Tattycoram (21 page)

“Sam?” I whispered.

“Hmm?”

“I would never have gone back to those Meagles.”

I began to laugh and then he joined in. We laughed until we ran out of breath. Just holding on to one another, laughing.

After we sent off the parcel and note, we heard nothing more from Elisabeth Avis. I hoped she had abandoned the idea of bringing a suit against Mr. Dickens, but somehow I didn't think she would. Here was a woman who had seen an insult in every corner all her life; now that she had a genuine grievance, I felt she would never let it go until she had caused real trouble for the perpetrator. Sam hadn't been there during our interview; he had not seen her face nor heard her voice nor felt the heat rise off her like a bonfire. What she couldn't see, so caught up was she in her fury, was that any such suit would only call attention to herself in a most unpleasant way. She — or her solicitor — would have to stand up in court and say she was the “Miss Wade” of the novel and admit to saying similar things to Mr. Dickens when she was at Urania Cottage. And he might even summon Matron and me as witnesses. I felt terribly sorry for her but I did not like her, and I shuddered at the thought of standing up in court with everyone looking at me. Elisabeth would be sure to point out that I was also caricatured in the same novel and would drag in Mrs. Hill and whoever else she'd been able to round up.

“Father,” Rosie said one evening, “Mam is brooding.”

Sam smiled at me.

“Are you brooding, Hattie?”

“No, no, I am just thinking about a new way to finish off this chain.” I held up the double row of tatting I was working on. That satisfied Rosie, who went back to frowning over her lessons, but Sam wasn't fooled. After Rosie had taken herself upstairs, he spoke to me again.

“Is it that woman?”

“Yes.” And I told him what I had been thinking. “If I were summoned as a witness for either side, would I have to go?”

“I believe you would.”

“I don't think I could bear it. Mr. Dickens is such a famous man the newspapers will print every word.”

“He may settle out of court for that very reason.”

“I doubt she would let it end there. She as much as told me she wouldn't stop until the public knew how he had betrayed her confidence, how he had used her.”

“Well he did, and you as well, and Lord knows who else.”

“He probably doesn't see it that way, Sam. I think he's like that raven of his, Grip. Something — or someone — catches his interest, and so he helps himself to a bit, buries it in the back of his mind and digs it up when he wants it. Don't forget, the last time he saw Elisabeth was nearly twenty years ago, the day before she set sail for Australia. He found her troublesome at Urania Cottage — we all did — but I doubt he had any idea then of using her in a story years later. Or using me.”

“Do you think what he did was wrong?”

“Probably. But I'm not a genius.”

“I think certain rules of behaviour with respect to the personal histories of others apply to geniuses as well as to ordinary folk.”

“Yes,
you
think that. But maybe geniuses don't. Maybe such scruples never occur to them.” I hesitated. “Sam, when you went out poaching as a lad, did you ever think about getting caught?”

“No. I thought I was far too clever. Oh, it may have been there at the back of my mind, but that just added to the excitement.” He grinned. “Are you trying to link me with Mr. Dickens, Hat?”

“It was just a thought.”

“It won't work, for if we were caught, we'd have hurt no one but ourselves. As I know to my cost.”

I came and stood behind his chair and put my hands on his shoulders. How grey he was getting!

“I shouldn't have brought it up, Sam, I'm sorry.”

“No matter, love.” He reached up and grabbed my hand. “You are troubled by all this and so you are casting about for answers. Perhaps you are trying to defend him because he was your benefactor. I can understand that. And you have observed him at close quarters; you are in a better position to talk about him than I am. Nevertheless, there is no excuse for bad behaviour of this kind, this careless cruelty, this disregard for the feelings of others. If either side calls you as a witness, the facts will speak against him, not you.”

I lay awake all night beside my sleeping husband. Was Elisabeth sleepless too, in her rented bed in Lant Street, or was she sitting up far into the night, writing page after page of indictments against Mr. C___________ D____________?

