Dragonne's Eg

Chapter Three

Journeying

I was so busy puzzling over Miss Moffat’s uncharacteristic behaviour on the way back to my lodgings, that it wasn’t until we were nearly there that I realised that Toby had hardly uttered a word. Normally he was that delightful mixture of child and young adult which comes at the onset of puberty; one moment he would be darting ahead, leaping up to pull a leaf from a tree or somersault over some railings, the next he would engage me in serious conversation, asking impossible questions like "What does the Prime Minister really do?" or "Does the Queen wear a different pair of shoes every day?" or even "How far is it to the Moon?"

Very often I was stumped for a sensible answer. He was a naturally inquisitive child with an affectionate nature, though I sometimes wondered whether this had anything to do with the fact that he always managed to coax a sausage or pie from me on Saturdays . . . Not ever by direct asking, but the wistful face and appreciative thanks always touched my heart.

Being the youngest in the family at home he ran errands and delivered the laundry. His two eldest sisters were married and the younger two worked with their mother, although one was crippled. Of his brothers, one had run off to sea and the other was serving three years for assault. The "Missus" of his mother’s title was purely a courtesy one. She had a fancy for soldiers and sailors: easy come, easy go. This I had learned from Ellen, who was expert at putting two and two together.

All the children had been to the Charity School at one time or another, but Toby was the only one to have shown any aptitude. He could read and write, although the latter was largely phonetic. He wrote as he spoke with all dropped or substituted aitches: "Hay" was " ’ay"; "afterwards" was "halfterwoods." His arithmetic was exceptionally good, in fact he was way ahead of his teachers, and used the abacus with bewildering speed.

But this afternoon there were no questions, no skipping ahead, no jumping the piles of leaves that swirled with every passerby. The fog didn’t seem to be getting any thicker, but the gas-lamps had a smoky nimbus and people loomed up in shadowy insubstantiality to disappear again almost immediately, and the cries of the street vendors and the rattle of wheels had a muffled quality.

I tried to make conversation, but there was either no response, or he replied in monosyllables. As we reached the turn to my lodgings I fumbled in my purse and extracted a three-penny bit.

"Here, Toby, this is for my laundry. Don’t bother to bring it back for a couple of hours, but when you do please tell your mother I would like your company for a while as escort. Clean face and hands, please!" I patted him on the head. "And please try to look a little less miserable! It’s my birthday today . . ."

He looked up at me, his expression unreadable. "Happy birthday, Miss."

The clock of St. Michael and All Angels church nearby struck five. "Well then . . . See you about seven. Do you want to borrow my lantern?"

He shook his head and darted away. I made my way up the steps to my lodgings, still wondering what had upset him. Once in my room though, I was too busy to dwell on a mystery which was probably just a storm in a teacup anyway.

Putting on my apron I lighted the candles, laid the fire, collected yesterdays ashes in the coal-scuttle, put two weeks rent in my pocket and went downstairs to find my landlady.

Explaining that I would be away for a few days due to the death of a relative, I also added that if I decided to stay longer I would send for the rest of my belongings, and arrange for their transportation. To this end I would give her two weeks rent, the second in lieu of notice if I did not return. She was full of questions of course, but I pleaded distraction and escaped upstairs with my ration of coals and the promise of hot water within the hour.

Once swept, dusted and polished I looked around my little room with an affection of sorts I had not known I possessed. After all, it was the only place I could call home, and the unknown was always daunting. For three years, not altogether easy ones, this place had been my refuge. Over there was the bed with the patchwork quilt I slept under; there was the rickety table where I ate my meals; there was my mother’s desk where I wrote up my diary, there was the window-sill where crumbs were placed for the hungry London sparrows and over there was the little shelf where my books were placed, next to the hooks for my clothes.

Books! What in the world would I have done without the escape they offered? My imagination had soared away from the confines of four walls—into the marshes with Hereward, fleeing the destruction at Pompeii, crusading with Ivanhoe, tasting the quieter gossip at Cranford, or enjoying the ecclesiastical in-fighting at Barchester . . . How often had I wished I had been a part, a real part, of the stories I read!

