by Angela Meyer
I have on my old plain dress, as tight as it now is, and I keep my head down. I hope I fit in with the servants flitting about on errands and don’t look like an unescorted lady of middle standing, which I suppose is what I’ve become. I take Bank Street and at the foot of the bridge I am assaulted by the smell of excrement and urine and unwashed bodies, laced through with the persistent sulphurous smoke, that of peat and pipes. A crowd of children in tattered clothes tug at my skirts and raise pleading eyes to mine, calling over one another. ‘Miss.’ ‘Miss.’ ‘Miss!’ But I don’t know yet if I can part with the coins I have. I jam my hands into the pockets of my skirts to protect those few pieces of currency. ‘I’m sorry!’ I say desperately. The children are so thin, I cannot stand it. I break away, trip a little on a cobblestone and hear them laugh derisively, like cruel adults. This is where I was born. Is that what I would have become?
I think about my father with an ache – how I miss him – but with some emotion closer to anger as well. Why didn’t he take our family back to the Highlands sooner? He had finished his apprenticeship. He has said it was because of my mother’s illness. He thought the best care could be obtained in Edinburgh. I can’t help feeling that this wasn’t all. Was there an element of shame – the idea of returning with nothing?
I step over the legs of street beggars, smell the rotting fruit being pecked at by ravens, shy from the blackened teeth of people emerging from narrow wynds. A man with a barrel on his shoulder almost takes off my head when he turns. The buildings are tall and crowd together like teeth, casting the street in shadow. I eventually see a sign for a druggist.
I enter, struggling lightly for breath after the hill and with my senses overburdened. Oak shelves are lined with powders and tinctures, with green- and black-inked crisp white labels. The counter is unmanned. I look back outside – that feeling I can’t shake of being followed – and then into the room again, am startled by a shock of white hair that comes up from below.
A wrinkled face and white neckerchief and patterned vest join the hair, behind the counter.
‘Hello, Lass,’ the man says.
‘Good day, Sir,’ I say quietly, then clear my throat.
‘What ails ye?’ He flips up an edge of the counter, pushes at a small door and moves rather too close to my face, milk and fish on his breath. I may be disturbing a late breakfast.
‘I …’
‘Not in the family way, are ye?’ he asks, staring pointedly at my belly.
I feel myself flush and frown and my hand twitches protectively towards my middle. ‘Nae, nae, it’s just sommat we get a bit with lassies your age. Are ye just on an errand? For your husband? Your mother? Your carer?’
I shake my head.
‘All by ye’self walking the Reekie streets, and not even from aroond here, I can tell by yer accent.’ This puzzles me, since I’ve barely uttered a word.
The man goes back through the door to behind the counter. He pops down and up and sits a white model head with lines drawn on it on the countertop. He stares at my head. ‘Let’s see noo, ye do hae an intelligent-looking circumference, tha’s for sure. I’ll be able to trust your own assessment of ye’self, but just to be sure …’ He pulls a set of metal pincers from his vest pocket. ‘Mind if I measure your head, Lass?’
‘I’m not sure …’
‘Alrigh’ then, well, out with it, what ails ye?’ he asks, setting down the pincers with a clang on the countertop.
‘It’s a bit hard to explain,’ I say, heart thumping. ‘I don’t even know if this is the place to come.’
‘It’s the women’s issues, isn’t it? I’ve five daughters, Lass, I’m no stranger t’it. And I’ve several customers who come in for a monthly med’cine for their wives, though I suspect they often are takin’ it themselves to get through the moaning and groaning …’ He laughs heartily at his own joke, fingers hooked in vest pockets.
‘I do suffer …’
‘Ooh, or is it positively a matter of the mind? Reflex action on the nervous system? Hysteria? Do ye be hearing voices, even?’
I was feeling like I might cry, with this forceful man both figuring everything and nothing at all. ‘There aren’t any voices,’ I say, ‘just – oh, it seems ridiculous – a notion of presence, something other than myself, and … images in my head that don’t seem like my own.’
