Death and Mr. Pickwick (2 page)

Seymour lifted the dog on to the driver's seat, then lit his pipe and looked to the cottage once more. At the downstairs window, a trim woman in nightclothes stood between a small boy and a smaller girl, both similarly attired to herself, who had climbed upon the ledge. There were waves. Seymour put his boot upon the footboard and took up the reins – but just then saw a magpie hopping across the road. The bird paused to stare. As was the tradition, he was about to take off his hat to the magpie, and had raised his hand to the brim, when the woman opened the door and asked Seymour to bring back a quarter of cheese from the market. ‘I was going to,' he said. He turned back to see the bird fly away, without receiving his due respect.

‘I could have done without that,' he said to the dog. He pulled down his hat, as if to protect himself from the bird's omen. The dog suddenly sneezed. ‘Oh,
you're
the one who's cursed,' he said. ‘Very grateful to you. But who'll take on the terriers if you're sick?' He flicked the reins, and the horses trotted down the dirt road to Yeovil.

At Yeovil market, Henry Seymour's stall lay between the cheesemonger and a maker of hempen sacks. Here, he folded his arms, and occupied one of the chairs that he had made for sale. Even if the wallet attached to his belt had not bulged, the satisfied expression as he smoked his pipe suggested the state of his finances.

‘Now, now,' he whispered to the dog at his feet, who twitched an injured ear. ‘Could she be the next? Can we smoke the money out of her purse? What do you think, boy?'

The prospective customer was a middle-aged woman, smartly dressed, but with a badger-like aspect to her face and hair. She carried an edition of Gay's
Fables
and a well-preserved copy of the
Novelist's Magazine
, which she had just purchased from the second-hand bookstall
–
which she displayed, to their advantage, in her basket. Stopping at the cheesemonger, she sampled two cheddar-dice, before purchasing half a pound. Seymour puffed harder, and the cloud of his smoke enveloped the woman, and then she smiled at him, and he smiled back, and she ran her eyes over the furniture, fixing upon a chair upholstered in green morocco.

‘Did
you
upholster this?' she said. Her accent was Somerset, but there was London in it too.

‘Every horsehair,' said Seymour.

She sat, and tested the comfort and stood again. ‘Would you turn the seat upside down, please?' He did so. She examined the webbing.

‘Did
you
do this as well?'

‘Every tack.'

‘I
am
tempted'. She stroked the leather once more. ‘It looks as good as anything made by Seddon's.'

‘And who is he?'

‘Who is he?
You have never heard of Seddon's
!' She laughed, looking around with an air of great worldliness. ‘Well, I
am
in the country!' She laughed some more, and away she walked, losing all interest in the furniture, vanishing into the regions devoted to coloured threads, ladies' gloves and belts.

Henry Seymour continued sitting at his stall, mystified. There was also a lull in trade afterwards, with no further interest expressed in his wares, which was unusual. When his pipe went out – which it was never known to have done on a market day before, without being instantly refilled and relit – he said to his dog, ‘That's it, boy, we're not going to sell any more today, I just know it.' He packed the unsold furniture on to his cart, and set off. As soon as he hit the road, a hare ran in front of his horses, and he cursed it, saying that it was all he needed. Then he added: ‘Damn me, I forgot the cheese. She'll make me suffer, but I ain't going back for it.'

*   *   *

A few miles from home, he stopped at a roadside inn, half hidden behind ivied oaks. He acknowledged the landlord – a man whose profusion of white eyebrows and staring eyes suggested that he had witnessed some terrible incident in the past, and occasionally recalled it – and after taking the first sip of porter, Seymour said: ‘You heard of Seddon's, Bill?'

‘Seddon's?' He wrung out a cloth, till it would surely have screamed, had it been alive. ‘What's that then?'

‘I'm thinking, to do with furniture.'

