With my love,
Emily
February 11th 1864
Dear Beatrice,
Yes, we will come to dinner! Mam is organising the carriage & we will be in Westminster very soon. How delightful it will be to have my Arthur & my Beatrice with me all at once!
Until tonight,
Emily
February 19th 1864
My dear Bea,
You would not recognise your happy sister in this sad countenance, yet I am grateful you could ease your long sorrow in my company, just as siblings ought, & I do wish to share my feelings with you, because it seems our families have a bond—an understanding that I felt almost immediately when Arthur & I began to speak beyond the usual niceties of social intercourse. I only hesitated to confide in you because it is hard to talk of loss & grief when others are nearby & to hide from company the agitation that rushes over me when I think of my beloved brother. But I know you will understand—you who have shown such sensitivity to matters of the heart—that if I write to you about dear James, it might help me to speak of him more naturally with you in the future, & for you to unburden yourself to me whenever you might need, as sisters do.
I was lost for years after James’s death, dear Bea, as if in a dense mist that would not lift, even in my coming out, even in the excitement of my first London season. I was only fifteen when it happened, after all, & he was my only sibling. Though he was often away with his schooling, then his years at Oxford, there was always a great attachment between us, even with the difference in our ages.
Oh, how I loved his breaks! He would arrive home with pages of impressive words & meanings for me to memorise, & a reading list: Plato, Dante, Rousseau—so many books that I would muddle through! Then on his next visit, he would ask, “So, what do you think of Pascal then, Emmie?” & Mother would say, “Leave her alone, James—she has dear Miss Roberts,” & he would tease Mother with, “Dear Miss Roberts does not educate her in philosophy, or Greek, or political economy …” & then Mother would interrupt with all the important skills the governess taught me, like French & the piano & dancing & how to converse in society. But whenever she would chide James & say, “The poor child should be concentrating on how to make a harmonious home for her future husband,” he would laugh & say that my brain would grow as fat & sluggish as Toby, our old pug. And he would poke poor Tobes with his toe & then all three of us would laugh. I can hear us laughing even now.
How good James was for me! He was always my greatest support & my dearest friend, but he encouraged me to be strong & certain, just as you & Arthur do. I remember skating with him on our cousins’ pond in Scotland—many, many happy memories of spinning & racing & falling, only to have his hand lift me to my feet again. Oh, & picking blackberries together for Mrs Bolton’s tasty tarts; popping the juiciest berries into our mouths, & that burst of sweet-sour flavour like a hope, perhaps. A promise of all that is possible.
So when he was gone, I felt I was gone too—as if we were trapped together in some strange in-between world; as if he were a shade without awareness of anything beyond the repeating habits of our household & the terror of his own death. I was with James, but the closeness was a torment. It was like … How can I explain? I would imagine, Bea, imagine, imagine, until I was driven to distraction; until I hardly dare open my eyes or unstop my ears. When I ran down the stairs, his toes would be at my heels, his breath at my neck. When I reached for more cake at supper, his gentle hand would tap mine. When I turned the corridor corner, there his own dear self would be.
That I could stand. But the nights, dear Bea, the nights! In the dark solitude of my bed I would be claimed by my poor brother’s last day on this earth: I would be with him on that sailing boat, a sunny holiday jaunt, a solo day-long voyage, the waves slapping salt against our faces, the deck boards jarring our knees. Together we saw the sky darken & heard the creaking complaint of the old timber; together we exulted, as we raced towards shore, at the climb to the crests of the waves, the plunge into their hollows. But then we heard that terrible thundering crack! & our hearts raced as we felt the boat undoing, as we slid over snapping, rending boards & clung to any that were not claimed by that devouring sea. And when, in the end, he was dragged from my grasp & into the grip of those cold waves, then finally, exhausted, bereft, I would succumb to sleep. But each night I would be woken by his shouts & his entreaty would come to me: “Emily. Emily! Please save me!” Each night I would hear his voice again, & each night I would lose him anew.
