by Janet Ellis
‘I wait for . . .’ I begin, but she doesn’t listen. She is on her hands once more, springing from one to the other as her skirts fall about her face. On her feet again, she turns two swift pirouettes.
‘Your lover is beautiful. Isn’t he? Beau. Bello. Schön.’ With each phrase, she swishes her skirts to and fro. Her fingers are broad and square and short with hardly enough space between to open them. ‘And where is he gone?’ She is very close to me now and I realise the irises and pupils of her eyes are all one, the colour of milk stirred into water.
‘I cannot see,’ the little tumbler says, as if I’d spoken. ‘But I can tell the future. You will love him, love him, love him – till you do not!’ She somersaults, making the ground seem to spring under her.
From inside the tent, another roar. How does he do? Does he fight well?
My companion bends over backwards to touch the earth behind her. How big is the world in her head? She holds one hand to her ear, listening to the noise with an exaggerated concern. With each swell and swoop of sound, she mimes ‘Ooh’ and ‘Aah’ and fans the air in front of her face in a pretence of fainting.
I feel suddenly as weary as if I hadn’t slept and I sink to the ground between the tent pegs where the thick ropes are tight with tension. The tiny woman lies down beside me and curls up in a tight bundle. I can feel the warmth of her back against my thigh – she is as hard-muscled as a cat. She sucks on her blunt thumb.
The bout must be nearly done – a low rumble of sound gathers pace and strength as the climax approaches. Then we hear wild applause and shouts of congratulation. I imagine Fub on the winner’s podium, his arm raised in triumph, his winnings in the other hand.
‘Fub!’ I shout at him as he staggers from the marquee. A large cut over his eye leaks steady red down his face. He has only his shirt on and he holds his waistcoat and jacket away from him as if they might burn his body. The shirt, too, is coloured with blood, darker here and solid. I had mistaken the shouts of victory, they were not for him.
‘Here, this is for you.’ The doll woman has disentangled herself from her slumber. She presses a slip of paper into my hand. What does she want? I must mend Fub now. Surely she understands? She must smell his blood even if she cannot see it.
‘Your fortune.’ She raises her voice on the last syllable, making it sound like a question. She waves both her hands at once, wiggling her stocky fingers at me. ‘Au revoir,’ then, ‘Auf Wiedersehen, ciao, farewell the bye.’ She scuttles away, with a rolling gait that throws her body from side to side, as if she is at sea on dry land.
I have no time for farewells and Fub scarely pays her heed as she goes. His life blood still flows from his wounds. How should I nurse him? Should I tear my petticoat for a bandage? How should a bandage go? I open the scrap of paper she gave me, to read before I throw it away. I do not need predictions now, I need . . . Oh, what do I need? Fresh water? The physician? The writing is curled and elaborate, with many dashes and bows around it, to make it seem more important. When you walk through a web, it says, look for the spider after.
‘Oh, God, that I had won.’ Fub is sinking to the ground. I cannot see his face – does he weep? I kneel by him, ready to do what I can. But I do not know what to do. His shoulders shake a little. I must be brave now, although I feel a little ball of panic beginning to rise. In many a fantasy, I imagined rescuing him from danger, getting his gratitude and relishing the glory of it. The reality is a jagged, terrifying thing.
‘Anne, how can you doubt me so?’ He is laughing at me, his face bright with pleasure. ‘Annie, I won! I beat the bastard, I sent him home with too many bruises to count and a crooked arm for good measure. Here! Here’s to victory!’ He pulls me to him; we are on the ground together, and when I kiss him I can taste the blood on his cheek, in his mouth. He licks at my neck. ‘My salty darling.’ Now his tongue is in my ear, tracing patterns that repeat inside me and I close my eyes.
‘A pretty sight! Young love!’
This voice is as familiar and unwanted as the taste of bile. I am flayed open as an anatomical drawing. Where was all warm honey now sits ice. My pulse beats very loud in my head. Fub still holds me, his face at my neck, puzzled that I do not respond, insistent that I should.