He is finally quiet. His hand plays with the pincers, tempted by them. Then he smiles. ‘Ye’re in luck; this is just my wife’s area.’ He produces a flyer and hands it over. ‘This is a very exclusive club, but it sounds as though you would benefit from the discoveries they’ve made, and might have something to contribute ye’self.’
I take the piece of paper and glance at it. Bold, fancy letters, the word ‘spiritual’. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I thought it might be rather more medical, more physical. My father had a dog that began tae howl and whimper when it had never done so before. At the same time the puir thing became lame in one leg. Jacky died some time later and I could see a lump on his head by then. Could not the lump have pressed down on his mind in a way tha’ disabled the limb and also affected behaviour?’
‘You don’t seem to have any physical ailments, Lass …’
‘I do get those … what you spoke of regarding your daughters.’
‘Ah!’ he says, pleased he can provide something of immediate use. ‘This is the stuff – it will help ease those pains and cramps that accompany your poorlies.’ I take up the bottle of laudanum and slip it into my skirt. ‘And be sure not to over-exert yourself,’ he adds.
I pay the man and tuck the flyer into my skirt along with the bottle. I’m pleased with the possibility of lightness in the liquid, but I was also looking for answers, I realise. I never was good at being patient when something needed fixing. When Father and I found snails on the vegetables, I’d stay outside as the sun came down, trying to uncover every last one. It couldn’t wait until tomorrow. I’d stay awake all night if I knew they were still out there, crunching quietly on the leaves.
Walking back to my aunt’s apartment, I am in a rush and a daze. I try to block the sights and sounds and smells. I want to try the laudanum, but I fear it, too. Will it make me appear very different? I should be careful to take it only at night, after Ailie has gone to bed. That is when the worst visions occur anyway, before and during sleep.
When I push open the door to our residence, I sigh with relief; I seem to be the first one home.
But then Ailie’s door opens and she rushes towards me. ‘Where have you been?’
The oil of clove is not working. The tart, green taste is now associated with the pain and makes me retch, and then cough, and then retch some more. I am looking out the ground floor window for Bethea on the bay, but it is raining. A lone bird peeps, perhaps catching the bugs as they move to higher ground. Water in the sky makes me think about the depths of it around me, beneath me. An image of a seal rolling in the dark. I wonder if anyone has ever died here before.
I wanted to suffer, but this really is too much. The side of my face is on fire.
William brings me the telephone and dials Bethea’s number. My gut flips with shame, with bother. ‘Oh hello, Bethea, I’m so sorry to have to ask you this …’
She knows why I am calling. She will make the appointment in the nearest town. She calls back with a confirmation.
‘Got enough food?’ she asks again.
‘Yes,’ I lie.
The dentist is a young, broad-shouldered woman who immediately says something about my weight. It is too bright in the office; I struggle not to close my eyes as I am talking to her, before I lie down in the plastic-covered chair.
‘I’m on a diet,’ I say darkly, wondering if Bethea can hear the conversation in the other room. It feels strange to be away from William. I picture him standing, unmoving, in the corner of the dark lounge room. Waiting for me.
‘Maybe you are sick,’ she says, now prodding in my mouth. Her assistant lunges in with the spit-catching vac
uum that always makes me feel disgusted with myself. My calves tense with the two women over me, pushing around in my mouth. What if I suddenly need to cough or vomit? The dentist tsks at the same time I feel a bolt of intense pain. I cry out.
‘This will have to come out now,’ she says.
I nod.
Of all the advances in medicine, they’ve never managed to find a better way than the ol’ numb-and-wrench for a far-gone tooth. Anaesthetic must be one of humanity’s all-time best inventions.
The assistant pricks the inside of my cheek with the numbing needle, then readies me for the dentist by pressing my shoulders down. The dentist enters my mouth with some tool and starts wrenching, her other hand on my jaw. There are flecks of blood on her gloves. I know I’ll be covered in bruises. She frowns but I can see the muscles bulging in her arm – she must be used to this action, or perhaps she lifts weights in anticipation of patients like me. People who’ve failed in the mouth.
