by Vanessa Tait
‘And do you mean to change that lock too?’
Alexander glanced to the back of the house. ‘If I must.’
‘And what of your friends? Mr Badcock?’
‘I will tell Mr Badcock of the arrangement. Only I will have the key, and the new maid, I suppose. It is an unusual arrangement, but he will understand.’
‘But what about my friends?’
‘If you mean—’
‘No, not Evangeline! But Violet,’ she snatched at the name. ‘She is meant to come this afternoon.’ Thank God she was. ‘What will happen then?’
‘Who?’
‘My friend, Violet. You have met her, at … you have seen her, when we were engaged.’
Alexander rubbed his chin again. In the commotion he had not yet gone upstairs to shave. ‘Violet. I remember her.’
‘Yes! You talked together, on the sofa.’
‘She was asking me about soap, pale hair.’
‘How will Violet visit me, if I cannot open my own door? We do not want to appear too irregular!’
Alexander put his hands in his pockets and seemed to consider. At length he drew out a shilling and gave it to the locksmith. ‘My wife has convinced me of her contrition. I dare say she will not cross me again.’
The man shoved the locks back in his bag without looking at either of them, chiming his keys together in his haste to be out of the house.
‘Let me measure your temperature. I have frightened you.’ Alexander collected his compact thermometer and opened its leather case. ‘Open your mouth now.’
The bulb was cold on her tongue. She wished it were her draught. The taste in her mouth was bitter, as if she had had it already. These switches in Alexander’s temperament always confused her.
‘You know, dear,’ Rebecca stammered, when he took out the thermometer, ‘I think it may be past time for my medicine.’
‘Yes.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Two hours late. Let me see how you do.’ Alexander took up a notebook and sat down close to her. ‘Your eyes are lachrymose.’ He put his fingers to their outside edges. ‘The muscles seem fatigued.’ He wrote something down, then put his fingertips on the inside of her wrists and took her pulse. ‘Slightly raised,’ he said. ‘And yet a decrease in vital energy in general. Would you agree?’
Rebecca nodded. She felt as if she might never get up.
‘But your temperature has fallen,’ said Alexander. ‘Unusual under such circumstances. Do you feel cold?’
‘I am shivering,’ said Rebecca, showing him her arm, which was pulled into goose bumps. ‘I don’t know if it is with cold.’
‘I will get your medicine. Though after the adventures of the morning …’ Alexander looked up to the ceiling and made his calculations. ‘I think I will weigh out a few milligrams more.’
And now Rebecca wept, with relief and sorrow and fear. The tears were easy to make.
CHAPTER 15
Violet stood outside the house on Albany Street with her hand on the bell, hesitating to pull it. Her last visit had ended so awkwardly, with that strange shoe up on Mr Palmer’s desk. But perhaps Alexander was inside. She thought she could see him moving about behind the stained glass. She took off her glove, wet the tip of her finger and smoothed down her eyebrows with it. Even though she was pale, her eyebrows often sprung out of place. If Henry noticed, so would Alexander.
But when she did ring, she found the door flew open straight away and Rebecca was standing right behind it. She seemed very pleased to see her. But how changed she was! So thin, even more than fashion demanded. Men wanted a thin waist, but they also wanted a curved arm and a rosy cheek. Rebecca’s cheek was not rosy though her eyes alone shone with a strange kind of health. Perhaps she had put drops of lemon juice in them.
‘I am so glad to see you! Your visit is most welcome. Come to the parlour.’ Rebecca took hold of her arm and led her to the easy chair nearest to the fire. But she put herself in a hard-backed chair all the way across the room next to the door and kept looking through it in a way that prohibited easy conversation.
‘Are you expecting somebody else to call?’ asked Violet at last.
‘Oh! No, only my maid. She is going – on a trip. I must speak to her before she leaves.’ Rebecca fingered her sleeve.
‘Somewhere nice, I hope.’
Rebecca nodded, but her look was vague.
‘Is your husband at home?’
‘He is about somewhere.’ Again Rebecca looked to the door.
