by Vanessa Tait
That the herring could ever have known that it would end up like this, pulled from its silvery world up on to a plate, shared with a tomato from a greenhouse and an egg laid by a chicken, impressed Mary with the force of what she might not know herself.
‘I don’t see why Mr Dodgson cannot come to my birthday party, when he is the only person I want there!’ said Alice.
Mrs Liddell brought a coffee cup slowly towards her mouth, pursing her lips and gently sucking in air when the cup was still as low as her bosom. ‘That is very rude to the rest of us, Alice.’
‘But I want Mr Dodgson. If he cannot come, I won’t have a party.’
‘But it is a family occasion!’ said Mrs Liddell. ‘As are all the children’s birthdays.’
‘Let him come. The Newry business is over—’ said the Dean.
‘Thanks to Mr Dodgson!’
‘The Newry business is over, and if we failed to let inside our house anyone who had disagreed with us we would see nobody! Oxford is a small place. But I am late.’
Mrs Liddell reached across and rubbed away a patina of dried yolk from her husband’s upper lip. ‘You are always late, Henry, always in a hurry, always looking at your pocket watch. People must expect it by now.’
Oxford was a small place. Had Mrs Liddell heard the gossip? Mary tried to divine the answer by looking at her eyes with their thick lashes, her eyelids with their thin purple veins crisscrossing them like ink, but they only looked at Alice.
If she had heard, she would have said something, surely.
‘What do you think, Miss Prickett?’ Mrs Liddell looked up and into Mary’s face.
Mary grew hot. All eyes were on her now. ‘I don’t see any harm in it, Mrs Liddell. Mr Dodgson is good company. For the children,’ she added.
‘Please, Mama!’ said Alice. ‘I want him there!’
Dinah twisted around the table leg, her fur rubbing and smoothing against the fabric of Mary’s ankle. The feel of it spread up her leg and through her waist and up to her chest, tightening round it until she felt she could hardly breathe.
‘Please, Mama!’
‘You know I want you to have a happy birthday, darling.’
Alice pouted. ‘Then let me ask Mr Dodgson. He has been at all my other birthdays.’
‘And I don’t wish to be difficult.’
‘Then don’t be!’
‘Alice, do not talk to me like that. But perhaps your father is right. We must have everyone here, good and bad, we who work together.’
‘Mr Dodgson is not bad.’
‘No, no, Alice, I am not saying he is. I am just saying . . . Ah well!’ Mrs Liddell turned up her hands to the ceiling. ‘He has been your friend for so long. You will grow out of him soon.’
‘Grow out of him? That sounds like something Mr Dodgson would say!’
‘I only want the best for you, darling.’ Mrs Liddell pushed herself up out of her seat and came to kiss Alice on the forehead. ‘Eleven years old. How fast the time goes. If you want Mr Dodgson here, you may have him, I suppose. He is not important to me either way. I don’t want to fight about it!’
Mary pressed down on her tomato with the back of her fork. The seeds that squeezed out looked like miniature rafts. If Mr Dodgson was coming to Alice’s party there was no need to ask about the boat ride. He would be allowed to take them; he could ask her himself.
They gathered in the drawing room for Alice’s birthday; a room Mary did not often come into. Every surface was cluttered by some thing of Mrs Liddell’s. The occasional table had two tortoiseshell boxes in the shape of hearts, which flanked a clock with a doleful face. The larger table held up a ferret under a bell jar with its teeth bared, front paw up, on a woodland floor it would never more walk on. The two side tables by the sofa were clustered with enamel boxes, glass bowls, an ivory letter opener and a miniature of Arthur, the child who had resembled the Dean the most closely, on his deathbed. He looked as if he was sleeping, his cheeks rosy from scarlet fever, his golden hair tousled.
‘I have bought you something, Mrs Liddell, a small gift,’ said Mr Dodgson.
‘Me? It is not my birthday!’
He bowed. Ever since he had arrived at the Deanery, Mr Dodgson had been more himself, if that were possible. His skin was whiter, his eyes bluer; he was both more playful and more restrained. Courteous, charming, wily.
