Except the Dying

by Maureen Jennings

  “Owen, look. How could I not have noticed before?”

  She brought the photograph over to the sofa. “Can you see the resemblance?”

  Puzzled, he studied the picture and shook his head. “Don’t know what you’re getting at, Mother.”

  “Theresa and Marianne. You must see it.”

  He shrugged. “Sorry, dear, I don’t.”

  “It’s not so much a resemblance of features as expression. See, the openness about the eyes. The mouth. Marianne always looked as if she were about to burst into laughter. Theresa had that look sometimes.”

  “If you say so. ’Fraid I can’t quite see it myself.”

  Donalda replaced the picture on the mantel. “Marianne was not much older than Theresa. Far too young to die, both of them.”

  She hadn’t really looked at the picture for a long time, and she saw it now with fresh eyes. The photograph was a small carte de visite, more popular years ago than now. They had gone down to London, to the best studio in Belgravia. Her father was able to indulge in such things in those days. Both girls had worn their most fashionable dresses, shot silk taffeta with a high collar and ruched bodice, the new tight-fitting sleeves. They had only put their hair up that month, she remembered. Marianne had led the way as she always did, bossing her, determining what she would wear, even rubbing the merest hint of rouge on her cheeks.

  Donalda touched the glass of the picture frame. A lock of dark hair was curled around the bottom of the photograph. Who would have known that before the summer was over, Marianne would be dead, the victim of a stupid accident? All their endless, earnest talks about dying an honourable old age, “full of pride at our noble deeds,” as Marianne had put it, had come to naught.

  “What are you thinking, Mother?”

  “That the dreams of youth so rarely materialize.”

  “Dear me, that is gloomy.”

  “I feel that way today.”

  “That’s understandable. Ever since I can remember you’ve told me stories about yourself and your friend.” He hesitated. “Perhaps that’s why you’re so distressed now. About Therese. It’s sort of like losing her twice.”

  Donalda glanced up at him. “I hadn’t thought of it quite like that.”

  She sat down in the armchair opposite and stared into the fire, watching while the flames danced and jumped around the coal. And told her son the story again because she needed to.

  The particular day was one of the glorious August afternoons that happen only in England. The blue sky was dotted with puffs of white cloud and the air was golden with sunlight. Marianne had wanted to go to the ramshackle hut that perched on the riverbank. They had played there since they were children and she had taken to calling it their summer house. “How utterly pretentious,” said Donalda scornfully. She didn’t like the spiders or the musty gloom inside. She wanted to sit in the shady gazebo and read together. However, as usual, Marianne had overridden her objections. “It will be cool in there. It’s an adventure, Addie. Don’t be a slug.” Finally, Donalda agreed on condition they play “Jane Eyre,” from their favourite book. They’d played this game before and Marianne always wanted to be the mad Mrs. Rochester. The first time, she cried and wailed so convincingly that Wilson, the gardener, had rushed down to the hut to see what was the matter. Donalda preferred the part of Jane but they always squabbled about her interpretation. “She is afraid, timid,” said Marianne. “You must wring your hands like so. Perhaps even faint. Then Mr. Rochester sweeps you up in his arms and carries you away.” Donalda demurred, “She is made of tougher mettle than that,” and insisted on addressing the crazed Bertha in a loud, commanding voice. “Stop that at once.” Marianne scolded her in exasperation. “No, Addie, not like that. You sound exactly like Miss Thompson. You are not speaking to a naughty pupil, you are facing a woman in the grip of violent insanity.”

  But Donalda would only modify her tone slightly, and they played out the scene over and over, adding more and more embellishments until they fell to the ground sated with drama and imagination.

