by Meira Chand
*
Reggie had learned to read the shadows thrown onto the ceiling, the movement of a rikisha in the road below, the breeze through the loquat trees. The creak of mahogany, a tread on the stairs, the familiarity of voices appeared through pain and drowsiness as islands in uncharted days. He knew he was ill, worse than ever in Sungei Ujong or when invalided home the year he married Amy, the year he had spent with Annie Luke. Pinioned now upon the horizontal, his perspectives of the world had changed. People loomed up without warning and he was flattened by their benevolence and his wretched dependence upon them. He was resentful of everything – Cooper-Hewitt’s unquenchable jokes and health, Amy’s irreproachable, dutiful ministering, the sight of beef tea or the innocuous potions that fool Charles produced from his bag of tricks. He resented the lack of control he had over his fate or his body. His innards showed a flagrant disregard for all he secretly sent down to quiet them.
He woke to pain or a sponge of lavender water cutting through repulsive odours. His body squirted like an old used bag filled with fetid waters, it hung in loose folds about him. And yet at times, for hours, this state of siege retreated and he sat up, tottered about or staggered to a chair. The days wore on, he had lost count of how many were strung up behind him. He smiled blandly, released from pain a fog appeared to fill his exhausted mind. Time jumped about erratically, throwing up irrelevant memories. Again and again Annie Luke was conjured up before him, smiling her thin, enigmatic smile, turning bitterly away. The wrong he had done her filled him now, a separate, throbbing pain.
‘Reggie? Reg?’ The voice called. Annie held her child up for him to see its fair, tight curls, its sailor suit. He saw it had her eyes.
‘Annie? Where are you?’ She smiled and pain knotted in him. Again the lavender sponge came forward, dripping and dribbling uncomfortably. Behind it the face leaning forward was Annie, then Amy, changing in a slippery way, deceitful as the shadows.
‘Annie?’ He struggled to sit up. A hand pushed him down. It was Amy keeping Annie away, or maybe she could find her. Maybe she was the only one who could find Annie Luke.
‘Go now, Amy. Find her, please. She’ll be there this time, I’m certain.’
Sometimes the hand on him changed. Sometimes it was old Charles with that horny wart on his thumb and his persistent needles shooting strange substances into his veins, until his gentle dreams of Annie gathered in vivacity to burst within his mind. Then the ripple of the breeze in the loquat trees echoed like a roar. Annie’s face became twisted and vicious, her nails grew longer than spears, she beckoned to the air. Then over the windowsill, slimy, shelly things crawled towards his flesh. He screamed and screamed, but nobody heard.
There were times when he awoke alone to the room, and found himself at peace, his mind and body free. At such times he turned to his medicine shelf, to the Fowler’s, throwing back larger doses than Amy administered at his instructions. Amy might secure Fowler’s Solution, but white arsenic was out of the question. He had only one packet at the back of a drawer, that he was saving for the worst. He cursed the lack of foresight that had caused him to have no store of the stuff.
He had got himself to a chair again. His nightclothes stuck to him sweatily, his belly was sticky with the liniment of sugar of lead. He was haemorrhaging slightly; at these levels the arsenic had that side-effect. He was determined to hide it from Dr Charles, who would immediately investigate the cause. He had read in his medical books that the very sugar of lead he applied externally was, if injected in such severities, a deterrent to haemorrhaging. It was already Monday; he should have been up and about by now. Sugar of lead might work the same way if he swallowed a bit, the essential thing was to get it inside him. To that end one method was surely much as another. He poured some of the liniment into a glass, and when Rachel entered the room with clean linen asked her to fill it with soda water. He gagged upon the foul metallic taste as he drank it down, but later the haemorrhaging appeared to have stopped. His prescription had not been wrong. He knew as much as that old fool Charles.
*
‘Just look at you,’ said Mabel unsympathetically. ‘Your gloves don’t match and your hat’s all askew. In town I’d be forced to disown you.’ She walked ahead of Amy through the garden. ‘You may be tired, but it’s no excuse.’
Amy looked down at her hands in consternation.