I have learned that there are all sorts of ghosts in this world. Brothers, mothers—babies without face or form; siblings who have never been. I have learned that those we loved fiercely haunt us the most. And here I write carefully, my dear Bea, knowing that what was lost to Arthur was lost to you also. Perhaps, then, you know the relief of sharing such despair & understand how Arthur came to me as a light through darkness. Why the ghost of James now gives me peace & why I can love him now, at last, without fear or consequence.
Poor Mam. We were no help to each other then, she & I. James was her last great loss, after the many silent, secret losses she & Father had already suffered. She had enough strength for herself alone. As for me: the nights I have spoken of enough, but the days were a trial of a different sort. All through that dreadful time I was plagued by terrible headaches & what Father said was anaemia & a “weak liver”, & was made to drink ghastly tonics & rest in bed in daylight, where I would toss around in fits of boredom & loneliness. Was it the lack of the reading with which James used to stimulate me? Or the absence of our teasing debates? The want of occupation? The loss of all those activities from which the weaker sex is discouraged, but which James gladly encouraged? All of these, I suppose. What I do know is that my suffering lifted when I met Arthur, & when we sealed our future with a kiss a year later, it was like a union with someone dearly loved who I had forgotten & did not know that I would ever, ever see again.
Dear Beatrice, I hope I have not been too maudlin; Mother would scold me if she knew I had been indulging these old feelings. But I am sure from your own words & the tears you shared with me that you must understand a sadness that never leaves entirely. And now your willingness to hear this history has left me calm & newly grateful for my dearest sister.
With love,
Emily
February 24th 1864
My dear Beatrice,
Thank you for all your concern for our small family. For your caring questions & your messages of love & support when I showed you all of myself & worried what you might think of me—not only the merry, teasing Emily, but the Emily who fears & grieves, I find now, just as you do. When I met Arthur I not only gained my sweetheart—someone to whom I can devote myself as a helpmeet in the years to come—I also found a sister & friend, where I feared there might be a cool judge. I remember now as if it were another girl, how my heart hammered as I wrote that first letter to you. And how presumptuous I felt to suggest my family’s wealth & Father’s recent success might balance your family’s prestige & its honourable ties to the soil of this nation. How inadequate my words seemed, unformed as my education has been, with gaps like holes in need of darning. It was only your warm manner that overcame my natural uncertainty—that terrible timidity that I believe is my bent.
Yes, I received the copy of Kingsley’s Water Babies & I agree. The story may be an enchanting escape from the worthy political tracts that you & Arthur recommend (best read away from Mam & Miss Roberts), but this “children’s novel” is full of that prejudice against the poor & the Irish which Arthur & I both condemn. Will this ever change? we often wonder. It is hard to imagine, though Arthur thinks social attitudes can become more rational & kinder, & I would like to believe him …
But enough! I wish to ask you something delightfully trivial, dear Bea: Will you be at the Wilsons’ ball on Saturday? I do hope so! I will wear my dove-grey, if it is not too cold.
With loving wishes,
Emily
March 3rd 18
64
Dear Bea,
Thank you for your willing ear yesterday. I am so glad I can speak freely with you about these difficult matters; Mam accuses me of coarseness if I try, & Father tells me not to trouble myself about such things as dowries & marriage settlements—“That’s for us men to worry about,” he said to me last night. But I do need to understand how any independent income I receive will find its place within the marriage. How will we manage it in the running of a household & the pursuit of our goals? My darling Arthur is, of course, happy to explain it all, but sometimes we are a little awkward, mainly through my uncertainty &, also, his pride. He wishes to provide for us, & he assures me his income from the bar will hold us in good stead, but I would like my income to be available to the marriage without exception, so we can build connections in society & assure Arthur’s future in politics, if that is the path he chooses. It does seem that property will be included in the dowry, so that will be kept protected as an inheritance … But I do not understand this fully, Bea, & Father will not properly explain. Surely it is important that I have some knowledge of affairs related to me & some ability to determine them, even if I am young & only a woman!
