Daniel Page 9

  On our return, Lady Penelope sent me into the town to buy her half-a-dozen handkerchiefs, two oranges and a bottle of smelling salts. When the party sat down to dinner, I took up my place behind her chair, doing my best to ignore two spaniels which kept sniffing round my ankles.

  The mayor, an elderly but handsome man, and the town clerk were plainly delighted to meet Lady Penelope, and listened respectfully as she and Mr. Hardwick talked about her intention to build on the land we had seen that morning. They stayed a good while after dinner and by the time they and Mr. Stedman left I felt desperately hungry. It was late when Lady Penelope was ready to go up to bed, and returning to the kitchen, I was obliged to ask for the meal that no one had offered me. What they gave me was bread and cheese and pickle with a couple of apples (and those they seemed almost to grudge). I ate everything voraciously, but no one offered me any more.

  It was no better at breakfast next morning; a poached egg with two thin slices of brawn, and the remains of the porridge-pot without milk or sugar. The tea was milkless, too, as well as tepid. I asked for blacking and brushes, polished my shoes, washed my hands and went upstairs to wait for Lady Penelope. She ate a good breakfast and I could have cleaned up her plate, bacon rinds and all.

  Before we set off for home in the early afternoon, I made bold to ask for a snack and was given a chicken carcass to pick over, some stale bread, a little butter and a pot of small beer. My thanks remained unspoken, and I went out to join Hodges and the horses.

  As we were about to set off, Mr. Hardwick gave me a shilling and wished me luck. He didn’t wait for my thanks, but turned away to speak with Lady Penelope. “I’ll give instructions to my bank,” she said to him as she got in. “Let me know how things go on, won’t you?”

  “I’ll engage the builders straight away, Penny,” he answered, kissed her hand and stood back as we drove off.

  We were just turning into the high road when Hodges said, “So you stood by yesterday, young Daniel, did you, and watched ’er waste ’er time and money?”

  “I couldn’t make head nor tail of it, sir,” I answered. “Is she going to build herself a new house, to come and live here, or what?”

  “Not a bit of it,” said he. “You ’aven’t ’eard what she means to build, then?”

  “No, sir, I’ve no idea.”

  “Almshouses, that’s what.”

  “What are almshouses, sir?”

  “Why, ’ouses for cadgers and spendthrift sods ‘oove never saved a penny and turned beggars in their old age, that’s what. She thinks it’s Christian charity to build ’ouses for the likes of them to live in when they’ve grown too old to go on cheating and stealing.” He spat in the road.

  “You mean she really pays her own money to put up houses for people like that?”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean. She calls them the deserving poor. I calls ’em dodgers and loafers. When the ’ouses are built, that there mayor and Mr. ’ardwick, they’ll pick out all the shiftiest wasters in Guildford to come and live there for nothing.”

  “But why does she do that?”

  “To save ’er soul on Judgement Day, that’s why. She’s reckoning on going to ’eaven, like. Oh, she’s got a kind heart, sure enough, ’as Lady Penelope. But if old Sir James was still alive, ’e’d soon put paid to such foolishness.”

  After a pause, he added, “She’s got a great idea of ’erself as a ministering angel to the poor. And there’s those like ’erself who push ’er on, tell ’er she’s ’oly saint, like.”

  “But – er – do all the servants know this, sir?”

  “Course we do. She treats us well, I’ll say that for ‘er. Plenty to eat and Graydon lets ’em down easy. Goose that lays the golden eggs, that’s what she is.”

  This gave me a good deal to think about. Until then I had thought of my employer as a miraculous wonder, far above any such mean notions as work or occupation. But in this, it seemed, I had been mistaken. Her riches put it in her power to do good, to relieve suffering. This was her work. Knowing her as I did, I could not, like Mr. Hodges, see her as a soft touch for malingerers who imposed upon her. I knew she was discerning and shrewd. Furthermore, in all probability I had myself lived upon a lower level of poverty than ever Mr. Hodges had. I had known what it was to be short of food and clothing, to live in squalor and to fear remedyless disease as a killer. I knew that in the world everywhere there were deserving poor in dire need of relief. If Lady Penelope chose to spend money, intelligence and energy in helping them, then I had even more reason to love and revere her.

