Tattycoram (9 page)

Mr. Dickens got the bean and Mrs. Macready the pea, so they were King and Queen and made everybody do ridiculous things, like stand on one leg for three minutes or recite a complicated sentence backwards. Even the servants had to join in, and when the King drank we all had to shout, “Lo, the King drinks!” or if the Queen ate something, “See where the Queen eats!”

There were nuts and oranges (that smell — why did it always sadden me?) and dancing with the rugs rolled back. Mr. Dickens even grabbed me from the corner where I was looking on and gave me a whirl, much to my embarrassment, for I had never danced a step in my life. Then he seized Cook and dragged her
forward, saying, “The King must be obeyed,” dancing her up and down the line while everyone clapped and shouted, “See how the King dances!”

Mirrors everywhere reflected half a hundred dancers, a dozen Christmas trees. Miss Georgy was there, of course, wearing a new dress of midnight blue silk. She was thirteen now, and quite the young lady. I stayed as far away from her as possible since I didn't want her to spoil my happiness.

Charley had been allowed to stay up much later than usual and was over-excited. He insisted on all his presents being piled in bed with him and refused to settle down. Mamie and the baby were long asleep and I didn't want him to wake them, so I told him I would sit with him and sing to him if he would lie quietly and close his eyes.

I began with my mother's favourite, “The Lark in the Clear Air”: “Dear thoughts are in my mind, and my heart fills with gladness . . .” He fell asleep almost immediately. I removed the toys, putting them by the foot of the bed so he would see them when he woke up, and I went quietly to my room next door.

I could hear faint sounds of the piano as the merrymaking continued below, and I thought how glad I was that I was in service in a home where there was laughter and gaiety. I had met a few other servant girls by then, when I took Charley to the gardens in Russell Square, and I began to realize what pinched and horrible lives some of them led. Never a kind word, nothing but commands and criticism. Miss Georgy's gibes were just flea bites compared to what some of the domestic servants had to put up with. If they broke anything, it was taken out of their wages. (I thought of the teacup I had thrown against the wall. Cook said that it was Spode and part of a set.)

No affectionate words except, sometimes, the Master's . . .

“You don't know how lucky you are.”

Oh I did, I did, and that night I thanked God for watching over me and prayed that I might stay with this family forever. But that was not to be.

The house in Devonshire Terrace was a long way from the hustle and bustle of my old haunts on my half-days — we had moved up in the world — but there were compensations. When the afternoons were fine, I took Charley, and sometimes Mamie, for walks in the park and visits to the zoo. Charley loved the zoo, loved feeding the bears by sticking buns on long poles. All London was fascinated by anything exotic — all London except Cook, that is, who was afraid of the lion getting loose and subjecting her to a “'orrible hend.” One small ape would lope over to the farthest corner of the cage and turn his back whenever the keeper gave him a banana. I could not help but think of my feelings when being stared at while I ate. Strange — was it possible that this creature from the jungle could feel the same revulsion?

Mr. Dickens was working on a new book and bought a raven named Grip because he wanted to study ravens. It was a huge bird, lived most of the time in the stables and was learning to talk. None of us liked the bird, nor liked it when he was brought inside in his cage. Mr. Dickens said that ravens were the most intelligent birds on earth and he intended to immortalize Grip in the book he was writing.

“Isn't that so, Grip?” he would say, and the bird tipped his head to one side and looked wise.

“Say, ‘Yes, Master,' Grip. Say ‘Master.'” But for a long time the bird was silent.

“Useless bird,” said the groom, who actually was the one in charge of it. “Now a few 'oming pigeons,
that
would be hinteresting. But no, 'e wants a raven.”

Dinners were more elaborate now and Cook complained of all the washing-up, even with the help of the little scullery maid who had joined the household. The truth was that Cook didn't like to share her kitchen with anyone and had a tendency to roar at Daisy, which made her drop things, or cry, or both. I tried to be kind to her — she was just a child — but I was very busy now with the children. Mr. and Mrs. Dickens went on an extended tour of Scotland, where he was a great success in Edinburgh, and they had a terrifying journey to the Highlands. Mrs. Dickens told me she visited the house where she had been born, in Edinburgh, and she felt quite strange to think how fast time flowed. They were gone for nearly a month, and they praised us all for the way we managed the household in their absence. Only Charley seemed to resent this separation; he turned his head away when his mother went to embrace him.

