Tattycoram Read online

  I nodded.

  “Had I seen this book in its monthly parts, I would have been on to him right away, and I would not have settled for an apology or a promise of minor changes. It’s too late for that now, of course, so we shall attack him head on.”

  How sure she was in her rage. Her eyes glittered; she almost seemed to preen herself, like a bird.

  “I still have not read the book,” I said, “and so I do not know what he wrote — about either of us. And I’ll tell you frankly that I’m not sure I want to read it.”

  “You must! You must! I am counting on your help. He pretended you were a great favourite of his and he has used you badly.”

  “How do you know it’s me?”

  She smiled a horrible smile.

  “You may have changed your last name when you were at Urania Cottage, but once I recognized the physical likeness — and the girl in the novel is very like — then I did a little sleuthing. I went to the Foundling and said I was a long-lost friend just back from Australia. They confirmed that it was you. He calls you ‘Tattycoram.’”

  “Mother,” said Rosie, running in with the dogs at her heels, “who were those queer people walking away from our street? They looked like blackbirds, a rook and a starling.” I could not answer her, I was in such distress.

  Elisabeth had insisted upon leaving the book with me, and that night, after Rosie was in bed, I regarded it with great misgiving. I felt deeply sorry for Elisabeth, but I did not want anything to do with her, nor, however I might have been caricatured by my former employer, did I want anything to do with this lawsuit. She had left her address and I was supposed to communicate with her as soon as possible. Supposing I just wrapped up the book and sent it back unread. Would she then leave me alone?

  Twice I picked up the book, Little Dorrit — it was a thick volume of hundreds of pages — and twice I put it down again. I had not promised to read it. I thought of the fat boy who sat in the lodge at the entrance to Doughty Street, how Mr. Dickens had said, “I conjure ’em up in my writing and then they appear in the flesh.” The reverse, of course, could be equally true. They appear and then he turns them into fiction. Tattycoram. How could he have used that hated name? How could he?

  In the end my curiosity got the better of me; I began to read: “Thirty years ago Marseilles lay burning in the sun, one day.” In the second chapter both Elisabeth and I make our appearance.

  “It’s not you, Hattie,” Sam said.

  I had just finished reading aloud the last chapter. “Except for the physical description and the use of that name, she’s nothing like you.”

  I smiled at him. “Well of course you would say that, my dear, but the truth is she is like me — or one part of me as I was when I was younger. So that girl is both me and not me. There is a Tattycoram inside, there always has been, one who is fierce and proud, one who would have been capable of great resentment if she’d had to be a maid to somebody like Pet. As it was, I had Miss Georgy to contend with, and I couldn’t always dampen down my temper when she was around.” I told him about the “costume” for the fancy-dress party and how I threw a teacup against the wall.

  “That was when Mr. Dickens advised me to count to two and twenty when my temper was up. He was very good to me. I should have been dismissed and sent back to the Foundling that night. He was always good to me, Sam, and so was she.”

  “It was not nice to use your real name and your appearance.”

  “Well, my real name isn’t Tattycoram, remember? It’s Harriet Coram. But he remembered what the raven said — taught by Miss Georgy, I’m pretty certain — and he saw how deeply I resented it. He is a man who notices such things. It isn’t nice, what he’s done, but he understands her resentment, and he understands about foundlings and children born out of wedlock. He was a good friend of Mr. Brownlow’s and took an interest in the hospital. I do feel used, nevertheless, but I can’t seem to get worked up about it.”

  “The portrait of Miss Wade is quite savage.”

  “Yes it is, although isn’t it strange that he makes her such a handsome woman? Elisabeth was never handsome, although she was a far cry better looking when she lived at Urania Cottage than she is now, poor thing. He has made us both better-looking than we really were.”

  “Not you, Hattie.”

  “Yes, me.” I sighed. “I can see why she is so angry. He has forced her to look in the mirror, and even though he has changed the circumstances, even though parts of the story are completely made up, that long bit where she relates her history is exactly in her voice. She has always been her own worst enemy.”

  “Would you sue, if you were in her place?”

  “I don’t think so, but I don’t really know what it feels like to be her. Even if she is partly to blame, her life has been one of disappointment and despair. Honestly, I don’t think the papers will run her ad, for that advertisement itself might seem to be libellous.”

  “What will you do?”

  “What would you advise me to do? I don’t want my name to be added to any petition, yet I feel she will implicate me anyway. I can’t very well deny that I was the model for Tattycoram. Nor can he, if she confronts him.”

  “I think you should send the book back and simply tell her you are not interested in pursuing the matter. Just that. Don’t admit to the likeness, don’t seem to encourage her in any way, don’t wish her good luck.”

  Our sheep had recently been sheared, and Rosie and I were busy teasing, carding and spinning. Our hands were smooth and soft from handling the fleece. That night I felt such a strong desire to touch my husband, to be assured of his reality in my life, that I offered to massage his back. He never took his shirt off in public, not even on the hottest of summer days, and I was the only one who was intimate with the dreadful raised welts that criss-crossed his body, all the way from his shoulders to his waist and below. As I kneaded his muscles with my softened hands and traced with my fingers the dreadful souvenirs of his life as a convict, I thought of Elisabeth and those self-inflicted scars on her wrists and of her solitude and unhappiness. I remembered Grandfather and how he would touch a person’s face with his fingertips, reading the soul within. He would have read Sam’s scars and known the history of his suffering, have touched Elisabeth’s wrists and absorbed her desperation. All I could do was to rub my husband’s back and let him know how much I loved him.