‘Now this is the Dragon’s Den,’ Mabel announced, leading the way into a labyrinth of caves and stairways and fretted stone gratings. ‘It’s copied from the Mandarin Garden at Shanghai. Patrick sent some architects over to China to get the right idea.’ It was to see this new wonder in Mabel’s garden that Amy had been summoned. She was glad to get away from the house and Reggie’s infirmity. Mabel had also invited the children; they followed behind with Rachel.
‘You’re the first people to view it,’ Mabel said. ‘The last workmen departed only yesterday.’
Tom rushed suddenly forward past Amy to pull excitedly at Mabel’s skirt. ‘Where’s the Minotaur live? Their homes is in places like this. All horrid and rocky and frightful.’ He brought forth his new word proudly.
‘Let go of my skirt,’ Mabel demanded. ‘Has your mother taught you no manners yet?’ She glared at Tom.
Amy stepped forward to retrieve him. She held his hand firmly and walked him along.
‘The Minotaur was Greek, Tom. The story we read was about Ancient Greece. Aunt Mabel’s garden is Chinese. There are no Minotaurs in China,’ Amy explained. She felt too tired to tackle Tom. Rachel made no effort to come forward and take him. The girl was quietly insolent now whenever possible. Amy sighed. She could not blame her after what had happened.
‘Not true,’ Tom insisted. ‘Minotaurs everywhere, in all frightful places. Don’t like this place, Mama, it’s horrid. Tom going home.’ He struggled with Amy’s hand.
‘This is called the Dragon’s Den,’ Mabel turned on him sternly. ‘I’ll call out my dragon if you don’t behave.’
Tom scowled blackly at her. ‘Where is he then? Show Tom. Minotaurs kill dragons.’
‘Not this one,’ Mabel answered.
‘Stupid dragon,’ Tom muttered, but walked quietly by Amy, looking fearfully up at the grotesque rocks eroded into weird shapes by the currents of deep river beds, from where Patrick Rice had secured them.
‘Here we are,’ said Mabel as they came to a clearing and stood before a Chinese summerhouse, reminiscent of a pagoda. Servants waited, tea was laid out inside. Tom broke free and rushed ahead. A servant laughed and blocked his way.
Inside they sat on black-wood chairs and couches inlaid with mother-of-pearl. In the middle of the summerhouse a huge, ornately painted urn had been turned into a fish tank. Mabel took the children to it and pointed out the goldfish, each with six long tails.
‘It’s cruel,’ said Cathy, looking at the thick-walled urn. ‘They can’t see out of that.’
‘Oh, my!’ said Mabel. ‘And why should goldfish need to see?’
‘Because they’ve got eyes,’ answered Cathy. ‘My goldfish is called Peter. He lives in a glass bowl next to my bed. There’s nothing he cannot see.’
‘Eat your tea,’ snapped Mabel, ‘then you can go home.’
Soon they went, each side of Rachel, looking apprehensively up at the rocks, retreating from the Dragon’s Den.
‘Thank God they’ve gone,’ said Mabel. ‘Children have simply no appreciation. They shouldn’t be born until they’re twelve years old. I’m tired out already by them.’ Mabel sipped her tea.
‘How do you expect them to like a place like this? It’s enough to give them nightmares, all these grotesque rocks. They haven’t got adult eyes,’ Amy defended them.
‘Patrick has spent a fortune,’ Mabel said. ‘Don’t you tell him that.’ Amy leaned back in the uncomfortable chair and closed her eyes in exhaustion.
Mabel observed her over her teacup. ‘What are we to do with you? You look a mess, I don’t exaggerate. Is Reggie really no better?’ Amy shook her
head.
‘Perhaps he’ll die,’ said Mabel, refilling Amy’s cup.
‘How can you say such things?’ Amy demanded.
‘I’d have thought nothing could be more convenient,’ Mabel replied.
‘It’s not right to think like that,’ Amy said, closing her eyes again. All she wanted was to go to sleep.
‘You’ve become so virtuous and boring,’ Mabel replied. ‘If I were you I’d have fed a man like Reggie arsenic years ago.’
Amy opened her eyes but said nothing.
‘Doesn’t he take arsenic or something as a tonic?’ Mabel inquired in sudden curiosity. ‘I think Patrick heard a rumour once.’
‘There isn’t much that Reggie hasn’t tried in the way of medicines,’ Amy said.
‘Well, if he’s immune to arsenic, rat poison might do,’ Mabel decided.
