Mark Dunn - Under the Harrow

“Stories.” I smiled.

Florence nodded and grinned as well. “I should like to write stories myself one day.”

“And perhaps you will. Perhaps we both will, although I must say that there is too much of interest all round us that is real and true for me to feel so greatly inclined to fabricate things for the purpose of reader delectation.” Curiously, this statement, which should have passed with little attendance, drew the most amazing interchange of knowing glances amongst daughter, mother and father, each pregnant with some meaning I could not fathom.

I pursued: “And have you, Florence, any stories that you’ve heard, which you may wish to put down?”

Florence nodded. “And a good many more that I should like to change to my own liking.”

“My daughter doesn’t like my stories the way they are,” laughed Scadger. “Nor do her siblings. Perhaps it is a parent’s duty to lace his tales with sugar and treacle, but I rarely do it.”

Scadger turned to wave away all of the aforementioned siblings who had gathered about the door to see what was to be done with their ailing sister. “Away! Away!” he enjoined them in a stern, paternal voice. To me he said without severity: “Perhaps we should each of us withdraw, and leave the doctor to his patient.”

“An excellent idea,” said Timberry, rolling up his sleeves. “I should like to give the child a full medical examination, so that we may know exactly where things stand. Mrs. Scadger, if you will serve as my attending nurse, I would be most grateful.”

Matilda Scadger nodded and executed a slight bow that gave evidence of her good breeding in spite of the mean circumstances of her workhouse youth.

Scadger and I stepped from the room. There was no door to be shut to give privacy but only a curtain, which was pulled across the portal.

“Come,” said my host, signaling with a nod that we should repair outside. “There are a couple of things that I should like to discuss with you.”

I nodded and followed Scadger out the front door and into the quiet, rubbish-filled by-lane. “Ours, as you can see, is the only building in the lane presently occupied. But I suspect that my brothers will come to take occupancy here before too long. Why, just this very forenoon, Zephaniah came to tell me that he now sees merit to my reasonings and is giving serious consideration to following the path that I have blazed. It’s a good thing, for there isn’t much case to be made for remaining behind. But my brothers are stubborn men and will make it most difficult for themselves before things get better.”

“And is there no way that I may be of assistance in this matter?” I asked.

Scadger shook his head. “If I may beg leave to speak candidly with you, Trimmers, my brothers haven’t much respect for you.”

“You must call me Frederick, if we are to continue to be friends.”

Scadger nodded.

“And why do they feel this way about one who has never done a thing to harm them?”

“To be sure, you have done nothing that deserves even an ounce of their enmity. Indeed, not only have you never hurt them, but also I must say, Frederick, that your efforts on behalf of my clan have far exceeded even my own expectations. My brothers are purblind in this and everything else that would redound to their benefit. They do not have the capacity to put their faith in anyone whose surname isn’t Scadger.”

“But perhaps their feelings about me , at least, will change over time.”

“Yes, yes. We shall bring them round, even if we must do it one brother at a time. I wish that there were somewhere we could sit. There is much that I have to tell you — much that you should know. The time is come to discuss with you things that I have long postponed disclosing. I hadn’t intended on doing it to-day, but you see, fate has turned an inopportune day into a most opportune one.”

“You intrigue me, Harry.”

We had halted our stroll in the middle of the lane. An old mottled cat, which fended for herself, came close to us to see if we would offer her a scrap. Finding no comestible in hand or upon our person, she crept on, sniffing and pawing through the rubbish that lay strewn about in search of something that would fill her empty stomach. There were rats and mice that thrived within this forgotten lane, and she would soon eat if she would but be patient for the night.

“Let us go round the corner. There’s a small pot-shop there. One cannot say much for it, but we may have a pint if you’re game.”

“Only if you permit me to pay,” said I.

“It is not my design to traffic in your generosity, Frederick.”

“Still, it’s the least that I can do in exchange for whatever intelligence you may wish to share with me.”

Scadger and I struck the bargain with a quick handshake. As we were set to make our way to the public house, we both noted Harry’s oldest son David creeping toward us with small, stealthy steps.

“Mr. Trimmers and I are going to talk close-by, David,” said Scadger to his son, “so go and tell your mother that we plan to remove ourselves for a bit. And when the doctor is done, please be so good as to ask him to join us at the Ox and Crow.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Now run along, son, and do as I say.”

“Yes, Papa.” Curiously, the boy resembled to a striking degree my brother Gus at that same young age, and I could not think of him without feeling a deep pang of sorrow. As was usually the case since discovering Newman’s Egyptian markings in the Bedlam cellar, I settled and soothed myself (as best as I was able) by thinking that if Newman had returned to the Dell, even against his own wishes and by means that kept him under lock and key, perhaps his father had also come somehow to be secretly consigned to that lunatic house, and it would only be a matter of time before I could see them both. I admitted to it being a dubious hope, just as one hopes that a drowning man will suddenly bob himself up from the churning sea and take the lifeline just when all appears lost, but this possibility, however slim, had nonetheless become my lifeline, and I clung to it for what little peace of mind it gave me.

David took a step back, but didn’t retreat in full. There was some hesitation to his withdrawal and the desire to say something else to his father perched upon his parted lips.

“What is it? Out with it, boy,” said Scadger.

The lad obligingly tendered the following words, half question and half entreaty: “Are you going to tell Mr. Trimmers about who I found?”

Scadger nodded.

“And you’ll tell me what he says — who he thinks she is?”

“Of course I will, David. I would never keep a thing from you. We are the dauntless duo, are we not?”

David smiled and nodded.

“Now be the obedient young helperman and go tell your mother where we have gone and that she isn’t to worry.”

David nodded, turned and ran back into the house.

“‘Who he thinks she is’: what does your son mean by this?” I queried.

“I’ll tell you presently. Let’s not discuss it here. I trust not even these cats and rats to keep overheard confidences to themselves.”

he Ox and Crow was, uncontestably, the smallest tavern in Dingley Dell. There were three tables, a bar counter, a stone hearth, and not much else besides. The public room was encompassed by dull walls that had been formerly wainscotted and tastefully ornamented but now stood bare and differently shaded in those places where shelves and sconces had previously been affixed — indications of better days (for this neighbourhood of the East End had not always been one given over to impoverishment and destitution). There were three labouring men sitting at the table nearest the bar, and then another man who slept upon the pillow of his arm at the next table. The third table was empty, and beckoned us by default. Here we took our seats, as the publican, a man I vaguely knew by the name of Peecher, came over to ask us what we would have, though all that there was, was gin and porter and beet sugar rum and some perry ale, which I learnt from the rather forthcoming owner had been accidentally denatured and could not be recommended.