I gave myself a mental shake. After all the adventures I had yearned for, what was I doing clinging to a dingy little room, when on Monday my whole life might change!

Come on, young woman, I told myself. Today is your birthday, your coming-of-age. Tonight you will take Toby out for supper, a treat for you both. In the meantime go out and buy something you want: not something you need—find an extravagance.

Three-quarters of an hour later I returned with bread, bacon, pies and two oranges for Sunday, and my birthday presents to myself: a bottle of shampoo scented with orange-flowers and a bar of soap to match, rare luxuries, and two second-hand books: "Our Mutual Friend," by Mr. Dickens, and "Westward Ho!" by Mr. Kingsley. I should take them both with me on Monday. I had also bought some sprigs of rosemary and lavender to pack amongst my clothes, and had withdrawn all my savings. Not that I had any intention of spending them, but they might be useful in an emergency. I could always put them back afterwards—after what I wasn’t quite sure.

My hot water arrived, I had a thorough wash, put on a clean white blouse and sponged my dark-blue skirt and cloak and polished my boots. Then I pinned two rosettes of white ribbon to my bonnet. Mama had taught me the importance of matching the colours of my dress discreetly, without drawing undue attention to it. "A lady is not known by her dress but by her manners," was one of her favourite sayings.

I peered at myself in the scrap of cracked and blotchy mirror above the mantelshelf, holding my candle close, but my face looked mysterious, far away. Without conscious thought I tried to focus my eyes, which had apparently inspired Miss Moffat to such uncharacteristic behaviour, but they looked exactly as they always had to me. Greeny-hazel, with thick black lashes—perhaps it was a slight tilt upwards at the outer corners that had intrigued her? Papa’s eyes had had the same tilt but his eyes had been dark brown.

I shivered of a sudden and slammed the candle down, wax dripping into the hearth. Rubbing my mouth I tried to wipe away the memory of that kiss, unasked and resented. Would it happen again if I returned to the school? I hoped not: there had been something unsettling, wrong about it.

Footsteps on the stairs, stumbling a little in the dark, and a knock on the door. I opened it and there was Toby, my escort for the night.

Only he didn’t look as if he was going anywhere. Thrusting the bundle of laundry into my arms he turned to go, face dirty, hair uncombed.

"Toby! What’s the matter?"

"I’m not comimg!" Tossing the laundry onto the bed, I seized his arm and drew him into the room. "What do you mean, you’re not coming? Won’t your mother let you?"

I laughed. This was incredible! He must know I intended to feed him and he was always hungry.

"Just why don’t you want to come? Are you ill? I thought we could find somewhere pleasant to eat and—"

"And I thought you were my friend!"

"Of course you are my friend. Why should you think otherwise?"

"Because you’re goin’ away, that’s why! And you’re not comin’ back neither, only you won’t admit it. You’re not just cel’bratin’ your birthday, if that’s what it is, you’re cel’bratin’ goin’ away! And you didn’t even tell me!" He looked as if he was about to stamp, throw something or burst into tears, and I didn’t want him doing any of these.

"Toby! I’m surprised at you. That’s one of the reasons we are going out tonight, so I can explain, just to you. Instead of waiting to hear what I have to say, you’ve obviously listened to some half-heard story from Ellen, who—"

"I listened! I listened at the door when you were with that lawyer fellow—"

"You shouldn’t eavesdrop! It’s wicked, and—"

"But that way at least I knows what’s goin’ on! Didn’ hear it from anyone else. Straight from the ’orses mouf."

I thought for a moment. "And did you hear my conversation with Miss Moffat later?"

He shook his head. "Saw me in the corridor, she did, an’ sent me back to class."

"Then you didn’t hear her ask me what I had decided to do in the future, and whether I had thought of returning?"

He shook his head again.

