Death and Mr. Pickwick (73 page)

William Clarke screwed up his features, and did the same to the letter, and these actions were noticed by a large-nostrilled sleek-haired man a little way down the bar, who normally exchanged a few pleasantries with Clarke, especially after the discovery, six months before, that Clarke was a writer, and generous by disposition, and that Friday was the day he received payment.

‘Bad news?' said the man.

‘Read it yourself.' Clarke pushed the crumpled letter down the bar. ‘Can I offer you something short? On me.'

‘You are very kind. A brandy would be welcome.' The man ran his eyes over the letter's contents. ‘It seems like a good offer.'

‘
If
it were an offer I could accept.'

‘Too busy?'

‘No – I mean I
cannot
accept it. I am contractually bound to my publisher. I am obliged to turn down all other offers of work. Six pounds a week has me in a slave's chains for ever.'

‘See a lawyer. One who knows technicalities. He might get you out of it.'

‘I used to work in the law myself. I know when a contract is cast iron.'

‘An alias could hide you.'

‘I know my obligations. Besides, I cannot trust people enough. I would be found out.'

‘Well, accept your fate, and don't complain. There must be scores of writers who are in debt, locked up in the Fleet. Whereas, look at you – a glass of good wine, with cigars, and enough left over to buy your mate here a drink.'

‘I have security, true. There are benefits. And – I may say – I would not accept the offer, even if I could. I know this Seymour. Touchy. A more temperamental illustrator in London isn't to be found. But – it grates on me that I cannot choose to throw this offer back in his face.'

‘Ah, smoke another cigar, and forget him.'

*   *   *

Of the two usual motivations for moving house – the pinch of necessity, or the demonstration of one's rise in the world – the move of the Seymour family across Islington, to 16 Park Place West, was decidedly of the latter kind. Situated at the end of a fashionable terrace, it possessed a decently sized nicely laid-out garden, to the delight of Mrs Seymour, complemented by a summer house which it was agreed would be an excellent place for Seymour to do his work when the weather turned warm. They moved in before Christmas, and when they opened the French windows on the first day and stepped out with their children into the garden, it was in the knowledge that
Bell's New Weekly Messenger
had recently stated: ‘Seymour seems to be beating Cruikshank out of the field.'

*   *   *

It was early January when Seymour next paid a visit to the Strand, to enquire about progress in the search for a supplier of letterpress.

‘You asked
William Clarke
!' said Seymour. ‘Why ask
him
?
Why
?'

Edward Chapman and William Hall exchanged puzzled glances.

‘He seemed a good choice,' said Chapman. ‘But in any case he has not replied.'

‘I am glad of it! You have not heard him talk of the law?'

‘Neither of us has met him,' said Hall.

‘On the basis of a few months spent in his youth as a junior lawyer's clerk he thinks himself as learned as the Lord Chancellor. No, he will not do. The very fact he could not be bothered to answer shows that he cannot be trusted to supply words.'

‘If I may ask, Mr Seymour,' said Chapman, ‘is something the matter?'

*   *   *

Thomas Kibble Hervey had failed to complete the letterpress on time.
The Book of Christmas
appeared, absurdly, after Christmas. For those following the Gregorian calendar of the Orthodox Church, when Christmas falls on 7 January,
The Book of Christmas
might have been a well-timed present. For all other Christians, the festival was a thing done with for another year, and
The Book of Christmas
in January was of no more interest than a stale plum pudding. It was unfortunate, therefore, that as soon as the artist had entered the premises in the Strand, such a pudding loomed in the conversation, when Edward Chapman, in a spirit of friendliness, remarked on how amusing he had found Seymour's Christmas drawing for
Figaro.
The drawing showed Melbourne dressed as a cook, bringing in a steaming Christmas pudding marked ‘Reform' on a platter – only for Wellington, and other ermine-clad Tories, to descend upon it, and pluck out the plums, as though reform was a pudding too rich for England's stomach.

Not surprisingly, Hervey's failure came to Seymour's mind.

