Death and Mr. Pickwick by Stephen Jarvis Page A

pinched and severe face planted herself in the centre of the landing. She wore a calico dress of stylised pink roses – unexceptional at first glance, but on second glance, made of panels of misprinted fabrics sewn together: flowers overlaid twice, or printed with a crease in the petals, or upside down, or smudged, or on which the colours had run.
    â€˜You are staring at my dress! Stop it!’
    â€˜I am sorry, ma’am. I meant no offence.’
    â€˜Why waste perfectly good cloth? Go in with you, Robert Seymour. Seymour – a good name for a boy who stares!’
    She motioned him into the pastel sitting room and closed the door.
    â€˜Stop there.’
    He had reached the middle of a pink circular rug, and she patrolled the tassels of the perimeter, looking him up and down, very deliberately lifting his jacket tails and inspecting his knees and elbows.
    â€˜So,’ she said, opposite and uncomfortably close to his face, ‘now I have stared at you. Tell me – is Seymour also the name of a boy who wishes to see more than we have to offer?’
    â€˜I am not quite sure I understand, ma’am.’
    â€˜If you are going to run, Robert Seymour, it is best you do it sooner rather than later. Your legs are athletic, and your face has enough of the hare in it.’
    â€˜I know what is expected of me.’
    â€˜Do you? Why are you apprenticed to us? What made your mother do it?’
    â€˜She believes I have the ability to draw.’
    â€˜Does she? I can see the outline of something inside your jacket. It looks like a book. What are you reading?’
    â€˜It is a sketchbook.’
    â€˜Showing off your ability with a pencil.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Show it me.’
    â€˜I would rather not, ma’am.’
    â€˜The drawings are unchristian, are they?’
    â€˜They are unfinished.’
    â€˜What do you sketch?’
    â€˜I have been at Smithfield market drawing animals.’
    â€˜There are no animals in our designs. What else do you sketch?’
    â€˜If you please, ma’am, does it matter?’
    â€˜It does matter! My husband has to know the habits of your drawing hand – if only to know what he is struggling against. Show it me. Or do you want us to throw you out? Oh, perhaps that’s it.’ She walked around the perimeter of the rug again. ‘But consider, Robert Seymour – your mother is a widow. She could not have found it easy to pay our premium. The premium will still be legally ours, even if you are dismissed.’
    â€˜Perhaps you would like to throw me out, ma’am.’
    â€˜Are you implying we have taken your mother’s money under false pretences?’
    â€˜I was wondering whether a lot of apprentices come to Vaughan’s and leave the first day.’
    â€˜I don’t like your wondering and I don’t think I like you and I don’t think you will like your mother’s money spent on an outing and a lavish dinner for the other boys. So I suggest you show me the sketchbook.’
    He put his hand in the pocket, and held up the sketchbook, and she snatched it away. She opened it at a random page.
    The drawing she saw was a butcher sharpening his steel – the protruding lip, the large belly in the striped apron, and the laughter in his face were all completely captured.
    Her expression changed in an instant.
    â€˜But I know him,’ she said. ‘I have seen him in the market.’
    She turned further pages, and looked at the sorrowful cows, the frightened pigs, and the whimsy of a dog stealing a joint of lamb. She turned another page, and saw two crafty horse traders, whispering behind their hands, as an innocent-looking young fellow led a half-starved horse away.
    There was a peculiar and uneasy cast to her face when she raised her eyes from the sketchbook. ‘This is unexpected. Let me look at this again. Do sit down.’
    He took a seat in an armchair, covered in misprints of