(I did not tell the mistress that Miss Georgy — whose nose was out of joint, I think, for she had wanted to go to Scotland too — had dropped in several times to make sure there was no riotous living or selling of the plate going on.)

Mr. Dickens told Charley and Mamie about the Loch Ness Monster, and they both had screaming nightmares.

Grip said his first word — “cheese” — an item of which he was particularly fond. Whenever he was let loose in the garden, if you gave him a piece of cheese first, he would bury it, looking around slyly to make sure no one was watching, then waddle up and demand another.

I was now reading
Vanity Fair
, by Mr. Thackeray, but I didn't really like it. Becky Sharp was a little too sharp for my taste. I was surprised to find I did have “taste” after all.

Walter was born in February of the following year, a fine boy. Mr. Dickens called him “Young Skull” because he had no hair when he was born. Mamie was “Mild Gloster,” and Katie was “Lucifer Box” because she had a temper.

“Can you cope with this menagerie, Hattie?” Mr. Dickens asked me one day. “Isn't this more than you bargained for? I sometimes think it's more than I bargained for.”

“They are good children, sir.”

And they were — most of the time. They adored their father but were very much in awe of him. They screamed and yelled and ran about only in the park or at the seaside. Father could be noisy at night with his parties and songs and dances, Father could roar, but that was different. However, he sang silly songs to them before they went to bed, heard their prayers and listened solemnly to their little tales of triumph or woe.

They had fun with him in a way they never did with their mother. She always seemed to be tired or fussing with a new baby. She loved them just as much — anybody could see that — but she was quiet by nature and a little inclined to melancholy. She told me once she had been unable to nurse Charley herself and felt that might have created a barrier between them. “And he grows up so fast, Hattie. They all grow up so fast.”

It was decided that the stables needed painting, so Grip in his cage became a temporary resident of the parlour, for fear that he might peck at the paint and die.

“Cheese,” he said, whenever anyone appeared, and one day something that sounded remotely like “Charles,” which delighted both father and son.

“I told you he was an intelligent bird. Say ‘Master,' Grip. Say, ‘Yes, Master.'”

While Grip was in residence, it was the job of little Daisy to clean his cage every morning. She was terrified of him and always wore her bonnet, in case he tried to sit on her head. I think Grip understood that she was afraid and played up because of it; she had a terrible time getting him to return to his cage, no matter how much she tempted him with bits of bread and cheese, which she held out on a toasting fork, the way Charley fed the bears. Other than Mr. Dickens and Charley, Miss Georgina seemed to be the only one who really liked the raven. When she came to visit, she would whisper to him and he would tip his head, as though they were conspirators.

”I will be glad when the stables are finished,” Mrs. Dickens said, “and that bird can go back where he belongs.”

“A bird in the 'ouse,” said Cook, “means a death in the 'ouse.” This frightened little Daisy so much that she had a kind of fit and had to be revived with brandy and water.

“I think that's when a bird flies in,” I corrected, soothing Daisy. “This bird was brought in. That's a different sort of thing altogether.”

About a week later I was in the parlour, looking for Charley's spinning top, which he had mislaid the day before and now insisted on finding before he would go out.

“Hello,” said Grip. I was quite startled; I hadn't realized he could say hello.

“Hello,” he said, and then, as plain as plain, “Tattycoram.” “Hello Tattycoram. Hello Tattycoram. Hello, Hello.”

He screeched the horrible name at the top of his voice, over and over. I couldn't bear it and searched for a cloth to cover his cage. I saw nothing big enough except a silk shawl on the piano.
I took that and threw it over the cage, but in my haste I was clumsy, and I knocked over the stand. Since I had left the parlour door open, thinking I would only be a minute, the bird flew out and down the hall shrieking “Awwk, Awwk, Awwk,” as though he were about to be murdered.

