A Superior Spectre

by Angela Meyer

  By the time I returned it was nearing dark and the backpack had cut huge lines of sweat in my shirt. I sat at a chair on the dining-room table as William unpacked the potatoes, fruit, oats, cultured mince, and bottles of wine. I had taken a long time to decide whether to get those, and when I saw the two bottles come out of the pack I wished simultaneously that I hadn’t bought them and that I’d bought more. I would deny myself as long as possible.

  Faye had loved a drink. I was always the one to rein myself in, rein us both in. The party pooper. I’d have these projects: one month without alcohol, three months without alcohol. She’d usually try to do it too, but by three or four days in (before the desire for a drink would smooth out to a bearable hum) she’d give in and have one, two, three. She didn’t like to deny herself. I was both disgusted by her weakness and envious of her ability to indulge, guilt-free.

  Whenever I was anxious, over a meeting at work, or whether our friends would appreciate my flan at our dinner party, Faye would tell me to relax, to be myself. She knew that what she knew of me was a series of constructions, enhancements of genuine personality traits, with some missing essence she couldn’t reach. But she trusted, she told me, that it took time to truly know a person, and that we were all in flux anyway.

  She trusted that I would one day change my mind about having children.

  I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. William put some walnuts in a bowl and brought them to me, then poured a glass of water. I thanked him, but the tone felt awkward. What was the correct tone to take with an appliance?

  When I got upstairs I lay down, utterly exhausted.

  A formal invitation to Dearshul had followed the young laird’s conversation at the inn. Her next round of service over, Leonora was to take a cab directly to the estate. She had packed her good dress – a crepey violet with a black lace V on the bodice, and matching collar – for the occasion. She was nervous, both anticipatory and reluctant. There had been so much change lately, and she didn’t understand what it meant to be invited to the laird’s residence. Neither did her father. He didn’t seem to welcome the news, appearing as confused as Leonora, and more worried than her. ‘Noneth’less,’ he’d said, ‘t’would be impolite to decline.’

  Leonora stepped up from the sloping, grey main street of Tomintoul into a cab with velvet drapes and dark wood panelling. The seat was red, and soft, with extra cushions to lean against. She should have a chaperone, she thought, or at least she would if she were the kind of person who normally rode in such a cab. Fear bit quickly at her heart, but the daylight outside was a salve, and she remembered the yellow dog that she would see, Roo, to which she could draw attention if the conversation was awkward. Mr Wink had an older sister, she knew, who was married to a laird further north, near Inverness. Was he otherwise alone, except for his servants? His father had died only last year, and his mother, sadly, when he was a boy. He had spent longer with his mother, though, than Leonora had with her own, who’d also died from illness.

  Leonora felt mean to contemplate it, as the cab got moving over the stones, devoid of the squeaking and bumping she’d previously experienced, but she was sure the laird’s mother had died more comfortably than her own, in a bed with a canopy, with sunlight streaming in through the windows, propped up by embroidered pillows. Her own mother had died in a small bed with dirty sheets in an attic room in a sooty city. Leonora did not remember much about Edinburgh, but she still had an image of her own small blackened knees and hands. They’d had one worn rug, but it had been just as filthy as the floor.

  No, she would never go to Edinburgh. Even if this meant she would never marry. But then, that would mean caring for Miss Cruikshank now, too, not just her father. A jostling for roles in the household, working at the inn in Tomintoul. Still, she would be home.

  She had no illusions about the laird falling in love with her – that would be too novelistic.

  Would she really never marry? She did love children, and was drawn to pregnant women in a way she couldn’t articulate. She remembers Mrs Grant taking her turn with the cow up and down the row in Chapeltown, to eat and mow the grass, when the woman was heavily pregnant. She’d looked majestic, Leonora thought. Mrs Grant’s face was flushed and her breaths came quickly, but she absorbed the light around her, in her plain grey dress, as she led and held life. Leonora thought she too could be responsible for life. She could feed, and play and sing, with a child. She could strap the child around her and work outdoors. She could teach the child about the sheep, the hens and the cows, the rabbits and the fish.