‘Oh, do leave me alone,’ complained Amy. ‘Sometimes you’re worse than the children.’
‘I’m only trying to cheer you up.’ Mabel sounded hurt. ‘You’re just no fun any more.’
Mabel drank her tea in silent disapproval. She understood nothing of this new, chaste Amy, austere enough to make even Mabel take hurried stock of herself.
‘I can’t bear it,’ said Mabel suddenly. ‘You’re making me as dull as you’ve become yourself.’
‘I wouldn’t say dull,’ said Amy, opening her eyes. ‘Only wiser.’
‘Oh, my!’ said Mabel. ‘Haven’t we changed?’ Amy shrugged, and prepared to get up.
‘I don’t regret a thing I’ve done. I’ve got over my guilts.’ She remembered Guy le Ferrier and the misery shared with Mabel. ‘I can even see purpose in it now.’
‘Great words, great thoughts,’ mocked Mabel from her black-wood chair. ‘Maybe you’ll take up philosophy.’
‘A bit of that wouldn’t do you any harm,’ Amy responded.
‘Now don’t forget,’ said Mabel as Amy reached the summerhouse steps. ‘If he’s immune to arsenic, rat poison will do.’
‘You know,’ said Amy stopping to look back at Mabel. ‘I’ve never liked Reggie – in fact I dislike him – but it’s hard to hate him enough for that. Sometimes now I find myself feeling sorry for him. He’s trapped within himself. He can’t find the way to be a bigger, better man. He maddens me unbearably, but at the same time he’s rather sad. He hides behind his hedonism; he’s afraid to face himself. He even believes he’s enjoying life. Just look at the wreck he is, the waste of each year of his life. Poor man. I’ve lost all that anger I used to feel towards him.’
‘Oh, go home,’ yawned Mabel. ‘You’re a bore.’
‘I may leave him soon,’ said Amy. ‘I can live no longer with him. I’ve seen a way at last, if I decide to take it.’
‘Tell Auntie Mabel. I’m all ears now.’ Mabel sat up at once. Amy laughed and walked on down the steps.
‘Arsenic or rat poison will do the job quicker,’ Mabel shouted after her.
*
He slept, then woke feeling better, and struggled to a chair. The sun was mellow,’ it was afternoon. As he reached the chair he was suddenly in an agony worse than before.
‘Amy!’ He rang the bell but she did not come. Pain doubled him up. Through the open door he saw Jessie Flack walk across the landing to the nursery.
‘Jessie!’ he called. He had some idea she had accused him once of assaulting her. He remembered nothing, and Jessie Flack with her bony mind and body was not his type of woman. But he knew her strait-laced sort. Their own dreams in the end destroyed them.
She stood prudent upon the threshold. ‘Help me, girl,’ he gasped, staggering back to bed. The spasm convulsed him, his eyes bulged, he writhed about. She stood immobile in the doorway, staring.
‘Get me my medicine, help me,’ he panted.
She hesitated, as if making a decision. ‘The mistress is out. She said you’d sleep through. Dr Charles gave you a draught.’ She spoke accusingly.
‘Well, I’m awake and in need of medicine. If I could get it myself I would.’ He wheeled over with pain again.
She came into the room, her hands clasped together, white at the knuckles.
‘In that top drawer of the dressing table, at the back in a small paper packet. Yes, that one. Give me half in a glass of water, but only half, mind you. Stir it up well.’ He watched her face in the mirror. She raised her eyes to his and looked hurriedly away. He doubled up again, sweat poured off him. He-heard the clink of the spoon as she stirred the medicine, the closing of the little drawer as she replaced the remainder of the powder. When he opened his eyes she stood before him with the glass. He drank it down, swirling it about to get up all the grains of arsenic; then he lay back, exhausted.
‘That’s better. I’ll be all right now.’ He belched as he spoke and saw the disgust in her face. She turned and left the room.
He did not know how long he slept; a mist surrounded him. It was night, it was day. Faces passed before him, pain squeezed him like a nutcracker, his juices oozed away. Something was strangling him, drawing tighter about his throat. And the insects had come again, crawling under the sheets and upon his bare flesh until he screamed.
