Chapter-5
I travelled on foot for days, at last reaching Dover, hungry, thirsty, and worn out. I asked a carriage driver if he could tell me where Miss Betsey lived.
“Trotwood?” he asked, “I know the name. Old lady?”
I said she was.
“Pretty stiff in the back?” he said, straightening himself up tall.
“Yes,” I said, “I think it very likely.”
“Is gruff, and speaks sharp?” he asked.
My heart sank as I agreed with the probable accuracy of his description.
He gave me directions and wished me luck in the face of surely being run off her property when I arrived.
A couple of twisty paths led me to a very neat little cottage with bay windows curtained in ruffled white cloth, and a small and perfect garden full of flowers in front. I stood across the lane behind a hedge and peered at the house. I saw no one, heard nothing but bird-song and a distant dog’s barking. I looked to the windows in the second floor of the house and saw a face—a pleasant gentleman’s face—topped with silver hair. He squinted in my direction, and I saw him laugh and turn away.
I heard a squeaky sound of hinges. A lady with a scarf tied over her hair and a pair of gardener’s gloves in her hand stepped out of the cottage. She wore a sturdy-looking apron with many pockets and carried a great knife. She came out the door and off the steps exactly as my mother had described Betsey Trotwood’s approach through our garden years before, and I knew it had to be my aunt.
Although this was the moment I’d come for, slogging alone the Dover Road for six days and sleeping under the sky for six nights, now I couldn’t move from behind that hedge. I looked down at myself—shirt and pants stained with sweat, dew, and grass, and torn in places. My hair hadn’t been combed or my face washed since I’d left London, and the sun had tanned all my skin a beery-brown.
Miss Betsey Trotwood knelt in the far corner of her garden, yanking at a root and some offending weeds. It was desperation more than confidence that pushed me from the protection of the hedge, across the lane, and into her tidy yard.
“If you please, ma’am,” I began.
Her head snapped up in surprise. “What? Go away! Go! No boys here!” she cried, and shook a soily gloved hand in my direction.
“If you please, Aunt Betsey.”
“Eh?” she exclaimed.
“I’m your nephew, David Copperfield.”
“Oh, Lord!” said my aunt. And she sat flat down in the garden dirt.
“You came to my house in Blunderstone, The Rookery, on the night I was born and saw my mother. She’s dead now and my life has become very unhappy.” The story rushed out of me. “I am away and could only think to come here to you. I was robbed when I first set out, and have walked all the way from London.”
Here my self-control gave out all at once and I broke into a raging cry, letting go of all the pent-up fear and exhaustion of the week. Aunt Betsey, looking thunderstruck, sat on the ground staring at me. Then she got up in a great flurry and hurried me into the parlour.
“Mercy on us!” was all she said, but she said it several times as she poured me a glass of some sweet juice from a decanter. She seated me sideways on the sofa, with a shawl under my backside and her head kerchief under my feet.
“Mercy, mercy on us! Janet,” my aunt called from the parlour door, “go upstairs and aks Mr Bick to come down here, please.”
I lay quietly on the couch while Aunt Betsey stalked back and forth across the parlour, her hands behind her. In a couple of moments, the man I’d seen in the window upstairs poked his silver head around the door frame and gave a hearty laugh.
“Don’t act the fool, Mr Bick,” said my aunt, “because no one has better sense than you when you put your mind to it. And you must put your mind to it now, if never before. This boy is David Copperfield. You’ve heard me speak of my nephew, David. Well, this is his son. I don’t know how or why he isn’t a girl instead of a boy, but he’s not and that’s all there is to it.”
“A boy, yes. A boy indeed.” Mr Bick smiled a big grin at me, but snapped a serious frown across it when he caught a glimpse of Aunt Betsey’s scowl.
“He’s run away What shall I do with him?”
“Do with him?” said Mr Bick feebly, scratching his silver head. “Oh! What should I do with him?”
There was a long pause while my aunt stared at Mr Bick and Mr Bick stared at my aunt.
“Why, if I were you,” he began, “If I were, I’d wash him. That’s it. I’d wash him.”
“Janet, Mr Bick makes the most sense,” my aunt exclaimed to her young housekeeper, “Heat the bath.”
While preparations were being made in the back of the cottage, I lay still on the couch, looking first at my aunt and then at Mr Bick. Aunt Betsey was tall and hard-featured, but not ugly. Her hair was grey and wispy, and her eyes sparkled and darted about like bright bird’s eyes. Mr Bick’s silver hair topped a very pink face set on a short neck and hunched shoulders. His grey eyes bulged a bit and had a watery look to them. He seemed not to be able to concentrate deeply or for very long on any one thing, and I suspected he was slow-witted and therefore somehow in the care of my aunt and her housekeeper.
At length the bath was ready. I soaked out much of the aching from the trek and returned to something of my regular grime-free skin colour. I dried off and dressed in pants and a flannel shirt contributed by Mr Bick, and Aunt Betsey wound me up in three woollen shawls. I napped in the parlour until dinner, and soon after dessert I was shown to my bedroom.