  Leonora felt the cab slow and tilt and she felt sorry for the horse on the large hill. On the downward slope the strain must be just as hard, she thought. The drivers really had to work around here, a different kind of work than that on the narrow, packed and sharp-cornered streets of Edinburgh.

  When the cab turned up the drive, after a daydreamy hour, there was a hush of leaves at the edge of the windows. Leonora saw a green, sculpted space, with statues and fountains in porous grey stone.

  The cab stopped in front of a house larger than any Leonora had ever seen, with a single turret and many white-painted window frames. William Wink came out of a white double door with a crude rowan cross appointed on it. His face was warm and welcoming. A stout woman in a clean dark dress and a white apron followed him.

  ‘The much-honoured Laird William Wink of Dearshul,’ said Leonora, curtseying as she’d practised.

  ‘Oh please,’ said Mr Wink, ‘it’s not Ballindalloch Castle. Let’s do away with the formalities. We’ve been in each other’s lives since we were bairns.’

  ‘Oh, I could not, sir,’ said Leonora, blushing.

  He tilted his head at her. ‘Would you be comfortable enough with Mr Wink?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ ‘Well, that will do.’ He indicated the woman by his side. ‘This is Mrs MacMillan; she’ll take your packages to your room.’

  Mrs MacMillan said hello, keeping her features tight. She had a sharp nose and grey-brown hair sitting neatly under her cap. She moved forward to take Leonora’s luggage from the driver. Leonora felt strange to stand idle while it happened.

  ‘If you’ll permit me, Miss Duncan, I shall give you a tour of the house, and then allow you to rest before dinner. Tomorrow we’ll take Roo out.’

  Through the white double doors they stepped straight into a large room, the walls also white, where swords and guns hung among tapestries and large paintings of Wink ancestors.

  ‘The furnishings haven’t had much help under my watch, I’m afraid; it’s still a little old-fashioned in here,’ he said apologetically. ‘It doesn’t feel right yet to move everything around,’ he continued, acknowledging the loss of his father. ‘Although I’m quite fond of oriental objects these days; I have some collectibles in the library.’

  ‘You have a library?’ Leonora asked.

  And he took her by the elbow and led her there. He called it modest, but Leonora had never seen so many books in one room before, nestled around a worn red armchair. A black cabinet stood in a corner, with gold flat-leaved trees and curved-guttered buildings painted intricately upon it. It stood open, revealing white masks with thin red lips, what looked like an adder’s skin but with very different colours, small painted bottles, a tiny green silk shoe, a miniature fish tank, and a stuffed yellow and blue bird with beady glass eyes. The room smelt of paper and something like corn or flour.

  ‘My mother loved to sit in here and read,’ Mr Wink said, fingering a loose thread in the chair’s weave.

  ‘My father tells me my mother liked to read as well,’ said Leonora. Though in Edinburgh they had only a small handful of oil-covered novels.

  ‘You didn’t get to know your mother?’ Mr Wink asked, with genuine sympathy.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Leonora, ‘but I cannae complain.’ She scanned the shelves beside her, and realised she sought books with explanations in them: of the soil, the beating heart, the stars.

  ‘Did you read any Shake
speare at the schoolhouse?’ Mr Wink asked.

  ‘Aye, the schoolhouse is quite adequate,’ said Leonora awkwardly, because many of his tenants would attend it, and she thought she should give a good report.

  ‘My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: Words without thoughts never to heaven go,’ Mr Wink quoted, glancing at her quickly. It was quiet in the study. She had a vision of him as a little boy, sitting sullenly at the end of a long table, refusing to eat an exotic item on his plate. He is unhappy, she realised, and for the first time saw him properly. How could he not be? A library full of books but an empty house and grief in every corner: his mother reading to him in the chair, his father’s face immortalised in a giant picture at the top of the stairs.

