‘Well, I…’
‘Come on, Mr Rawlings,’ said Joe, holding out his glass for a refill, ‘get in first before some other rascal does so.’
John laughed. ‘How can I refuse? I shall go and see my father and take him a bottle — and get his opinion at the same time.’
‘And give my kind regards to the great old man.’
‘And mine too,’ added Joe, and once more drained his glass.
Two
Arriving in Kensington on the following morning, driven by his personal coachman — Irish Tom — and travelling in the coach with his monogrammed initials on the side, now grown a little the worse for wear, John, having disembarked, made his way briskly to his father’s residence in Church Lane, walking up the pathway that ran between the High Street and the gravel pits. His father had moved to the country in 1758, nearly ten years previously, and had now reached the great age of eighty-six. Yet the years had laid their hand upon him kindly; his golden eyes still gleamed with full cognition of all that was taking place, his voice was firm and strong with none of the quavering tones of the very elderly, his hearing, though fading, was still sharp enough. Let in by a footman, John stood in the doorway of the library and gazed upon the old man, glasses perched upon nose, avidly reading the newspaper, a cup of coffee standing on a small table at his side.
It was true that age had not faded Sir Gabriel and yet there was an air of fragility about him. He had never been overweight but these days there was a new thinness, a new angularity to his features. His hands, John noticed before he spoke, had a rustling quality about them as they turned the leaves of his beloved newspaper.
‘Hello, Sir. How are you on this fine day?’
Sir Gabriel looked up in a gleam of gold. ‘John, my boy, I never heard you come in.’
‘I was on tiptoe,’ John lied, and hurried forward to stop his father rising and to give him the huge kiss that the good old man merited.
‘Well, now, this is an unexpected pleasure. It must be at least two weeks since I last saw you.’
It was nearer three but the Apothecary did not correct him. ‘You are looking well, Father. Are you continuing to take the physick I made for you?’
‘Of course I am, my dear. Otherwise I should not be in such fine health.’ Despite John’s protestations he stood up and walked, stiffly but for all that with an excellent carriage of his shoulders, to where stood a sherry decanter and a selection of glasses.
‘Now, Father, you should let me do that.’
Sir Gabriel turned on him an amused smile. ‘My good child, the more you try to remove tasks from me the more senile I shall become. Let me, I beg you, continue to do anything of which I am still capable as long as my poor wits will allow.’
John immediately felt contrite. How many times in the past had he lectured the families of those growing older to let the elderly continue in their small duties as long as flesh would allow? And now here he was trying to remove his own father’s from him. He accepted the sherry and waited quietly until Sir Gabriel was seated once more before he said anything further.
‘Sir, I have brought you a present.’
The grand old man sipped his sherry and raised a shapely white brow. ‘Oh? And what might that be?’
‘This,’ said John, and produced a bottle of carbonated water from his pocket.
Sir Gabriel looked at him. ‘My dear, you’ve done it. You’ve succeeded in getting the bubbles in.’
‘I have indeed — and not before time either. Do you know I went to see Sir John Fielding — who presents his highest compliments to you, as does Joe Jago — and they both insisted that I should market the stuff. In other words bottle it and sell it to the public at large.’
His father rose once more and fetched himself a clean glass. ‘Pour some for me, my boy.’
John did so and his father quaffed deeply, then looked up with obvious surprise. ‘I never thought to admit that I actually enjoyed the taste of water, but I can truly say that this is excellent. I shall have some more.’ And he held out his glass for a refill.
The Apothecary smiled broadly. Sir Gabriel had always had a preference for fine wines and the very best champagne, and now here he was asking for more water. This was praise of the highest order.
‘So what do you think I should do about selling it?’ he asked.
‘You must indeed comply with what the Blind Beak suggests. Remember that he has one of the highest intellects in the land, and I personally would follow his advice without question.’
‘But there is a problem, Sir.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Elizabeth is due to deliver her child shortly and I promised to return to Devon to be with her. If I am to set this up as a business I shall need an able assistant.’
Sir Gabriel stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Indeed you will and I fear that I am a trifle old for such an adventure.’
John suppressed a smile.
‘What about young Dawkins?’
‘But he is married now and lives in Chelsea.’
‘Yes, and to that lovely girl Octavia. Do they have any offspring yet?’
‘Not that I’ve heard.’
‘Well that is beside the point at the moment. Why don’t you contact him and ask him if he would like to come back and work for you?’
‘I could try, I suppose.’
‘My son, unless you try nothing will ever get done. If he says no he might suggest a friend of his. Who knows?’
‘Father, you’re right. I leave for Devon in five days’ time. I shall go and see him tomorrow. In fact it would be easier to travel from here. May I stay the night with you?’
‘And what of Rose? Will she be safe?’
‘She has a whole household at her command. I am sure she will manage just for one night.’
‘Then nothing would give me greater pleasure than to have your company for the evening. Perhaps after we have dined we might have a game of cards.’
‘But you nearly always win, Sir.’
‘Perhaps tonight, my dear, your luck will change.’
It was feeling very cheerful that John made his way to Chelsea next morning. Normally he would have gone by water, enjoying the experience of the river’s flow and watching the wildlife that teemed along its banks. But today he felt that Irish Tom should earn his wages and consequently set out in his coach. The best route was along Chelsea Road and Tom took this, passing the fields and outbuildings of Avery Farm, to say nothing of the pretty farmhouse nestling comfortably amongst its barns. Beyond the next outcrop of trees there was a junction of tracks and Tom bore right, avoiding the stretch of water crossed by Chelsea Bridge. This waterway was fed by the Thames and the bridge was little more than a wooden structure, hardly fit for a coach to venture on. Passing down Strumbelo, then Jews Row, Tom finally turned into Francklins Row and drew the coach to a halt outside a very smart apothecary’s shop. Nicholas Dawkins and Octavia had obviously done very well for themselves.
Nick’s surprise on seeing his old master enter the shop was profound. His pale features flushed bright red, his large eyes widened and he almost cut his finger on the suppository-making machine.
‘Mr Rawlings! What a pleasure to see you. Come in, come in.’
He went to a door behind the counter, opened it and called up, ‘Octavia, Octavia. Can you come down? Mr Rawlings has arrived to see us.’
‘I’ll be there in a moment,’ answered a distant voice.
‘I think you’ll find Octavia somewhat changed,’ said Nicholas, his eyes very twinkly.