With fond wishes,
Emily
March 6th 1864
Dearest Beatrice,
You were right! Arthur & I spoke privately about the money question after dinner last night & the knot was gently untied.
How delightful it is to discover that such issues are readily solved through thoughtful conversation with my dear Arthur. I am finding that even small disagreements only occasion teasing & delight. When I observe other couples, & their little shafts of displeasure & discomfort, I see how well Arthur & I rub together & how carefully he takes into account my point of view.
Miss Emily Reid become Mrs Rochdale. How grand it sounds. I can hardly contain myself, but I must, until that happy day when I truly become a part of your family. Meanwhile, we have lots to plan—only five months now!
Your soon-to-be-sister,
Emily
CHAPTER 7
PERTH, DECEMBER 2007
Alice leaned against the wall of the reception area. She had been standing for twenty-five minutes now and her legs were tired. But she studiously looked at the Christmas decorations and the tasteful watercolours on the wall – away from the empty seats and the faces of other patients. She’d already knocked back the offer from that burly man with the whiskery sideburns.
Would you like a seat, dear?
No, thanks. I’m fine.
The back, is it? With a sympathetic and knowing nod.
Yes. A pained smile. Willing him to go away.
A screen above the counter cycled messages. Ask our friendly staff about flu vaccinations. The play area is provided for your children. Please cover your mouth when coughing or sneezing. One specific to this centre: We specialise in women’s health. The demands and instructions were softened by whimsical cartoons of harassed-looking mothers, a friendly-faced needle, bawling kids and giant tissues.
‘Alice Tennant?’
Dr Gibbs had a nimbus of fine brown hair and wore an Indian-style skirt that was friendlier than her face. She walked with a little tinkle. Alice followed her into a consulting room. There were posters of rainforests on the wall, with exhortations to Believe in the truth of your body and Trust in inner health arranged around waterfalls and creeper-entwined trees. She felt compelled to sit. The doctor looked at the writing that Alice had crammed between questions about the presenting complaint: the onset, the duration; what makes it better, what makes it worse. The diagnoses received: a mystery STD, mechanical urethritis, herpes, possible vulvar cancer, a fungal infection … Alice had been diligent. She lifted one buzzing buttock off the cushioned surface of her seat and tried to pull reason from her macerated thoughts. Stacey says she’s really good. A recommendation from one of Penny’s colleagues. Knowledgeable but thinks outside the box too. Alice had stitched her hopes to this unknown Stacey’s judgement.
‘So I see you have ongoing genital problems, Alice.’ The GP looked up from the notes. ‘Could you tell me about how this began? And exactly where you experience the pain?’
‘Okay.’ She hesitated, but the fizzing and knifing precluded embarrassment. ‘My vulva and vagina hurt. They’ve been like this since I got a UTI in September.’ And because it seemed relevant, she added, ‘After lots of sex.’
‘So this was confirmed as an infection? Or do you just think this is what you had?’
‘Oh, no. No. It was tested. From a urine sample.’ Alice shifted onto her right buttock cheek, suspended the left. ‘I went through a couple of lots of antibiotics but it stayed the same.’
‘I see. So you have been like this for over three months.’ Dr Gibbs looked over her glasses at Alice, her eyes a clear, cool blue. ‘Could you describe the symptoms to me?’
‘Well, at first I wanted to urinate all the time. And when I did, it hurt. That’s when I thought I might have an infection, because I’ve had one before.’ It was a stale story to Alice now. How many medicos had it been? Five? Six? How many ‘alternative’ health practitioners? ‘So I went to a GP at the local centre. But after the antibiotics I felt the same. Worse really.’ How could she describe it convincingly, woman to woman? ‘It wasn’t just the urinating that hurt. It hurt all the time, inside and outside.’ Then, quickly: ‘It isn’t just in my head.’ Had she imagined the aura of scepticism around the doctors she consulted? She’d heard ‘psychosomatic’ several times. Once from a male gynaecologist who said, Try not to think about it too much. And once from a psychologist who asked her questions about sex as she stood and cried.