The window beside my bed overlooked the sea where this night the moon sparked brilliantly. After my tiny candle burned out, I sat looking at the moon and the water, hoping to read my fortune in it. But there was only the quiet, the comfort of the cool breeze, and the promise of wonderful rest on snow-white sheets.
The next morning’s breakfast was difficult. Aunt Betsey was deep in her own thoughts for most of it, and when she’d finished a few bites of muffin and some tea, she sat back, folded her arms, and focused a steady stare on me.
“I’ve written to him,” she said at last.
“To whom?
“To your stepfather. To Mr Murdstone.”
“Does he know where I am, Aunt?” I asked, alarmed, “Will I be returned to him?”
“I want to speak with him about that, David,” Aunt Betsey answered, “I don’t know just what will happen.”
We spent the morning sitting together in her parlour, she writing long letters, I reading. Mr Bick joined us for a short time, saying northing but looking out the gardenside window and chuckling loudly for no apparent reason. When he had gone, I ventured a question to my aunt.
“Is Mr Bick—is he at all out of his mind?”
“Not a bit,” she said. “If he is anything at all, he is certainly not that. He has been called crazy, even by some good people, but Mr Bick is just different and has a way of viewing the world that is not the same as everyone else’s. He makes people uncomfortable because he makes them question their own views.”
“How did he come to be here, Aunt?”
“He’s a distant relative of mine, of ours. His brother didn’t like having him visible when friends came to call and he sent him off to some private hospital. I heard about it and stepped in. Said I wasn’t afraid of him and he would be well cared for here. After a bit of argument, I got him and he’s been with me ever since. He’s the most friendly and gentle creature on earth, and when he focuses his mind on it, he offers wise advice.”
My aunt’s generosity to Mr Bick warmed my heart towards her and encouraged me to think that she would likewise intercede on my behalf with Mr Murdstone. There was something about her, eccentricities and odd moods aside, to be honoured and trusted.
A week later we heard from Mr Murdstone that he and his sister would be coming at once to meet Aunt Betsey. My worst fears were at fever pitch on the morning they were expected. My aunt was a bit more stern than usual at breakfast, and she rose slowly when Janet came to say they had arrived.
After a few formalities—”hello” and “please take a seat”—the meeting began.
“This ungrateful boy has deserted friends and job,” Mr Murdstone said.
“His appearance,” his sister noted sharply, “is perfectly scandalous and disgraceful.”
“This boy,” Mr Murdstone began again, “has caused much domestic upset, both during his mother’s life and since. He has a rebellious spirit, a violent temper, and a nasty disposition.”
“Of all the boys in the world, I believe this to be the very worst” Miss Murdstone added.
“Mr Murdstone, what sort of an education do you propose for David?” my aunt asked, “And towards what sort of a future do you plan to steer his dreams? How do you intend to shelter him and raise him and make the very best man of him?”
“I am here to take David back, to dispose of him as I think proper, and to deal with him however I wish. Not to explain myself to you, madam.”
“That isn’t enough, in my view,” Aunt Betsey said, “Raising a child is a serious responsibility.”
“If you know so much about it, Miss Trotwood, then you do it. If David stays here, my door is shut to him forever.”
“And what does David have to say?” My aunt turned to me, “Are you ready to go?”
I answered no, and begged her not to let me go. I said that the Murdsones had never liked me or been kind to me, that they had put themselves between my beloved mother and me, and that I feared them both.
“Mr Bick,” said my aunt, “what shall I do with this child?”
Mr Bick looked at each of us in turn, hesitated, brightened, and said, “Have him measured for a suit of clothes.”
“There you have it—wise advice as always from my dear friend,” said Aunt Betsey, straightening to her full height, “Mr Murdstone, I don’t believe a word you’ve told me of David. And I know what kind of life you gave his mother. I know it was a horrid day when you entered her life, when you set to training her, to breaking her spirit like a caged bird, to wearing away her life in teaching her to sing your tune. A tyrant—that’s you! You broke your wife’s heart and killed her as surely as if you’d shot her dead, but you won’t hurt David any more. Now, get out and take your sneering sister.”
With that, Aunt Betsey took my hand and Mr Bick’s and led us from the parlour. We went to the kitchen and there, still holding out hands, she declared that she and Mr Bick would have joint guardianship of me and that from then on she would call me Trotwood Copperfield (‘Trot’ for short) and we would all be a family.
It was several weeks later when my aunt asked, “Trot, would you like to go to school in the town of Canterbury? It’s quite close to Dover and we can visit often.”
I said I’d like it very much and by the next morning my clothes were packed. Aunt Betsey drove the pony cart herself and I sat beside her.
“Is it a large school, Aunt?” I asked.
“Don’t know. We’re going to visit Mr Wickfield first and see what’s available.”
Mr Wickfield practiced law in Canterbury, in a beautiful old house that seemed to lean out over the road. The place was spotlessly clean, with an old-fashioned brass doorknocker so well polished that it twinkled like a star.