‘Mistress Jaccob, how delightful to see you again!’ The speaker continues, as if we were in a parlour. ‘And please send my very good wishes to your parents. How is your father?’
By now, I am getting to my feet. Smoothing my dress as I rise, patting my wayward hair into place. The favour lies on the ground, the flowers quite bent. Fub grips his arm at my waist, there is fight left in him. But this adversary is old and frayed, his belly too large for actions and his legs too stout to carry him very far or fast. We do not need our fists ready for him, do we, just quick wits.
And here is his face: his smiling mouth benign, his rheumy eyes triumphant.
‘Anne. Do you not know your old friend, Dr Edwards?’
Chapter 16
I could not sleep. All night I felt as if I was on the side of a steep, slippery hill where I could get no purchase, and my shoes slid helplessly as I tried to climb. This waking nightmare would not let me go, and when I closed my eyes it was only to stumble again, and lose my footing.
And much as I try to wish them away, the events of the day before insist themselves into all my thoughts, till all I can see is Dr Edwards’ face, shining with glee. It blots out everything else like an eclipse.
* * *
At first, at the fair, when he called my name and helped me to my feet, there was something almost innocent in his delight at meeting me. Despite his having seen me tumbled on the ground with only my shoes visible, and even though Fub had stood with his arm about me while he greeted me, Dr Edwards had beamed without guile. At first. Then he began to realise, slow as seeping tar, that he had discovered me where I should not be found and in company I would rather keep secret.
‘Who’s this?’ Fub had said, still ready to push the fellow away even if he couldn’t take a beating.
‘A friend of my father’s.’
‘An old friend of Mr Jaccob’s,’ Dr Edwards corrected. ‘And a companion of yore to this lady.’
Companion! Pah! I could say nothing, except: ‘Dr Edwards stayed at our house for a little while, when I was younger.’ I stiffen beside Fub and he moves his arm away at last. ‘But we have not . . . that is to say, he has not visited for many years.’
‘Is it so long?’ Dr Edwards looked slyly at me. ‘Of course, I see your father abroad in the town from time to time. When I ask after you, he tells me all is well. And recently, of course, much of the talk about you is of marriage.’ He said the word with a flourish, as the conjuror reveals the rabbit. He looked from one to the other of us, taking his time. ‘Is this gentleman paying court to you, Anne?’
‘He is a friend. Mr Frederick Warner.’
‘Mr Warner,’ Dr Edwards looked at him carefully. ‘Your notion of friendship is progressive. Most of us conduct our friendships entirely upright.’
‘Dr Edwards.’ I had to rescue us, our little boat was sinking and Dr Edwards was taking away every bucket we might use to bale. ‘I am very pleased to see you again. I have often thought fondly of our schoolroom.’ My voice was high with panic.
‘You were a very able pupil,’ he said.
‘And you a fine teacher.’ I had to keep him on this narrow path; there was a precipice on either side. ‘I have missed our lessons.’
If you tickle a dog, each part tenses in turn and shivers with delight, as it offers itself entirely up to your hand. So Dr Edwards submitted to my stroking.
‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘we could resume our classes. In some small way.’ I could not look at Fub. With every utterance, false as it was, I knew he thought I was betraying him.
‘I should like that.’ Dr Edwards was hoarse with anticipation. ‘Your father must be persuad
ed, of course, that we . . . Shall I—?’
‘Let me discuss this with my father,’ I said, speaking swiftly to keep him sweet. ‘If you recall, he was of the opinion that my education is of no value and so I will have to prepare him carefully if we are to resume.’
‘When he told me that you no longer wished to continue our little lessons, I sensed Thomas was not entirely disappointed.’ Dr Edwards laughed as if we shared a confidence. ‘Although I was extremely saddened.’
He betrayed no memory of the events of that day, when I was a child? Or, if he remembered, did he think that I had forgotten them? He made my gorge rise, and I violently wished him many miles away, or six feet under. I could not let him go to my father with his great news.
‘As I was,’ I said, demurely.
