Black Hearts in Battersea (2 page)

"So there would be in you if I beat you with an umbrella."

"Are you going to? I'll tell my Pa if you do!" Miss Twite eyed him alertly.

Simon couldn't help laughing, she looked so like an ugly, scrawny little bird, ready to hop out of the way if danger threatened. He led Caroline back to her pasturage and dumped Miss Twite on the steps of Number Eight.

"Now then, tell me once and for all—where is Dr. Field?"

"What Dr. Field? I don't know any Dr. Field!"

"You said just now he was out."

"I only said that to get a ride," said Miss Twite, bursting into a fit of laughter and throwing herself from side to side in the ecstasy of her amusement. "I've never met Dr. Field in my life."

"But he was going to move here—I'm almost sure he
did
move here," said Simon, remembering the words in the doctor's letter—"The Twites are an unattractive family but I see little enough of them"—didn't that sound as if he were already moved in? And this specimen of the Twite family was unattractive enough, heaven knows!

"There's no Dr. Field living here and never has been," said the child definitely.

"Who lives in your top rooms?"

"They're empty."

"Are you sure Dr. Field isn't coming soon?"

"I tell you, no!" She stamped her foot. "Stop talking about Dr. Field! Can I have another ride?"

"No, you
cannot,
" said Simon, exasperated. He wondered what he had better do.

If only Mr. or Mrs. Twite were here, they might be able to throw some light on this puzzling situation.

"Is that a kitty in your knapsack?" said Miss Twite. "Why do you keep it there? Let it out. Let me see it!"

"If I let you see it," said Simon cautiously, "will you let me stay the night? I could sleep in your top room. I'll pay you of course," he added quickly.

She hesitated, chewing a strand of her stringy hair. "Dunno what Ma or Pa would say. They might beat me. And what 'bout the donkey? Where'll she go?"

"I'll find a place for her." There was a row of little shops round the corner, greengrocer's, butcher's, dairy—Simon thought it probable that he could find lodgings for Caroline behind one of them. He was not going to risk leaving her tethered in the street with this child about.

"Will you promise to give me another ride tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"But Pa only lets by the week," she said swiftly. "It's twelve-and-six the week, boots and washing extry, and a shilling a day fires in winter. If you stayed the week you could give me a ride every day."

"All right, you little madam," said Simon, rapidly reckoning how long his small stock of money would last.

"Hand over the twelve-and-six, then."

"Not likely! I'll give that to your father."

She accepted this defeat with a grin and said, "Show me the kitty, then."

"First I want to buy some food and find a place for the donkey. You'd better be putting sheets on the bed." Miss Twite made a grimace but trailed indoors, leaving the front door ajar.

When he had bought milk and eggs at the dairy Simon arranged to stable Caroline with the milk roundsman's pony for half a crown a week, this sum to be reduced if she was ever borrowed for the milk deliveries. Simon was not quite satisfied with this arrangement—the sour-looking dairywoman had too strong a resemblance to young Miss Twite for his taste and he wondered if they were related—but it would do for the time.

He purchased a quantity of cold ham and a loaf of bread and then returned to Rose Alley where the door still stood open.

Surprisingly enough, young Miss Twite had taken a pair of sheets and blankets up to the top room and was rather carelessly throwing them over the bed.

"
Now
let's see the kitty," she said.

Simon's kitten was equally eager to be let out from its traveling-quarters, and gave a mighty stretch before mewing loudly for bread and milk.

"I suppose you're hungry too," Simon said, noticing Miss Twite's hopeful looks at the loaf.

"Aren't I jist? Ma said I was to miss my dinner on
account of burning Penny's hat—spiteful thing."

"Who's Penny?" Simon asked, cutting her a slice.

"My sister. Oo, she's a horrible girl. She's sixteen. Her real name's Pen-el-o-pe." She mouthed it out disgustedly.

"What's yours?"

"Dido."

"I never heard that name before."

"It's after a barge. So's Penny's. Can I have another bit?"

He gave her another, noticing that she had already eaten most of the ham.

"Can I take the kitty down and play in the street?"

