth, I have such a desire to go out and see the world. . . .” he smiled.

“Mr Meredith!” She laughed. “I think you must be much more adventurous than the rest of us.”

“Oh no, Mrs Bull.” He came back at once. “I don’t think so at all. For you see,
I
have never been up in a balloon!”

Her laugh of delight caused several heads to turn in her direction. She blushed a little, because she had not meant to laugh so loudly. But then she saw that it had attracted someone else’s attention. From under his bushy old eyebrows, the Guv’nor was staring towards her too.

When the Guv’nor gave a dinner party, he liked to be entertained. He thought it was his due. New guests would often suppose that the rich old man had scarcely noticed them, yet in fact he might have scrutinized them quietly for an hour or more before suddenly asking them to give an account of themselves. His deep voice came gruffly down the length of the table. “I hear Mr Meredith is to travel for a year. Perhaps he would like to tell us something of his plans?” The entire table fell silent and everyone looked at Meredith.

“Oh, father!” Mary Anne protested. “Poor Mr Meredith, to be quizzed like this. He’ll wish he hadn’t come here.”

But the young man was taking it in very good part. “Not at all,” he replied. “An unexpected guest, Mrs Bull, enjoying such lavish hospitality, should expect to sing for his supper. The truth is, sir,” he addressed the Guv’nor, “my plans are somewhat imperfect. My first desire, however, is to travel round India for several months.” He paused, uncertain whether more was expected. The Guv’nor seemed to digest the information.

“Capital, Mr Meredith!” Silversleeves evidently thought he should say something to encourage the young man. “You will surely see opportunities in India for the development of a vast railway system. Perhaps greater than any on earth. The trade of India, large though it is, could be incomparably greater with better transport and engineering – wouldn’t you say, Jonas?” he turned to Barnikel.

“Indian tea, hemp, cheap cottons,” said the captain.

“I shall certainly hope to see all that,” said Meredith.

“So you’re going to look for railways?” the Guv’nor demanded.

“No, sir,” Meredith smiled. “I’m not sure I’m going to look for anything so specific.” And again he paused. But if the Guv’nor’s sons-in-law had felt that he deserved a little help before, that help evidently had come to an end. From halfway down the table, there now came a gentle cough.

Despite the fact that their two families were linked through the bank, the younger generation of Pennys had never been warm towards their contemporaries in the Meredith clan. There was something just a little too aristocratic, too carefree about the Merediths that offended the cautious Calvinist and Scots nature of the Penny children. They did not mix. And listening to this young scion of the Meredith line now, the insurance man felt a twinge of irritation.

“One does not just gad about for months, halfway round the globe, without some definite object, surely,” he suggested, with more than a trace of disapproval in his voice. “Or are you travelling for pleasure?” he acidly enquired.

Mary Anne glanced at Meredith, saw him flush at the implied insult, and glared at her brother-in-law. She glanced over at Edward, but got no response.

“I have a project in mind,” Meredith replied evenly. “There is much to learn about India. Its civilization is so old and so varied. I thought I might spend a few months studying the Hindu religion and its gods.” And he nodded to Penny politely.

There were circles in England where this statement might have been well received. Some of the administrators of the East India Company were deeply knowledgeable. A recent renaissance of the study of Indian culture in the subcontinent itself had actually been led by English scholars rather than Indian. But the Guv’nor’s family at Blackheath was not such a circle. Even the Guv’nor seemed to be at a loss for words.

“How would you do this?” Mary Anne gently asked, hardly certain what she thought.

“I suppose that I should go to their temples and seek instruction from the priests,” he replied seriously. “Perhaps,” he added, “I should live amongst them for a while. It would be interesting to come to know them really well, I should think.”

The company looked at him in appalled silence.

“But Mr Meredith,” Esther Silversleeves said at last, “these people are heathens!” Esther was the most religious of the family. “Surely you cannot wish . . .” her voice trailed off.