  Mrs MacMillan knocked gently at the entrance to the library. ‘Pardon me, sir, you mentioned that Miss Duncan might like to meet more of the animals. I have brought Mallow.’ In her arms was a small terrier with bronzed-yellow fur. It had been trimmed, unlike Duff’s wild mane. Leonora immediately moved toward the animal.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs MacMillan,’ said Mr Wink, his voice bright again. ‘My sister named her,’ he explained to Leonora.

  Mrs MacMillan put down the little dog and exited quietly. Leonora called to it, slapping her palms against her knees. The dog responded with a wagging tail and an open mouth, edging towards her for a sniff.

  ‘She likes you,’ said Mr Wink.

  ‘I like her.’

  Mallow was happy to be picked up, and licked Leonora’s face. ‘Sit in the chair with her, if you like,’ said Mr Wink, moving out of the way. But the chair, in its worn opulence, seemed too large and full of the past. Leonora felt that if she sat, she might sink deeply into it, the arms and back crumbling down on top of her. She needed to be out of this room. Mr Wink was different in here, too. He was much taller than her, she realised. And with his blond hair and shiny buttons he was bright as a male bird.

  ‘Perhaps I will get some rest before dinner,’ she said, realising she was holding the dog close and high, almost covering her nose and mouth.

  ‘Of course,’ Mr Wink said, sounding slightly wounded. His body seemed to sigh, then. It still shone, and was bright, but it sighed. She saw what his body needed, how it would become upright again, and filled out. Touch. She didn’t know if his asking her here was a part of that. She thought it could be dangerous. But another part of her thought it could be the most harmless action. She thought of the skin under his clothes.

  ‘Will you show me to my room?’ she asked. ‘

  Yes, let’s have the rest of the tour later, or tomorrow.’ She saw he was tired, too. Had he lain awake last night, nervous about her visit? She couldn’t imagine having that impact. He probably just hadn’t slept well since his father died, since his sister married, since he was left alone.

  When Leonora was shown her own room, a room as big as her father’s entire cottage, she understood the potential of Mr Wink’s loneliness even further. What would one see in these corners in the dark of night? She was grateful, again, for her small world, for the comfort of walls an arms-length from her as she slept, for the sound of her father’s snores. Though after the wedding she would hear more than that from her father’s room, wouldn’t she?

  ‘I hope you’ll be comfortable,’ Mr Wink said. His voice seemed to barrel out into the room and bounce off the walls. She was desperate to open the window.

  Mallow began to bark in her arms; she felt the little body lurching with each sound. Leonora put her down and Mallow moved toward the far corner, by the bed, continuing to bark.

  ‘She does that sometimes; perhaps there’s some animal on the roof.’ Mr Wink shrugged, but his frown was deep and puzzled.

  Mallow looked back at them as if to say, Can you see it?

  Leonora shivered.

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Wink, ‘we eat at five. I can send Mrs MacMillan up for you, if you like?’

  ‘That would be appreciated,’ said Leonora.

  ‘Would you like me to take Mallow?’

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ said Leonora. The dog had calmed down, was sniffing around the edges of the bed.

  Mr Wink touched her elbow again before he left. ‘I’m pleased you’re here,’ he said.

  She nodded; her abdomen clenched at the touch. When he left, she opened the window and then lay on the large bed on top of the blankets. Mallow leapt up beside her, guiltily. Leonora stroked her head to let her know it was all right, and the dog flopped down to rest.

  Leonora gazed mindlessly at the intricately carved bed canopy. She thought of warm bodies, the bodies of animals and people. Imagine lying in a bed with arms all across you, she thought. Imagine that when you wanted it, skin was pressing at you from the front and behind. Imagine what the tongue tastes like in the warm mouth. She pulled up the layers of her skirts. She would be quick. She could be quick. She was used to being quick and quiet in the small cottage. She would warm up the room; she would give pleasure to the house. As she began to touch herself she then pictured William – as she thought of him in private – in the centre of his own bed, the centre of his own private world, letting himself take his own urges in hand. She knew that’s what a man must do, without a woman. Just as she did this to herself: an action unspoken that made sense in the way of sun whiting your eyelids in summer, or a crackle of light in the night sky. And when she came to that rush, where she could feel her own inner workings – the blood and breath within her – it was light she normally saw, light tinted with random images, from childhood, from the garden, on stone.

