Still, by the way she looked at me—always with a little intake of breath, as if simply seeing me reminded her of her own worst fears—I understood that she had not forgotten that afternoon, when I told her all I knew. I had no real comprehension of what had transpired, yet I did know that it would linger, always, between Pricks and me, and that I would never try to help her again.
With all that was going on—really, I wondered at the demanding nature of babies; this one hadn’t even arrived, and the household was topsy-turvy!—I had no difficulty stealing down to the front door (remembering to bring a compass, a handkerchief, and four chocolate-covered biscuits, tucked in my skirt pocket, because I didn’t know what Mr. Dodgson had in mind, and I was resolved to be prepared) to wait.
Only one person noticed. The Mary Ann from the kitchen—Mamma called all maids Mary Ann; she said it was easier that way—came running past, carrying a hot kettle of water, the handle wrapped tightly in a kitchen towel. She stopped when she saw me, and some water sloshed out from under the lid, splashing her already damp apron. She frowned, her face as red and perspiring as all maids’ faces generally were; her damp hair frizzed out from under her plain white cap.
“Oh, my heavens! What are you doing here, lamb? Won’t Miss Prickett be wondering where you are?”
“She sent me out on an errand,” I replied, surprised at how easily I told the lie, and wondering why I chose to in the first place. What did I have to hide? Nothing; something. “I’m to run to the stationer’s to get some notepaper for the baby. The baby needs notepaper.”
“Fine, fine,” Mary Ann said absently. “Don’t get dirty.” She hurried upstairs, trying not to spill water on the carpet.
I sighed. Why did everyone—even maids—feel the need to tell me this on a daily basis?
I decided I ought to slip out now, in case Mary Ann ran into Pricks and told her my plans. Carefully I opened the door—it did have a tendency to squeak, like most doors, but today it decided to behave—and stepped out into the sunshine, shutting the door behind me. I surveyed the Quad; it was full of students, as the term had just begun. I wondered if I’d see the Prince of Wales. He’d just come down to Oxford, and it had been very exciting. Even as fat as she was, Mamma had insisted on holding the first reception; I had been allowed to stay up and meet him. He was very jolly, and shook my hand, and signed my autograph book, and told me my curtsy was very pretty, indeed, and that he had a brother my age named Leopold, who was a capital little fellow, and that I’d probably like him very much.
Then I was whisked off to the nursery, as usual.
Mr. Dodgson told me he’d asked if he could photograph him, but the Prince said no. I understood how posing for pictures could be tiring, but the Prince did not know Mr. Dodgson. He turned it all into a game, first posing us and then sitting down and telling us stories, sometimes drawing pictures; just at the point when we’d become absorbed in the stories, he’d run to prepare the plate, put it into the camera and tell us to hold very still, and remove the lens cover. He always counted out loud, sometimes as high as forty-five, but sometimes he did it backward, and other times he did it from the middle—starting at twenty-two and going back and forth until he said, “Forty-five, one—finished!” Finally, we could relax, and then he would continue the story.
He made it such a lark; not a bore, not at all. After the photograph was taken, we’d be rewarded by helping him develop the glass plate, and the combination of odors—of acid, chemical smells, and then the faint scent of cloves that always surrounded Mr. Dodgson, combined with the lingering smoke from the fire in his rooms—could make my head spin. Sometimes I imagined I got rather drunk on them. I didn’t exactly know what drunk meant, only that often the characters in Mr. Dickens’s stories got that way, and when they did, they acted peculiarly and talked strangely and made Papa laugh.
I did not see the Prince out today. Only the usual mass of students, some alone, others in groups, some walking backward to continue conversations—all of them very intense about something. Even so, there were always a few fellows who were lazing about the fountain or swinging cricket bats, although this was generally frowned upon in the Quad.
At that moment, I was the only girl in sight. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence, so it didn’t trouble me. My presence did not appear to trouble them, either; I felt as safe there, surrounded by dozens of adult males, none of whom gave me even a second glance except perhaps to smile my way, as I did in the nursery surrounded by females. That the two—men and women—were different, of course, I was aware. Never did I feel, however, that one was more or less dangerous than the other.