*   *   *

‘Nothing is the matter,' said Seymour, though the tone of his voice plainly indicated that something was. ‘You must try again. Let me say once more I need someone
fast
. Someone who will complete work when it is
meant
to be completed.'

When Seymour left, Chapman said: ‘I think Leigh Hunt could be our man. We must approach him without delay. He is reputed to be punctual in producing letterpress.'

But on an afternoon towards the end of January 1836, Edward Chapman held in his hand a letter of rejection from that same Mr Hunt. Seymour had been in the office the day before, all but delivering an ultimatum that a writer must be found in the next two weeks.

Across the room, at a desk, sat Charles Whitehead, who came in on certain days to work on the
Library of Fiction
.

Chapman eyed up the scholarly-looking Whitehead. Chapman
did
note the slight tremor in Whitehead's hand as he read through a manuscript; but that did not seem a great concern when the
Library of Fiction
was going according to schedule.

That evening, after Whitehead tidied up his desk, he raised a hand to say goodnight, but Chapman said: ‘Do you have a moment, before you leave?'

Shortly afterwards, Whitehead discussed Chapman's proposal at the bar of the Grotto – his drinking partner that night was a reasonably handsome fellow in spectacles, who earned a reasonable living in administrative work in a theatre, though when he first drank in the Grotto he had yearned to be an actor, albeit with no experience to support the proposition.

‘So let me get this right,' said the reasonably handsome fellow. ‘The ideas are all laid out for you in these drawings. It's a club of drunkards, and whatever it is they get up to, you write about. This is very easy money, Charlie. Take it.'

‘I am not sure. It's the regularity of the thing. Published in monthly numbers. The last time I did anything as regular was when I was a clerk. I can't go back to that. I am bad enough writing against time as it is.'

‘You be careful about what you talk yourself into believing, Charlie Whitehead.'

‘You don't understand the way my mind works when it comes to writing. Let's say I rise on Monday morning. I know that I have until Friday of the following week to get the work done. Plenty of time, I say to myself. So I go for a drink. Probably here. The time to submit the work gets closer, and I start to get worried. The easiest way to forget my worries is—'

‘Drink, I know. And it works.'

‘But then I become nervous. My whole system gets excited and agitated. I go back home and try to write – and the words do not come. So I look out of the window, down on to the street. There is nothing to inspire me but the dirt in the gutter. Then I know that I will not have the work in on time, but I also know I
must
. Then the publisher sends me a note, urging me on; and then – suppose I fall miserably ill.'

‘Oh Charlie! Don't think like this!'

‘But I do!' He took a mouthful of rum. ‘So I write to the publisher and say I am sorry, I may be a little late, that it will never happen again. I make a pledge that in the future I will write in advance. I promise that he shall have the work by the Monday, and in the future I will always be
well
in advance. But the promise gets me even more nervous. And this must be kept up month after month! No, the right thing is to turn it down. I am better at writing when the mood takes me.'

‘That makes you better at being poor.'

‘That is the writer's lot.'

‘Charlie Whitehead, you should take this work. It could be the making of you. Don't you fear being reduced to complete penury?'

‘If necessary, I shall apply to the Literary Fund for assistance.'

‘Ah! Now we get the truth. This club of drunkards thing is hard work, and you think if you apply to the fund you can get money for nothing.'

‘If the work were more congenial, I would do it. But it is not. Now, no more of this. It is spoiling the evening.'

*   *   *

The next morning, Whitehead went to the Strand and informed Edward Chapman that he had decided to decline the offer.

‘I am truly sorry, Mr Whitehead,' said Chapman. ‘Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?'

‘I think not. But I have been considering who else you might approach. You could try one of the writers I have recruited to do some pieces for the
Library of Fiction
. I knew him when I was working at the
Monthly Magazine
. He's a parliamentary journalist and he writes short stories under the pen name of Boz.'

‘Ah, I think I have heard of him. Is he reliable?'