  On this afternoon Marianne ran ahead and took up her position at the glassless window of the hut. Donalda followed more sedately along the towpath through the willow trees that bent to touch the gently moving water. Even on hot days the air inside the green tunnel was cool and damp, smelling of the river. She smiled when she saw her friend, dark hair dishevelled and tumbling down from its pins, face alight with fun, beckoning to her with a theatrical gesture. “Let me in,” she cried, “let me in.” Suddenly, she yelped and withdrew her hand. A rusty nail had torn the skin at the cuticle of her thumb. Donalda hurried over to examine the wound. There was a tiny blob of blood. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Not nearly as bad as my knee when I fell last week.” She donated her new linen handkerchief to bind the scratch. “I hope the bloodstain comes out.”

  Marianne wrapped her thumb and they entered into the game, Marianne waving around her bandage with great gusto.

  When they returned to the house in the early evening, however, she complained of pain. Her thumb was throbbing and had become red and swollen. Donalda was not overly sympathetic, as her friend exaggerated everything.

  The next morning she came to visit and Marianne showed her the angry red streaks running down her forearm. “Betsy says if they travel above the elbow, I’m done for,” she said.

  “That’s a stupid old wives’ tale,” Donalda scoffed.

  But Betsy was right, and neither contempt nor reason could protect her beloved friend. The infection raced through the young girl’s body, the doctor could do nothing to stop it, and within the week she was dead.

  Donalda stood up, reached behind the picture and picked up the tiny glass bottle, beautifully coloured, that was behind it.

  “What’s that?” asked Owen.

  “For my tears. We used to catch our tears and keep them as mementos.”

  “Let me see.” He held the bottle to the light of the fire. “I do believe there is still a tiny drop of liquid in the bottom. How wonderful.”

  He gave the vial back to his mother and she touched it to her lips. Then she pressed her fingers into the back of her neck.

  “Do you need your medicine? I can soon fetch it.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Perhaps you should lie down for a little while. All those questions this afternoon, what happened … it’s been terribly upsetting.”

  “Owen, please stop addressing me as if I were an elderly invalid.”

  “That’s not fair, Mother –”

  She cut him short with a frown. “I hope you are intending to wear something other than that suit.”

  “What? Oh, yes, yes, I will, of course. I haven’t had an opportunity to change.”

  She herself was wearing a plain, charcoal-coloured gown that emphasized her pallor. The shadowy room also intensified the lines of fatigue on her face. He regarded her anxiously.

  “Such a shock. You could have knocked me down with a goose feather when the detective – what’s his name?”

  “Murdoch.”

  “Yes, Murdoch, when he said she was, er, she was in the, er, family way. I had no idea.”

  “I sincerely hope not, Owen,” his mother said dryly.

  “Beg pardon? Oh, I see … right. Who do you suppose is the guilty party?”

  “I don’t care to know. It is irrelevant now.”

  The silence fell heavily, and Owen shifted his position on the sofa. He wanted desperately to check his watch but he didn’t dare. Donalda was contemplating the fire.

  “There is so much I don’t understand. Why was she going home? She told me there was nobody there for her except an elderly father, and she was quite forthcoming about how strained their relationship was. He was terribly strict.”

  “It must have been because of her condition. An unmarried young girl and all that shame. Where else would she have gone?”

  “She could have stayed here.”

  “Mother, that wouldn’t have been right.”r />
  “I don’t see why not.” Again she rubbed at her neck. “And the opium! It is unbearable to think what happened to her.”

  “I, er, I hate to say, but is it possible she wasn’t quite as innocent as you have thought –”

  “No! I know what kind of girl Theresa was. Something dreadful happened to her that she could do nothing about.”

  “If you say so, Mother.”

  Donalda looked over at him. “You seemed quite nervous while Mr. Murdoch was questioning us.”

  “Did I? Well, I’m not exactly used to having police officers perched on our best chairs demanding to know one’s every movement. It’s unnerving.”

  Donalda sighed and sat back in her chair. “I’d have thought Harriet was too ill to stay up so long chatting.”

  “She felt better when she was home.”

  Donalda stared into his eyes, grey-blue, so like her own.

  “Is that the truth, Owen?”

  “Of course it is. Stop worrying. You can ask her yourself.” He patted the seat beside him. “Come sit down, there’s a dear.”