The first person out the door when my aunt pulled the pony to a stop at the curb was a skeleton-thin young man whose bright red hair was cut almost to stubble. He had no visible eyebrows or eyelashes, and I wondered how his red-brown eyes, so unshaded, ever went to sleep. His bony, high-shouldered frame was dressed in good black cloth, and a long, thin hand extended from the sleeve that came forward to take the pony’s reins from Aunt Betsey.
“Uriah Heep, is Mr Wickfield at home?” asked my aunt.
“He is, ma’am,” Heep replied, pointing his other long arm and skinny hand towards the house.
We went into an office and sat down with Mr Wickfield. After introductions, Aunt Betsey told him why we’d come.
“We want a school where he’ll be thoroughly taught and well-treated,” she said.
“There’s room for him to learn at the best one in town, but not room for him to live,” Wickfield told us, “So, he could live here with us. It’s quiet as a monastery, ideal for study.”
While they completed the arrangements for my entering the school and taking residence with Mr Wickfield, I went out into the hallway. At the end of the passage was a room and in the centre of it I could see the red-haired man hunched over a desk, writing. As I moved closer to the room, I realized Heep’s sleepless eyes, like two red suns, were starting up at me below his hairless brows. They never moved from me for the several moments I stood in the hallway, and I became so uncomfortable that I turned back to the office and went inside.
Mr Wickfield took us to meet his daughter Agnes, a girl of about my own age. Her face was bright and happy, and there was a calm about her that I had never forgotten.
We all had a light lunch that Agnes prepared and then Aunt Betsey and I went out to the pony cart to say our farewell.
“Trot, be a credit to yourself—never be dishonest, mean, or cruel, and you’ll do well here Mr Bick and I will see you soon.”
With that she hugged me quickly, got into the cart, and drove away.
Mr Wickfield, Agnes, and I shared dinner and then went to the parlour where Agnes played piano while I watched the fire and Mr Wickfield drank more red wine than I through possible.
After Agnes had gone to her room, I wandered out into the street to get some air. When I came back I saw Uriah Heep locking the law office door. I was feeling so good about my life and friendly towards everyone that I offered him my hand in greeting. Oh, what a rude surprise it was! What a clammy hand, as ghostly to feel as to see! I rubbed mine after we parted, both to warm it and to rub off his touch.
The next morning, Mr Wickfield took me to my new school, a huge stone building with a scholarly air about it. I met the headmaster, Dr. STong, and was led by him to my class-room and introduced as “Trotwood Copperfield” to the twenty-five or thirty boys quietly engaged in study. And with that, the best years of my education began.
At dinner that evening, the Wickfields were eager to hear my impressions of the school and I assured them I liked it very much. Red wine for Mr Wickfield, piano music by Agnes, and several games of dominoes followed our meal. Then I brought my schoolbooks down and Agnes gave me some ideas on the best ways to learn and understand everything the books contained.
It was getting late and there was very little wine left in Mr Wickfield’s decanter when I rose and said goodnight.
I wandered downstairs and saw a light under the office door. Uriah Heep held a sort of strange fascination for me. I went into the office where I found him reading a great, fat book with such apparent attention that his bony forefinger ran along every line as he read and, I imagined, made clammy snail-like tracks along the page.
“Working late, Uriah? I asked.
“Yes, Master Copperfield. But not on office matters. I’m studying law,” he explained.
I took a seat on a stool across the desk from him and made a show of opening my book to work while he went back to his laboured reading. I studied him, nothing that he often ground the palms of his hands against each other as if to squeeze them warm and dry.
“You must be quite a great lawyer,” I mused after I’d watched him for a while.
“Me, Master Copperfield?” said Uriah. “Oh, no! I’m a very humble person—the humblest person around. My mother is the same, a very humble person. We live in a humble house, Master Copperfield, but have much to be thankful for. My father was a humble man, too, rest his humble soul.”
“Have you been with Mr Wickfield a long time?” I asked.
“This is my fourth year. And grateful we are, my humble mother and I, that he would take me in and trouble himself to teach me and let me apprentice here. It would all be beyond my mother’s humble means.”
He had a way of wiggling when he was enthusiastic about something—a way that was very ugly indeed, full of snaky twisting of his throat and body.
“And when your studies are over, you’ll be a regular lawyer and maybe a partner in the firm?”
“Oh no,” Uriah assured me, “I’m much too humble for that.”
At last he rose and closed the heavy book. “Mother will be expecting me,” he said, “and she’ll be getting uneasy with my lateness. We are much attached to one another, Master Copperfield.”
We walked across the dark hall. He shook my hand—his fingers like small, squirmy fish in the dark—and crept out through a very slim opening of the door.
I shuddered and went up to the protective haven of my room.
Within two weeks from that first day in class, I was quite at home with my school and my schoolmates. It was an excellent place, as different from Mr Creakle’s school as good is from evil, with an appeal to every boy’s honour and good faith in all things, and each of us felt we had a part in sustaining its character and dignity. Surrounded by my new, much-improved fortune, the Murdstone and Grinby life fell away behind so that I hardly believed it had ever happened. My new life grew so familiar it seemed I had been leading it for a very long time.