‘Nevertheless, I should like to present it!’ he said, bringing out a photograph album, a presentation album, half green leather, half ochre cloth board.
‘Ah, more photographs. You are quite generous with them, I see,’ said Mrs Liddell.
Mr Dodgson looked over at Mary for the first time since he had arrived, his eyebrows raised. She smiled, or half smiled, back at him. She did not know whether he knew that the family knew about his gift to her. Whether it was supposed to be a secret.
Her jaw tightened in confusion.
But he looked away and said in an even voice, to Mrs Liddell: ‘I would like you to have the album as a symbol of our friendship.’
Mrs Liddell smiled a little and took it over to the table and opened it. The first photograph was a portrait of Alice that he had sent to a professional artist on Broad Street to be coloured. Mary leaned in to have a look. The artist had brought out the blush on Alice’s cheek and the velvety animal quality of her eyes.
‘It is lovely,’ Mrs Liddell said at last. ‘You are kind to think of me. Ah well, perhaps there is something in photography after all! This certainly captures something of Alice that I thought only a mother could see.’
Mr Dodgson inclined his head. Mary could see by the faint tinge of colour to his cheeks that he was pleased.
There were more prints of Ina, Edith, of men of the college, but mostly they were of Alice.
Alice sitting on a sofa, Alice dressed as the beggar maid, Alice as Queen of the May.
Mary turned away. There was no reason on earth why Alice should be the one who was doted on. Ina was the prettier girl, neater and more presentable.
‘They are very fine, Mr Dodgson, very fine,’ said the Dean.
They turned to a portrait of Alice sitting sideways on a chair. Her hair was shorter, her cheeks rounder than they were now.
‘Ah, she was so young!’ said Mrs Liddell, leaning forward on the table with one arm.
‘That is the first portrait I took of her. She was four, I believe.’
‘How her face has changed!’ Mrs Liddell turned to him; the flare of her nostril was translucent in the sudden piercing sun. ‘I think you must understand children as well as I, Mr Dodgson.
I am so glad to be given a memorial of them all. Who knows, perhaps Alice’s great-grandchildren will one day look at these pictures and know her as we know her ourselves.’
The flush on Mr Dodgson’s face increased. ‘I think each photograph tells a story, entire and true.’
Mrs Liddell put a hand on his arm as she turned away, and smiled. ‘Well, Mr Dodgson, you are very kind. What a thoughtful gift. I am sure we shall treasure it.’
The real Alice went back and sat on the arm of Mr Dodgson’s chair, one leg hanging into space. She swung it from side to side, side to side.
‘Can I have my presents now?’ she asked.
Her mother indicated the largest box.
Alice opened the wrapping paper with the excess of glee, thought Mary, that comes from being watched, tearing gobbets of paper off and throwing them aside. At last a doll’s house was revealed, carved in wood and painted a bright green. Everything in the Deanery was replicated in the house: a sofa, a dining-room table, beds in bedrooms, miniature servants and four children. The boy had his own top hat; the girls each had a cape and fur muff.
‘Oh thank you, Mama!’
Mrs Liddell held out her cheek to be kissed. ‘You are not quite grown up yet, darling, and even when you are, you will have a miniature Deanery to remember us all by.’
‘Except Mr Dodgson, he is not there.’
Mrs Liddell laughed. ‘Neither i
s Miss Prickett. I thought it best to stick to family.’
‘Thank you, Mama, it is beautiful.’ She turned to Mr Dodgson. ‘May I unwrap your present now?’
‘You may.’
Mr Dodgson’s present was a doll, with two round black eyes and a fringe.
‘I thought she looked like you,’ he said.
‘I am prettier,’ said Alice.
‘Alice!’ said Mary.
Mrs Liddell laughed.
The Dean said: ‘It is no laughing matter. Humility is far more important than beauty. Whatever beauty means.’
‘Even if it were true, it is not good manners to admit it,’ said Mr Dodgson. ‘If society was made up of people speaking the truth, civilization might come to an end. We need manners.’
