‘That’s it. You’ll see him using it now and then, him an’ his wife. Prints books an’ such on it. Pamphlets, pictures, that sort o’ thing. Dunno as he makes a living from ’em, though. I seen a few of ’em when I went looking to sell him some copper for his plates when he first moved here from across the river a year or two ago.’ Dick Butterfield shook his head. ‘Strange things, they were. Lots o’ fire an’ naked people with big eyes, shouting.’
‘You mean like Hell, Pa?’ Maggie suggested.
‘Maybe. Not my taste, anyway. I like a cheerful picture, myself. Can’t see that many would buy ’em from him. He must get more from engraving for others.’
‘Did he buy the copper?’
‘Nah. I knew the minute I talked to him that he’s not one to buy like that, for a fancy. He’s his own man, is Mr Blake. He’ll go off an’ choose his copper an’ paper himself, real careful.’ Dick Butterfield said this without rancour; indeed, he respected those who would clearly not be taken in by his ruses.
‘We saw him with his bonnet rouge on last week, didn’t we, Jem?’ Maggie said. ‘He looked right funny in it.’
‘He’s a braver man ’n many,’ Dick Butterfield declared. ‘Not many in London show such open support for the Frenchies, however they may talk in the pub. P.M. don’t take kindly to it, nor the King neither.’
‘Who’s P.M.?’ Jem asked.
Charlie Butterfield snorted.
‘Prime Minister, lad. Mr Pitt,’ Dick Butterfield added a little sharply, in case the Dorset boy didn’t know even that.
Jem ducked his head and gazed into his beer once more. Maggie watched him struggling across the table, and wished now that she had not brought him to meet her father. He did not understand what Dick Butterfield wanted from people, the sort of quick smart talk required of those allowed to sit with him on the stool he kept hooked around his foot under the table. Dick Butterfield wanted to be informed and entertained at the same time. He was always looking for another way to make money – he made his living out of small, dodgy schemes dreamed up from pub talk – and he wanted to have fun doing it. Life was hard, after all, and what made it easier than a little laughter, as well as a little business putting money in his pocket?
Dick Butterfield could see when people were sinking. He didn’t hold it against Jem – the boy’s confused innocence made him feel rather tender towards him, and irritated at his own jaded children. He pushed Maggie abruptly from his knee so that she fell to the floor, where she stared up at him with hurt eyes. ‘Lord, child, you’re getting heavy,’ Dick said, jiggling his knee up and down. ‘You’ve sent my leg to sleep. You’ll be needin’ your own stool now you’re getting to lady size.’
‘Won’t nobody give her one, though, and I’m not talking ’bout just the stool,’ Charlie sneered. ‘Chicken-breasted little cow.’
‘Leave off her,’ Jem said.
All three Butterfields stared at him, Dick and Charlie leaning with their elbows on the table, Maggie still on the floor between them. Then Charlie lunged across the table at Jem, and Dick Butterfield put his arm out to stop him. ‘Give Maggie your stool and get another one,’ he said.
Charlie glared at Jem but stood up, letting the stool fall backwards, and stalked off. Jem didn’t dare turn around to watch him but kept his eyes on the table. He took a gulp of beer. He’d defended Maggie as a reflex, the way he would his own sister.
Maggie got up and righted Charlie’s stool, then sat on it, her face grim. ‘Thanks,’ she muttered to Jem, though she didn’t sound very grateful.
‘So, Jem, your father’s a bodger, is he?’ Dick Butterfield said, opening the business part of the conversation since it seemed unlikely that Jem would entertain them further.
‘Not a bodger, exactly, sir,’ Jem answered. ‘He don’t travel from town to town, an’ he makes proper chairs, not the rickety ones bodgers make.’
‘Course he does, lad, course he does. Where does he get his wood?’
‘One of the timber yards by Westminster Bridge.’
‘Whose yard? Bet I can get it for him cheaper.’
‘Mr Harris. Mr Astley introduced Pa to him.’
Dick Butterfield winced at Philip Astley’s name. Maggie’s father could negotiate good deals most places, but not when Mr Astley had got in before him. He and his landlord kept a wide berth of each other, though there was a grudging respect on both sides as well. If Dick Butterfield had been a wealthy circus owner, or Philip Astley a small-time rogue, they would have been remarkably similar.
‘Well, if I hear of any cheaper wood, I’ll let you know. Leave it with me, lad,’ he added, as if it were Jem who’d approached him for advice. ‘I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call in one day, shall I, and have a word with your pa. I’m always happy to help out new neighbours. Now, you’ll be expected back home, won’t you? They’ll be wonderin’ what kept you.’
Jem nodded and got up from the stool. ‘Thank’ee for the beer, sir.’
‘Course, lad.’ Dick Butterfield hooked his foot around Jem’s stool and dragged it back under the table. Maggie grabbed Jem’s half-drunk beer and took a gulp. ‘Bye,’ she said.
‘Z’long.’
On his way out, Jem passed Charlie standing with a crowd of other young men. Charlie glared at him and shoved one of his friends so that he knocked into Jem. The youths laughed and Jem hurried out, glad to get away from the Butterfields. He suspected, however, that he would see Maggie again, even if she had not said ‘Bye for now’ this time. Despite her brother and father, he wanted to.
She reminded him of September blackberries, which looked ripe but could just as easily be sour as sweet when you ate them. Jem could not resist such a temptation.
Anne Kellaway sometimes felt that a cord was tied at one end to her wrist and at the other to the window in the front room. She would be scrubbing potatoes, or washing clothes, or cleaning the ash from the fire, and find herself at the most inconvenient moment – hands smeared with dirt, sheets half-wrung, ash dusting the air – tugged to the window to look out. Often there was nothing unusual to see, but occasionally she was rewarded with something worthwhile: a woman wearing a hat trimmed with long peacock feathers, a man cradling a pineapple as if it were a newborn baby, a boy carrying an uprooted bay tree, its leaves trimmed into the shape of a dove. Maisie or Jem would have called to the others to come and see these unusual sights, but Anne Kellaway preferred to keep such little moments of pleasure to herself.
Today there were no potatoes or ash or laundry keeping her away from the window: it was Easter Monday and she was meant to rest. Maisie and Jem were clearing up after their mid-day meal, leaving Anne Kellaway to gaze down at the crowds of people moving along Hercules Buildings, many of the women dressed in new Easter gowns and bonnets. She had never seen so much colour, such bright cloth, such daring cuts and such surprising trim on the bonnets. There were the usual daffodils and primroses as you might see on hats outside the Piddletrenthide church, but there were also exotic feathers, bunches of multi-coloured ribbons, even fruit. She herself would never wear a lemon on a bonnet, but she rather admired the woman passing who did. She preferred something simpler and more traditional: a plait of daisies or a