Tattycoram (12 page)

By the time I met him at the inn, Mr. Dickens seemed to be on a first-name basis with all the old men in the village. He could speak with authority about the Tillingbourne or the Hurtwood or the possible price of wheat this coming harvest. Even his accent had been modified to sound more countrified; I knew he was acting a part and enjoying it. He said he had never before in his lifetime partaken of such an excellent steak and kidney pudding and would have to bring his best friends down from London to dine at the inn. He reckoned there wasn't a prettier village or a finer inn to be found in all southwest England.

“Shall we go to your home?” he asked me.

I did not think it would be proper, since I was living alone, so I suggested we sit at one of the big tables the landlord had set out under the trees. He asked if I would take anything and I accepted a ginger beer.

“I expect teaching is thirsty work.”

“Yes, it is.”

“But rewarding.”

“Most of the time.”

“Tell me about it, Harriet.”

And so I told him about my scholars, particularly the naughty ones, for I knew that would please him. Of Noel, who always had to be first and wanted to be a sailor when he grew up. Of James, a shy boy who wrote his name on everything as if to convince himself that he really did exist. Of the girls and their skipping games and their ever-changing best friends.

“I see you smile, I see your face light up, and I think perhaps I have come in vain.”

“I do not wish to go into service again, sir, not if I can avoid it.”

“You did not enjoy your time with us?”

“That's not the point. I would not enjoy being in service to the Queen of England.”

“I shall tell her that, the next time I see her.” (But I knew he was only joking.) “Now listen to me for a moment, Harriet, and don't interrupt until I finish. Agreed?”

I nodded but had made up my mind not to be taken in by him.

“There is a wealthy lady in London called Miss BurdettCoutts. You may have heard me mention her, for she is Charley's godmother and always sends the Twelfth Night cake. However, she is much more than that.”

I frowned. I thought I could see what was coming.

“A frown like that is an interruption, Harriet, but I shall not stop to inquire why you frown at the mention of this generous and kind-hearted lady. In any event, she and I — her money, my ability to organize things — are going to open a home for destitute women, or fallen women, if you will, in Shepherd's Bush. We have leased the building and grounds, the furnishing and decorating are going ahead at a great rate, and in a few months we shall be open for business.”

He leaned across the table, his brown eyes sparkling with excitement.

“You see, Harriet, I have a theory — and Miss BurdettCoutts agrees with me — that some of these poor women, most of whom are in prison at the moment, for I think we shall draw exclusively from the prisons, at least to begin with — that some
of these poor women should be given a second chance. Given such a chance, and instructed in good moral habits as well as good housekeeping, they would be excellent candidates for emigration to Australia, or even to America.”

“I don't see what this has to do with me.”

“Let me finish. I have engaged a matron, an excellent woman named Mrs. Morton, but I would like her to have at least one assistant, someone with a good head on her shoulders, someone who, because of her own background, perhaps might feel some sympathy for these woman. I observed you, Harriet, during your years with us. I think you are both sensible and spirited, and I know you have a kind heart. I thought of you immediately, and I told Miss Burdett-Coutts I would come down here personally to see if I could interest you in the situation. You would live in and all your meals would be included, as well as tea and sugar and an allowance for suitable clothing. I would not want you to wear anything resembling a uniform, just simple, attractive dress and sensible footwear. You will have your own room and share a private sitting room with Matron. There will also be generous free time and a salary of ten pounds a quarter. What do you think?”

He sat back and waited for me to say yes.

This home — was it not just another kind of prison? What if the women didn't want to be saved? And there would be strict rules and regulations; I knew Mr. Dickens well enough to take that as a given. Didn't he run his own household in a rather military fashion? But it would be Matron and myself who would ultimately be responsible for seeing that these sows' ears were transformed into silk purses. What if we failed?

Finally I said, “I don't know.”

“What don't you know?”

“I don't know if I am the right person for this.”

“And I know you are; I'm sure of it. I shall be very involved myself — this is a project dear to my heart. I intend to be concerned with every aspect of the business.”

“May I think about it?”

“For how long? I'm impatient to get this settled.”

“A few days?”

“How many?” He leaned forward again. “Harriet, wouldn't you like to do something for these poor souls? We are going to take in only those we feel are worthy, those who would benefit from a second chance.”

I suppose the words “second chance” set me off.

“Just as my first mother got a second chance.” How bitterly I said it. “By abandoning me, she could pretend ‘all that' — meaning me, her infant daughter — never happened. She didn't need to emigrate. All she had to do was convince the Governors she was a creature of good character and then walk away from me forever.”

“Is that how you see it? I'm surprised, truly I am. She did not, in fact, abandon you. She took you to a place where she knew you would be cared for. Would you have preferred that the two of you starved to death in the workhouse? And these women I am talking about are not ‘fallen' in the same sense. They are women who have turned to prostitution or theft in order to keep body and soul together. None of them have children, abandoned or otherwise.”

“So far as you know.”

“Agreed. So far as we know.”

I had been tracing patterns on the tabletop with my finger. Now I raised my eyes to his, and I could see that he was taken aback by my lack of gratitude.

“It's difficult to explain,” I said. “You come out of such places as the Foundling with a mark on you — invisible to others, maybe, or maybe not — which is with you the rest of your life. Perhaps it would be better to die beside our mothers in the workhouse. At least we would know they loved us.

“And then to be sent into the country, to our foster mothers, to let us live in the bosom of a family for four or five years, at which time a number is once again hung round our necks and we are snatched away to be locked up behind stone walls. If we had never known freedom, it would not have been so bad. Twice abandoned, twice! Don't talk to me about second chances.”

He stood up. “I think, then, that I have your answer already.”

I took a deep breath. “No. I said I would think about it, and I will.”