‘I am a little concerned that I haven't received his stories yet. But he is a busy man. There is no cause for panic yet. A prod should do it.'

He wrote down the real name of Boz and an address at Furnival's Inn.

*   *   *

When Charles Whitehead awoke in the morning, he was not in his own lodgings. His head ached. He was lying on a bed, outside the covers, still wearing his clothes, only his boots removed. The room was clean and tidy, and sunlit, and had virtually no colour except white. There were no lace edges, no vases, no mirrors and no pictures. The only decoration was a large crucifix on a chest of drawers, placed so that the eyes of anyone sitting up in bed – as Whitehead was then, wondering where he was – would be perfectly aligned with its centre. A Bible lay beside the bed.

He had some recollection of a person lifting him up from the street.

The door opened and a thin, unsmiling man came in, whose cheekbones were so prominent they reminded Whitehead of naked heels. He had seen the face before.

‘You sell the
Christian Observer
on the streets,' said Whitehead.

‘I do, sir.'

‘Did you bring me here?'

‘I did my duty as a Christian to help you. This is my home.'

‘I am grateful. I thank you. I do not deserve such charity.'

‘You were dragged down by drink. You were on the pavement. I could not walk by.'

Whitehead rubbed his forehead. ‘May I splash some water on my face?' He pointed towards a plain ewer, bowl and towel which lay behind the crucifix.

‘You may, sir.'

As he dried his face, Whitehead said: ‘I made a decision. Then I came to believe I had made the wrong decision. I drank much more than I normally do. You must have found me at a late hour.'

‘My duty is not governed by the clock. Are you a Christian, sir?'

‘I am. Not a good one. I did not ask the Lord for guidance. I should have done. I write for a living.'

‘What is it that you write?'

‘Stories. Some drama. Poetry.'

‘
Imaginative
literature. I see.' He breathed heavily, in undisguised disapproval. ‘I believe it is no accident our paths have crossed. I endeavour to do the work of the Lord. It is my concern, as a Christian, that the public taste moves towards you.'

‘I presume you mean away from Scripture.'

‘Are you not worried, sir, about the effect of your writing? Especially on the young.'

‘I am not successful enough for my works to make an impression.'

‘A work that starts small may grow in influence. Years ago, I stood in protest outside the theatres playing
Life in London
. I saw it as my duty. How many innocent nightwatchmen doing
their
duty were attacked because the young thought it a joke? I distributed Scripture to the theatregoers, because someone had to take a stand. I knew that
Life in London
would deprave, and I was right.'

‘With respect, I would not judge all imaginative literature by the standards of
Life in London,
sir.'

‘Truth is the mind's only wholesome food.' He closed his eyes as he breathed in. ‘You may share my family's bread this morning. But I would ask you not to mention your literature at the table, before my wife and children. You are welcome nonetheless.'

 

*

ONE MORNING, AS I WAS
buttoning my shirt, I heard Mr Inbelicate playing The Kinks' ‘Death of a Clown' downstairs. It was the first time there had been music in the house. By the time I joined him at the breakfast table, the tune had changed to ‘Vesti la giubba' from
Pagliacci
. Other clown-themed songs followed, because he had made a collection of pieces in this vein.

‘Edward Holmes said that music isn't sauce,' I remarked, as I cut into my bacon. ‘I tend to agree.' I continued eating in grudging silence until Dylan's ‘A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall' played. ‘This isn't even a clown song,' I said.

‘Shush.' We listened until the song reached the lyric about a clown who cried in the alley, when Mr Inbelicate pointed at me, smiled and said: ‘It is.'

‘I presume you are setting the mood for our discussions today.'

‘I am. You will remember, Scripty, Chatham Charlie's obsession with clowns, when he was a boy.'

‘He pestered his father with questions about the size of clowns' mouths and so on,' I replied.

‘Imagine how his interest must have been piqued, when he was grown up, and he read the account of the death of J. S. Grimaldi in the
Morning Chronicle
. What details of the death do you remember, Scripty?'