“Miss Alice!” Mr. Dodgson was standing in front of me; I hadn’t noticed his approach. He raised his black silk hat. “How is your mother?”
“Having a tea party, I suppose,” I replied. “She and the ladies Dr. Acland brought with him. The baby should be here directly.”
“Oh.” Mr. Dodgson looked at me, a peculiar expression on his face, as if he was deciding whether or not to laugh. After a minute he simply nodded.
“Pricks and Ina are busy in the nursery, so they told me to go without them,” I lied; once more, I wondered why I did so. My thoughts simply would not behave this afternoon!
“I supposed they might be busy today,” Mr. Dodgson said. Surprised, I glanced up at him; was that why this was the Perfect Day—because he knew Pricks and Ina couldn’t accompany us? (Edith I had left in the nursery, playing happily with her dolls.)
“What is it? What’s the surprise?” I couldn’t stop myself from jumping up and down; I’d waited so long—months, even! Months during which Mr. Dodgson had gone on holiday, although we hadn’t, not this year; usually we summered in Wales, where Papa was going to build us a house. This year, Mamma was too tired to travel; she said the train was too bouncy. So I’d passed the summer at home in Oxford; such a quiet, lazy place during the holidays. Unlike during the school terms, when there was always a constant, catching buzz in the very air.
Even as I was prancing about, I was dismayed to see that in one hand Mr. Dodgson was carrying his camera, folded neatly in its wooden box; with the other, he held his tripod over his shoulder.
“That’s the surprise?” My heart sank as I stopped in my tracks. Another photograph? That was what the Perfect Day had meant?
“Y-yes and no. Yes, I’d like to take your photograph, please. But this is going to be different. How would you like to walk on the grass in your bare feet?”
“Without my shoes?” I looked up at him, unable to believe what I’d heard. Walking—perhaps even running—on grass, simply feeling it against my bare skin, no fussy, confining layers of clothing or stiff shoes between me and the earth? It was one of my fondest desires, and I’d never, ever told Mr. Dodgson. Somehow he’d known anyway; his blue eyes, one slightly higher than the other, gazing down at me intently as if I were the answer to a question he could not bring himself to ask, told me so. He’d known, he knew, so very much about me.
“Without your shoes, just like a wild gypsy. Would you like to be a gypsy today, Alice?”
“That’s what you meant in your note, about being someone else?”
“Of course.”
“Oh, it sounds tremendous! Shall I take my shoes off now?” I desired so very much to please him; he looked at me wistfully, as if he was already imagining the gypsy me. Smiling, he set the camera down, bent slightly, in that stiff way of his, and stroked my cheek. His gloved hand was soft as the blanket I had placed, just this morning, in the new baby’s bed.
“Not now.” He jerked his hand away from me and looked over his shoulder, as if he feared someone was watching. “Let’s go to the far corner of the garden. I’ve already brought my tent and case there—the light’s perfect.” I was no longer in his thoughts; now he was concerned with the photograph—would the light be favorable, the wind too strong, the chemicals spoiled, and the glass plates cracked? So many things could go wrong, I knew. I grew very anxious, thinking of them all
.
“Do you think it will turn out right?” I proceeded to follow him through the arch that led round to the back of the house, to our private garden. Tripping on an uneven stone in the walk, I scuffed the toe of my shoe; my heart sank—already, I was dirty.
“Most likely. Who knows? It will be exciting to find out, won’t it?”
I nodded. Of course it would. That was the jolly part about being photographed; one never really knew how it would turn out. There was always that moment in the chemical bath when the image first appeared on the glass plate, like a ghost swimming up from the past, and you didn’t know if the image would be clear and sharp or remain a blur forever. My stomach always was in pleasurable knots at that moment. It was like opening a present, every time.
“Oh, but wait!” I stopped.
“What is it, Alice?” Mr. Dodgson turned around, so patient with me.
“Whatever shall I wear? I don’t have any gypsy clothes!”
