by Janet Ellis
That is not much of a promise to keep. What possible experience can she draw on, except to use her own unhappy example as the one I should not repeat? My father is the rock and Onions is the hard place. Both are covered in festering, slippery weed, too. How could she help me choose between them?
‘No, I meant instead to ask if . . . if you are content in the other paths you take. You spend long hours alone, and I hope you find your own company acceptable.’
‘I do.’
‘Please tell me if anything in particular concerns you.’
What does she want me to say? This is a strange time for a confidence. Shall I speak of Onions’ patent revulsion at everything about me, except the convenience of my being a wife to him? Can I tell her that when I sniff at the sleeve of my dress I can smell where Fub’s hand was, gripping me as I slid beside him on a fairground wheel? It is a mixture of sweat and leather that I would wear as a perfume if I could.
‘No, there is nothing.’ Does she know I lie?
She studies me carefully; again it as if she sees me properly for the first time in a long while. ‘You cannot open your heart to me, Anne. But I think that is because it is already preoccupied.’
Her words tug at me. I wish that I could confide in her, but I cannot. If I cling to her now I am sure we will both drown.
‘I grieve for my grandmother, your mother.’ It is true that if I think about it hard enough, her death saddens me. I stare at my mother’s face. Try as I might, I cannot see the girl she was. Her younger self is as distant as the horizon to us both.
‘I hope that your husband has an interest in many things, so that you can discuss them together.’ She says ‘husband’ with the faintest suspicion of regret. ‘I suspect you would find that very satisfying. I know how quickly your mind turns.’
Then do not saddle me with someone like Onions, I think, who has opinions so unbending they might as well be made of steel and no interest in mine.
‘I remember how clever you were at your lessons,’ she says. I shiver. How odd that she mentions that now, with the newly summoned shade of Dr Edwards materialising ever more strongly. I can almost hear the piano keys sound as if we played together a floor below.
It is not long before my father crashes into another obstacle to household calm and yells his anger. Jane is shouting, too, so I deduce he must have discovered her wasteful attempts at baking. If my father ever feels uncertain in his long-held belief that women are stupid, he only has to wait an instant for some proof to present itself. My mother turns back to her solitary contemplations. She is deaf to the disorder. I almost embrace her, but she seems too fragile to hold.
‘I find my sister has interfered maliciously in every part of this house!’ my father bellows at Jane. ‘She had no proper right to take over management of our affairs in this way.’ She is nodding vigorously, her mouth closed tight.
As when a stone is dropped in a pond, so the ripples of my accusations against Aunt Elizabeth have swiftly spread outwards. Each supposed example of her transgressions adds to the growing circle. Before long there will be no occurrence too small – a hen that does not lay or an object found out of place – that the blame is not laid at Aunt Elizabeth’s door.
While my father shouts, Jane catches my eye and seems to react oddly to seeing me. I can’t be sure; she is so full of twitches it is hard to tell what she intends. I wait till my father tires of this particular exertion and lumbers off, leaving us alone.
‘Does he fret about the cake?’ I ask.
‘He asked if the house had run smoothly. I did not know what to say, Mistress Anne, but he said that she had done very wrong by you and that you had confessed to it, and that I should, too.’
‘Well, she is gone. And Onions, too. So you may cook us some good meat tonight and no one will complain.’
To my surprise, something – perhaps the very mention of meat – makes me weep.
Jane looks horrified at my falling tears. ‘Oh Mistress, oh Madam.’ She stands on her tiptoes to dab at my eyes. She is near enough for me to catch the sweet, cooked pudding scent of her clothes.
‘I have caught a cold,’ I sniff, reluctant to take her in to my confidence.
‘Oh dear,’ she bites her lip. ‘Can you see the butcher’s boy then, or shall I send him away?’
I grab her arm. ‘Oh!’ She shrieks, then claps her hand over her mouth before I can tell her to be quiet.