‘How lucky you are, to have him around and not always at work. Dear Henry is always out paying visits, it is the elderly who rely on him most, I think. They call him up at any time of the day and night. I hardly see him, though I must not complain, when he is out curing people.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Shall I ring for tea?’ said Violet after another silence. ‘I’m fairly parched.’
‘Tea, yes, I shall get you some. Or, rather, I shall ask Mrs Bunclarke to do it. For I am without a maid, you see, for today.’ Rebecca got up.
Violet’s wrists were not strong enough to carry the tray, Henry said, and he was right. She couldn’t manage a great many things, even when she thought she could.
The grandfather clock ticked on into the silence, it began to wear on her nerves. Perhaps Alexander would come and take tea with them. She reached to her velvet bow and straightened it. But now she could hear Rebecca outside in the hall, and the maid who was going on a trip.
But what sort of maid went on a trip? Maisy only had half a day off a week, and she was perfectly happy. And Rebecca was not talking to her maid in the way one usually spoke to servants. Was she sobbing? Violet had thought about not coming at all – she didn’t know if it was quite respectable. Because surely the shoe on Mr Palmer’s desk signified an affaire de coeur with someone, though Violet could not find out with whom. But in the end she had decided: yes – she ought to come, she must not let gossip stop her, she must be noble.
‘Let me find a pen,’ said Rebecca from outside. ‘There is usually one there in that pot – yes, there it is – and oh – the notepaper is in the parlour. Wait a moment …’
She came in, smiling tightly. She seemed to have forgotten all about refreshments. ‘Please forgive me, I have something to attend to,’ was all she said, as she crossed the room to her desk and opened the drawer.
Perhaps in a gloomy light Rebecca might look fashionable, after all. Her skin was very pale, and her eyes with their hollows would seem romantic, and the thinness would be confused with weakness when, in fact, Rebecca moved with a jerky kind of purpose. She took out some paper, took the pen from its holder and crossed the room again. Ink dropped from its nib onto the carpet and spread out in uneven blossoms, and Violet would have said something about it, only Rebecca had gone out again before she could.
‘How sorry I am to see you go!’ Violet heard, just as easily as if Rebecca had been in the room.
‘’Tis not your fault,’ said the girl.
‘But it is! And I will always know it. If I had not been so foolish …’
Perhaps the maid had got herself in trouble of the worse kind though her face was awfully plain. Perhaps – Violet’s hand went to the base of her neck – she had even succeeded in tempting Mr Palmer himself!
‘Look – it is hastily written, but it will do, I think, to get you another position.’
‘Thank you, madam – yes – you are very kind.’
‘But you are all these things I have written here, and more.’
‘Don’t say it, madam.’ Now the maid was sobbing too! ‘I don’t like to leave you – what will you do?’
‘I shall be fine. It is you I worry about. Where will you stay tonight?’
‘I have some wages saved up.’
‘No, you must not use up your money on that! Take this.’ Another muffled sob, hard to tell from whom it came.
‘Make sure and look for another position, start tomorrow! Do not fall into despair.’
Violet sat with
her hand to her mouth. The girl could not have tempted Mr Palmer to stray, else Rebecca would not be so upset. What then? She had been slovenly perhaps. The house was not at all clean, old newspapers lay open on the side table and dust gathered on the mantel. Mr Palmer must have let the maid go for her laziness, only Rebecca had got too attached. It did happen between some ladies and their maids.
But Mr Palmer was surely right. A man does not want to come home to a house in such disarray.
When Rebecca at last came back her face was blotched and she rubbed at her nose with her palm – without even a handkerchief. And she had not brought tea.
‘Is everything all right?’ asked Violet.
‘I am sorry,’ said Rebecca. ‘I had to let my maid go, unexpectedly.’
It was hard to get a conversation going after that. What would be appropriate? The house and its decoration, health, weather, shared acquaintances. None seemed possible in that room with its horrible paper-hangings.
‘I can recommend you another maid, I dare say,’ she said after a while.
Rebecca nodded and rubbed at her nose so hard Violet fancied she could hear it squash. But she could not have been out in society, not acting like that!
‘Have you been out? There is a new exhibition on down the road. I haven’t seen it myself. Gainsborough.’
‘I have not seen it,’ said Rebecca.