It was afternoon when he opened his eyes. The sun was setting through the window, Amy slept on the camp bed. He whispered her name but she did not stir. He felt slightly better, he pulled himself up upon an elbow. It gave a feeling of normality to look things in the eye. He felt flattened by his constant view of picture rails, cupboard tops stacked with dusty hat boxes, plaster mouldings and hanging lamps. He was suddenly sure the crisis was over. The dose of white arsenic had done the trick, he should have taken it before. He had come to no harm too with the sugar of lead the other day, and its effect had been as he hoped. The liniment was on the table beside the bed. He poured some into his brandy and soda left from earlier in the day. He drank it down, Amy did not wake. Soon he would be better now. Old Charles would of course take the credit himself. The pain seemed to ease dramatically and soon he fell asleep.
*
That Monday night Jessie Flack prayed hard upon her knees, her hands a tight ball before her. It had upset her more than she could tell to have stood before Mr Redmore again, to have ministered to him. She was sure he did not even remember that terrible night; he had been too drunk. The hate stored up more and more in her with the passing of each day. That hate and his illness seemed in some way connected. His face came back to her as she prayed, tortured and entreating her to help him as he had that afternoon. She should have left him; she should have done nothing for him.
In her mind she went over the occasion again. Mrs Redmore had gone to the post office with Cathy; Jessie was to join her there with Tom. She had been crossing the landing from the linen cupboard when Mr Redmore called her in. She had hovered before the open door. He was sitting in a chair doubled up in agony. He staggered to the bed, collapsing in a spasm, his face sweating and ugly. She watched, satisfaction at his labour filling her. She had concentrated on his pain so that it should use him pitilessly, leaving no corner. She wished no end to it for him.
‘Help me, girl,’ he had gasped, squinting up at her.
She closed her eyes, turning her hate like a knife within him. Her hands, clasped before her, were white at the knuckles, a ring pressed into her flesh. Yet she did as he told her when he regained himself, taking the packet from the drawer, saying not a word.
‘Half in some water. Stir it up well. But no more than half, mind you,’ he ordered, leaning back upon the pillows exhausted, mopping his brow.
She took the glass and filled it with water. The packet was small and tightly folded, inside lay a heap of greyish powder, flattened by constriction. She sensed him staring at her and raised her eyes to meet his in the mirror. As if her look had touched him, his pain flared up again. He wheeled over and her hands began to tremble. It was as if she had the power to manipulate his agony. It was his punishment; it was God at work. She was certain of it suddenly, shivering in excitement. She looked down and saw in her agitat
ion that all the powder had slipped into the glass. He would never know. She stirred it up quickly, threw away the empty paper and shut the dressing table drawer. He drank the stuff down with difficulty. He sat back and belched loudly.
‘That’s better. I’ll be all right now,’ he murmured. She turned in disgust at the repulsive sound and left the room without a word. It was obviously something to relieve his gas. She was satisfied she had administered nothing to alleviate his pain.
Now, seeing clearly God’s wrath on her behalf, she prayed hard upon her knees. ‘Punish him, Lord, in the name of all men like him.’ The memory of that night welled up again. Punish him. As the words rolled through her she heard again her own strange cry, released that night to echo unendingly in her. She put her hands to her ears but it would not stop. She picked up the words again and they swayed like comfort through her.
‘Punish him. Punish him. Punish him, Lord.’
*
From that Monday Reggie appeared worse each day, haggard and rasping, spewing forth from every orifice without alleviation. It frightened Amy. Dr Charles did nothing but fumble about in his worn black bag and pull out innocuous things.
‘Tomorrow is Thursday and will make a full week. How can he go on like this?’ she asked Dr Charles when he came. ‘Once for a time, while I was away in ’93, he saw Dr Baeltz in Tokyo. Perhaps we could have his opinion too,’ Amy reasoned.
Dr Charles was not averse and said he would cable. But during the day Reggie rallied; he seemed to have turned a corner. He sat up in bed and then in a chair, asking for brandy and soda, he kept down a few teaspoons of cornflour.
‘Dr Baeltz has replied that he cannot come until tomorrow, but I doubt we’ll want him now,’ Dr Charles announced when he returned. ‘It’ll be a needless expense; we can see how Reggie is tomorrow. He has retained his food, it is a decided improvement. My treatment is working.’