‘May I escort you further?’ Dr Edwards offered his arm. What could I do? Whatever he had seen, Fub and I could no longer go on our way with the carefree happiness we’d enjoyed. ‘This young gentleman may need to change his clothes.’ He indicated Fub’s shirt with a dismissive hand.
Fub’s shirt was stained, it was true, with the blood of his opponent and the green of the grass where we’d lain. He looked hard at Dr Edwards for, as ever, the man was covered in spots and stains himself. It twists my heart now when I think of his hurt expression as I linked my arm through Dr Edwards’, but we could not speak. I could only say ‘Later’ under my breath in a hurried whisper to him as we left, but I don’t know if he heard me. I walked as if on broken glass, each step more agonising the further away I went.
‘You can have a little fun, Anne,’ Dr Edwards said, patting my hand on his sleeve, ‘but you must avoid that rough sort. Practise your kissing, by all means, but only with your peers. I had observed you together for a few moments before I introduced myself, and saw how he pulled you to the ground. Thank goodness I intervened, otherwise you might not have had the means to protect yourself.’
We went back through the fair, and where before everything was enchanting, now it was all poisoned. The colours were vulgar, the people coarse. When we parted, a little way from the house, I told him I would send word of where we should next meet, and he went on his way happily. He was trying to peer past me as we spoke, of course, lest he caught sight of my father and might thus have been able to insinuate himself into the house all the faster.
* * *
I hate Dr Edwards with all my might. I loathe his gristly face and his thick ears. His sour breath and coarse hands are an affront to me. I despise the very clothes he wears and the food he swallows. I begrudge him the space he takes up on the earth. My hatred swells as if my thoughts inflated it, and it would lift me off my feet if I did not hold on to thinking about Fub, to keep me anchored on solid ground.
When I hear the commotion from downstairs, I am frightened it might be Dr Edwards: he might have decided that any small pleasure he might derive from being my teacher would not be as great as the joy in being my informer. I wait for the inevitable call.
It is not him. My parents are come home. I hear the baby’s cry, but it is quickly shushed. There is no conversation, no thump of boxes returned; I cannot make out any of the bustle I might expect after their absence. Are they both here?
My mother is nowhere to be seen, and my father scarcely looks up when I come to him. ‘Her mother died,’ he announces.
‘My grandmother?’
‘The day we arrived. A fever.’
‘Is my mother sick?’ A clutch of panic at my heart.
He frowns. ‘No. She mourns. As you would expect. And would have stayed longer at her father’s house, but I insisted we return. Buried her yesterday.’ He was probably champing at the bit to get back to his London diversions. I expect he offered my mother no comfort, not even a kerchief for her tears. He looks about him, inspecting what might have shifted in his absence. Then at me, to see if he can spot any changes there. ‘And have you been on more outings or suchlike with Simeon?’
‘Not . . . no.’
‘No?’ He taps his foot against the floor, waiting for me to explain. I take a deep breath.
‘Aunt Elizabeth forbade him to call on me.’
‘Pardon?’ I have his full attention now. ‘What did she do?’
‘She told him that he was not to call. I overheard her, and I was horrified, of course, but what could I do?’
‘Why would she do such a thing?’ he looks away, breathing hard, turning this strange news over.
‘I don’t like to besmirch her, Father, but I have thought about why she did it, and I consider that her actions might have been precipitated by . . . envy. I am afraid I think she was jealous of his paying me attention.’
He stares at me. ‘That cannot be enough reason,’ he says, squinting into the middle distance. I know that he is unable to imagine how she might feel.
I do not waver. ‘She told me that it was not fitting for him to take me to entertainments. When I told her that you had expressly instructed her to let him call, she replied that she was mistress in your stead and he and I must do as she ordered.’
My father breathes heavily. I continue: ‘She then told me I was in need of her ministrations and she read the Bible aloud to me, most frequently. She ventured it would improve me more than any marriage would.’ I look down as if overcome by sadness at the turn of events. Then I raise my eyes to him and whisper, ‘She is, after all, a single woman.’