The tooth gives with a rush of wetness, to which the vacuum is aimed. The dentist holds it like a trophy in front of my eyes: mottled brown, with a long root pinked by blood and gum. Before giving me a second to recover she tells me I’ll have more trouble because of the gum disease. That I must use an electric toothbrush, and address any underlying health problems.
‘I don’t touch sweets, you know,’ I say through the gauze in my mouth.
She doesn’t smile.
‘Is whisky good for this?’ I ask.
‘Not right away,’ is all she says.
‘I’ll pay cash,’ I say.
‘Come back soon for an X-ray,’ she says. ‘And, do you think maybe you should see a doctor? You are very … pale.’ I think she was going to say ‘grey’. Grey skin, pink mouth, like a shark.
I try to smile, to reassure her, but then I remember that my mouth is diseased, that there is no point in the gesture because my smile will be horrible. I’ve never been much of a smiler anyway.
Bethea walks ahead of me to the car. She looks small. I wonder how long ago her husband died, whether she has any children or many friends around her. I don’t probe. Instead I just thank her. She seems about to ask me something the whole way back, clearing her throat, wetting her lips. But she doesn’t. The rain starts again just as she drops me at the footbridge.
‘Typical,’ she says. And smiles.
I bare my horrible teeth in return.
A‘ unt, I was only worried about the cat,’ I tell her. ‘After you told me about the ones that have been killed. I went to see where it was.’
Ailie stares at me fiercely. We stand just inside the door. I don’t want to be a burden to her, but to not be that I have to chase some solution for this condition. And yet it’s too strange to talk about, to ask for help. And I know that she in particular will not understand.
‘You should never be out on your own,’ she says. She has believed me. It’s tempting to say something petulant – that she goes out on her own, that Edith does. But of course I know the reasons, and it would be rude. My hand twitches toward my pocket. I desire to try the laudanum, to get close perhaps to that feeling of berry wine and moss. I’ll be alone, though, this time.
‘I won’t do it again, Aunt, I’m sorry,’ I say. But I want answers. ‘Aunt, do you think you will have people around for supper again soon? Perhaps it would help if I spent more time making acquaintances of the … human variety.’
Her face warms. She removes her cape. She must have only just come in herself. ‘Yes, we do need to get you meeting more people. I was enthusiastic and then I’ve been a little reluctant, I must admit. I just want to ensure I’m introducing you in the most beneficial way.’ Her brow creases.
I’m not used to having a woman care about me; I don’t know what to say. I still become unreasonably furious that she is tied to this place, that she is not my mother. The weight of possibly disappointing her sits atop the other issues in my mind.
I believe she’s partly reluctant to introduce me to the young people because they were suggested by Miss Taylor. This may be what she is thinking about as we eat, as she tears up the bread and sops it in her soup. She looks at the cupboard with the claret in it, then shakes her head. Thankfully she doesn’t ask me to read to her tonight, as she has a headache. We retire early, and I am alone with my laudanum.
I add the recommended few drops to water and I sip it. There is no real taste. I pull the crumpled flyer from beneath my skirts.
Are you a channel for the “Odyle”?
“Sensitives” make up one third of the population!
Test your MAGNETIC potential to commune with the “spiritual” – minds and events from the past, present and future BEYOND THE REALM OF OUR OWN.
Our UNIQUE CRYSTALS penetrate the axis of the MATERIAL UNIVERSE, of man, plant and animal, of stellar rays, heat, friction, embracing the CHEMICAL and ORGANIC yet locating the distinct “other” force, Von Reichenbach’s “Odyle”.
Second Thursday of the month. The door beside. Knock three times.
I frown. But might scepticism ruin my chances of getting rid of this … invasion of my senses? I could always leave the meeting, if it became too queer. Although again I would have to go alone, and might that not be dangerous? Let alone a betrayal of my aunt. Perhaps I could confide in someone, take them with me. I’m filled with shame at the idea, though I also long to share this weight with someone. There’s a slight pang when I think of William, a person I felt briefly close to, but someone from a different world, whom I have to put aside in my thoughts. A sister or a brother might have helped.