  As spring advanced into summer, still with sunny days and fine weather, Lady Penelope made frequent expeditions, always attended, of course, by her black page. Most of these I enjoyed, being treated hospitably and given enough to eat; though there were still one or two houses where a black lad seemed to be a sort of freak. However, I became more practised in breaking the ice below stairs and even made friendly acquaintances among the servants from whom I was sorry to part. Almost always, the servants I met were curious to learn about Lady Penelope, about my work for her and what it was like to be black among white folk. On this last I was always ready with a few conventional and unrevealing replies. As a rule, I could not help being struck by the narrow outlook and lack of ambition of most of the servants. They knew their own world and looked no further. On matters of which they had heard little or nothing they were inclined to be touchy. I came to grasp that to them I was the queer one for being bent on advancement; for I had notions of rising above this lowly society and even of coming one day to rub shoulders with people like Francis Hardwick. A black man to reach such a position? Yet all the same I entertained it seriously. If Josh had virtually succeeded, so could I.

  We went to towns where Lady Penelope had a finger in all manner of charitable pies. Several of these involved almshouses, but sometimes she also visited prisons, and in these she always required me to attend closely upon her. As a rule I was disgusted and sickened by the vile conditions in these places and by the state of the inmates, some of whom seemed actually dying of one or another untreated disease. In a prison, my vital duty was to guard Lady Penelope from assault, for not infrequently there would be one or two deranged persons at large among the prisoners, with no distinction made by their gaolers between halfwits and the so-called sane.

  Nothing, however, deterred Lady Penelope, who remained self-possessed in situations from which, without her, I myself would have thought it no shame to cut and run. In these circumstances it is hardly surprising that my feelings for her remained little short of adulation. I kept the smelling salts handy, but she never asked for them. Often, she would sit down and converse with some demented wretch as though the two of them were on equal terms. Afterwards, when she made her conclusions known to local magistrates or other civic dignitaries, I would stand apart, but it was clear enough that they found themselves unable to regard her as a mere sentimental meddler. I remember once some young fellow attendant upon the mayor, with whom she was deep in conversation, took the opportunity to ask me whether she really was personally acquainted with John Howard. I knew nothing whatever about John Howard, but I told him without hesitation that she certainly was. I never saw anyone treat her disrespectfully: there was that in her manner which put paid to any ideas of that sort.

  The servant appointed to teach me to read was none other than Mrs. Beddoes. She made our work positively enjoyable, and I used to look forward to the lessons. She made me compose sentences and then do my best to write them down, and when I complained that this wasn’t reading, she would refer me to yesterday’s or last week’s sentences and ask me to read them out, mistakes and all. After some time I came to realise how much I’d learned — reading and writing too. When I asked her whether this was how reading was taught in schools, she said that it wasn’t, but it ought to be. She should have been rewarded, she said, for inventing it.

  It amused me to see that during these sultry midsummer weeks, windless, still and anything but con
ducive to industrious energy, the pace of the whole household slackened; heavier tasks remained tacitly left on one side, while sweeping, dusting, cleaning windows, polishing silver and the like were done with a kind of absent-minded detachment, rather like the diminishing pace of a horse between the shafts when its driver has become too listless to urge it on. As Lady Penelope’s personal servant I was, strictly speaking, exempt from this sort of work, but I was canny enough to do what I could to seem busily occupied; cutting fresh flowers for the drawing-room vases, emptying wastepaper baskets (including those I had already emptied), topping up inkwells, brushing the dogs’ coats, making sure the shutters and window-blinds worked properly and anything else I could think of. Graydon, I knew, was not likely to drop on me, and anyone else seeing me apparently busy at a job would suppose that another of the servants must have told me to do it.

  One close afternoon, while ostensibly checking the bedroom wainscots for mouse-holes, I came upon Lister in bed with a girl who must have slipped in unseen. I was out of the room like lightning and next day felt some slight satisfaction that Lister (who, of course, never breathed a word), evidently felt confident that he had no need to ask me to do the same.