A handsome bagman at the end of the bar jutted an excellent chin forward. ‘Seddon's
is
furniture – in e-very con-ceiv-able way.' He leant on the bar, with the easy-going manner of one not being watched by his employer, which all successful commercial travellers can draw upon, as a resource. ‘Seddon's is the grandest furniture maker in all London. Any sort of furniture, you go to Seddon's.' He drew his beer to his lips, and blew off froth, a little of which dripped down over the edge, towards his index finger, where there was a golden ring with a fox's head.

‘So they make upholstered chairs?' said Henry Seymour.

‘
Anything
upholstered. They've even got a department in the basement devoted
entirely
to upholstering one thing – guess what it is.'

‘Sofas.'

‘Coffins.
Coffins
, I say.'

‘How do you know that then?' said the landlord. ‘You had a session with a desperate lady in one of 'em?' he added with a coarse laugh.

‘I know because there's a friend of a friend of mine that sells them pillowcases. And I
do
know my friend's wife.' He wiped his fingers, and gave a knowing grin.

‘Do you believe,' said Seymour tentatively, ‘they would buy furniture made by someone else?'

‘You an upholsterer?'

‘I'm more than that. Seddon's make any sort of furniture, you say?'

‘Anything.'

‘Then Seddon's are like me.'

‘Well you'd better go and tell them that, then! You doing well in the furniture business?'

‘Well enough.'

‘Seddon – the man in charge – he's worth a fortune. Lost a bit in a fire, I hear, but didn't stop him. When he passes it all on to his sons, they'll have a lot to thank their father for.'

*   *   *

That night in the cottage, Henry Seymour sat carving a doll for his daughter, but there was an unsettled look upon his face. He surveyed the room. He had made the table. The chest of drawers was his as well. The press too. He carved and he thought and he suddenly cried out – he had cut himself. That was rare.

He went to the bedroom, moody. The bed was of his own construction. Elizabeth Bishop, the mother of his children, was already asleep, but she stirred, and woke, as he slipped under the blankets.

‘Have you ever wanted to go to London to see your sister and her family?' he said.

‘You have never asked before,' she replied.

*   *   *

Nothing more was said of London until Midsummer's Eve, by which time a third child was on the way.

Henry Seymour always upheld the tradition of lighting a midsummer fire in the cottage. When the coal was glowing, and the chopped applewood aflame, he summoned Elizabeth and the two children and they held hands before the fire and said a blessing for the apples of the county crop. They bowed to the fire and separated.

‘I love the smell of applewood', said Elizabeth. ‘You should use more applewood in your work, Henry.'

‘It's brittle.'

‘The colours are dark and lovely.'

Then, after a long pause looking into the fire, he said, ‘This is our last summer in Somerset.' He turned his head; there was incomprehension in her face, and before she could respond, he added: ‘Half the people we grew up with have left. We must too. The thought of another child has made me determined. If he is a boy, he should grow up in London.'

She walked away, and cuddled her daughter before saying, quietly: ‘I am perfectly happy here. And so are you.'

‘Working on a market stall until I am old.'

‘It is good, reliable, you do well. You are a furniture maker. What else would you do?'

‘I shall keep making furniture. There is a firm in London called Seddon's. They make furniture. I shall seek work with them in the first place.'

‘I've never heard of Seddon's. And I don't want to.'

‘If I got taken on by Seddon's, if I learnt the London furniture trade, then one day, who knows where I might end up? Your sister had the right idea.'

‘Susanna went to London and I chose to stay. So should you.'

‘I will go ahead, and establish myself. Living cheaply, sleeping in the cart if I have to. Once I am established, I will come back for you.'

‘You won't come back.'

‘What are you saying? Of course I will.'

‘What obligations do you have to me? If you are happy to throw up all your connections to where you were born on a whim, you would do the same to me and to our children. How can I trust you now? I do
not
trust you now.'

He returned to looking at the fire. At last he said: ‘You might have won me over, Elizabeth. You could probably have talked me round. But not now. Not after saying that. Our next son
will
be a Londoner.' He picked up a pitcher of water on the table, and doused the fire.

*   *   *

When the factory bell struck eight, hundreds of workers spilled on to Aldersgate Street from the six wings of Seddon's. Many made their way to the local public houses, generally retaining their departmental loyalties as they went.

