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‘Mildred Easy?’ The question mark isn’t necessary really, Vimes knows perfectly well who it is, even though she’s better dressed – hand me downs, but quite a lot of wear in them still, good thick boots and glossy, pleated hair - and at least an inch taller than when he saw her last.
‘Oh, hello sir.’ Millie bobs a curtsey, and Vimes swallows back how much that sets his teeth on edge and nods friendly-like, noticing without noticing the way a small boy looking at a fruit stall a few feet behind her turns and nudges what is probably his older sister.
She turns too and they move to flank Mildred with what might only be curiosity but Vimes is fairly sure he recognises as solidarity. The girl, when he glances that way, also curtseys, but this is not a deferential curtsey, more the stand-offish equivalent of a handshake.
She can’t be more than eleven. The boy perhaps seven or eight.
‘Edwina, Michael, this is Commander Vimes.’
The children dutifully murmur a ‘pleased to meet you sir.’ They both have well-fed, well-scrubbed faces, clean clothes that were bought new and are not yet so old that they’ve had to be let out, and black polished boots. The elbows on the boy’s coat are pre-emptively patched with hard wearing leather, the girl’s hair tightly plaited and secured with ribbons so it can’t come loose and tangle.
These are far from the children of nobility, but they’re clearly not Cockbill Street either.
‘Not at the palace anymore?’ Vimes asks.
‘Most days sir, but I help out half a day a week at the Carton’s. It doesn’t pay so well but Louisa – that’s Mrs Carton sir – she’s teaching me my letters. Mr Drumknott made it a condition of my employment.’
‘She’s learning to play piano too.’ The boy says.
‘Don’t say ‘she’ Michael. It’s not polite.’ His sister corrects him. She’s very fair, but with dark eyes that look bigger than possible in her pale, freckled, face. ‘You should say ‘Miss Easy’.’
‘S’not not polite.’ Michael mutters. ‘You’re s’not polite.’
Millie ignores the minor squabble brewing. ‘Mr Drumknott thought I’d get a better place in future if I could read and write. Specially now sir, with the newspapers and all.’
‘The Cartons are Drumknott’s family.’ Vimes sort-of asks, suddenly realising who the girl with the plaits reminds him of.
‘Yes sir. His sister and brother-in-law.’
‘And these are their littluns.’ Neither child looks particularly pleased at being described that way, but he hadn’t expected them to. ‘Well, I can see you’ve got your hands full.’ Vimes says. ‘I’ll let you get on.’
He walks as usual back to Pseudopolis Yard, thinking about little Rufus Drumknott who no-one really notices, with his prim mannerisms and dry as dust humour and complete absence of curiosity or personality. Who had seemed an island to himself during that business with the arsenic. Who ate with the rest of the staff but worked with the most powerful man in the city, and who apparently, after realising the girl’s family was so hard up she was taking candle stubs home, had quietly arranged for Mildred Easy to be taught to read and write, and put in the way of good quality hand me downs, and better employment in future.
Not that Vimes doubts she has to work for it – but he knows all about supposed kindness from wealthy people who can withdraw their largesse on a whim. This is the practical aid of one hard worker to another. The kind that means one day Millie won’t need their help anymore.
And then, since there are many more important things to worry about, Commander Vimes, Duke of Ankh, dismisses Rufus Drumknott from his mind and gets on with his job.