"Mr. Swallow said my uncle left very little money, did he not? Well, when Miss Moffat asked whether I had thought of returning, I told her it all depended on what I found when I went down there, and what was in my uncle’s letter. So, what’s the problem? Come on now, pull yourself together I shall probably be back within the week."

"If’n you say it like that . . . Cross your heart and hope to die?"

I obliged. "Now then, what about that chop-house round the corner?"

"Nah . . ." He shook his head dismissively. "Ma does their linen, and I gets to see the food. Cat’s meat. Flies all over." He brightened. "Tell you what: I know of a place ’bout quarter-mile away. Nothing posh, but the grub’s good an’ you gets value for money. Maggie May’s. You game?"

"Maggie’s" proved to be an Irish quarter-mile distant: more like a half. The fog was thickening, but Toby had the lantern and guided me safely enough, though I near jumped out of my skin when a bell clanged at my elbow, but it was only the muffin-man, wooden tray on his head, ready to cry out his wares. There were few people about, and we passed the chop-house I had suggested with only a small sigh of regret from me, for Maggie’s sounded much more fun. It was.

We descended steep steps to a basement lit by oil lamps, with a large open hearth at the far end. It was warm, smoky, but cosy. Being early to dine, not long after seven, there were few tables occupied, these by quiet, respectable-looking people. Looking more closely at my surroundings I saw the floor was of worn, well-scrubbed red tiles, the walls were distempered white, and it would seem that none of the tables or chairs shared a common origin, although the former were spread with clean and cheerful red gingham cloths and starched napkins.

A small, round woman wearing a large white apron came bustling out from the back.

"Why, Master Toby! How nice to see you . . . And you have brought a lady-friend with you!" Her black eyes, darting from one to the other, had probably summed us up correctly even before Toby introduced me as his teacher, whom he had brought here for her birthday treat.

" ’Cos you makes the best n’ freshest food in Lunnon," he added.

She wiped her hands on her apron. "Well, that’s real nice of you, Master Toby. We shall have to make sure we live up to your recommendation, shan’t we?" She led us over to a table in an alcove near the fire, where it was warm enough for me to discard bonnet, cloak and gloves. "Now, what can I get for you? My standards are up on that blackboard over there: tripe and onions, steak and kidney pudding, mutton with caper sauce, rabbit pie, liver and onion sauce, stewed eels, and a treat from India, vegetable curry. What do you say?"

"Rabbit pie for me," said Toby, "Though the tripe and onions sounds great . . ."

"Leave it to me," she said and turned to me. "And how about you, miss?" She looked at me speculatively. "I can tell you aren’t a tripe and onions lady, nor yet one for eels . . ." The very thought of either put me right off. "If you don’t mind waiting a little while, I’m sure I can come up with something to suit," and off she whisked back to the kitchen, her large apron spreading like the sail of a ship.

Five minutes later a serving-maid brought a bowl of tripe for Toby and some toast and paté for me, accompanied by a large jug of lemon-barley water.

"Starters," she announced.

The paté was delicious, with a hint of brandy behind the chicken liver base. My first hunger sated, I glanced around the restaurant once more. It was filling up nicely; some single gentlemen, married couples, a pair of lovers and at least two families. Nobody seemed to mind the mismatched furniture nor the odd pairings of cutlery.

Toby followed my gaze, scooping up the last of his sticky, glutinous tripe with a slice of bread. "Mostly clerks as come here," he said. "They finishes late, and it’s a good place to bring the fambly. Mrs. May does the cookin’ and her daughters wait on. Mr. May works at the docks; good man, but a bit dumb. She’s the one as keeps them all goin’. Used to work as cook to a titled gent till ’e went bankrupt."

But bankrupt her dishes certainly were not. Toby’s rabbit stew came with carrots and turnips and I was served with a mouthwatering plate of Beef Wellington, the pastry light and flaky, the meat pink and tasty, the mushrooms complemented by the tender French beans served as my vegetable. We both finished with apple pie flavoured with cloves and cinnamon and dressed with a rich custard. It was probably the most delicious meal I had had in years, and much cheaper than I had expected.

A satisfactory end to a very odd day.