  He turned over and smiled at me. “Ah, Hattie, that was grand.”

  Later, just before I fell asleep, I whispered to him, “Are you still awake?”

  “Hmm. What is it?”

  “Sam, the Misses Bray are great admirers of Mr. Dickens, as are the schoolmaster and his wife. There may be others nearby, and they must all have read that novel. The Misses Bray at least would recognize me, yet they have never said a word.”

  “Well there you are then,” Sam said, and turned to sleep.

  “Sam?” I whispered.

  “Hmm?”

  “I would never have gone back to those Meagles.”

  I began to laugh and then he joined in. We laughed until we ran out of breath. Just holding on to one another, laughing.

  15

  After we sent off the parcel and note, we heard nothing more from Elisabeth Avis. I hoped she had abandoned the idea of bringing a suit against Mr. Dickens, but somehow I didn’t think she would. Here was a woman who had seen an insult in every corner all her life; now that she had a genuine grievance, I felt she would never let it go until she had caused real trouble for the perpetrator. Sam hadn’t been there during our interview; he had not seen her face nor heard her voice nor felt the heat rise off her like a bonfire. What she couldn’t see, so caught up was she in her fury, was that any such suit would only call attention to herself in a most unpleasant way. She — or her solicitor — would have to stand up in court and say she was the “Miss Wade” of the novel and admit to saying similar things to Mr. Dickens when she was at Urania Cottage. And he might even summon Matron and me as witnesses. I fe
lt terribly sorry for her but I did not like her, and I shuddered at the thought of standing up in court with everyone looking at me. Elisabeth would be sure to point out that I was also caricatured in the same novel and would drag in Mrs. Hill and whoever else she’d been able to round up.

  “Father,” Rosie said one evening, “Mam is brooding.”

  Sam smiled at me.

  “Are you brooding, Hattie?”

  “No, no, I am just thinking about a new way to finish off this chain.” I held up the double row of tatting I was working on. That satisfied Rosie, who went back to frowning over her lessons, but Sam wasn’t fooled. After Rosie had taken herself upstairs, he spoke to me again.

  “Is it that woman?”

  “Yes.” And I told him what I had been thinking. “If I were summoned as a witness for either side, would I have to go?”

  “I believe you would.”

  “I don’t think I could bear it. Mr. Dickens is such a famous man the newspapers will print every word.”

  “He may settle out of court for that very reason.”

  “I doubt she would let it end there. She as much as told me she wouldn’t stop until the public knew how he had betrayed her confidence, how he had used her.”

  “Well he did, and you as well, and Lord knows who else.”

  “He probably doesn’t see it that way, Sam. I think he’s like that raven of his, Grip. Something — or someone — catches his interest, and so he helps himself to a bit, buries it in the back of his mind and digs it up when he wants it. Don’t forget, the last time he saw Elisabeth was nearly twenty years ago, the day before she set sail for Australia. He found her troublesome at Urania Cottage — we all did — but I doubt he had any idea then of using her in a story years later. Or using me.”

  “Do you think what he did was wrong?”

  “Probably. But I’m not a genius.”

  “I think certain rules of behaviour with respect to the personal histories of others apply to geniuses as well as to ordinary folk.”

  “Yes, you think that. But maybe geniuses don’t. Maybe such scruples never occur to them.” I hesitated. “Sam, when you went out poaching as a lad, did you ever think about getting caught?”

  “No. I thought I was far too clever. Oh, it may have been there at the back of my mind, but that just added to the excitement.” He grinned. “Are you trying to link me with Mr. Dickens, Hat?”

  “It was just a thought.”

  “It won’t work, for if we were caught, we’d have hurt no one but ourselves. As I know to my cost.”

  I came and stood behind his chair and put my hands on his shoulders. How grey he was getting!

  “I shouldn’t have brought it up, Sam, I’m sorry.”

  “No matter, love.” He reached up and grabbed my hand. “You are troubled by all this and so you are casting about for answers. Perhaps you are trying to defend him because he was your benefactor. I can understand that. And you have observed him at close quarters; you are in a better position to talk about him than I am. Nevertheless, there is no excuse for bad behaviour of this kind, this careless cruelty, this disregard for the feelings of others. If either side calls you as a witness, the facts will speak against him, not you.”

  I lay awake all night beside my sleeping husband. Was Elisabeth sleepless too, in her rented bed in Lant Street, or was she sitting up far into the night, writing page after page of indictments against Mr. C___________ D____________?

  I was awake to listen to the cocks crow and to hear Rosie tiptoe downstairs to make the tea. How different our lives had turned out, Elisabeth’s and mine. I was convinced that part of her history was true: that she had never been loved as a child and that she had sensed this at a very early age. Had I only my experience at the hospital to go on, might not my heart have become bitter and my soul deformed?