“Ah, but I have. An old gypsy herself lent them to me.”
“Really?” I did so want to believe him; believe that an old gypsy woman, with rings and bells and scarves draped all over, had knocked on the door to his rooms and given him a little girl gypsy’s dress.
Yet there was always that watchful part of me that asked, Have you ever chanced upon a gypsy woman in the Quad? On the High Street? In the Meadow? And how would she know where Mr. Dodgson lived? Why would she give him a dress?
Sometimes I despised that part of me.
“Truly she did, Alice. Don’t you believe me?”
I sighed. I did so want to.
“You’re an old soul, Alice. Did you know that? Most children your age would leap at the notion of a gypsy woman. But not you. You’re too wise.”
I didn’t know what to say to him; he looked at me so dreamily, so hopefully. I knew that if I said a word, I’d disappoint him. So I merely smiled, allowing myself to be happy for this moment, this Perfect Day, and relaxed my watchfulness for now.
Opening the weathered gate to the garden, I shrank back from walking directly across it. I kept to the outer stone wall instead, even though it was much farther that way. Mr. Dodgson didn’t ask why. Yet he knew. He knew I didn’t want anyone inside the Deanery to see. I imagined—I hoped—that everyone was too busy to notice us. Still, Mamma would be very angry if she saw me as a gypsy girl in my bare feet. Perhaps even angry enough to drop the baby, and I certainly didn’t want to be responsible for that. However, I was more concerned about Ina and Pricks. If either of them saw me alone with Mr. Dodgson—my stomach fluttered uneasily at the notion. They hadn’t been invited, and the longer they remained ignorant of this, the better for everyone, myself in particular.
“There are your rooms,” said I, when we were halfway around the wall, far enough away from the Deanery—the windows looked like little half-closed eyes along the back of the house—that I felt safe. I pointed up toward the library, directly across the garden from the Deanery. “Did you see us playing croquet yesterday?” I knew he sometimes looked down at us while we played in the garden, but never before had I mentioned it.
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t,” was all he said, and I felt as if this was a subject we should discuss no further, although I was puzzled as to the reason.
It was chilly in the shadows of the garden, as it was October; I hugged myself to keep warm and wondered how cold I’d be in my bare feet. I determined that I would not let Mr. Dodgson see that it worried me.
At last we achieved the corner farthest from the Deanery, well hidden by trees showing off their autumn colors; this was where Mr. Dodgson had set up his equipment. There was his black leather chemical case, and a gauzy awning on poles, shading the corner where two walls met—he used this awning to filter the sun whenever he photographed us outside—and also his dark canvas tent, so cunningly small. It was just my height, so naturally Mr. Dodgson had to stoop very low in order to use it, which never failed to make me laugh.
“Where is my gypsy dress?”
“Behind the tent. But first, let’s set you up and take a photograph of you just as you are.”
“Just as me?” I couldn’t conceal my disappointment; I did get so weary of being me.
“Just as you, but that’s a wonderful thing. Just Alice.” Mr. Dodgson smiled, and I felt somewhat better.
“I do despise my hair so.” I didn’t stifle my sigh as I shook my head, feeling the ends of my hair brush the back of my neck. I so longed to feel the weight of hair hanging down my back.
Mr. Dodgson laughed.
“Don’t you know? Your hair is part of what makes you special! I could photograph every little girl in Oxford, and they’d all have the same kind of hair—long curls with bows. You stand out, of all of them. That’s why I want to photograph you—only you could be my gypsy girl.”
“Oh!” I hadn’t thought of it that way, and the notion tickled my insides until I smiled. I beamed at him as he busied himself with the tripod and camera. However did he do it? How did he make me feel so special? I wondered if he had anyone in his life to do the same for him; I knew that he probably didn’t. He did seem so very lonely at times.
“Your—your hair is very nice, too. And I like your gloves.” I didn’t, though. They were always either black or gray, as strange and off-putting as he himself often appeared to others. He did not appear that way to me, however, and so I vowed, from that moment, to tell him so as often as possible.
Every person, no matter how old, no matter how odd, needed someone like that in their lives, I thought.