Henry Seymour was already waiting in the Castle and Falcon, having made enquiries to establish where the upholsterers drank. His belt buckle shone, he wore a clean red silk neckcloth, and only his boots detracted from his smartness – caked with London mud. But many inside had footwear in the same state, so it made little difference.

He stood against the wall, opposite a well-lit table, which was empty and reserved, and a barmaid shooed away any customers who decided to drink there. He located himself precisely between two framed coloured prints. One print showed a fat pipe-smoking vicar and his thin lantern-bearing clerk exiting a public house, while the other showed the prime minister at a whipping post. Three young men played cards beside Henry Seymour, and one asked Seymour whether he wanted to make up the table. Seymour politely declined, and saw them immediately take an interest in a badly complexioned youth with a Scottish accent, and he overheard one man whisper, ‘He'll do.' With smiles and enthusiastic beckonings, they recruited the youth – or thought they had done so, until a man carrying a Bible tapped the prey on the shoulder and said: ‘I would not, young man, if you want to keep the contents of your purse.'

Meanwhile, the seats at the well-lit table were occupied. All the table's men looked cleaner and smarter than the general run of customers, and one confident young man especially stamped himself on Seymour's attention. This man, who looked about twenty years old, had polished hair, wore a red silk waistcoat with bright buttons, and even his boots – which protruded from the table with some arrogance – while not mudless, showed a distinct ability to place feet in the cleanest spots of a pavement. Suddenly, the young man, aware he was subject to scrutiny, glanced over to Seymour, looked the latter up and down, and said, in the strange accent of certain lower-class Londoners: ‘Vel, I don't believe I have seen you before. Werry good to see you.'

‘Is this where the upholsterers of Seddon's drink, sir?'

‘
Zeddon's zurrr
?' The young man's imitation of Somerset brought smiles and hoots of appreciation from his mates. ‘Vy – are you lookin' for verk?'

‘I am, sir.'

‘Oh you are, zurrr? From
Zomerzet
eh? Werry good, werry good. I suppose you drink
ziderrr
, eh?'

‘Somerset apples, they say, are the best.'

‘Any little 'uns, Zomerzet?'

‘Two, back there. One on the way.'

‘Oh, a basket maker eh?'

‘I am hoping to work in upholstery.'

They laughed and slapped the table. ‘Verked in upholstery before?'

‘For myself.'

‘Vel, that's werry good – only, you're in the wrong place, Zomerzet. All of us are beds here. Upholsterers drink in the Vite Lyon.'

‘The White Lyon? I was definitely told—'

‘Ah, there's allus people who'll tell you wrong. You go in there and ask for Mr Valker.'

‘Is Mr Walker in charge of the upholsterers?'

‘Oh yes, that's the man, right enough.'

But in the White Lyon, when Henry Seymour asked for Mr Walker, he was told by another circle of Seddon's men, at another brightly lit table, that they were all cabinets there, apart from a kitchen stool who
used
to be a cabinet, and still liked his old friends. Upholstery, they explained, was in the Cock. They were quite sure of that – the Cock. It was strange then, that in that latter establishment Seymour discovered only chests of drawers and toilet tables – upholstery certainly
used
to be there, said one toilet table, but upholstery had argued with the landlord about change for a glass of rum, and taken their custom to the Nag's Head. An argument then ensued, as a chest of drawers insisted that the Mourning Bush was the place for upholstery, while a toilet table said that was quite wrong, as he knew for a fact that the Mourning Bush was Spanish mahogany. As a compromise, it was recommended that Seymour should try the Nag's Head first, and if not there, the Mourning Bush second. But when, at the Mourning Bush, Henry Seymour was told, with absolute conviction, that the Red Lion was the upholstery drinking hole – he simply said: ‘No.'

Draining his drink, he strode to the door, when a one-eyed length of Spanish mahogany called him back. ‘You're right feller, it ain't the Red Lion. Ve shouldn't do it, but ve alvays do, 'specially vith country boys or them as looks like scared rabbits, cause everyvun who can saw a plank vants to verk at Seddon's.'