Violet gazed fretfully down at her nails. It was too soon to leave. She could plead a headache. She did have one, almost. Her nails always disappointed her. She often found herself chewing on them, with no memory of putting her fingers to her mouth. If there had been a few seconds gap between the wanting and the doing perhaps she could have stopped herself, but she never caught it. She only become aware of chewing on her finger whilst in the middle of a conversation with Mrs Anstruther, say, and then caught the broken shard of nail lying on her tongue. It made her hands ugly: clumsy and rounded, like a child’s drawing of hands. But no matter how much Henry spoke to her about it, she could not stop biting her nails. His anger made it worse if anything.
But she would not do it now! She touched her hands to her head and breathed in quickly. ‘I think I ought to go. I have rather a headache.’
Rebecca nodded. She did not even say, ‘So soon?’
But as Violet was rising to leave Mr Palmer came in.
‘Ah, ladies,’ he said, making a small bow. ‘Rebecca said you were paying her a visit, only I did want to see for myself!’
Violet stood at her chair, her calves pressed back into the frame.
‘Is the maid gone?’ Mr Palmer said.
Rebecca nodded. ‘Violet was leaving too. She has a headache.’
‘Although,’ said Violet quickly, ‘perhaps it would be rude to leave just as you have arrived!’ She felt herself blush.
Mr Palmer smiled, just as she’d hoped, and sat down near her with his hands on his knees.
‘A headache, you say? Is it severe?’
‘Oh no, not too much.’
Now that Mr Palmer was here, conversation flowed quite well, even if Rebecca took no further part of it. He was solicitous as to her health, just as a pharmacist should be. Then all the topics were covered that Violet had considered, and abandoned, earlier that afternoon, but now in a way that seemed quite natural – at least as natural as it could be when a man such as he was making small talk. Last time she had seen him he had hardly spoken.
Half an hour later Violet rose to leave again. Rebecca seemed tired, exhausted even, her head on one occasion falling forward over her chest. It would be rude to stay under those circumstances, even though she wished she could.
Mr Palmer rose with her. ‘I shall see you out.’ He nodded at his wife. ‘Do not worry about Rebecca, she did not sleep well.’ But when they got to the hall he drew her to one side, saying he wished to show her something in the dining room. Alone, and at such close quarters, Violet felt herself become dizzy. She found her breath was coming rather hard. ‘Is it this that you wanted to show me?’ she said, pointing to a flecked paperweight at random.
‘That? No, I am afraid I got you in here for a different reason, Violet, forgive me.’ Mr Palmer smiled. ‘I must apologize for Mrs Palmer. She is tired and,’ he shook his head a little and cast his eyes to the floor, ‘since I know you are a close friend of hers I feel I can be truthful.’
‘Oh. Yes! What is it?’
‘I hope you will not find it awkward, what I have to ask you,’ said Mr Palmer, lifting his eyes to hers. They were quite blue, bluer than her own, even, and her own eyes were always remarked upon.
‘Awkward, what?’ Her hand flew to her chest.
‘I have been worried about Rebecca recently. I am sure you have seen the change.’
The change, thought Violet in confusion, was on account of him, wasn’t it? She thought of the shoe on his desk. Was he going to confess to an affaire? ‘Yes, yes I have,’ she said. ‘She is much thinner.’
Mr Palmer drew his eyebrows together. ‘And I love my wife, of course, very much! As you love your husband.’
‘Dear Henry,’ she said, though her shoulders drooped. ‘Yes.’
‘Though I always thought he had a prize in you. We men are unworthy beasts!’ He stepped a little closer to her.
‘I don’t know! I wouldn’t say that!’
‘We are, but luckily you women take us all the same. And that is why we love you.’
‘Do you?’ she stammered.
‘Oh yes,’ he murmured. ‘We are slaves to your kind. Anyone who says different is a fool.’
‘Are they?’ P’raps he may kiss her! In here – already!
‘Which is why I would do anything for my wife.’
Violet’s heart fell. She stared at the paperweight in confusion. ‘Ah, yes.’
‘Forgive me if it is inappropriate—’
Violet lifted her eyes to him again.
