Death and Mr. Pickwick (39 page)

It was all hypothetical, but a good businessman had to be prepared.

By December, McLean had decided upon a policy to be implemented in the new year. But when to inform the artist? On Seymour's last visit to the print shop, he had told McLean of a humorous picture he proposed on the theme of antiquaries: Seymour said that he would attend a meeting of the Society of Antiquaries on 9 December – a special meeting, in the presence of the Duke of Sussex. He would bring his drawing to the shop a day or two afterwards.

McLean resolved that, after the drawing was presented, he would inform the artist of his new policies.

*   *   *

Presiding over the long, high-ceilinged, well-illuminated chamber, on a throne-like chair with purple upholstery, was the rather dignified and very eagle-like president of the Society of Antiquaries. The important members of the society occupied seats on either side of the president at a long, well-polished table, reflecting the lights which ran down the centre of the proceedings; lesser members were forgotten about along the chamber's edges. From a chair at the table, up stood the meeting's principal speaker, Thomas Amyot, a thin yet cheerful man in his mid-fifties, with thick brows and a curved nose, and hair suggestive of laurel leaves.

Mr Amyot duly began to present an account of his recent antiquarian discoveries, delivered in a broad Norwich accent. His subject was the death of King Richard II at Pontefract Castle on Valentine's Day 1399.

A discovery which a researcher of
contemporary
life could make about this speech, thought Robert Seymour, while standing at the chamber's fringe, would be its extreme dullness.

The cause of death may be disputed, said the speaker. The king may have starved himself to death; or he may have been at first
determined
to starve himself to death, but, having repented, he found the orifice of his stomach was shut, and he could not eat; or he may have been assassinated. But whatever the cause, King Richard
definitely
met his end at Pontefract Castle in 1399 – in contrast to the entertaining but wholly false legend, recently revived by the Scottish historian Mr Tytler, that the king had escaped from the castle, and travelled in disguise to the Scottish isles where, in the kitchen of Donald, lord of those isles, he was discovered by a jester who had been educated in his own court at London, and subsequently met his death in Scotland at Stirling Castle.

‘With all my respect for Mr Tytler's learned and ingenious labour,' said Mr Amyot, ‘I cannot but arrive at the conclusion that this tale ought to be ranked among those fables of fugitive or cloistered princes with which the histories of all ages and countries notoriously abound. The lovers of the marvellous at various periods have professed their belief in Harold's escape from the Battle of Hastings to lead a life of holy seclusion at Chester; in Richard of York's transmigration into the humble guise of Perkin Warbeck; and in James IV's flight from Flodden Field to exchange his sceptre for a palmer's staff in a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. To believers in these, there is now an additional call for the exercise of their faith – the tale revived by Mr Tytler.'

The full paper, the secretary informed the members, would be published in the society's
Archaeologia
, otherwise known as
Miscellaneous Tracts relating to Antiquity
.

After polite applause, the members engaged in conversation among themselves in various groups around the chamber, although everyone was keen to be in the presence of the Duke of Sussex, a large man with receding curly hair and an abundant measure of charismatic authority.

‘Now I, for
my
part, do not see life as accidents and chance,' Seymour heard the duke say. ‘There is Providence at work in all things. There is a wisdom that directs our lives, and always gives them purpose.' The duke also spoke knowledgeably to Mr Amyot of Richard II's life, right down to the livery badges of the king's military retinue.

Some of the tones in the duke's voice reminded Seymour of the higher register of Moses Pickwick – the tendency of a large man to squeak. At times, Seymour found it difficult to avoid a smile. The squeak was especially prevalent when the duke talked, with enthusiasm, of his extensive library, which included Bibles in many languages, from Manx to Mohawk – and all the time the duke spoke, he drank tumblers of brandy, while his fat fingers wrapped themselves around a capaciously bowled meerschaum. The pipe's fragrance indicated that herbs had been added to the tobacco – but, apart from that exoticism, it was obvious that this member of the royal family loved alcohol and tobacco as much as the ordinary man, and that, thought Seymour, was endearing.

