The Journal of Dora Damage(34)

But when there was a rap at the door of the workshop the following day – a particularly sharp, unfriendly knocking – my heart jumped into my mouth like a frightened child and I was sure we had run out of time. I did not think of the sight that would greet the person at the door, of a woman on her own in a bookbinder’s workshop, hard at work, but simply flew to the door and opened it, hammer in hand, before whoever it was knocked it down and knocked us up for obstructing seizure of property.

At first I did not recognise him; his gloves were faded tan with dark brown stitching, and he was holding a large, flat briefcase that partially covered his face, but the oily sheen on his black silk hat gave him away. He lowered the briefcase to reveal his black beard, below which was a purple neck-scarf stained with grease.

‘Mr Diprose!’

‘Bonjour, Madame.’ He lifted his hat to me. ‘Forgive the intrusion. I have brought your husband two new manuscripts. I trust he will be pleased.’

‘You – he – oh!’

‘May I not come in?’

‘But certainly. How rude of me. Do, please.’

It would have been permissible if the paper had been newly folded and strung up in the sewing-frame. It would just about have been acceptable if the sewn sections had been lying on the bench being curved. We would have got away with it had Jack been here, had I not sent him out to deliver our trade card to a stationer’s in Holborn. But to someone who knew, like Mr Diprose, it would have been apparent, from the hammer in my hand and the jar of freshly made paste on the bench, that I was doing men’s work. Of course, I was not breaking the law for doing this, but I knew better than to publicise the fact.

I put the hammer down quickly, and was about to gabble a concocted story about where Peter and Jack had disappeared to, when Peter entered in disarray from the house. His hair was ruffed up like a duck’s tail, and his face was crumpled like the sheets he had clearly just left. The bandages binding his hands were grimy and frayed, and Diprose saw them straight away. Our visitor’s mouth and eyes had widened into three silent ‘o’s; his cheeks percolated glistening beads of sweat, like dew.

‘Mr Diprose. May I introduce to you my husband and proprietor of Damage’s Bookbinders, Peter Damage.’

‘How do you do?’ Mr Diprose said, and put out his hand, before retracting it nervously, staring at Peter’s dressings.

‘Mr Diprose, what an honour. Pleased to meet you indeed,’ Peter said earnestly, as if to compensate for his lack of handshake.

‘Tell me,’ Diprose muttered, unable to take his eyes off Peter’s hands, ‘am I interrupting something?’

‘No, no,’ Peter said blithely. ‘We were just – nothing that can’t wait.’ He said something about the work coming through the workshop, the state of the book market at the moment, the lamentable quality of modern paper. ‘To which I add my deep gratitude at your gift of the fine Dutch paper. A delight, a positive delight, to bind. I trust the journals are selling well?’

‘You trust correctly,’ Diprose said slowly, preoccupied now with the globules of newly dried paste covering my hands like hideous warts. I excused myself, seized a duster, and went into the kitchen to make some tea. I could hear them continue in hushed, but urgent tones.

‘And you a union   man too, Mr Damage. How long have you been in breach of them?’

‘There are no regulations yet, only proposals,’ Peter said meekly.

‘It is hypocrisy.’

‘It is expediency, Mr Diprose. My hands will be mended soon.’

I could not hear the next exchange, but then Mr Diprose must have walked further towards the kitchen, for his words, laced with menace, were unmistakeable.

‘I could cause a lot of trouble for you, you know that.’

‘And will you?’ Peter replied. He threw those three words to Mr Diprose like a challenge; I was proud to see there was still a man within him.

I wished I could have seen Diprose’s face in the pause that followed. He held all the power; possibly he was measuring whether Peter was victim or worthy opponent. He took his time, as if the decision were momentous to him.

‘Je suis un philanthrope, Mr Damage. I heard a union   man had fallen on hard times, and I ventured to help. I believed you to be rewarding me well, but you have deceived me.’

‘Surely deceive is too harsh a . . .’

‘My most important client, Sir Jocelyn Knightley, has likewise been deceived. You have put me in an embarrassing situation. I promoted you to him using the Bible, and he is now much taken with your work. He has since bought a commonplace book and an album for his wife, with which she was delighted. She gave much praise to the embroidery, and the elegant but unassuming way it harmonised with her salon. It was as if she had commissioned it. He already has plans to send you further work. And now I must let him down. You have most embarrassed me.’