Mary leaned in closer to Mr Dodgson. Manners were the film with which she, every day, tried to overlay the uncivilized, brutal and petty natures of the children. Manners were what society relied upon to operate, otherwise the world would be made up of people following their desires and the streets would be full of thieves, and husbands would leave wives, and they would all be no better than monkeys defecating where they sat. ‘That is right. Manners are very important. I tell the children that every day.’
‘I am sorry for being boastful,’ Alice said. ‘Sometimes my words just tumble out without my being able to do anything about them.’
‘Now that you are eleven, you will have to invent some kind of blockage for that,’ said Mr Dodgson. ‘I suggest a sta-sta-sta-stammer.’
‘I don’t think that would be a good idea,’ said Mrs Liddell.
‘How about a heh-heh-hesitation?’
‘Not that either!’ said Alice. ‘I shouldn’t like to speak like you.’
‘Alice!’ said Mary again.
‘Sorry, Mr Do-Do-Dodgson. He doesn’t mind, do you, Mr Dodgson?’
Mr Dodgson’s face was unreadable.
‘Thank you for my doll,’ said Alice. ‘I shall give her a kiss every night.’
‘Give her a kiss every night and pretend it is me,’ said Mr Dodgson. ‘For I do love to be kissed, you know, especially by little girls. Here.’ He leant down and pointed to his cheek. Alice kissed it. ‘And here,’ he said, pointing to the other.
Alice kissed his cheek with a smacking sound.
‘I hope you will forgive me, Mrs Liddell. The airy touch of a child’s lips is worth more to me than almost anything in the world. A kiss given in innocence, and received in the same way.’
Mr Dodgson’s head was cocked slightly as he spoke. His face was a perfect oval, his skin very even, almost waxy. His lips were turned up. If Mary reached out her hand to touch his cheek, it would be cool and supple.
The thought of Mr Wilton assailed her then, his hot face, his bristles. Was his proposal known all over Oxford? She wished it had not come about like that. She wished she had not caused his face to crumple and sag, or his shoulders to slump.
But she had been right to reject him! He ought not to have assumed that she would have been glad of him. She had led him to believe that she might, perhaps, if viewed from a certain angle. But had she not always had her doubts? And now her course of action had been righted. She had been saved. By Mr Dodgson.
Who now cleared his throat and said awkwardly: ‘I . . . I don’t know if Miss Prickett has asked you already . . .’ He looked at Mary and Mary shook her head minutely. ‘Whether you would lend me the children for an afternoon? I had an idea to take a boat up to Godstow and make a picnic there.’
Mrs Liddell said: ‘A boat ride? What a lovely idea. Perhaps you can take them in June.’
Geniality and good will radiated from him: ‘Thank you, Mrs Liddell, thank you.’
Mary smiled too. Now that Mrs Liddell had forgiven Mr Dodgson, his path would be clear. He would come to her now.
Chapter 23
On her way back to the Deanery, Mary walked into the quadrangle, where the air was clear and still. The honeycoloured buildings had their windows propped open and voices floated through them. She was hot. She let her feet drag against the gravel, enjoying the scratch they made, and wafted her fan in front of her face. She was louche, bohemian even. She was the sort of woman Mr Dodgson might meet in London, at the theatre perhaps.
She was being watched by some unseen author. Her actions had significance in the greater scheme of things. There was a Divine guiding principle.
Oh, she sighed, it was much too hot! She might yet expire. A corridor of shade hung down from the roof along one side of the quadrangle. She moved towards it, slowing her pace even more. She could hear a group of men talking inside the college.
And then, it was a jolt to hear the name spoken aloud that she spoke so obsessively to herself.
‘Have you seen Dodgson recently?’
‘I hear he was consorting with the Greats.’
The voice was detached, modern, amused.
‘His hobby seems to have got him into the Tennyson household. The old man has a great aversion to having his picture taken, so it seems to have been a triumph.’
‘Ah, Dodgson the lionizer, it all makes sense. He does insinuate himself into the narrowest of cracks.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ More laughter.