Everyone came running, including Mr. Dickens.

“What the devil's going on? Harriet, what
is
the matter?”

“The cage fell over, sir, and the bird escaped. I'm sorry, sir.”

“Grip,” he called, “come here.”

Grip ignored him, flying up and down the hall, just out of our reach. It was Cook who finally captured him with her big apron and a bit of cake.

Mr. Dickens righted the cage and placed the bird inside.

“Dear God,” he said, “am I never to have any peace in this house? Bad bird,” he said to Grip, then, “What is this shawl doing on the floor?”

“Pardon me, sir, I was the one who knocked the cage over. I was trying to make him stop and I grabbed the shawl and threw it over the cage and . . .” To my horror I began to sob.

“Harriet,” he said, “Hattie. There's no real harm done, girl. But why did you think you had to shut him up? I can't hear him with the parlour door closed; he can squawk to his heart's content. Was this an excess of zeal on your part? If so, it has had the opposite effect, since the entire household has now been disturbed.”

I continued to sob, unable to speak; but then Grip spoke for me: “Tattycoram,” he said, “Hello Tattycoram, Tattycoram, Tattycoram.”

Mr. Dickens quizzed every member of the household, including the groom, who had the most to do with the bird. All swore they had nothing to do with Grip's new achievement.

“Well, someone did it, and it's a very mean trick to play on Hattie. I wouldn't blame her if she gave in her notice tomorrow. And I don't care if the paint is dry or not — that bird goes back to the stables.”

I was sure I knew who the culprit was. Whoever called me Coram except Miss Georgy, and who was clever enough to connect my tatting, which I always carried with me, with my name? She must have been told about the incident, for if she met me on the stairs or in the hall she gave me a sly little smile; she knew I would never accuse her, Mr. Dickens's pet. However, from that day on, she never called me Coram again.

How I hated my name, for it would always and forever be my name, even when I was an old lady — “Orfink, orfink, we know who you are, oh yes.” Even the birds would say it: Tattycoram.

There began to be talk of America. A large map appeared on the nursery wall. Mrs. Dickens was to go, although at first she wouldn't hear of it; the baby was only nine months old. I don't know how he brought her round, but he could bring anybody round, I think, if he put his mind to it. Or maybe he just wore her down.

The Macreadys were to be left in charge of the children, although they would live in a separate house with Fred, in Osnaburgh Street. All the rest of us were to be transferred over there as well, except Mrs. Dickens's maid, Anne, who was going with them. The house in Devonshire Terrace was to be shut up until the return. When I heard that Georgina was coming to stay, to help look after the children, I was uncomfortable. I felt, perhaps wrongly, that she would do everything in her power to make my life miserable. Could I stand it for six months?

Then rescue came in a terrible way. My father sent a message that Mother was very ill, and could I possibly come home for a while to help care for her? Would Mr. Dickens release me, at least temporarily? I went that afternoon to seek him out. He was in the parlour with Mrs. Dickens, looking through a pile of books about America, so I was able to address them both at once.

“Oh, Hattie,” Mrs. Dickens said, “just when we are going to need you most! Must you really go?”

But he said, “Of course she must go. Her mother will recover, and then Hattie will return to us.”

“Please, sir,” I said, “I think I should leave your service, for I cannot say when I'll be back.”

“Leave forever?”

“Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir.”

“Are you perhaps worried about the responsibility we are thrusting upon you? The Macreadys will be just over the way, and we intend to hire another nursery maid, you know, to share the burden.”

“I am not afraid of responsibility, but it may well be that my mother's illness will be a lengthy one. I suspect she is very ill or she never would have allowed my father to ask this, never. I don't want to have divided loyalties.”

“Well, well,” he said, after a moment, “this is news indeed, and it comes at a bad time. However, your mother didn't choose to fall ill, and if you feel your place is with her, you must go. The children will miss you terribly; we shall all miss you terribly.”