  Rosie called from the bottom of the stairs, “Mam, Pa, tea is up!” Then she went out to feed the dogs and see to the chickens.

  By the afternoon I knew what I wanted to do.

  “Are you sure?” Sam said.

  “I’m sure. I need to talk to him.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, you’ll stay here with Rosie. I’ll start out early and be home before dark. The days are long just now. I’ll take the train from Gomshall to Guildford and change to the Rochester train; I’ve got it all worked out.”

  “I don’t like you making this journey by yourself.”

  “I have to do it. This affair is robbing me of my peace of mind. If I can at least talk to him, then whatever happens, I’ll feel better.”

  “Wouldn’t a letter do?”

  “I thought of that, but no. Even years ago he got masses of letters — many of them begging letters — and no doubt he has a secretary now who sorts his mail. My letter might be put aside, and then if the matter does come to trial and I’m forced to be a witness, he’ll never know how troubled I feel.”

  “What if he won’t see you?”

  “If he won’t, he won’t. I can but try.”

  It was only my second time on a train, and I found it quite amazing how the landscape flew by backwards — villages and trees, fields of grain and coppices, two white horses galloping away from the shrieking monster, small boys waving and disappearing. It had rained in the night, a soft June rain, and now the whole world sparkled. I had the sensation that I was sitting still while the countryside beyond the window unrolled before me like a diorama. We were out of Surrey and into Kent in the blink of an eye. Hopfields and more hopfields, orchards, rolling hills, and then suddenly we were there — the great beast stopped but panting still — carriage doors opening and closing, people rushing away.

  It was almost noon, so I walked down the hill and along the High Street, and, the day being fine, I decided to eat my bread and cheese and pickle in the courtyard of the great cathedral, where I saw others enjoying the sunshine. I inquired of an elderly cleric where I might find Mr. Dickens’s house, and he replied that Mr. Dickens did not live in Rochester itself, but at Gad’s Hill, about eight miles out of the town. I hadn’t counted on that, but I was wearing my stout boots, and a good walk sounded just the thing after all that bouncing about on the train. The old man pointed me to a water pump and then to the road that would take me towards Gad’s Hill.

  “You could have taken the other line,” he said, “direct to Higham, and walked through the woods. Next time you’ll know.”

  A part of me wanted to linger — for this was the town in The Pickwick Papers — to look inside the cathedral, examine the ruined castle, wander along the streets, but I was not there to sightsee, and I had promised Sam I would be home before it was fully dark. I took the road to Gravesend, as had been suggested by the old man, and reached Higham in under two hours. I stopped to rest and gather my wits and then went on the rest of the way. Gad’s Hill was indeed on a hill, opposite the Sir John Falstaff Inn. The house was set back in extensive grounds and gardens, and, peering through the gate, I noticed his favourite flowers, geraniums, in large stone urns by the front door. There was a sound of hammering and banging around to the side, but I could see no one about, so I walked up the path and knocked at the front door. I heard a dog yapping, but no one came, so I used the knocker once again, with more force. This time footsteps approached along a hall and the door was pulled open. Miss Georgina stood there with a lapdog in her arms.

  “Yes,” she said, “what is it?”

  “I would like to see Mr. Dickens if he is available.”

  She did not recognize me and I decided not to enlighten her.

  “For what reason?”

  “For personal reasons, ma’am.”

  She looked at me, frowned, and shook her head.

  “Mr. Dickens cannot be disturbed.”

  “I could wait.”

  “He cannot be disturbed. Go away.”

  And with that she shut the door in my face.

  I decided I must try again, this time revealing to her who I was. No doub
t she thought I was just a countrywoman wanting to sell him something or ask for money. And so I raised the knocker for a third time. She did not answer, and all I could do was turn away in defeat. Sam was right; I should have written a letter.

  The way back to town seemed much longer, and when I finally reached Rochester I was terribly thirsty. I refreshed myself once more at the pump and was debating whether or not to buy a cake to sustain me on the homeward journey and had just crossed the street to look in the baker’s window when I saw him in the distance. He was leaning on the fence outside an old brick mansion and had two enormous dogs with him. He seemed so lost in thought that I hesitated to disturb him, but I had not come all this way to leave without speaking to him. I owed him (and owed myself) that courtesy.

  The dogs noticed me first; the black one turned his head and growled. “Samson,” he said, without looking round, “behave.”

  “Mr. Dickens,” I said quietly, “might I have a word with you, sir?”

  At this he turned and smiled, but his eyes were far away. I was shocked by how changed he was; he looked like a man much older than he really was.

  “Mr. Dickens,” I said, It’s me, Hattie. Hattie Coram that was, when you knew me.”

  He continued to stare at me blankly.

  “Tattycoram,” I said. “Perhaps you remember Tattycoram?”

  What a change came over him then! He started and waved his arms like a windmill, then cried out, in ringing tones, “Woman, I know thee not.”

  He whistled for his dogs, turned on his heel and rushed away.

  By the time I reached Shere, darkness had fallen and Sam and Rosie were out looking for me. It was a fine, still night with a sickle moon, yet my heart was like a stone in my breast.