us ’urry.’
‘Ah.’
They rose slowly and deliberately to their feet like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. ‘’Dat young Dickens, ’e were allus in an ’urry,
weren’t ’e, Bill?’
‘Ah. I remembers dat,’ announced William. ‘Used to come tearing down ’ere ’e did. Perch on the rail there, chattin’ away baht
’is books an’ all. Bill, ’e used to say, I got summat in mind for you. How d’yer feel about ’Am? ’Am?’
‘’Am, Bill?’ queried Joseph in tones of one who has asked before.
‘Aye. ’Am. ’Am Peggotty. That’s what I’ll call yer. An’ ’e did, didn’t ’e, Joe?’
‘’E did, Bill,’ agreed Joseph, with a wink only visible to his partner. ‘’E put yer into
David Copperfield
.’
With a gasp of pleasure, impressed with this firm evidence of Dickensian times, the crowd moved forward to inspect the relics.
In one lightning movement the two fishermen picked up two pails of stinking fish heads and flung them lovingly at the Lionisers’
feet. Fifty-two grateful seagulls swooped, breaking up the ranks amid cries and squeals of distress.
‘Ah,’ remarked William again. They resumed their seats as the Lionisers retreated.
‘I hear,’ said Sir Thomas hastily by way of conversation, ‘the news from Cowes was not good. The Kaiser won the Queen’s Cup.’
‘Shouldn’t mention it to His Royal Highness, Throgmorton,’ rumbled Lord Beddington. ‘He was banking on
Britannia
winning.’
‘The Kaiser is determined to win at everything,’ observed Oliver, ‘especially on the sea.’
‘Damned fellow,’ said Beddington surprisingly energetically. ‘Rules our lives now. You can’t go into the Foreign Office or the club without some new story about young Willie’s
spies.’
‘Spies?’ squealed Angelina in mock alarm, clutching for protection at Sir Thomas’s arm.
‘They’re everywhere,’ grunted Lord Beddington. ‘Look at that German band down there. Spies, every man jack of them, I’ll be
bound.’
‘Not all spies for Germany are German,’ pontificated Sir Thomas. ‘In this modern age, they are everywhere, the enemy in our
midst.’
‘Not in the Literary Lionisers?’ squealed Angelina.
Sir Thomas smiled patronisingly and held her arm the more tightly.
Tempers in the kitchens rose with the temperature as ovens burned and broth smiled on. Kitchen tables resounded to the sound
of chopping herbs and eschalots by Emily. James was occupied on lobsters and kidneys, and Algernon, studiously avoiding meat,
on vegetables. Alfred had already trussed and stuffed the geese. Only Sid whistled cheerfully throughout, fetching, carrying,
soothing. ‘Herr Freimüller,’ Auguste shouted in sudden alarm, ‘where is the prune stuffing? You have provided only the sage
and onion.’ But there was no sign of Freimüller.
‘Here it is, Mr Didier. Just needs mixing with the pork,’ came Alice’s calm voice.
‘Alice, you are a blessed jewel among women,’ said Auguste fervently.
Alice hoped that Alfred was listening and taking due note. In fact he was not. He was wondering what Sir Thomas meant by his
threat to see him later. And just what he intended to say. And what he would do in return.
Fifty people (the other thirty had disengaged themselves atthe first mention of Dickens) were now taking tea in the gardens of the Albion Hotel under the shelter of parasols. The weather
was sultry, not sunny, today but you never knew when a lurking sun ray might attempt an assault upon the complexion.
‘It is here of course that Dickens himself stayed, in a house now part of this hotel, while finishing the writing of the immortal
Nicholas Nickleby
, and on other occasions and later in the hotel itself.’
‘Here we are to spend a merry night, are we not, Thomas?’ shouted Gwendolen in a high penetrating voice, to the intense interest
of those not quite so well acquainted with Dickens’s letters. Oblivious of the equivocal nature of her remarks,
‘Ah.’
