The Journal of Dora Damage(21)

‘The Camper is a fine edition,’ the shop-keeper argued. ‘A reprint of the 1794 English translation from the Dutch.’

‘But I require medical anatomy.’

‘Ah, medical anatomy, of course. I have several copies of Quain’s, and a splendid edition of the Gray’s, quite the modern thing. Or if Aristotle and his chef-d’oeuvre would be more to your liking . . .’

‘Young man . . . Have you no sense of . . . I have never . . . ! Good day!’

And thus the two men turned to leave, raising their hats to me again, as another gentleman appeared hurriedly from within the shop behind the brown curtain. He was a paunchy, round-shouldered man with a purple face and black beard. Both his skin and hair were shiny, and his silk hat greasy; even his sombre black frock coat seemed damp. I would have said he was trying to be a gentleman, and knew enough of them to have influence on him.

‘Who were they, and why did they leave?’ he said, in clipped, hushed tones as he removed his hat.

‘Proper ones,’ mouthed the assistant.

Just then, the purple and black man caught sight of me. He half-turned to the assistant, while continuing to look at me, as if trying to ascertain my station and purpose there, and what response of his would be appropriate.

‘This is Mrs – Mrs – ah . . . Damson? Damsel?’ said the assistant.

‘Mrs Damage,’ I said.

‘Mrs Damage?’ the gentleman repeated, more warmly, but still with reservation. ‘Mrs Peter Damage?’ I nodded. ‘Mrs Damage,’ he said again. ‘Charles Diprose.’ He took my hand, and kissed it. If I had been a lady, and wearing gloves, I would still have been able to feel through the kid that his hands were clammy. The kiss left a trail on my skin like a snail. He gestured to his assistant to bolt the door.

‘I have not had the pleasure of meeting your husband, but I know of his work, and his contribution to the union  s. Il se porte bien?’

He must have assumed my delay in replying was due to my not understanding French, rather than my uncertainty as to how to answer, so he asked, ‘Is he in good health?’

‘Passing good, sir,’ I finally said. ‘Yes, sir.’ The assistant was standing by the window, peering out into the street, as if keeping watch.

‘And his apprentice, Jack. How fares he?’

‘Passing well, sir, yes, sir. Jack is a fine apprentice.’

‘And of course, Sven Ulrich.’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘I hear he is no longer with you. Hard to keep, the Germans. They are so very precise, such fine craftsmen. One cannot keep them without paying the price.’

I looked at him but found no answer; my jaw was slack with horror. What else did he know? What had he heard from others in the trade? Of course they all talked to each other; they all knew each other’s business. He must have known how rude and surly Peter Damage had become; how no one wanted to work with him any more; how his standards of work had deteriorated and that he was no longer fit to call himself a Master Binder; that he was facing bankruptcy, and poverty.

‘So, your business here?’

‘Peter – Mr Damage – sent me.’ Regardless of what this man knew of our circumstances, I had to try, at least. ‘He would have come himself but, well, he’s been laid up with a hurt leg and cannot walk. He has given me his full consent for coming here; nay, it was his very suggestion. His hands are fine, though, you see. He can still get the books up.’

Diprose was smiling at me. I had to keep going. I thought that he vaguely resembled William IV, although not so much that one might accord him any more than a modicum of respect.

‘I couldn’t help noticing, sir, that a few weeks ago you sent your card to my husband, but I fear you received no reply.’ His smile didn’t flicker. ‘At least, I assume you received no reply. It’s our errand boy, see, proved difficult and, frankly, unreliable, and . . . Well, whatever your purpose was with the card, he would like to help. If it’s work you’re wanting us – him – to do, he still can.’

Diprose pulled a chair up, and sat down. I noticed he had some difficulty bending at the waist, so he eased his trunk down to the point at which his knees would bend no more, then toppled backwards into the chair, with a grunt. He folded his arms, and said nothing, but gestured to me to continue.

‘Is it work? Or, or maybe it’s nothing any more.’ I was uneasy now, and could not stop my mouth from overworking. ‘Pardon my troubling you, sir, it’s just that, he doesn’t like to ignore his customers, and seeks to provide a tip-top service to booksellers and libraries and purveyors, who furnish him with, with . . .’