"No, I'm going to bed now, and so's the kitty. Tell your father that I've taken the room for a week and I'm waiting for Dr. Field."

"I tell you," she said, turning in the doorway for emphasis, "there
ain't
any Dr. Field. There never
has
been any Dr. Field."

Simon shrugged and waited till she had gone. Then he went across into the room that faced onto the river and stared out of the window. It was nearly dark by now, and the opposite bank glittered with lights, some low down by the water, some high up on St. Paul's. Barges glided upstream with the tide, letting out mournful hoots. Dr. Field had been here, Dr. Field had seen this view. Dr. Field must be somewhere. But where?

Simon soon went to sleep, though the mattress was hard and the bedding scanty. At about one in the morning, however, he and the kitten, who was asleep on his chest,
were awakened by very loud singing and the slamming of several doors downstairs.

Presently as the singer apparently mounted several flights of stairs, the words of the song could be distinguished:

"My Bonnie lies over the North Sea,
My Bonnie lies over in Hanover,
My Bonnie lies over the North Sea
Oh, why won't they bring that young man over?
Bring back, bring back,
Oh, bring back my Georgie to me, to me..."

Simon realized that the singer must be one of the Georgians, or Hanoverians as they were sometimes called, who wanted to dethrone King James and bring back the pretender, young Prince George of Hanover. He couldn't help wondering if the singer were aware of his rashness in thus making known his political feelings, for, since the long and hard-fought Hanoverian wars had secured King James III on the throne, the mood of the country was strongly anti-Georgian and anybody who proclaimed his sympathy for the pretender was liable to be ducked in the nearest horse-pond, if not haled off to the Tower for treason.

"Abednego!" cried a sharp female voice. "Abednego, will you hold your hush this instant! Hold your hush and come downstairs—I've your nightcap a-warming and a hot salamander in the bed—and besides, you'll wake the
neighbors!"

"Neighbors be blowed!" roared the voice of the singer. "What do I care about the neighbors? I need solitude. I need to commune with Nature. I'm going to sleep up in the top room—mind I'm not called in the morning till eleven past when you can bring me a mug of warm ale and a piece of toast."

The steps came, very unsteadily up the last flight of stairs. The kitten prudently retired under the bed just before the door burst open and a man lurched into the room.

He carried a candle which, after several false tries, he succeeded in placing on the table, muttering to himself, "Cursed Picts and Jacobins! They've moved it again. Every time I leave the house those Picts and Jacobins creep in and shift the furniture."

He turned toward the bed and for the first time saw Simon sitting up and staring at him.

"A Pict!" he shrieked. "Help! Ella! There's a Pict got into the house! Bring the poker and the ax! Quick!"

"Don't talk fiddlesticks," the lady called up the stairs. "There's nothing up top that shouldn't be there—as I should know. Didn't I scrub up there with Bath brick for days together? I'll Pict you!"

"Are you Mr. Twite?" Simon said, hoping to reassure the man.

"Ella! It speaks! It's a Pict and it speaks!"

"Hold your hush or I'll lambast you with the salamander!" she shouted.

But as the man made no attempt to hold his hush but continued to shriek and to beseech Ella to bring the poker and the ax, there came at length the sound of more feet on the stairs and a lady entered the room carrying, not the ax, but a warming pan filled with hot coals, which she shook threateningly.

"Come along down this minute, Abednego, or I'll give you such a rousting!" she snapped, and then she saw Simon. Her mouth and eyes opened very wide, and she almost dropped the warming pan, but, retaining her hold on it, shortened her grip and advanced toward the bed in a very intimidating manner.

"And who might
you
be?" she said.

"If you please, ma'am, my name is Simon, and I rented your top rooms from your daughter Dido this evening—if you're Mrs. Twite, that is?" Simon said.

"I'm Mrs. Twite, all right," she said ominously. "And what's more,
I'm
the one that lets rooms in this house, and so I'll tell that young good-for-nothing baggage. Renting room to all and sundry! We might have been murdered in our beds!"

Simon reflected that it looked much more as if he would be the one to be murdered in his bed. Mrs. Twite was standing beside the bed with the warming pan held over him menacingly; at any moment, it seemed, she might drop the whole panful of hot coals on his legs.