  She joined him on the sofa and he leaned his head in the hollow of her shoulder.

  She stroked his hair, then pushed him away, shaking her fingers. “Ugh, Owen. You really do use far too much pomade.”

  He smiled up at her, glad that the danger had passed. “I’m sorry. I promise I will abstain completely if you don’t like it, and my locks will stand up on end like the wild man from Borneo.”

  She studied him for a moment. His skin felt rough at the jaw where he hadn’t shaved yet and there were delicate tracings of lines at the corner of his eyes. She felt a sudden pang of longing for the boy who was no more.

  He pretended to pout at her. “Do I deserve a kiss at least?”

  She laughed at that and, drawing him closer, kissed him. “I’m sorry, dearest.”

  At that moment, the door opened and Cyril came in. He stiffened immediately when he saw them.

  “Shouldn’t you be at your l-lecture?” he asked his son.

  “Not at this hour, Father. Just talking with Mother a bit.”

  “Y-yes. Of course. Yes. That’s why I came down myself. How are you, Donalda?”

  The expression of love she had shown her son disappeared at once. She had caught the look of jealousy on Cyril’s face, and it ignited an old anger.

  “How do you expect?” she snapped.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “How do you expect me to be, Cyril? I am extremely distressed.”

  He indicated the signs of mourning in the room. “But she was merely our ser-servant, Donalda. Don’t you think this is a bit excessive?”

  Owen groaned to himself. He knew what sort of response his mother would give to that. She placed her hands in her lap and laced the fingers tightly together. “Theresa was an exceptional young girl, and I had become very fond of her. I cannot brush off her death as if she were a failed kitten. ‘Oh dear, what a pity. Well, let’s get another.’”

  “Please, D-Donalda, such hyperbole is unwarranted. I am a-attempting to show you some sympathy. One would think I were responsible for the girl’s death the way you are carrying on.”

  There was a light of anger in her eyes but her voice was still controlled, the sharp edge of the knife only hinted at. “How could you be? You were safely ensconced at your office, weren’t you? Where we can always be sure to find you.”

  Owen got to his feet abruptly. “I’m off. I promised Hugh I’d go over some cribs with him before tomorrow’s class.”

  “Surely you’re not go-going in that outfit?” asked Cyril.

  Owen was dressed in a light check suit with slim-fitting trousers and a high stiff collar with a gold-striped silk four-in-hand. He smoothed the cravat nervously.

  “All the fellows are wearing these, Father.”

  “You look b-bloody ridiculous.”

  “He’s going to change,” intervened Donalda. “Considering what has happened.”

  Owen bent over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, which felt fiery beneath his touch.

  “I won’t be late, I promise. And I’ll come and say good night. Good evening, Father.”

  He nodded at Cyril and left. Donalda waited until the door closed behind him, then turned angrily towards her husband.

  “Must you always address him as if he were a misbehaving child?”

  “It is not I who maintain our son in perpetual puerility.”

  “Stop it, Cyril, please.”

  He was not to be gainsaid. “You know what I-I say is true, Donalda. He is most immature for his age.”

  “He is not. You have sung that tune ever since he was born. ‘You are nursing him far too long, Donalda. Why isn’t he walking yet, Donalda? What? Can’t he read yet?’ If you had your way, he would have been at his desk doing sums when he was six months old.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “It is not ridiculous to love your own child, Cyril. To want to give them some protection from the harshness of the world.”

  “What you have given is not protection, it is mollycoddling.”

  “He seems to be doing quite well in spite of it.”

  Rhodes tugged angrily at his moustache. Lips tight, he said, “I am not as sanguine as you are, my dear. I ran into D-Davidson at the club. He said he was concerned about Owen. It seems that he has been missing many of his lectures. Not doing the work.”

  “Davidson said that? Why … it can’t be true. You heard him. Two or three times a week he stays late and works at the college.”

  “According to his teacher, that is not the case.”