I was awake to listen to the cocks crow and to hear Rosie tiptoe downstairs to make the tea. How different our lives had turned out, Elisabeth's and mine. I was convinced that part of her history was true: that she had never been loved as a child
and that she had sensed this at a very early age. Had I only my experience at the hospital to go on, might not my heart have become bitter and my soul deformed?

Rosie called from the bottom of the stairs, “Mam, Pa, tea is up!” Then she went out to feed the dogs and see to the chickens.

By the afternoon I knew what I wanted to do.

“Are you sure?” Sam said.

“I'm sure. I need to talk to him.”

“I'll come with you.”

“No, you'll stay here with Rosie. I'll start out early and be home before dark. The days are long just now. I'll take the train from Gomshall to Guildford and change to the Rochester train; I've got it all worked out.”

“I don't like you making this journey by yourself.”

“I have to do it. This affair is robbing me of my peace of mind. If I can at least talk to him, then whatever happens, I'll feel better.”

“Wouldn't a letter do?”

“I thought of that, but no. Even years ago he got masses of letters — many of them begging letters — and no doubt he has a secretary now who sorts his mail. My letter might be put aside, and then if the matter does come to trial and I'm forced to be a witness, he'll never know how troubled I feel.”

“What if he won't see you?”

“If he won't, he won't. I can but try.”

It was only my second time on a train, and I found it quite amazing how the landscape flew by backwards — villages and trees, fields of grain and coppices, two white horses galloping
away from the shrieking monster, small boys waving and disappearing. It had rained in the night, a soft June rain, and now the whole world sparkled. I had the sensation that I was sitting still while the countryside beyond the window unrolled before me like a diorama. We were out of Surrey and into Kent in the blink of an eye. Hopfields and more hopfields, orchards, rolling hills, and then suddenly we were there — the great beast stopped but panting still — carriage doors opening and closing, people rushing away.

It was almost noon, so I walked down the hill and along the High Street, and, the day being fine, I decided to eat my bread and cheese and pickle in the courtyard of the great cathedral, where I saw others enjoying the sunshine. I inquired of an elderly cleric where I might find Mr. Dickens's house, and he replied that Mr. Dickens did not live in Rochester itself, but at Gad's Hill, about eight miles out of the town. I hadn't counted on that, but I was wearing my stout boots, and a good walk sounded just the thing after all that bouncing about on the train. The old man pointed me to a water pump and then to the road that would take me towards Gad's Hill.

“You could have taken the other line,” he said, “direct to Higham, and walked through the woods. Next time you'll know.”

A part of me wanted to linger — for this was the town in
The Pickwick Papers
— to look inside the cathedral, examine the ruined castle, wander along the streets, but I was not there to sightsee, and I had promised Sam I would be home before it was fully dark. I took the road to Gravesend, as had been suggested by the old man, and reached Higham in under two hours. I stopped to rest and gather my wits and then went on the rest of the way. Gad's Hill was indeed on a hill, opposite the
Sir John Falstaff Inn. The house was set back in extensive grounds and gardens, and, peering through the gate, I noticed his favourite flowers, geraniums, in large stone urns by the front door. There was a sound of hammering and banging around to the side, but I could see no one about, so I walked up the path and knocked at the front door. I heard a dog yapping, but no one came, so I used the knocker once again, with more force. This time footsteps approached along a hall and the door was pulled open. Miss Georgina stood there with a lapdog in her arms.

“Yes,” she said, “what is it?”

“I would like to see Mr. Dickens if he is available.”

She did not recognize me and I decided not to enlighten her.

“For what reason?”

“For personal reasons, ma'am.”

She looked at me, frowned, and shook her head.

“Mr. Dickens cannot be disturbed.”

“I could wait.”

“He cannot be disturbed. Go away.”

And with that she shut the door in my face.

I decided I must try again, this time revealing to her who I was. No doubt she thought I was just a countrywoman wanting to sell him something or ask for money. And so I raised the knocker for a third time. She did not answer, and all I could do was turn away in defeat. Sam was right; I should have written a letter.