‘But perhaps you would keep an eye on Rebecca? For me.’ He smiled. He must have some chemist’s toothpaste, she had never seen teeth so white. ‘I would not ask, only you are such close friends, and I know you to be a kind and caring sort of girl. It would set my mind at rest.’
Violet looked to the paperweight again. ‘Watch out for her, in what way?’
‘Perhaps if you were to find the time to pay us a few more visits, say. Of course, I would ask Mrs Bunclarke to prepare a good luncheon for you, on the days you did come. No need to send your card and so on. To see how you think Rebecca is faring.’
‘I don’t know that we are that close.’
‘And I shall see you when I can, to hear her progress. You are welcome at the pharmacy any time – or, perhaps we could meet once a week, in a park say, somewhere that raises no suspicion.’
‘Once a week?’
‘Or more. Just between us.’ Mr Palmer inclined his head.
Violet’s heart beat harder again and a blush rose to her cheek. ‘I should like to meet in a park. I mean to say, I like parks, and the summer is turning. One should make the most of the weather, don’t you think?’
It was a strange request, thought Violet as they went into the hall, but no stranger than the other goings-on in this house. She was a kind girl, as Mr Palmer said, quite the kindest she knew. It was nice to be noticed for it. And the way he had caught up her hand, just for a moment, as she opened the door had given her a great deal to think about.
CHAPTER 16
14 January, the desert
Dearest Rebe,
I have found my cause! For which please excuse me, my darling, for not writing before. The Bedouin have taken me to the canal, I wonder if you read about it in your newspapers? I think you do because the British here, I am glad to say, are on the side of God. I think the British cause must always be on the side of God (and the French of the Devil) and that is what makes us so great – do you agree, Rebe? I can see your brow furrowing as you read this but wait, just wait, until I explain.
The conditions of the men building the canal at Suez are worse th
an you can imagine. The French have forced the Egyptians to work for them – they are little more than slaves; if you could see the desperate faces on these men, Rebe, you would see things as I do. All in the burning heat they are compelled to dig and dig and dig – with their bare hands, many of them, without even the help of a spade, their fingers blistered and suppurating – and forced to pay for their own food and drink, which they cannot, and so they are starving to death and parched.
I went to the Suez disguised as a Bedouin – how you would have laughed to see it! My face rubbed all over with burnt wood and then wrapped in their style over the mouth and head with a piece of cloth – but in this way I dare say I saw more than any other white man. The Egyptians are ragged, utterly destitute, whilst the Frenchmen stand on some hillock or another dressed entirely in white linen conducting affairs as they see fit.
I must tell of this, so that you will understand how it is. I saw one man die in front of me. He stood up from his work, wiped his brow and fell down dead. I looked straight into his face as he fell – oh Rebe, I’ll never forget it! He looked as I saw a deer once, in Scotland, brought down by hounds. Resignation and silence, and that was it.
The Frenchman cared nothing, he sneered, as Frenchmen will. I think hundreds must have died that way, in front of him. He motioned for the man to be picked up – he was a bag of bones, there is no way to put it better. I saw him later piled into the corner of a railway carriage waiting to go God knows where. Just sitting as if he were alive with his legs splayed out in front of him! His eyes were still open, nobody had thought to shut them, and they were covered all over with flies.
I must do something, Rebe; I cannot return until I have. The Bedouin are engaged on a plan with the British to – well, I cannot say what to do, for it is all deadly secret and you must not mention that I said even that. I ought not to have written it but I have no will to start the letter over again. Do not tell anyone, promise me, Rebe. But write to me, soon! Still send to the same address, though I move from one place to the next with the Bedouin now, I will find your letters, I promise.
Since then it has been my greatest pleasure to go about with blackened skin disguised as a Bedouin, in flowing robes and headdress. They have a word here: Kayf. The best translation for it is the feeling of being intoxicated by life itself and following on from that the dissolving of the self. I think I find it then. I hardly know myself – all my old ways of thinking drop away. I have been learning their language, and their customs are becoming ever less strange. Indeed, it is our customs that sometimes now seem the strange ones, though they have you in them, under the rain and mist and drizzle. Here in the desert it seems impossible that such weather exists – I have only your word for it, my own darling. And how I wish I had more – your arms, say, or your lips.