“The heathen temples in India contain carvings that no God-fearing man would care to see,” Captain Barnikel said quietly.

“Savages,” said the Guv’nor. “Bad idea.”

Edward Bull laughed. He did not laugh with any particular malice, he just laughed because Meredith’s plan struck him as so obviously absurd. “Well I can tell you one thing,” he informed them all with a chuckle. “There are no Hindus in the brewery. I can promise you that.” He turned to Meredith. “I’m sure your father must know people out in India who could guide you, Mr Meredith. Pity to waste your time. And your father’s money.”

It was not exactly said with rudeness, but the tone was clearly patronizing and dismissive. Mary Anne found herself suddenly flushing with annoyance. Heathen gods or not, why should her family treat this nice young man like this? “I think Mr Meredith’s desire to know more about the peoples of our empire is most commendable,” she cried. “It sounds fascinating.” And though she had hardly been thinking about what she was saying, it suddenly occurred to her now that she knew nothing about the Hindu temples of India and the gods who dwelt therein. It really did sound interesting, and rather exciting. She looked at Meredith with appreciation.

Her husband was having none of it. “Don’t be silly, my dear. It’s all nonsense!”

She gave him a look. Edward might have given her a balloon ride, but he’d better not think he could start dismissing her, too. She glanced at young Meredith, to see how he was taking this treatment. He had bowed his head slightly, but she could see that he had done so out of politeness: he did not want to argue with them; he was a guest in their house. Not only that, she suddenly realized: a guest who was much better bred and far more intelligent than they were. He couldn’t care less what Edward thinks, or any of the rest of us, she thought. And he’s absolutely right. We’re all – she hated to use the word, but it was inescapable – we’re all so vulgar. Even her good and kindly husband, with his hard blue eyes, his broad, fair face and manly ways: even Edward, though no fool, was made of coarse cloth compared to this young man. She had married the Bull Brewery, with all its virtues, strengths, and limitations. And that was that.

“Ah!” cried Charlotte gratefully. “Here comes the meat.”

There were two ways to cross the River Thames at Wapping. The first was to take a wherry. With the numerous bridges now spanning the river upstream, the traditional occupation of the watermen in the City and the West End was rapidly disappearing; but down in the docks, apart from the many commercial activities which occupied them, watermen could still be hired to ferry a passenger across. So long, of course, as the passenger could pay. For those who could not, however, at Wapping there was another way to cross.

The Guv’nor’s uninvited guest descended slowly. At the ground level, the circular building with its big Georgian windows looked like a handsome though rather dingy classical mausoleum. As one descended from the light and airy entrance, the great circular pit grew sombre, then dark. Gas lights appeared in the walls, but their little flames only served to make the surrounding shadows deeper. Down at the bottom in the dismal, gaslit gloom, a pair of arched entrances appeared side by side, behind which two dank, forlorn roadways receded.

This was the Thames Tunnel. It had been designed, and its construction supervised by Brunel and his son – two of the greatest engineers England had ever known, although the father had actually come from France. Technically it was a masterpiece, boring through the deep, prehistoric Thames mud for a quarter of a mile, linking Wapping to Rotherhithe on the southern bank. Commercially though, it had been a failure. The carriageways leading down to the tunnel had never been built. Only the staircases for pedestrians were in use and it was a brave, or poor, person who ventured through it now, at risk of being robbed or assaulted by the vagabonds and footpads who lurked down there. But then the Guv’nor’s visitor had no money at all.

It was only by chance that she was approaching him – chance and a newspaper article. Few people in the Whitechapel street where she lived could read; but one man could, and it was he, one day, who had pointed out the Guv’nor’s name to her. “Lord Shaftsbury’s
Society for Improving the Condition of the Labouring Classes
,” he read out, “has received a most handsome donation from a gentleman residing at Blackheath.” There followed the Guv’nor’s name and address. “He must be a kindly old gentleman,” he remarked.