He sits for a while, his expression fixed. Then, as you might witness the dawn come up over the horizon, his anger rises – reaching first his mouth, which sets in a thin line, and then his eyes, which he narrows. It is most diverting to watch. Eventually, just as it seems he is about to explode from his clothes with fury, he gets to his feet. He almost paws the ground. Aunt Elizabeth had better have her wits about her to fend him off. He might have brute strength on his side but her wings aren’t clipped and she can fly away. I would very much like to observe the confrontation, but instead I have to stay where I am.
I hear him roaring at her, then her chirping replies: it is only a short exchange. He seems to be leaving no room for her explanation. Then she bustles up the stairs – I can sense her looking for me; she must be almost drilling through the walls with her eyes to seek me out.
* * *
When I can no longer hear her ordering coaches and slamming doors and it is safe to leave my room, I go to my mother.
She sits by her bed on a low chair with her hands in her lap. Grace must be ministering to the baby, the crib is empty beside her. She raises her head, but not so that our eyes meet. She is half an orphan now and it has made her even more grey with sorrow.
‘Aunt Elizabeth is gone,’ I kneel by her. ‘I am happy to have you home but I am sad for your loss, Mother.’ I look at her hands; she twists them together but doesn’t reach for me.
‘She did not linger,’ she says. ‘That is some comfort.’
The world divides, does it not, into those for whom you wish a speedy end and those you want to suffer. My grandmother was a mouse of a woman, she hardly made an impression on the world – if she had walked across a bowl of set cream her footsteps would not have marked it. She did no one any harm. It is right that she was stamped quickly under God’s heel. I would not have wished on her any of the several painful, drawn-out ways I have imagined to send Onions and Dr Edwards to their Maker. I may not voice anything of these thoughts to my mother, so I say: ‘It is indeed a comfort.’
‘I sang to her,’ she ventures a small, embarrassed smile, looking at me directly at last. ‘Songs that I cannot remember learning. These things are stored in our heads as if we are born already knowing them, aren’t they? Like the alphabet or the times tables.’
My memory of my grandmother is vague, as fuzzy as pulled wool. She hardly ever visited nor did we go much to her, though she lived hardly half a day’s ride from us. There is a miniature of my grandmother to remember her by but
my mother would leave no trace. I look carefully at her, to store her features for when she is gone. Perhaps the baby will grow to resemble her, as I do not. Jealousy stabs like scissors that open their blades in the wound.
‘But they must have been songs she taught me, I suppose.’ She weeps without wiping away her tears.
‘You taught me songs, too,’ I say. I have not sung for a long time. There has not been any music at all in the house since I was small and stood by the piano while Dr Edwards played.
‘How have you passed the time, Anne?’ she puts one hand out to me. It must hardly have any blood in it, it feels so light. ‘Did Mr Onions improve with acquaintance?’
‘Aunt Elizabeth would not admit him, Mother.’ She frowns. ‘But I made do with . . . visits.’ For a moment, I think she is going to ask where I went but instead she regards me with an amused expression, as if I have confirmed to her something that she has long suspected. She blinks, quickly dismissing her tears and her thoughts.
She talks of the christening and about the baby’s new ways, things that are of no interest to me. In my head I go with Fub to the fair once more. When my mother falls silent, it is a moment before I realise she is watching me.
‘Have you heard a word?’ she asks. ‘You are dreaming, Anne.’
‘I was distracted, I’m sorry.’
‘I was not reporting matters of any consequence.’ She smiles. ‘These are only small things.’ She pauses, considering what she will say next. ‘Are you happy, Anne?’
I must look startled, for she continues without waiting for my answer. ‘I do not mean on the question of Onions. I would not expect your happiness to blossom there quite yet.’ Or ever, I think. ‘I expect you think it will not bloom at all,’ she says. We catch each other’s smile then. ‘I am aware that he might not be the husband you would choose but, when the time comes then we can speak of your married life, and I will prepare you as best I can.’