  Lady Penelope seemed for the most part unaffected by the weather, carrying on her work as usual. She wrote to a great many people in connection with her philanthropic work, and paid close attention to incoming letters, making jottings for reply in the margins. She read literary reviews in newspapers and almost every week bought books, sending me on foot to Bath with orders for her bookshop; and hot work it was, I may say, tramping there and back in the sunshine. Books weigh heavy; but I was happy to do it.

  In the afternoons, she would as a rule sit in a shady part of the lawn and read for a good two hours or longer. She often invited friends to dinner, for she loved conversation, with or without contention. Usually she would require me to attend upon her when she was a guest elsewhere. If, after dinner, the company played whist or backgammon, she would sometimes dismiss me below stairs, or again, when the fancy took her, would tell me to stand behind her and watch the game.

  Whist I could never understand, but after a time I acquired a fair grasp of backgammon. I always took the greatest care never to presume upon my place. I was not to be drawn into conversation. Sometimes I was offered a glass of wine, but always I declined it.

  “Poor lad,” she once said to her hostess, “he can’t be expected to sit like a graven image with no diversion all the evening. Besides,” she added smilingly, “he’s my luck. Black people always bring luck with them, don’t you know?”

  I know — I know for certain – that no one ever suspected her, as a young widow, of impropriety, for she was not only well-liked but greatly respected, partly for her warm and friendly personality, but also for her benevolence to the poor and needy of the neighbourhood.

  Now that I had been in her service for several months and (as I hoped) had shown myself undeterred by any number of demands, Lady Penelope took to giving me, now and then, half a day’s holiday, during which I was free to spend my time as I pleased. What was more, she would sometimes give me as much as a shilling to put in my pocket; and none of the other servants to know of it, of course. On these days I would change my uniform for rough clothes and set out to stroll in the open country. I kept to the roads and paths, and if I happened to meet a farm labourer or the like I would speak, pass the time of day and explain that I was in the service of Lady Penelope Marston, and enjoying half a day off. Once these people were satisfied that I was not up to mischief, they usually became friendly enough, and sometimes asked me to lend them a hand with their work. I made several acquaintances, and did my best to learn a few skills, such as hedging and ditching, or using a scythe.

  People used to laugh at my clumsiness, but no one seemed to take against me for my colour, and I was always careful not to let anyone guess that I was carrying more than a penny or two. I think that one reason why they were friendly was that they knew I was in the personal employ of Lady Penelope. Quite a few locals had good reason to feel well disposed towards her.

  One fine evening in early autumn, I was walking home through Clepton St. Peter. As I drew near the village tavern I was surprised to see three black people, two young men and a still younger girl, sitting on the grass verge beside the road. Their clothes were dirty and they themselves looked dismal and impoverished; a sight to make anyone feel pity.

  I sat down on the grass beside them. I was about to speak when a cart passed by, driven by a farmhand with whom I was acquainted. He gave me a nod.

  “’Ullo, Darkie. ’Ow yer gett’n on, then?”

  “All right, Bob,” I answered. “,Ow’s yerself?”

  “All right, Darkie.”

  This concluded the conventional courtesies and on he went. I turned to the strangers.

  “Nice to see you,” I said. “How d’you do. ‘Don’t see many black people round here, more’s the pity.”

  They answered me not a word, and none of them looked at me.

  “Are you staying round here?” I asked.

  One of the black lads raised his head and muttered, “We b’long Mr. Grench.”

  “I see,” I replied. “And where’s he? You’re waiting for him, are you?”

  The other boy jerked a thumb at the tavern behind us.

  “Mr. Grench eat. We wait.”

  “Better him not see you talkin’ us,” said the first lad.

  “Why ever not?” I asked. There was no answer, and I went on, “Why shouldn’t I talk to you? Do you mean he’d try to stop me?”

  “Better you go,” whispered the girl. “No good he see you. Beat you, maybe.”

  “Beat me?” said I. “Why the hell should he beat me? Why shouldn’t I talk to you?”

  None of them replied. I had a sudden gleam of inspiration.