‘Where is he?’ I hiss, close to her ear. Her look says she knows that she was right to suspect my feelings for Fub are not those of a housewife for a shopkeeper. It is too late to care about that. I have vanquished Onions and Aunt Elizabeth and, if I have to, I’ll get this woman out of my way too. But for now, I need her to speak. ‘Where. Is. He?’ I separate the words, giving each a little punch. She jerks her head.
‘At the door. As usual.’ She matches my whisper, her lips wet. ‘He has been waiting. I could not come and find you, not while your father questioned me.’ As I leave, she hisses, ‘Mistress’!’ and saliva sprays from her mouth.
‘What is it?’
She lowers her head but keeps her eyes on me. We are conspirators now. I would not have chosen to take Jane in to my confidence – with her pitted cheeks and perspiring forehead, she is an unattractive accomplice – but it can’t be helped.
‘Mistress,’ she says, ‘he has brought no basket of meat with him.’ Her meaning is clear. She watches my face with her small eyes and stands more still than I have ever seen her do.
When I go to him, I feel nervous and unprepared. He has his hands in his pockets and doesn’t take them out to hold me, but waits, defiant, for me to speak. The words I need do not come easily, and I almost choke on trying to explain who Dr Edwards is, and what he means to us. It seems an age till I have told him all I can, and he still only stands there, keeping his distance from me and his thoughts locked up.
‘What shall I do?’ I say, calm at last and ready for instruction.
‘He is an impediment, to be sure,’ Fub says carefully, ‘if he were a rogue animal, there would be no question about what would happen to him.’
‘How would an animal be called rogue?’
‘Several ways. If it did not follow the herd, or it destroyed its pen, or it got too savage to be milked easily, or it fought anyone who approached. Not worth the trouble of keeping for any of those.’
‘What would happen to it?’
Fub draws his finger across his throat. ‘A kindness.’ He grins.
‘Dr Edwards. Do you think he resembles a beast?’
‘If he was,’ Fub says, casually, ‘You’d know what to do. You’ve seen it happen, after all.’
I imagine Dr Edwards, roped and suspended upside down from a beam with the blade approaching. I don’t need reminding of how a knife works. And how swiftly. ‘But as it is, he must be dealt with and I can’t lead him to Levener’s for dispatching.’
‘Take Levener’s to him, then. Or rather, take from there what it is you need and what you know.’
I look at Fub, waiting for a smile or a look in his eyes to dilute this strong stuff. He doesn’t smile.
‘Oh,’ I say, deliberately playful, ‘you would have me slice Dr Edwards up like a little pig, would you? A very clever solution. How would I do it?’
‘I have never killed a man,’ Fub says, matching my tone. ‘But if I did, I wouldn’t go for the jugular.’
I think of Dr Edwards’ fleshy chin, which almost conceals the neck below. ‘Why not? That worked for the calf.’
‘It is good for every animal that will not fight you back. But if they can defend themselves, you’d have to get in close and be quick. But there’s a great amount of blood pumping here,’ he squeezes his thigh, ‘and if the next wound was there,’ pointing above his knee, ‘it’d be all over in no time.’
I am trying to stand still while he tells me t
his, although I want to dance with glee. It is both the subject matter that thrills me and the sheer joy of learning new information.
Fub laughs at my happiness. ‘You like this game,’ he says, as if it truly was just that. ‘I can almost believe you are really keen to learn.’ He begins to lose the intensity that had me spellbound.
‘Play again,’ I say. I cannot hide my urgency.
‘I am the evil butcher!’ He speaks with an artificial, melodramatic depth, loud and too strong. When I don’t respond, he lowers his voice. ‘Look at all these blades. To slice a little pig, you need a little knife. And little hands . . .’ he takes my hands in his, at last, ‘little hands like these,’ he kisses my palms, first one then the other, ‘can only hold little knives, too. There’s a perfect match in those two facts.’
I twist my hands in his and hold on to his wrists, spreading my fingers there. It is as if we face each other ready to begin a dance. There is a vibration around me – a low thrum. It is the sound of all the sharp things from every drawer and on every shelf offering themselves to my hand, their shanks already curved to my touch, the blades tingling.
I lean close to him. ‘Are not bigger hands more suited?’