A flush, hotter than the day, spread up from Mary’s chest. She should walk on, but she could not; she had a horrible compulsion to know what was coming next. It was astonishing to hear Mr Dodgson spoken of in this way. New worlds opened up, where people did things differently, dressed differently, spoke differently. There were places about which she knew nothing, where it might be possible to move through life easily, without embarrassment. Perhaps wearing a hat with the wing of a thrush pinned to it. She and Mr Dodgson at a party together: she would have a new dress of pale blue, with lace at the cuffs down to her knuckles. Mr Tennyson would be there – Mary saw him with a quill in his hand, although that would be unlikely at a party, unless he was always writing poetry. But even then it would not be a quill most likely, but a pen.
‘If he is such a lionizer, he has more in common with Mrs Liddell than we think. No wonder they get along so well.’
‘Or is it someone else he gets along with? There must be some reason why he spends more time at the Deanery than in his own rooms.’
It is me. Say it so that I can hear.
‘I was told an excellent story the other day that brought Dodgson to mind,’ continued the detached voice, and he began on a story about three men, stutterers, in a Parisian tobacconist.
‘Dooo-do-doo-donnez-moi des-ci-des-ci-des-cigares.’
Still Mary strained to hear her own name.
‘It so happened that the tobacconist had a terrible stutter himself. So all four men began horribly to stutter and not a word could be understood between them.’
There was a second volley of laughter. ‘Like a meeting of Hottentots!’
‘Now the tobacconist was furious, thinking they were mocking him. So he seized a stick and threatened them and swore at them so violently that they all fell out of the shop on to the pavement, one on top of the other.’
Nobody knew Mr Dodgson as she did. She saw again his mouth, his jaw going up and down, trying to spout out the gobbet of a word.
Someone entered the quadrangle on the other side. Without thinking, she shrank into the passage behind her; as she pressed her back against the wall, she realized that it was the entrance to a college building.
‘But do you know the strangest thing of all? In his rage, the tobacconist had lost his stutter completely!’
Mary, desperate to hear, desperate not to hear, at the same moment saw who it was that was coming towards her. It was Mr Dodgson. In a few seconds he would be upon her.
He would walk by and hear them at any moment.
She must not let it happen. She stepped forward.
‘Mr Dodgson,’ she said, very loudly; loudly enough for the men inside to hear.
‘Miss Prickett.’
Inside the voices stopped. She heard someone make a s
hushing sound.
Mr Dodgson halted and folded his hands across his breastbone. She could see the whole of his pupils, and his mouth was snapped together like a shut purse. ‘What are you . . . I mean to say where . . . where-where . . . this is not a place for woe-woewoe-women. Women are not allowed into the college buildings. College is only for tutors and undergraduates. Women are neither of those. But you know that, surely.’
From inside Mary heard the sound of laughter. ‘Yes, I know, Mr Dodgson. I was just inside, inside the corridor that is, not the building.’
‘But what were you doing?’
‘I was looking for something.’
‘The corridor is still the college building, in the statutes I believe. I would have thought that you of all people would have been inclined to follow the rules on this matter.’
Mary stepped away from the building, out into the full gaze of the quadrangle. Windows surrounded her on all sides, like eyes.
Had he softened, at the last minute, as he bade her goodbye? He was very fierce about upholding the rules: that was why she loved him. Yes, she loved him. Of course.
Mary stood outside the building for a while longer; she could not bear to make the trip across the empty quadrangle straight away, even with the force of her realization burning in her cheeks.
She could still hear the voices of the tutors through the open window.
‘Ah, Dodgson, just the man. What is that you are reading? Is it Tennyson?’
She heard laugher, and she heard in Mr Dodgson’s voice that he mistook the reason for their laughter as his choice of reading material.
‘No. This is equally worthwhile, however.’
‘Confessions of an English Opium-Eater?’
‘Thomas De Quincey is an instructive writer. You would know that if you had read him.’
‘Well, I have read Tennyson. Do tell me, is Mr Tennyson as eccentric as they say?’
‘I am afraid I cannot indulge you as to his eccentricity. I merely took their photographs.’
‘What for? Do you mean to sell them?’
‘Oh no. I am certainly not a professional photographer, neither do I intend to be. Any photographs I take are for the pleasure of my friends.’