She was not quite sure who the Guv’nor was and she wondered if she should write to him. “I would write it out for you,” her friend offered. “I’ll pay for it too.” With the newly organized penny Post, even a poor person in Whitechapel could afford to send a letter. But after thinking about it for a week she had finally decided to go to see this kindly gentleman in person. The walk from Whitechapel to Blackheath, via the tunnel, was only about six miles. “Perhaps if he sees me he’ll help me,” she told her friend. “Worst he can do is say no.”

Lucy Dogget was pregnant.

Is there any smell in the world better than a joint of roast beef as it is being carved, piping hot, on the sideboard? Crispy brown outside, then a layer of rich fat, then the meat, rosy, a little bloody at the centre; the carving knife slips through it as though it were soft as butter, as the juice runs off. Not unless, perhaps, it is the spring chickens, the mutton cutlets
à la jardinière
, the veal in rice, the duck
à la Rouennaise
, or the ham and peas.

The Guv’nor’s dinner party had resumed its jovial progress. Claret – an excellent one – was served with the meat. With the arrival of this course, Mary Anne had politely turned to renew her conversation with the old gentleman on her right. Glancing down the table towards the Guv’nor she could see that everyone had chosen to forget the embarrassing foolishness of young Meredith. The Guv’nor himself was describing the rhododendrons he was importing from India to improve his garden. Silversleeves was explaining to an old lady how smoke might be extracted from an underground railway. Captain Barnikel was describing the beautiful lines of his new tea clipper. Penny was wondering aloud what use the Crystal Palace might be put to after the Great Exhibition was over and his wife was explaining that the queen herself had made one of her many visits to the exhibition only the very day before she had been there herself. Without quite meaning to, Mary Anne also stole at glance at Meredith.

In less than a year, she thought, whatever he does in India, he will have joined a regiment: he’ll be in uniform. It was not difficult to imagine him in a scarlet tunic. He would look very handsome. She wondered if he would grow a moustache. He was clean-shaven now, but as she mentally added the moustache to his face she unconsciously gave a tiny gasp. It would be auburn chestnut, like his hair, quite long, rather silky. The women will be all of a flutter and no mistake, she thought; and hardly realizing what she was doing she gazed into the middle distance until a gentle cough from the old gentleman on her right made her aware, with a little start, that she had completely forgotten him.

For the final course, even the Guv’nor relaxed his somewhat puritan rule a little, and more than six dishes were allowed. But then the final course, at a Victorian dinner, consisted of two distinct kinds of dish. For those who were either still hungry, or did not have a sweet tooth, there were savoury dishes: quails, a mayonnaise of chicken, turkey, heavily larded, or green peas
à la française
. These could be ‘removed’ – in other words, the palate cleansed – with a soufflé or an ice. But for those who liked a sweeter ending, there was a magnificent choice: a
compote
of cherries, Charlotte Russe, Neapolitan cakes, Madeira wine jelly, strawberries, pastries. More claret or a sweet wine was offered here.

People round the table seemed to be talking in little groups now. After some minutes of making dutiful conversation with the old gentleman, Mary Anne was glad to be able to turn to young Meredith again. Feeling rather conspiratorial she ventured to ask him: “Tell me about the Hindu gods. Are they really so dreadful?”

“The religious books of the Hindus are as old as the Bible, perhaps even older,” he assured her. “They’re written in Sanskrit, you know – which has a common root with our own language.” His enthusiasm was infectious, and he talked so well of Vishnu and Krishna that she begged him to tell her more and he described the fabulous palaces of the maharajas, their elephants, their tiger hunts; he conjured up visions of steaming jungles and of floating mountains. It occurred to her that this aristocratic young adventurer, her junior by only a few years, would soon be far more worldly, far wiser, far more experienced and more interesting than she would ever have the chance to be. “I wish,” she said softly, hardly thinking of the implication of her words, “that I could come with you.”