They rose slowly and deliberately to their feet like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. ‘’Dat young Dickens, ’e were allus in an ’urry,
weren’t ’e, Bill?’
‘Ah. I remembers dat,’ announced William. ‘Used to come tearing down ’ere ’e did. Perch on the rail there, chattin’ away baht
’is books an’ all. Bill, ’e used to say, I got summat in mind for you. How d’yer feel about ’Am? ’Am?’
‘’Am, Bill?’ queried Joseph in tones of one who has asked before.
‘Aye. ’Am. ’Am Peggotty. That’s what I’ll call yer. An’ ’e did, didn’t ’e, Joe?’
‘’E did, Bill,’ agreed Joseph, with a wink only visible to his partner. ‘’E put yer into
David Copperfield
.’
With a gasp of pleasure, impressed with this firm evidence of Dickensian times, the crowd moved forward to inspect the relics.
In one lightning movement the two fishermen picked up two pails of stinking fish heads and flung them lovingly at the Lionisers’
feet. Fifty-two grateful seagulls swooped, breaking up the ranks amid cries and squeals of distress.
‘Ah,’ remarked William again. They resumed their seats as the Lionisers retreated.
‘I hear,’ said Sir Thomas hastily by way of conversation, ‘the news from Cowes was not good. The Kaiser won the Queen’s Cup.’
‘Shouldn’t mention it to His Royal Highness, Throgmorton,’ rumbled Lord Beddington. ‘He was banking on
Britannia
winning.’
‘The Kaiser is determined to win at everything,’ observed Oliver, ‘especially on the sea.’
‘Damned fellow,’ said Beddington surprisingly energetically. ‘Rules our lives now. You can’t go into the Foreign Office or the club without some new story about young Willie’s
spies.’
‘Spies?’ squealed Angelina in mock alarm, clutching for protection at Sir Thomas’s arm.
‘They’re everywhere,’ grunted Lord Beddington. ‘Look at that German band down there. Spies, every man jack of them, I’ll be
bound.’
‘Not all spies for Germany are German,’ pontificated Sir Thomas. ‘In this modern age, they are everywhere, the enemy in our
midst.’
‘Not in the Literary Lionisers?’ squealed Angelina.
Sir Thomas smiled patronisingly and held her arm the more tightly.
Tempers in the kitchens rose with the temperature as ovens burned and broth smiled on. Kitchen tables resounded to the sound
of chopping herbs and eschalots by Emily. James was occupied on lobsters and kidneys, and Algernon, studiously avoiding meat,
on vegetables. Alfred had already trussed and stuffed the geese. Only Sid whistled cheerfully throughout, fetching, carrying,
soothing. ‘Herr Freimüller,’ Auguste shouted in sudden alarm, ‘where is the prune stuffing? You have provided only the sage
and onion.’ But there was no sign of Freimüller.
‘Here it is, Mr Didier. Just needs mixing with the pork,’ came Alice’s calm voice.
‘Alice, you are a blessed jewel among women,’ said Auguste fervently.
Alice hoped that Alfred was listening and taking due note. In fact he was not. He was wondering what Sir Thomas meant by his
threat to see him later. And just what he intended to say. And what he would do in return.
Fifty people (the other thirty had disengaged themselves atthe first mention of Dickens) were now taking tea in the gardens of the Albion Hotel under the shelter of parasols. The weather
was sultry, not sunny, today but you never knew when a lurking sun ray might attempt an assault upon the complexion.
‘It is here of course that Dickens himself stayed, in a house now part of this hotel, while finishing the writing of the immortal
Nicholas Nickleby
, and on other occasions and later in the hotel itself.’
‘Here we are to spend a merry night, are we not, Thomas?’ shouted Gwendolen in a high penetrating voice, to the intense interest
of those not quite so well acquainted with Dickens’s letters. Oblivious of the equivocal nature of her remarks,
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