  Donalda stared at her husband. She wanted to go on arguing, to deny what he said, but she knew it was pointless. There was a gleam of triumph in his eyes that meant he considered himself unassailable. Stiffly, she said, “There has to be an explanation. Perhaps he is with a friend. He is a young man. He cannot work every minute. Perhaps –”

  “Perhaps the truth is we have raised a slacker. Afraid of hard work. Interested only in the intricacies of his toilet.”

  “Cyril! How can you be so cruel about your own son?”

  “Unlike you, D-Donalda, I believe in facing the truth.”

  “What a pity you acquired such virtue so late in life.”

  He closed his eyes, tilted his head towards the ceiling as if in prayer. “I see. Am I now to get my annual castigation?”

  “How dare you demean my feelings in that manner.”

  “Donalda, I have begged your f-forgiveness over and over. I might as well have spoken to a stone. There is no more I can say or do.”

  He walked towards the door, and she called to him.

  “How very fortunate that with such a barren domestic life you can find satisfaction in your work. Where you are universally admired. Perhaps even adored.”

  Rhodes’s face flushed and he bowed, coldly, as if she were a disagreeable acquaintance he wanted to cut. “Please inform Edith I will be dining at the club.”

  He left. Donalda remained seated, fighting to subdue the trembling of her body. She and Cyril hadn’t had such a bitter quarrel for a long time. His words began to repeat themselves in her head. She knew that what he had said was true, and the thought was like bile in her stomach. Would someone else have forgiven him? Would another woman have restored love and respect between them? She breathed in sharply. The questions were useless. The fact was her marriage had been destroyed many years ago and whether it was primarily her fault or his was a moot point now. It was far too late to retrieve.

  She got up to tend to the fire, and her eye was caught by the silver-framed wedding picture at the far end of the mantelpiece. She had married Cyril Rhodes, a young Canadian medical student, the year after Marianne’s death. She was barely eighteen, and she knew now that she had rushed into his arms in the naive expectation that life in a new country would bring her the happiness she craved. Had that young bride ever been happy, she wondered? She seemed so in the photograph, smiling and love
ly in her dove-coloured silk gown with its delicate lace and beads. Cyril also was beaming with pride.

  With a sigh she replaced the photograph. It was such a long time ago and those two young people full of promise and expectation were no more.

  Owen was born eighteen months after the wedding, and by the time he was two she was carrying her second child. Had it lived, she would have named it Marianne.

  She returned to the carte de visite. There was a resemblance, there really was, there in the full mouth, the round chin. Perhaps that was why she had become so fond of Theresa, had confided in her one night the way she had once talked to Marianne. She had whispered to her maid the old sad secret that she had told no one else.

  She leaned her head against the mantelpiece. The crepe ribbon smelled faintly musty and the fire was hot against her legs, but she was impervious.

  How could Cyril wonder why she never forgave him?

  Chapter Eight

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 12

  WITH A HEAVE WORTHY OF A CABER TOSS, Crabtree lifted the mattress and flung it to the floor.

  “Hey, watch what you’re doing,” yelled Alice. “You could have broken my statue. That’s worth a lot of dash, that is.”

  She snatched up a chipped plaster figurine, gaudily painted in gilt and blue.

  “Sodding, shicey frogs,” Alice muttered.

  “Watch your language or you’ll find yourself up on a charge,” said Murdoch.

  Alice glared at him. Both she and Bernadette had been asleep when the officers arrived, although it was well past eleven o’clock. Ettie had pulled on her frowzy satin wrapper, but Alice remained in an unclean flannel nightgown that had long ago lost its buttons.

  Murdoch surveyed the rusty iron bedsprings. There was nothing hidden there except a couple of squashed cockroaches and a crumpled five-dollar banknote. Bernadette Weston snatched up the money and stuffed it into her bodice.

  “I told you there was nothing here.”

  “You’d better give those other coves as good a bleeding going-over as you’ve done us,” added Alice, waving her hand in the direction of the wall to indicate their next-door neighbours.