The Journal of Dora Damage(22)

Diprose held his hand up, and turned his head stiffly away, while holding my gaze with his eyes. I bit my lip as I watched him gesture to the assistant, who leant over to receive a whisper in his ear before disappearing behind the counter into the back room. Mr Diprose was still looking at me, arms folded. Unnerved, my eyes flitted across the wood panels and display-shelves, as if they would help me know what to do next. I smoothed my skirts, and had just about decided to stand up and slip away into the anonymity of the London streets, when the assistant returned with a fat manila envelope.

He handed it to Diprose, who gave it directly to me. It was surprisingly heavy. I looked down at it on my lap, then back up at him, and then down again.

‘A Bible,’ he said.

‘A Bible? I thought you did medical books.’

‘We do all sorts of books in here, Mrs Damage,’ he said, mocking me. He had his head on one side, as if he were trying to measure me. ‘Do you know Sir Jocelyn Knightley?’ I shook my head. ‘I mean, do you know of him? Have you not read, in the papers, of his triumphant sojourn amongst the tribes of Southern Africa? Ma chère, he is an eminent physician: un peu scholar; un peu scientist; un peu adventurer. His dramatic exploits on the dark continent have caught the attention not only of the scientific community, but also of the Church. The Bishop of Reading, no less, has proposed the establishment of a mission amongst these savages. Which is why Sir Jocelyn has commissioned from us a new manuscript, printed first in Latin, then scribed à la main in the local tongue, to present to the Bishop, in honour of his support. Tell Mr Damage to give me something simple, classic. Shall we say, a representation of God’s bounty in tropical climes. He has three weeks.’

‘Thank you. Yes, sir.’

Diprose clutched the arms of his chair and leaned forward as if he were about to rise, but his body stayed firmly on the seat of the chair. I thought he was again having difficulties with the manoeuvre, in reverse. But he opened his eyes wide at me, as if to engage me in his actions; I realised he was expecting me to stand up first, so he could too.

But still I sat. ‘Sir. I am unfamiliar with the usual procedures involved, but . . . In order to pay for the best materials for the commission . . . Would you perhaps see yourself towards advancing Mr Damage a small sum?’

‘Je vous demande pardon?’

The man was no more French than I was; my audacity grew in direct proportion to his persistence in a tongue he believed I did not understand.

‘You must pay him first.’ Was that my mouth from which those words escaped? I did not like the man, but I desperately needed his custom. I could feel something clamour in me like a workhouse bell, and I struggled not to reveal my desperation. ‘Three weeks is a long time before payment.’ I felt my cheeks flush. ‘I presume the Bishop will require the finest morocco, and substantial gold-work.’

He did not release his grip on the arms of the chair. ‘Most peculiar,’ he said. ‘It is not our practice to advance. It does not tally with our book-keeping.’ He kept looking at me, but said to his assistant, ‘Pizzy, I believe the tree up which we were barking is most definitely the wrong one.’ He reached out for the envelope. ‘Madam, we have made a mistake with your husband. I bid you farewell, before I waste another minute of your time.’

Had I handed the envelope back to him straightways, the future of my family might have been very different. But, as I continued to clutch it to my bosom, needing a moment’s pause to gather my thoughts, he seemed to revise his attitudes, for he waved his hand towards a box of paper I had not noticed, in the corner behind my chair.

‘Finest Dutch, surplus to my requirements. Take it, and tell Mr Damage to use it as he will. I will always buy blank volumes. There is a fine market for ladies’ commonplace books, pocketbooks, journals, albums, que voulez-vous. I’m sure there are countless other ways to describe a sheaf of papers bound daintily and prettily according to the fancy of les femmes.’ He nodded at me knowingly. ‘Mr Damage should be able to knock a few of those up in less than a week. I shall pay him on receipt.’

Pizzy the assistant blew the dust off the top of the box, and picked it up, then he turned to me, and paused.

‘Ah.’ He seemed unsure of whether he could hand me the box. Perhaps it would have been deemed improper, too heavy, too inappropriate. I would have none of it; those were my papers, my ticket out of the insolvency courts. I took the box from him, and bade the gentlemen good day.

‘Au plaisir de vous revoir, Madame,’ Mr Diprose said, bowing.

The box was indeed heavy, as I found before I even reached Waterloo Bridge. The drizzle was flecking my face, causing the blacks settling on my bonnet to dribble on to my ears and streak down my neck. It was not yet ten o’clock, but the world was out in force. It felt as if I were going the wrong way over Waterloo Bridge as I weaved my way through the relentless wall of tradesmen. There were butcher boys in blue-and-white striped aprons, with brown hunks of meat oozing beneath the black-spotted wax paper on trays carried on their shoulders. There were baker boys too, their wares more appealing, wafting sweet smells across the odours of horse-dung and sewer construction. Even the milkmaids, in their white smocks, with covered pails swinging from the yokes like extra pairs of strange arms, were heading north, as if they were all fleeing Lambeth, their course determinedly set by the north star, towards Westminster and the City, where people and pickings were richer, and they only returned when they were empty-handed. With my box of Dutch filling my hands, I couldn’t help but feel I was going the wrong way.