Mr. Dodgson paused; his eyes widened, and his color deepened. I believed I saw his hands tremble. “Tha-thank you, Alice,” was all he said. Then he busied himself with his camera, and while I was nearly shivering as I stood motionless, watching, he worked so energetically that eventually he removed his hat, his black coat, and placed them carefully upon a stone bench. He pushed his white shirtsleeves up as well, but never did he remove his gray gloves.
“Now, stand in the corner, please.”
“Like this?” I posed, my hands by my sides, experience having taught me it was easier to hold still that way.
“Yes, but turn to your left—not that much! Just a little. Turn your head back toward me. Can you hold that?”
Steadying myself on my feet, I pressed my hands down upon my skirt. My neck already felt stiff, but I would not tell him. “Yes, I think so.”
“Well done! Now relax a moment, but don’t move. I’ll just go prepare the plate.” He dashed beneath the tent, although part of him—his rear part—stuck out. I didn’t dare laugh.
Instead, I glanced back toward the Deanery to see if there was movement in any of the windows. The tree branches obscured most of the windows from view, which was a relief; if I couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see me. So I relaxed and allowed myself to wonder what the gypsy-girl dress looked like. I did hope that it had smudges on it, and that it might be torn.
“Now, back to your pose!” Mr. Dodgson emerged from the tent, the plate holder in his hand. Pushing it into the back of the camera, he waited for me to take a big breath. Then he removed the round lens cover and began to count. “One, three, two, four, six, five, eight, seven, ten, nine—” and I felt it was very unfair of him to be so silly when I had to keep still, concentrating on the lens, that round, unblinking eye. Finally he got to forty-five, and he placed the cover back over the lens; I let out my breath in a big laugh. He ran to embrace me—“There’s a good girl!”—then hurried back to the camera, pulling out the lens holder and rushing it to the tent.
“May I bathe it?” I asked, shaking my arms and legs, twisting my neck. I did so enjoy washing the plate in its tray, waiting for the picture to emerge.
“Not this time, I’ve already started. Next one, I promise.”
“Where’s my dress? Shall I change?”
“Just on the other side of the tent. Go ahead, but try not to jostle it, please.”
“I won’t!”
I wal
ked carefully around the tent and found a piece of worn, faded fabric draped across one corner. It took me a moment to realize this was the dress; there wasn’t very much to it, not at all like my regular frocks with their flounces and layers—why, the sleeves of the frock I was wearing had three layers to them!
Holding this sliver of cloth—for that was what it seemed to me—my heart began to race. I was very certain that Mamma would not like me to wear this, especially not in front of a gentleman, even Mr. Dodgson. My nightgown had much more fabric to it.
“Shall I—shall I leave my petticoats on, anyway?” I couldn’t control my voice; it warbled like a nightingale. A bug tickled the back of my neck, and I swatted at it. It felt peculiar back here, hidden in this corner by the tent, clutching a strange girl’s dress; it didn’t feel as if I was in my own garden at all. I might as well have been in deepest Africa, a notion that normally would have excited me. At that moment, however, it scarcely registered.
“Oh, no. Would a gypsy girl have petticoats?” Mr. Dodgson’s voice was muffled; I heard the swish of liquid in a container, inhaled the sharp smell of acid.
“I suppose not. What about my chemise?” Imagining myself clad only in this thin layer of cotton, I actually shivered.
“I don’t—your chemise? I’m not sure—at any rate, I don’t think a gypsy girl would have many clothes on except her dress, do you? So just the dress, please.”
“Oh.” I took the dress, held it up to me, then dropped it to the ground. Clutching my own skirt, I fingered the stiff, familiar lace like a good-luck charm. Then I realized something very important.
I realized I had never before undressed myself.
Phoebe performed that task, or one of the Mary Anns. All my buttons were in the back; every night I obediently turned around and waited for someone to unbutton all of them, help me step out of the billowing fabric, unfasten all my petticoats—again, all of which fastened at my back. Every night someone did.
Alice I Have Been: A Novel Page 5