The way back to town seemed much longer, and when I finally reached Rochester I was terribly thirsty. I refreshed myself once more at the pump and was debating whether or not to buy a cake to sustain me on the homeward journey and had just crossed the street to look in the baker's window when I saw
him in the distance. He was leaning on the fence outside an old brick mansion and had two enormous dogs with him. He seemed so lost in thought that I hesitated to disturb him, but I had not come all this way to leave without speaking to him. I owed him (and owed myself) that courtesy.

The dogs noticed me first; the black one turned his head and growled. “Samson,” he said, without looking round, “behave.”

“Mr. Dickens,” I said quietly, “might I have a word with you, sir?”

At this he turned and smiled, but his eyes were far away. I was shocked by how changed he was; he looked like a man much older than he really was.

“Mr. Dickens,” I said, It's me, Hattie. Hattie Coram that was, when you knew me.”

He continued to stare at me blankly.

“Tattycoram,” I said. “Perhaps you remember Tattycoram?”

What a change came over him then! He started and waved his arms like a windmill, then cried out, in ringing tones, “Woman, I know thee not.”

He whistled for his dogs, turned on his heel and rushed away.

By the time I reached Shere, darkness had fallen and Sam and Rosie were out looking for me. It was a fine, still night with a sickle moon, yet my heart was like a stone in my breast.

“Sam,” I said, “there was something terribly wrong. For a moment I thought he was going to strike me, and then he ran away before I could talk with him. I was too late. Elisabeth or her solicitor must already have contacted him. He hates me now.”

“Come along home, Hattie; we'll have a cup of tea and a bite to eat.”

“What is it, Mammy?” said Rosie, taking my basket from me, “What's wrong?”

I told Sam the rest of it after Rosie had gone up to bed.

“I behaved very badly, Sam, I made a scene.”

“I reckoned you were keeping something back.”

I nodded. “He is still a good walker, but so am I, and I wasn't going to let him deny me like that. I ran after him, calling for him to stop, stop please, just for a moment. He hesitated and I got in front of him just as we passed the inn.

“‘Help,' he cried, ‘Help me, there is a madwoman here who won't leave me in peace!'

“I was instantly seized and dragged back, away from my old master, who made his escape. I called after him, ‘My history was never yours to dispose of, sir, never! I am a real person, sir, not a puppet, a real person!'

“The landlord of the inn held me until a constable arrived. ‘Do you know who you were molesting, woman?'

“‘Charles Dickens. Yes, I know.'

“‘We try to let Mr. Dickens be when he comes into town, try to ignore him, like, as much as possible. And then you cause all this commotion! He is very generous to this town, is Mr. Dickens. Perhaps he won't come again if he knows he is to be disturbed.'

“‘I can explain,' I said, and explain I did, but only to say I had been a servant of Mr. Dickens long ago and had come to see him on an important matter.

“‘Let go, was you?'

“‘No, I was not let go, I had to leave to nurse my mother. Mr. Dickens and I had lost touch, although he was very kind to me — both he and Mrs. Dickens were very kind to me — and I travelled here to warn him . . .'

“‘Warn him about what? The landlord here says you was yellin' at him, very angry-like.'

“‘Yes. I lost my temper because he wouldn't acknowledge me; I should not have done so; I think he is not a well man.'

“There was some debate among the constable, the landlord and the clientele of the inn as to whether I should be locked up while Mr. Dickens was consulted. In the end they decided to let me go. I asked if I could send a message to Mr. Dickens, stressing that I had come all this way to tell him something important, but the constable, again after consultation, said he thought it was best I go back home and, if I felt it was absolutely necessary, write a letter.

“I was escorted to the station, and the constable stood on the platform until the train actually began to move. I was trembling all over, and I closed my eyes against the curious stares of the other travellers. I did not open them until we arrived at Guild-ford Station.”

“I should have gone with you, Hattie.”

“No. It was something I had to do on my own. What hurts is that he denied knowing me — and I could see that he
did
know me — and called me a madwoman. I challenged him for something
he
had done, and then he called
me
mad.”