Her back was trembling, right at its base. She shifted her weight to the left buttock cheek.
‘Why are you doing that?’ The GP looked at Alice’s posture with a frown.
Alice felt the blush. ‘Because it hurts to sit.’
‘That’s not right.’
Found wanting, Alice would abase herself if she could. Slide around on the ground and kiss the doctor’s feet. Slit the throat of a lamb and splash it over an altar.
But Dr Gibbs had moved on. ‘Let’s have a look, shall we?’ The part Alice dreaded. ‘Just remove your bottom half.’
Alice went behind the curtain. Heard the rush of voices as the GP left the consulting room, then, silence. Off with her sandals. Down with the sensible undies, their crotch already loose and low. Off with the sloppy skirt. On, to the tissued napkin placed just so on the white sheets of the bench. Over, with the comfortingly clean sheet left discreetly at the end of the bench. It was a relief to have no undies against the rawness. She pictured it as swollen and red, but Duncan had looked there and said, It’s the same as always. Beautiful. She didn’t know whether to be relieved.
A click of the door and the doctor came around the edge of the curtain, pulling on one then the other latex glove. Alice let her knees flop out.
The GP had a cotton bud in her hand. This was new.
‘Just tell me the pain you feel out of ten, with ten being the worst pain you can imagine.’ Her hand disappeared below the sheet.
‘Fuck!’ Alice’s body jumped away from the bench. The sharp stab pierced her genitals, whipped lightning-like upward and inward and echoed where she thought her bladder and uterus might be. ‘Shit – sorry.’ It became an ache that enveloped her belly and pelvis. ‘That’s a nine.’
Alice knew the pain could be worse. She had a ten when, feeling her way, she put that herbal ointment on her vulva. The ointment that the traditional Chinese doctor smilingly assured her, Can’t hurt. Can’t hurt. And after the antifungal cream that the local chemist said was mild and effective. The cream that burned for days and that rinsing over and over could not soothe. She knew that ten was a pain that crowded out all consciousness except the instinct to clutch the ledge of life from which she dangled.
‘Alright. And what about this?’
Alice was rigid in preparation. The pain was the same, but this time she m
anaged to lie still, to hold the expletives behind thinned lips. A tear slipped along the side of her face and into her hair. ‘Nine.’
‘And this?’
‘Seven.’ The pokes seemed less ferocious. ‘Six.’ Again. ‘Six.’ Dr Gibbs looked at her expectantly. Alice realised she could no longer distinguish the individual bursts of flame from the fire that now consumed her genitals, pelvis, inner thighs and buttocks. ‘Five,’ she guessed. The rest of her body had shut itself away. Even her mind seemed numbed. As if she had no volition; as if she would do anything this woman told her. ‘I’m not sure … five?’
‘Okay. Let’s get dressed now.’
Again Alice was alone, though she could hear tapping behind the curtain. She lifted her hand and blew gently on the palm, then placed it so her fingers curved around the outside of her genitals. She wanted ice or some kind of soothing poultice. She wanted to nurse the ache or attack somebody or beg for forgiveness. She did not know what to want.
Her feet slid sideways and she found herself standing. Then her skirt was eased up over her hips and gently zipped at the back. Her undies stuffed to the bottom of her bag and her sandals pushed hard onto her feet. The curtain drawn back.
Dr Gibbs’s fingers were flying at the keyboard, then moving to a chart on a piece of paper. The little elephants on her skirt gazed at Alice, who realised she must sit again. She eased onto the side of one buttock, letting the other hang off the edge of the chair, and braced herself with a tensed leg. Her own skirt settled around her awkward pose.
The GP was putting numbers on the diagram. With a little shock, Alice recognised the upside-down view. She realised that the numbers referred to her vulva.
‘You are lucky you didn’t get this ten years ago.’ Dr Gibbs put her glasses next to the keyboard and turned.
‘What is it?’ Alice rose slightly, shifted to the other side of the chair and the other buttock cheek. She would have to stand soon.
Eye of a Rook Page 7
