Mark Dunn - Under the Harrow

I could not take my eyes from the man who looked many years older than his true two or three and thirty, life for all of the Scadgers, young and old, being steeped in toil and hardship, impairments of fate that aged the body with great acceleration and put frightful creases upon faces that rarely smiled or found any measure of joy or delight in the mortal journey. Raising his eyes to meet mine, Scadger acknowledged me with a nod that did not alter the despondent expression upon that wontedly cheerless countenance.

Having done this, he appeared prepared forthwith to quit this spot, and even took one step away from the door, as I, in turn, made up my own mind about approaching and detaining him. Anticipating my putting to him a question about what had just occurred, he raised a hand to sign that he did not wish to speak of it, leaving me then to stand in his presence and execute a mundane greeting that served neither of our interests beyond empty salutation.

“And it is quite a joy to see you as well,” said Scadger quite mechanically (for what was to be found particularly availing about this most mortifying moment?).

“Have you found work in Milltown yet?” I asked.

“Soon I may be hired at the grist mill. I hear, as well, that there is now an opening for inventory-keeper at the dried fish warehouse.” Scadger’s voice trailed off. He was distracted. I did not pursue the fact that it was my brother’s departure from Dingley Dell that had created the vacancy of Harry Scadger’s reference. It would have served no good purpose at the moment. At all events, it was quite apparent to me that Harry didn’t wish to speak to me about this or any other thing, shifting as he was from one leg to the other in a scarcely-concealed indication of an impatient desire to be on his way. Even in the best of circumstances our society had been a bit strained; though our intercourse had always been cordial, there existed between us that imposing wall of class and economic estrangement — a wall that now towered even higher after what had just taken place.

“I must be off,” he finally said. “You must come and visit Matilda and me after she has prepared our new home to receive guests. It should not be long. Already the rooms are tidy and clean. But, alas, we have nothing yet in the way of furniture for a guest to sit down upon!”

Scadger affected to smile. It was a hollow thing, this attempt at good cheer.

I could restrain myself no longer and asked the very question which the poor man most dreaded: “Why on earth did Skettles eject you from his shop? What was the trouble?”

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Trimmers, I do not wish to—”

“Come, come, Scadger,” I pursued with little concern for his present state of abashment. “I’ve assisted you in the past. Perhaps I may be of some service in this particular instance.”

There succeeded no response. Instead, Harry Scadger lowered his eyes and bowed his head, as if this combined gesture of abasement should be sufficient to end my pursuit and send me on my way. Yet I was resolved to get to the bottom of the matter, no matter how long it took and at whatever cost to the man’s feeling of self-worth.

“Come now, Scadger.”

“I have no need of taking money from you, Trimmers, should that be your primary goal in detaining me. The Charity League has kindly lent a small sum to Matilda and me with which to situate ourselves and the children in the Mews and to tide us over until I am able to secure gainful employment.”

“Forgive my persistence, Scadger, but I must now know ever the more why Skettles would have you dismissed from his shop, if indeed you had money to pay for his apothecarial compounds. Was there something you sought that he was unable to provide? For I am familiar enough with your character to know that you would never have entered his shop bent only on provocation.”

Scadger nodded. “I did seek something from him. Something for my daughter Florence. To quell her cough. Unfortunately he had nothing to sell me.”

“That’s rot! Of course there must be elixirs or syrups upon his shelves that will suppress or sooth a cough. Let me have a word with him.”

Scadger clasped my arm. “I implore you not to advocate for me in this matter. Your good offices have been helpful to my family in the past, and for these ministrations, I’m most grateful. But there’s nothing that can be done here, and your auspices in this instance, however kind and wellintended, will only do harm.”

“Did he refuse to serve you?”

“Yes. But—”

“And was it because you live in the East End?”

Scadger nodded. “Because I now live in the East End like a pauper. And because I once lived beneath the apricot trees like an animal of the field.”

“And is there no chemist in the East End with whom you may trade?”

“There are no chemists in the East End.”

“Then you have no choice but to purchase your physics on this side of the river.”

“And yet—”

“One man’s money should be as good as any other’s, Scadger. Now you’ve told me that he wouldn’t sell you a syrup for your daughter. Is this also the reason that he ejected you from his establishment? I want to be clear on this, man. Did you do anything else to warrant this final indignity?”

“My presence within the shop was deemed an offence to two of his other customers — two women of breeding. They commented upon it both in word and gesture.” Here Scadger demonstrated “gesture” by pinching his nose. “I made haste to withdraw at that moment, but apparently I did not depart quickly enough to suit Skettles, and so he took it upon himself to have me removed by force of his own hand — and no doubt made the necessary show of it for his preferred customers. I will recover, Trimmers. It is my daughter Florence who sadly may not.”

“She has worsened?”

“Aye.”

“Then you must admit her to the Lung Hospital. Immediately.”

Scadger shook his head. “There’s nothing that can be done for her there. It is the place to which consumptives go to die. I would prefer to have my daughter at home when it is her time to leave us.”

I nodded. Scadger had spoken truthfully about that place. Rarely did one depart its wards in better condition than when he or she went in. And because it ministered to the most consumed amongst the consumptives of Dingley Dell, it was death that most often and most tragically emptied each of its thirty or so beds in turn.

“Scadger, my good man, at least suffer me to go inside and purchase a syrup for your daughter as your surrogate.”

“He will sell to you , I have no doubt,” said Harry Scadger with uncharacteristic rancor.

Skettles the apothecary allowed the purchase now that the presence of Scadger was no longer polluting his shop, but the merchant charged me twice the going price. William Skettles, like his brother-in-law Montague Pupker, was a man who did not permit compassion to dilute commerce, and often used the vehicle of retail trade to serve more selfish ends — such as, in this case, making a lesson of an East Ender who sought to sully his premises with the effrontery of his mere presence, and making an equal lesson of the man who sought to help said East Ender. It was odious in every facet, and I wasn’t sure at that moment which of the two hateful brothers-in-law I despised more.

Scadger and I were soon crossing on foot the Westminster Bridge, which connected the West End of Milltown to its bastard brother, the East End. The bridge wasn’t frequently traversed by West Enders of a certain elevated rank (most Milltowners of that caste preferring to cross the river, when their travels took them east, via the Waterloo Bridge (north of town) or the Victoria Bridge (south of town). Artisans and tradesmen of the working class used Westminster when necessary to ply their trade within the weazen, dilapidated neighbourhood that now included Scadger’s new domicile, and now and then lowly men in Scadger’s impoverished league were driven by necessity to venture in the opposite direction to bear the sort of cold reception that had come to Scadger in Skettles’ apothecary shop.