  Today, as light broke over her in the cold, frilled room, she glimpsed briefly a place, like nothing she’d seen before. Tall blue and silver buildings, airborne bowls of still light, and horseless carriages. And then it was gone. She pushed her skirts back down, breathed with the glow in her cheeks, and forgot what she’d seen.

  Iwoke in pain and arousal, on the verge of orgasm but experiencing such intense cramping in my left calf that I yelped. I had gone too far with that bike ride, and I had known it would be too much. Hadn’t I? But how fit I used to be. I’d once been masochistically diligent in my routines. Again, old habits. This flop of skin around the middle, this weakness didn’t suit me. Or was more me, I don’t know – I was turning inside out, perhaps. My true self, emerging.

  I heard William come quickly up the stairs. I was arched over, trying to massage my calf.

  ‘May I be of assistance?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, panting. The pain was excruciating.

  His hand reached down, not toward my leg but toward my still-hard cock.

  ‘N … no, the cramp,’ I told him, and he swiftly and gently took my calf in his hand, and tried to ease out the muscle. Relief spread through me. I lay still, my erection diminishing.

  I wanted to ask him what he’d intended, but I doubted myself. Perhaps I’d imagined it. No, I won’t lie; what would be the point now? I had heard that that was one reason the model had been taken off the market. But I’d told myself, until now, that I hadn’t heard such a thing. And I still told myself that I wouldn’t test it. It wasn’t rejection I feared; that would be ridiculous, being alone with an appliance and fearing rejection. No, it was the old letting go. I could still deny the grotesque self, I thought. (Though wasn’t I here to confront it? To confront, must one go all the way into it?) I would die either way with regrets but I didn’t think I could die as weak, as the ultimate horror of myself, entirely inside out.

  William brought me some water, then took himself back downstairs to sit or stand eerily in a corner. I wondered if I should at least invite him to sleep beside me. I chastised myself for the thought.

  I picked up my book on Caravaggio, flicked again to the colour plates and met with Young Sick Bacchus – with his soft, gentle feminine back. And the greenish pallor. Was that colour realistic? I wondered. I’d never been this sick before, I didn’t know if that’s how I would come out.

  I put the book down and stared out at the cluster of stars
I could see from the window in my room. The smell of damp was still bothering me. I wondered if I should have gotten scented candles. No, Leonora wouldn’t have had those; she probably wouldn’t have even had wax. It would have been tallow. Perhaps worse-smelling than this damp. I tried to recall the odour. With all the burning of wood and peat and fat indoors in Leonora’s time, not to mention the irregular bathing, there was a damping down of scent from what I was used to. When I smelt the world through her nose it was rich and interesting but rarely too intense. The laird’s house was sweeter-scented; Leonora could smell her own body – her skin and hair and clothes – in that environment, but she wasn’t self-conscious about it. I would have been, I’m sure.

  It had been Melbourne, hadn’t it? The glimpse of a city she’d had when she came. That full body, bright, ticklish opening-out that was female orgasm. It is different, you know. At the time of recording I’ve experienced it many times over. The pleasures we’re denied by being born as one sex, maybe even one species.

  Why had she seen into the future, as her neurochemicals surged? Was it my own brain, interrupting? Was it only me who saw that? I didn’t know. I was in too much pain to overthink it at the time.

  The after-ache of my calf would last for days, I knew it. I’d have to be careful. Those leafy greens and very expensive nuts and seeds I’d bought would help restore some magnesium to my body. Or maybe the illness would continue to deplete it, deplete everything. I’d stopped reading about the illness pretty soon after the diagnosis; I’d blocked out the doctor’s words. She told me early on that twenty years ago I would have died, but due to advances in biotech, I could live a normal life. Maybe another fifty years, she said. That’s when I decided, right then. When I realised life was a choice, and to suffer was a choice, and that none of us, the privileged in the first world, were given the choice anymore. Only those who went to war. But I had nothing to fight for.