‘Bigger hands . . .’ he measures what he says with care, stroking my wrists with his circling thumbs, ‘ . . . are better hidden. Two folk walking together are noticed. You should go alone.’ He smiles again, as though he only joked. I see his sharp incisors shine. ‘You could wind him in. He looked to me to be half hooked already.’ His eyebrows raised, he looks enquiringly at me, to see if I’ve understood. The blades nearby twitch.
‘Get him where he needs to be, then . . . leave him there.’ Fub squeezes where he stroked. Where would we go?
‘I will arrange to meet with him,’ I agree, ‘but as for the rest . . .’
‘What rest?’ Fub says innocently. ‘What you do when you meet is up to you. How your steady hand proceeds and your strong arm acts, I couldn’t say.’ He raises his hands together in front of him, clasped together as if he prays. ‘Will You help her with this business?’ he says to the heavens. ‘Can You guide her hand in her necessary deed? For You see everything and therefore understand what it is that must be done.’
I tell him to be quiet, not because he blasphemes – I don’t care about that – but because my head is so busy with my thoughts.
‘One more thing.’ Fub’s hand are on my shoulders. ‘Leave your window wide tonight.’
‘Will you speak with me again later?’
He snorts in reply: ‘I won’t be saying much. If it were words you needed, I’d say them now. But I have an instruction of a sort for you.’ He kisses me, quickly. ‘Leave your window wide, then, will you?’
As he turns to go, he says, ‘You do sleep in the room to the left of the backyard door, don’t you? Your window does have a yellow curtain, doesn’t it?’
I laugh aloud at his coyness. He could be a little boy, asking for a sweetmeat. But he is not a child and neither am I and we do not plan childish things, do we? ‘Climb up there and see. If it isn’t the right place, you’ll know soon enough.’ I must go away from him now. ‘I’ll be ready for you.’ I want to take his hand and put it between my legs. The pulse that beats softly at my wrist, my temple and my neck beats there more strongly. If I don’t leave, I will beg him to touch me. As it is, I struggle to stay upright and would crawl away on all fours if I could.
How foolish Dr Edwards had looked, all those years ago, when he bade me keep my hand on him and strove for his release. The old man was dark with lust; there was nothing light about his panting urgency. We two can scarcely move for brightness. Even though I shield my eyes, desire leaves spots before my eyes.
Chapter 17
How slowly the time goes as I wait for the night. Each maddening second hangs like dripping treacle. I look at the clock so often my father notices.
‘Do you wish the time away?’ He sticks his neck forward and his lower lip protrudes. ‘You seem preoccupied with the passing hours.’
I feign a yawn. ‘I am weary, I thought it was late and I might sleep soon, but I see it is not yet the hour to retire.’
‘Go when you will.’ He picks at his teeth with his fork.
‘Thank you, then – good night.’ But I am reluctant to leave. If time hangs heavy here it will be ten times weightier when I sit by myself in my room, alert to every sound in case he comes. ‘Father?’ He stops his excavations. ‘May I borrow a book, please?’
‘A book? Which book?’
‘I had not thought of any in particular. Perhaps I could choose one?’
He blows air into his cheeks. ‘I hope you do not think I keep any poetry.’ We are both thinking of the burning book.
‘No, not that. But it is a long while since I read anything but the Bible.’
‘I doubt I have anything to interest you. My library is mostly concerned with shipping and law. But there may be a novel or two.’
‘May I look?’ I move to get up, but he stops me. ‘No, no, I will inspect the shelves. Wait here.’ He leaves the door ajar, I watch him square his shoulders before he goes into his study as if he’s about to do battle.
He is gone for some time, and eventually I go to find him. He may have forgotten his purpose, or nodded off. He is sitting in his chair, a book in his hand, reading, and does not hear me come in. I screw up my eyes to see what holds his attention so strongly. Fanny Hill, the book announces, Memoirs of a Woman of —. I get no further. My father starts as if he heard a gunshot and snaps the book shut.
‘Anne!’ He puts his palm flat over the book as if it would spring up and denounce him. ‘Why do you creep about?’
