The Journal of Dora Damage(20)

The signs intrigued me: ‘Shampooing – Hats Ironed – Shaving – Books’; ‘Boot Depot – Books – Sole Entrance’; ‘Hawkers – Suppliers to the Trade’, ‘Removed Opposite’, ‘Punch – Almanacks – School Books’, ‘St Clements Stores Merchant – Books’; ‘French American Spanish LETTERS’; ‘Bears’ grease, freshly killed’, and I shrieked as I came face to face with a very subdued bear – a real, live, breathing, hairy bear with a dry tongue – chained miserably to the railings outside the barber’s, as if he knew he would be next.

Soon the crowds started to thin, and eventually I no longer needed to look up, but could scan across, into the windows. But straightways I wished I hadn’t, for the first shop window stopped me directly in my tracks. Despite myself and my own feminine cross-glance, I looked directly through the small panes of glass of the narrow shop window, where the cobwebs were lit by gas-light, and the shop beyond lay gloomy and nefarious. Waiting for my perusal were lithographs, mezzotints, daguerreotypes, call them what you will, but their subject matter was plain: a girl greeted the morning sun in nothing more than her crinoline and chemise; another young lady laughed while gaily ironing an indeterminate item of clothing which she no doubt would presently put on; another made lemonade in such a manner that it was necessary to display her ankles; another shucked oysters with bare arms; ballerinas stretched their limbs along with their morals. I pulled away from the window, flushed, and saw a gentleman with yellow whiskers smiling at me, at my betrayal of interest, my forthright and shameless looking. My mother would have wept.

I stumbled on, averting my gaze and checking the card in my hand with purpose. I had taken it from the workshop this morning, and it read:





Mr Charles Diprose, 128 Holywell-st, London.

Purveyor to the Professions –

Importer of French and Dutch Specialities –

Books Bought.





Fortunately the subsequent windows between that print shop and Mr Diprose’s establishment were less compelling: stacks of old and new books, prints of city streets and rural idylls, medical and scientific pamphlets, periodicals and broadsheets, second-hand clothes, old furniture. Many of these, like the print shop, I could not avoid, but now for more physical reasons: the shops tumbled forth their wares on to the pavement, and I had to step around crates of old books and dodge the swaying lines of old clothes.

I finally spotted the sign ‘Diprose & Co.’ swinging on its hinges underneath a small carved wooden figure of a negro sucking on a long pipe, wearing a wavy grass skirt and matching wavy gold crown, a gaslight directly beside it. I was at a loss to tell what it represented, but was relieved to see in the windows no arresting engravings. It was a smart but small shopfront, with a bright brass bell, on which I rang. It was quickly answered by a young man who enquired after my business.

‘I should like to talk to Mr Charles Diprose, please,’ I said sweetly.

‘On what matter?’ he asked, with a wobble of his head and a swagger not unlike mirth in his voice. Like Jack, he was a red-head, but his was that insipid washed-out orange colour one finds at the tips of a newly picked carrot, not the rich woody-coppery tones on Jack’s bony skull, and his curled lips and the freckles stippling his skin were of the same pallid hue as his hair.

I was not prepared for interrogation at this stage. I had steeled myself for the actual encounter with Mr Diprose, and had not expected to fall before even offering my hand. I stuttered and stammered the words Damages – bookbinders – husband – business – Mr Diprose – at which the grinning assistant pulled back the bolts, delighting in my discomfort.

‘He is out, but he will return presently. You may wait.’ He ushered me in to the stuffy room, where two men were being served. I hesitated at the sight of them, but the assistant gestured to a chair in the corner on which I seated myself. The men raised their hats to me, exchanged a glance with each other, then returned to the books on the counter.

‘But these are . . .’ the man paused to look back at me, as he chose his words carefully, ‘artistic anatomy books.’ I squinted and was able to make out the gold-tooling on the spines: John Rubens Smith’s A Key to the Art of Drawing the Human Figure, and Pieter Camper’s Works on the Connexion Between the Science of Anatomy and the Arts of Drawing, Painting, and Statuary. We had previously bound copies of both in the workshop when money was tight and expediency temporarily superior to principles, though of course Peter had never let me peruse them; I knew they were unseemly.