*   *   *

On the following morning, Seymour produced his picture
A Group of Antiquaries
, which he took to McLean in the afternoon.

There was a hesitance in McLean's manner, even as he paid the artist.

‘Are you dissatisfied with the picture?' asked Seymour.

‘No, not at all, no. It is as finely executed as all your work.'

‘In that case I shall be off. I am meeting my brother-in-law for a drink before Christmas. I shall say goodbye for now, Mr McLean.'

‘Mr Seymour, one moment before you go.'

The artist halted in the doorway.

‘Mr Seymour, we have now come to the end of volume one of the
Looking Glass
. I believe it is time to make certain changes. There are two things. First, from the January number onwards, I shall retitle it
McLean's Monthly Sheet of Caricatures.
'

‘You are the proprietor, and if that is what you wish, there is nothing I can do. Although I have to say – I believe
The Looking Glass
is a more expressive title. With due respect, I think you are making a mistake.'

‘It is my decision. There is something else. The second thing. There is no easy way of telling you this, Mr Seymour. I intend to remove your name from the credits. It will not say any more that you are the artist. All your work in the publication will, in future, be anonymous.'

‘I do not understand. You surely cannot be serious about this.'

‘Single prints in my windows – things like these antiquaries – very well, those are yours, and will still bear your name. But
The
Looking Glass
– I mean
McLean's Monthly Sheet
– well, that is bigger than any individual artist. You are, after all, the second artist to work upon the publication. Artists come and go. I intend to shift the loyalty of the readership away from artists and towards the publisher himself. So
McLean's Monthly Sheet
it will be. Mine will be the only name to appear in the publication.'

‘I cannot accept this. I am the artist. It is all my work. The title will make the public believe that you are behind it all.'

‘I am.'

‘The public buys it because of me.'

‘Your pride may be a little hurt now – but you have every practical reason for accepting what I say.'

‘And what do you mean by that?'

‘You could walk out, if you prefer. But you would be the one making the mistake. The market for single prints is in decline, Mr Seymour. I see that every day – and I know it when I look at my receipts. People aren't happy with just one laugh for their money. The way ahead is
McLean's Monthly Sheet
.'

‘Do you expect me to put up with this?'

McLean shrugged. ‘Artists come and go.'

 

*

‘MCLEAN MAY HAVE CALLED IT
his sheet,' said Mr Inbelicate, ‘but for me it is always
The
Looking Glass
, with illustrations by Robert Seymour. The pictures could not fail to draw people's eyes, whatever it was called.'

He showed me a three-page pictorial representation of the French uprising of 1830. The lithographical smoke from the mouths of guns truly gave a sense of being present, of witnessing the actual banging of the revolutionary weapons.

‘And though Seymour was forced to be anonymous in its pages, his star rose,' said Mr Inbelicate. ‘He commented pictorially, once a month, on the events of the day, including the riots in Bristol.'

‘You mentioned that there was another link of the riots to clothing.'

‘Ah yes! The clothing, the clothing. It is one of those higgledy-piggledy matters I love. Discovering tenuous links is one of the great rewards of long and rambling study, Scripty. Well, this concerns the livery of the waiters of the White Hart, who helped Moses Pickwick repel the rioters. In their breeches and silk stockings, they looked rather like overgrown schoolboys from Westminster School. This was often remarked upon to Moses Pickwick, and he had a standard reply. “I hope,” he said, “that my waiters are better behaved than the boys of
that
establishment.” You see, Scripty, the boys of Westminster School were notorious – not only for their pranks, but for their wicked bullying of boys who did not fit in. There was one sad little boy who certainly did not fit in, who shall play a part in these events, and we must turn to him now. His family claimed a connection to Thomas à Becket, and so he had an unusual surname, which must itself have been a gift to the bullies of Westminster School. His name was Gilbert à Beckett.'

 

*

‘THAT LOOKS LIKE A BURN
to me,' said the new matron to the mousy boy. She turned his head for a better examination of the mark on his cheek.