‘I wasn’t intending to alarm you, Father.’ He looks flushed. What does this book contain? My father’s expression is reminiscent of Dr Edwards’ watery ardour. He slides the book
towards him, then into the drawer beneath, in one fluid movement. It is a good thing he won’t look too closely at the drawer’s contents. He might notice the wooden box there doesn’t rattle any more. ‘Dull, very dull,’ he says, still awkward. ‘Now, what shall I give you?’
He turns to the shelves, running his finger along the spines. He sounds out the names of authors as he touches each book: Vol-taire, Jon-a-than Swift,’ like a child at a reader. ‘Was your volume about the law?’ I ask, my tone innocent. I would love to leave with any of those but I know he only teases me and will not offer them. ‘Perhaps I should read it, to understand such things better.’
He has his back to me, but I can see him tense with annoyance. ‘You know perfectly well it wasn’t.’ His voice is steady. With every breath, his anger cancels out his discomfort. It is not long before he is back to full strength, then he faces me.
‘You are not as clever as you think, Anne,’ he says. ‘Do not test me. You might have fooled Elizabeth into doing your bidding but Onions will call again at my behest.’
‘I know.’ I don’t want him too vexed. He might lock me up this very evening in a room that isn’t mine, then how will Fub climb in? ‘I had only meant to tease you. You are only keeping things from me for my own good, I’m sure.’
He bites at the skin inside his mouth, pulling at his cheek with his thumb for more purchase.
‘Well,’ he breathes the word out, ‘I’ll choose a book for you at random. And you’d better be grateful for whatever comes to hand.’ I nod. ‘Or I could take my time and bring it to you later?’
‘I would rather you gave me whatever comes to hand,’ I say. He chews again, watching me carefully. ‘I am only inclined to read a little before I sleep.’ Still looking at me, he swings one arm behind him to the nearest shelf and fumbles unseeing at the books till one works free from the others. He peers at the title. ‘A Well Ordered Table. There!’ He almost flings the thing, and dust rises from the pages as I take it.
‘Good luck with that!’ he chuckles.
‘It should hasten your slumber, at least. But there are words in it, plenty of ’em, you can’t complain about that. You could spend your time putting them into a more interesting order, if there’s not much plot.’
I could remind him that he himself found one story very enlivening tonight. I could also say that he must surely have hurried to my mother’s bed once upon a time, or slept with his hand on his groin and some girl in his head. But he has tamped down all such feelings as thoroughly as you do when you kill a fire. ‘Thank you, Father. And good rest to you.’ Perhaps you could breathe your last tonight? ‘May you dream of pleasant things.’ And may you not ever wake.
He shoos me away with the back of his hand. ‘Yes, yes, to bed.’ He will sleep as if his head was full of coal, neither troubled nor rewarded by visions of any sort. He has only put this poor little book in my hands. But I have so much treasure waiting for me that if I were to live for ever, I wouldn’t get to the end of it.
Even in my room, I cannot be patient by myself. How should I wait? And where? In this chair, perhaps, though it is low to the ground and so badly stuffed that the horsehair chafes through my clothes. Or on my bed: I try lying there until the coverlet becomes warm and crumpled beneath me and I must straighten it when I rise. I twist the skirt of my dress in my hands to stop them trembling and hold my breath to be sure I hear everything from inside and outside the house. Each creak of the stair makes me jump, and I go several times to the door, pulling it open a little to see that no one is there, then closing it with great caution, chiding the thunk of it as the frame meets the panel. I stare into the empty street, willing it full of him. Where is he now? Anxiety has made me clumsy. I spill water when I raise my drinking glass to my mouth and trip over my wooden case. Should I prepare for bed? Can I be sure that he meant he would come? How have I got so foolish and nervous when I am clever and brave in every other circumstance?
A tiny sound – dink – on my window. I speed to it, but even before I can lean out, Fub climbs hand over hand up the creeper to reach me. When he stands in my room, I realise I have so often imagined him there that his presence seems false. He is too large, too rough, too real.