My lips are wet. But I cannot feel the tears coming from my eyes. I am languid, sinking again down into the bed. A woman is calling and banging at the door. Her name is Faye. I feel sick about it, but I cannot let her in.
I gasp. It is dark now. There is someone else here. No, it is the cat. I must have left the window open. He is curled beside my left leg. I don’t want to move and wake him. I cannot move very fast, anyway. My muscles are like liquid. But the cold is coming in. The smoky air is invading.
It is all coming in. I cannot stop it.
My aunt is finally letting me help in the kitchen, before the soiree. My hands smell cloying, with fat and sweetness, pigskin and jam. Edith’s hair escapes from her cap as she rushes about. Ailie sits and frowns, clasping her hands together, expecting Miss Taylor at any moment.
‘All right, Leonora, time to dress now,’ my aunt says, rocking slightly.
I glance apologetically to Edith, wash off and head to my room. I’m trying to ignore the sensation in my stomach: seals somersaulting. I take off my old dress and put on, over my corset and crinoline, one the colour of oak. It is low cut and my breasts are full and expressive beneath my collarbone. I try a little powder that Ailie has leant me. I look well fed and grown up. I wonder what Father would think. I consider the small drawer next to the bed, the liquid within. It would calm me a little. Just a few drops.
When I emerge, Miss Taylor is in the sitting room. She clutches her hands and smiles broadly when she sees me. ‘You look divine,’ she says. ‘I hope we’ll have a chance to talk tonight.’
‘As do I,’ I say.
Ailie’s coterie begin to arrive: Mr and Mrs Johnson, and Mr Stewart, who tells me very quietly I look ravishable. His breath is sharp with drink already.
Glasses are filled and then at the door in a flurry of coats being removed and hung and scarves unwrapped are the people my age, not just men but women too.
Ailie seems distressed at this. ‘Who are the girls, Constance?’
‘Students also,’ Miss Taylor whispers. ‘Well, when they’re allowed to be.’
I have seen this group before. They are the slightly dishevelled, intimidating youths from the lecture hall, the ones who left part-way through. So the women are students too, not sweethearts after all. The youths are already flushed with heat or substance and laughing in the room. A tall, dark-haired man is pumping Mr Stewart’s hand. The women walk confidently through the
room, introducing themselves. It is getting crowded so I cannot tell but there seem to be five students all up: three men and two women. I smell heated damp wool, a tinge of sweat. Miss Taylor comes to stand beside me, perhaps catching my panicked stare. I need to visit the privy.
‘Leonora, this is Dr Edward Fallow,’ says Miss Taylor, introducing me to the tall, dark-haired man, ‘a graduate of Thomas Laycock’s at the university, in medicine.’ This is the young man I had heard about.
‘Such a pleasure to meet you, Leonora,’ he says, taking my hand and giving a tight smile. ‘Welcome to Edinburgh.’
‘Thank you,’ I manage to say, before I am introduced to his younger brother Oskar, a student, with longer, more unruly hair, more fine-boned features, and lips that remind me of fruit. His grasp of my hand is less confident than his brother’s, and his voice quieter. I catch his eye a little too long and feel a tickle beneath my belly. How instant that can be.
The other three students are Mr George, Miss Mitchell and Miss Ross. Miss Taylor tells me that the two young women want to be doctors and, along with five other women, have been protesting to be allowed to study at the university.
Awe, envy, admiration are what I feel, an overwhelming jumble. How can these women, these plainly dressed but confident women, know what they want, and protest at the gates of an established institution, protest an established order? Miss Taylor speaks of them proudly. Miss Taylor who never married, never had children. In the books I’ve read, women with these ideas always suffer. I want to know what else these women feel, what they have done.
My hand shakes as I raise a glass of champagne to my mouth. The students are scrutinising me, now gathered in a group across the room, eating portions of ham and tongue, comfortable in their skin and dress. They may not even know that I can read.
Miss Taylor’s hand keeps resting at my elbow, in a reassuring way. I am grateful that she knows I need this.