She was a large, imposing woman, with a quantity of gingerish fair hair all done up in curlpapers so that her head was a strange and fearsome shape.

In order to show his good intentions as quickly as possible Simon got out his money, which he had stowed under the pillow, and offered Mrs. Twite five half crowns.

"I understand the room is twelve-and-six a week," he said.

"Boots and washing extra!" she snapped, her eyes going as sharp as bradawls at sight of the money. "And it'll be another half crown for arriving at dead of night and nearly frightening Mr. Twite into convulsions. And even then I'm not sure the room's free. What do you say, Mr. Twite?"

Mr. Twite had calmed down as soon as his lady entered, and had wandered to a corner where he stood balancing himself alternately on his toes and his heels, singing in a plaintive manner,

"Picts and pixies, come and stay, come and stay,
Come, come, and pay, pay, pay."

When his wife asked his opinion he answered, "Oh, very well, my dear, if he has money he can stay,
I've
no objection if you are satisfied. What is a Pict or two under one's roof, to be sure?"

Simon handed over the extra half crown and was just about to raise the matter of Dr. Field when Mr. Twite burst into song again (to the tune, this time, of "I Had a Good Home and I Left") and caroled,

"A Pict, a Pict, she rented the room to a Pict,
And I think she ought to be kicked."

"Come along, my dove," he said, interrupting himself, "the Pict wants to get some sleep and I'm for the downy myself." Picking up the candle he urged his wife to the door.

"I thought you wanted to commune with Nature," she said acidly, pocketing the money.

"Nature will have to wait till the morning," Mr. Twite replied, with a magnificent gesture toward the window which had the unfortunate effect of blowing out the candle. The Twites made their way downstairs by the glow of the warming pan.

Simon and the kitten settled to sleep once more and there were no further disturbances.

When Simon woke next morning he lay for a few minutes wondering where he was. It seemed strange to wake in a bed, in a room, in the middle of a city. He was used to waking in a cave in the woods, or, in summer, to sleeping out under the trees, being roused by the birds to lie looking up at the green canopy overhead. He felt uneasy so far away from the grass and trees of the forest home where he had lived for the past five years.

Outside, in the street, he could hear wheels and voices; the kitten was awake and mewing for its breakfast. After Simon had fed it the last of the milk he wandered across the landing to the empty room and gazed out of the window. The tide was nearly full, and the Thames was a bustle of activity. Simon watched the shipping, absorbed, until a whole series of church clocks striking culminated in the solemn boom of St. Paul's itself, and reminded him that he could not stand here all day gazing while time slipped by. It was still needful to discover Dr. Field's whereabouts, and to earn some money.

Kind, wealthy Sir Willoughby Green, who had befriended Simon in Yorkshire, had offered to pay his art-school fees, but Simon had no intention of being beholden if he could avoid it, and proposed to look for work which would provide enough money for his tuition as well as food and rent. He had a considerable fund of quiet pride, and had purposely waited to leave Willoughby Chase until the Green family was away on a visit. Thus he had been spared a sad farewell, and had also avoided the risk of hurting Sir Willoughby's feelings by refusing the money which he knew that liberal-hearted gentleman would have pressed on him.

Munching a piece of bread, Simon tucked the kitten into the bosom of his frieze jacket; then he ran softly downstairs. The house was silent—evidently the Twites were still asleep. Simon resolved that he would not wait till they woke to question them about Dr. Field, but would go to the Academy of Art which he was to attend—where Dr. Field also studied—to ask for the doctor's address. Unfortunately Simon did not know the name of the academy, but he remembered that it was in Chelsea.

He stole past the closed doors of the Twites, resolving that when he returned in the evening he would move the furniture from the room where he had slept into the one overlooking the river; it had a pleasanter view, and appeared to be in a superior state of cleanliness.

Opening the front door Simon found Dido Twite sitting on the front steps, kicking her heels discontentedly. She was wearing the same stained dress that she had had on
yesterday, and did not appear to have washed her face or brushed her hair since Simon had last seen her.

"Hallo!" she said alertly. "Where are you going?"