“But if you are already prejudiced against the scheme, then you would be of no use to us. I'm sorry; I should not have come; I had no idea.”

I too stood up and tried to smile.

“I don't think I had any idea myself that I felt so strongly about my history. I have never spoken out like that before. In truth, I am very fortunate, and in my heart I hope my first mother did get her second chance and is thriving somewhere.”

“I hope so too.”

He called for his horse to be brought round from the stables, and we waited a few minutes in silence. The air was so still, I could hear men calling to their horses far away in the fields.

“You haven't asked after Mrs. Dickens and the children.”

“Are they well?”

“Charley is ten now, a real little man. I have put him down for Eton. The girls are a delight, the baby no longer resembles a plump and tasty turkey but resembles himself, and himself is
rather naughty. And there are others since you left us, Francis and Alfred. One more will pop out any day. Mrs. Dickens seems to be carrying on a Malthusian experiment of her own. Sometimes I feel like Macbeth, when the witches show him the vision of Banquo's children: ‘What, will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?'”

“And Fred?”

“Ah, Fred is in love — or thinks he is.” (This said with a sideways look, so I did not pursue the matter.)

“Miss Georgina is with us more or less permanently now,” he said. “We could not do without her.” He paused. “You did not ask about Miss Georgina.”

“I was thinking only of the immediate family, sir — the household as I knew it when I left.”

“I think from now on you will have to include Miss Georgina as well. Unless she marries, but she swears she won't. She has already turned down one good offer. I think she is with us forever.”

“And the raven?”

“Strange you should mention the raven. Grip is long dead, having eaten something that disagreed with him. After his demise, when the gardener was digging a new herbaceous border, the most amazing things turned up. Bits of mouldy cheese, of course, and string, but also a lead soldier Walter had accused Francis of eating, one of Mrs. Dickens's pearl eardrops and a golden guinea! I had him stuffed, by the way.”

The horse came up, and the landlord stepped out to wish Mr. Dickens Godspeed. Just before he turned north towards Upper Street and the road to Guildford, he leaned down and beckoned to me.

“How many scholars attend your school?”

“Sixteen are enrolled. The number actually attending varies from season to season and day to day.”

He pulled out his purse and handed me three half-crowns.

“Get our good landlord to change this into sixpences, will you, and distribute them tomorrow.”

“Sir,” I said, looking up at him (he was magnificent on that big black horse), “I'm sorry for what I said just now.”

“No, no. You spoke from the heart. You may not believe it, but I have some ancient grievances buried deep in mine, and someday they too may come out. I merely hope you will give the offer some thought.”

I promised I would write to him within the week and off he galloped, with small boys and barking dogs running after.

I walked down to my quiet cottage — the teacherage was not yet finished — and sat for a long time with the cat in my lap. I was shocked at the bitterness that I still felt towards that young woman who had left me at the Foundling Hospital. For the first time I wondered what her name was and whether she had given me a name, or had she simply called me Baby, knowing she would give me away? Miss Georgy had said I looked like a gypsy; I had met gypsies in the Hurtwood, with Sam and Jonnie, and many times since. I could see a slight resemblance, but my skin was much too pale. Mrs. Dickens thought Irish was closer to the truth. Besides, the gypsies looked after their own; they did not give babies away to strangers. I rocked and rocked while the dark came on, and the tears fell, and Orion hummed in my lap.

“Harriet,” said Mr. Dickens one day, coming in with some swatches of cloth, “you hated the uniforms at the Foundling, did you not?”

“I never said so, sir.”

“Hmm. I seem to recall an incident with a teacup . . .”

I could feel my cheeks burn.

“What I disliked, in that case, was the idea of using the Foundling uniform as fancy dress.”

“I see, my mistake. You felt it made a mockery of the uniform.”

“It wasn't a fancy dress.”

“No, of course not. But I suspect you didn't like the uniforms.”

“Nobody did.”

“Because they seemed old-fashioned?”

“It wasn't only that. They set us apart, they marked us for what we were.”

“Ah, yes, it's there in the very name; uniforms lead to uniformity. We in this country are so fond of uniforms and badges, of monotonous repetition of dull garb — especially for charitable institutions. Everybody alike, no individuality. I suppose it makes practical sense: all the cloth could be bought in quantity, no doubt at a discount. Now, Miss Burdett-Coutts has sent over some samples of cloth. Speaking frankly, I do not like the idea.
Economical uniforms may be, but deadly dull. I get depressed just looking at the cloth, and I have two thoughts on why it should be rejected: one, I do not think the residents of Urania Cottage should wear anything resembling a uniform, and two, I think they should wear dresses of various colours — not gaudy, but definitely not the colour of mud. Do you agree?”

“I do. So long as Miss Burdett-Coutts does not object on the grounds of expense.”

He smiled. “Miss Burdett-Coutts always takes my direction in these matters.” (I could not help but notice he was wearing one of his most outlandish waistcoats that day, a veritable meadow of colour.)

“I will send this dull drugget back immediately and order some brighter stuff. But we must hurry; I have the measurements of our first residents, and we are due to open in a fortnight. A seamstress will arrive tomorrow to help you.”

At the door he turned around.

“With different colours and slight variations in design, no one should point to these women when they are out walking and identify them with Urania Cottage. And colour is so necessary to a cheerful disposition, don't you think?” He smiled at me. “By the way, Harriet, do you know who designed the uniforms for the Foundling Hospital?”

“No, sir.”

“William Hogarth, the great painter. His portrait of Captain Coram hangs in the girls' dining hall.”

I was silent.

“You are not impressed?”

On the point of leaving, he came back and sat down.

“There is one other thing.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I am hoping you won't think I am disparaging you in any way — you must know in what high esteem I hold you — but would you consider changing your name?”