‘I flicked a crumb of hot jam pudding on myself.'

‘Did you drop your spoon on your hand in shock?' She pointed to a bruise on his knuckles.

‘There was a horse at the gates that was slipping on the ice, and I laughed and lost my own balance and slipped myself, and fell over backwards. I hit my hand.'

‘Is that so?'

‘It is.'

‘And these pains in your stomach?'

‘Shooting pains.'

‘According to your records, two weeks ago it was
dull
pains.' She turned the pages of notes made by her predecessor, detailing the very frequent illnesses of the boy. She had already seen the most recent entry, which was specifically written to her by the retiring matron, and underlined: ‘He catches lots of complaints from larger boys.'

After feeling his abdomen, she said: ‘I will keep you in for a couple of days to see how you go.'

It was as if a shadow had lifted from his face. The matron clearly had a healing voice, if not healing hands.

*   *   *

It was shortly after ten o'clock at night, and the boy was sound asleep in the sickroom's annexe. Until he coughed himself awake. When he opened his eyes, there was a potent smell of tobacco and a small glowing spot in the darkness. He drew back, clutching the sheets. Two shadowy youths towered over the bed.

‘Hello, à Beckett,' whispered a voice. A hand from the other side of the bed clamped down over à Beckett's mouth, and an elbow pinned down his chest. The fear in his eyes showed above the fingers.

‘We've been thinking you might need cheering up,' said the voice. A cigar's tip traced a figure of eight in mid-air. ‘And we wouldn't want you getting cold. Where do you reckon he needs warming up the most?'

‘His nose, I'd say,' said the other voice, of the hand and the elbow.

‘That's a very good suggestion. To start with.' The hand exerted pressure against à Beckett's mouth, and another hand held his head. The cigar brushed against the bridge of à Beckett's nose and his entire body tightened as he took the pain. ‘Where else, do you think?'

‘What about his feet?'

‘You are right. He may have circulation problems in his toes. Shall we warm you up down below, à Beckett?'

*   *   *

In the morning, the matron asked about à Beckett's nose. ‘It was itching in the night, and I scratched it too hard. But I am feeling much better this morning. I think I shall get up.'

He swung his legs out of bed, and she saw the wound on his big toe.

*   *   *

Gilbert à Beckett walked along the corridor to class, staying close to the wall. Everywhere there were examples of neglected maintenance of the school buildings: broken windows, holes in the skirting, split banisters, missing tiles. The one happiness in his life was his friend Henry Mayhew, a boy with a round and homely face, a year younger than himself, though looking by height a year older.

‘They are bolder than ever,' said à Beckett in a corridor during a break between classes, as he proceeded to tell his friend of the night's attack.

‘Write to your father. Tell him everything. I don't just mean last night. I mean everything they have done to you.'

‘But what will be the consequences?'

‘Your father is a formidable man. I would not want to be in their shoes if he came to the school. And if they tried anything on you in retaliation – then I would even
less
want to be in their shoes.'

So à Beckett wrote a full and detailed account. He told of kicks in the thigh, of hair pulled out, of mud thrown, of spittle in the food and of a penknife held against the neck – the latter accompanied by the remark: ‘We'll be back when you've grown some bristles on your chin, à Beckett.' He explained that it was always worse if he showed any signs of being industrious in his lessons. And that once an older boy smuggled in homemade gin, and the game emerged of getting à Beckett drunk, making him walk a straight line, and delivering blows with a coal shovel if he strayed off course. He finished on the events of the sickroom.

Two days after he posted the letter, a reply came – à Beckett waited to read it until he and Mayhew could examine it together in an empty dormitory.

‘This is it,' said Mayhew. ‘Your life changes here.'

À Beckett broke the seal and cast his eyes at the contents. It took moments to read in its entirety. His face crumpled, and he handed the letter to Mayhew. He read: ‘Your letter is not worthy of a son of mine. Fight your own battles. Endure, and be the stronger for it. And
never
write about this again.'