  “You mean he’s a white man and you’re his servants?”

  “We’se slaves,” said the girl. “Mr. Grench tell us no talk anyone.”

  At this moment a burly, rough-looking man — a white man — came out of the tavern door. I stood up and faced him. He looked hostile and angry.

  “You bloody nigger!” he shouted at me. “You let my slaves alone and get your black arse out of here, d’you see? Go on, bugger off!”

  “I’ll see you flat on your white arse first,” I replied.

  At this he began to rage like a madman, waving his arms and cursing and swearing. “I’ll beat the hell out of you, you bastard nigger!” he shouted. Clenching his fists, he strode forward. I stood where I was and he stopped, face to face with me.

  ‘“You heard me!” he yelled. “Are you going to f-off or not?”

  People were coming out of the tavern and others out of their cottage doors. A small crowd gathered. Mr. Randall, our village blacksmith, laid a hand on Grench’s wrist.

  “Listen, Mister,” he said. “That young fellow works for Lady Penelope Marston. You just let him alone now, and be on your way. We don’t want no trouble round here.”

  Grench made no reply, but aimed a blow at me. By now I had realised, of course, that he was the next thing to drunk. His punch was meant to hit me in the face. I stopped it with an open hand and hit him on the jaw as hard as I could. At the same moment Mr. Randall hit him in the stomach and he went down, winded and gasping. The three black youngsters had stood up and drawn away into the road.

  Grench got unsteadily to his feet. He was evidently not beat yet. It was at this moment that I heard a light, quick clopping of hooves, and looking behind me, saw Lady Penelope’s pony and trap approaching. Hodges was driving and Lady Penelope, dressed for an occasion and wearing a light cloak, was seated behind him. At sight of the villagers Hodges pulled up.

  I went quickly round behind the trap and opened the door.

  “If you please, your ladyship,” I said, pointing to Grench, “that man has attempted to attack me. He says that those young black people are his slaves and that Mr. Randall and myself are to let them alone.
”

  A silence fell. I gave Lady Penelope my hand and helped her down. Without the least hesitation she walked up to Grench and looked him in the face.

  “Is that correct?” she asked, in a calm, level voice. “Are you saying that those young black people are slaves? That they are your slaves?”

  Grench, though obviously disconcerted, pulled himself together.

  “Yes. Yes – er – ma’am,” he said. “They’re my lawful property. I’m going to take them away with me, now this minute. ’Don’t want no trouble.”

  Lady Penelope answered him not a word. She turned and walked over to the black youngsters, who cowered before her, whimpering, and smiling, she took one of the lads by the hand.

  “You needn’t be in the least afraid of me,” she said. “Now listen, all three of you. There are no slaves in England. That is the law. You are not slaves and that man cannot take you away with him against your own wishes. If you want to leave him, I will look after you myself. Now calm yourselves and answer me. Do you want to leave that man or do you not?”

  The girl burst into tears. “Oh, lady,” she sobbed. “We want go ’way, but we ‘fraid he beat us.”

  “No, he won’t,” said she, and turned to Hodges, who all this time had been holding the pony’s head.

  “Hodges, take these young people back with you now. Tell Mrs. Beddoes I want her to let them wash and to give them a meal. Then let them sleep in the hay loft.”

  She turned to Randall. “Mr. Randall, will you be so good as to see them into the trap, and make sure that that man lets them alone?”

  She turned to me. “And you, Daniel,” she said, “Go at once, explain to Dr. Vernon what has happened and tell him that I will be with him and Mrs. Vernon quite soon,”

  With that she went into the tavern and shut the door behind her. I ran at once on my errand. When I returned the crowd had dispersed and there was no sign either of Lady Penelope or of Grench.

  Mr. Ward, the innkeeper, came out and told me that Lady Penelope had set off to walk home, having firmly declined his offer to put his horse to and drive her himself. (“But she wouldn’ ’ave it no ways,”) I felt shocked to hear this and ran after her. However, I didn’t succeed in overtaking her, and got home to find her supervising Mrs. Beddoes in looking after the young blacks.