by V. H. Leslie
The river must have seeped into her dreams. Wakewater was full to the brim with the water of the past. Kirsten could imagine the fountain gushing to life, whilst outside the Thames swelled and burgeoned. She remembered the cold shock of stepping into the water; her shoes and socks wet through.
The remembrance of her ruined shoes seemed to rouse her and she ambled towards the radiator she’d propped them against. They were still sodden and Kirsten realised she didn’t feel much different herself. She was half-drowned, and it was no wonder considering the pressure she’d been under of late. She needed to break the surface, to stop languishing in the past and begin embracing this new chapter of her life here at Wakewater.
She sat down at her desk with a coffee. The boxes of paperwork and files were as confused as everything else, but she had to start somewhere. She couldn’t rely on Lewis to manage her affairs any longer; she needed to learn to stand on her own two feet. She looked briefly at the river, at the welcoming calm it offered as it drifted past, before turning to the pile of paperwork with renewed conviction.
Not half as engrossing as the view but strangely absorbing in its own way, Kirsten became conscious of the sound of water. It was only when she finished scribbling her notes and sat back to read them that the faint sound of water dripping began to aggravate her. It seemed to grow louder with each repetition, forcing her up from behind her desk to discover its source. As she turned into the hallway it developed a percussive ringing, and approaching the bedroom, Kirsten saw at once what was making the sound.
The ceiling was leaking and each singular drip was smattering against the alarm clock.
‘Shit!’ Kirsten exclaimed, remembering the estate agent’s promise that the apartment would be watertight. She climbed onto the bed and felt the ceiling. The flat magnolia expanse hardly gave anything away, but she could feel the damp patch and could see rivulets of water converging to one central point. So much for the estage agent’s reassurances.
Kirsten pulled her cardigan over her pyjamas and put on her shoes. She made her way up the stairs to Manon’s flat. Though it was a relief knowing there was someone else in the building, she would have preferred to avoid Manon for a few days. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of her only neighbour. Manon was clearly intent on unearthing all of Wakewater’s secrets, and though Kirsten was moderately curious, she didn’t know how much she wanted to go snooping about the nooks and crannies of an old hydropathy establishment. She had a feeling Manon was the kind of person who would drag you along kicking and screaming.
The landing outside Manon’s front door was crowded with boots and shoes, a host of umbrellas propped up against the wall. Kirsten imagined the developers objecting: it spoilt the modern, spacious feel of the place, but then, as the only resident for so long, perhaps she could do as she pleased.
Kirsten knocked and heard movement within. Was Manon talking to herself as she approached the door? It certainly sounded like it.
‘Get back in there,’ she said as she opened the door.
She’d directed the words over her shoulder, but Kirsten paused for a moment, wondering if she was addressing her. Then Manon looked at her directly, her reading glasses falling to the end of her nose.
‘I’m really sorry to bother you so early,’ Kirsten began, ‘but I’ve discovered a leak in my bedroom. I wondered if I could take a look?’
‘A leak?’ Manon repeated.
‘Yes.’
She opened the door wide. ‘Take your shoes off first. I don’t like to bring the outdoors in.’
Kirsten obliged and followed Manon into the flat. The place was crammed with books and piles of paper. Kirsten couldn’t decide if it looked like a well-established mess or if she hadn’t unpacked yet. But weaving through Manon’s clutter, there was an impression of order, or at least of compulsion. They say that a hoarder’s lair is the physical embodiment of that person’s state of mind. If so, Manon’s head was full to capacity, and spilling over.
The apartment was also unbearably warm, the heating probably on its highest setting. It didn’t help with the place stuffed full of paper. A small tabby skirted out from behind a pile of newspapers and into the kitchen.
‘Just ignore Sahara,’ Manon said with a wave of the hand. ‘We’re fairly new acquaintances. She barely listens to a thing I say.’
At least that explained her talking to herself, Kirsten thought with relief.
‘If the layout is the same,’ Manon said, opening the door of her study, ‘this room is above yours. I decided not to keep it as a master bedroom, I needed more space for my work.’
Space was an odd word to use, since she’d exhausted all sense of it. Though the room was edged with bookcases, they couldn’t accommodate all Manon’s books and papers, which had spilt out into piles on the floor. There was hardly any visible floor space and Kirsten didn’t know how Manon negotiated her way through to the desk floating in the middle without sending it all tumbling.
‘I’ll just put the kettle on,’ she heard Manon say as she withdrew to the kitchen.
Kirsten had imagined a bathroom being above her, maybe a kitchen or a laundry room. But Manon’s study was an arid place of paper and books. Except for the radiator on the wall, there was no way for water to enter the room. She examined the radiator, but nothing seemed amiss and, edging her way into the room, she got down on her hands and knees. The carpet didn’t appear damp. She had no idea about plumbing, but the water must have filtered through from somewhere else.
Manon returned with two cups of coffee, handing one across the gulf of paper.
‘I’ll have to call the developers,’ Kirsten said, sitting down at the desk.
Manon sipped her drink thoughtfully. ‘Sometimes these things have a way of clearing up on their own.’
Kirsten couldn’t see how, but she smiled back. Placing her cup down, she saw that the desk was littered with images of reclining, naked women. Looking harder she saw that many of them had been dissected, their bodies opened up to expose their velvety red insides.
‘Sorry, how morbid,’ Manon said apologetically, sweeping them out of view. ‘It’s part of my research on Anatomical Venuses – life-size models of women made of wax. Medical students in the past would learn about the body, its internal structure, with the aid of these. They were incredibly detailed.’ She handed an image to Kirsten. ‘They’d have long hair, eyelashes, sometimes even pubic hair. They were quite beautiful.’
Kirsten looked harder at the picture. The wax model looked so real, reclining on silk cushions with its hair fanned out around it. There was something almost sexual about the pose.
‘There’s always been a fascination with depicting dead women,’ Manon continued, ‘whether for art or science. The nineteenth century especially was obsessed with paintings of dead prostitutes.’ She handed over more images to demonstrate; mainly A4 reprints, pages ripped from books. Most of the women were depicted on sick beds or slabs – all naked. A few of the paintings included a male audience; medical men surrounding a seemingly sleeping beauty. In one painting, a piece of skin was being pulled back from the woman’s breast as if it were a layer of cloth.
Kirsten’s mouth was dry, she felt light-headed, her hands full of images of beautiful cadavers.
‘Where did they find them, these…models?’
‘Right here, dear, in the river. Do you know how many women were jumping into the Thames each week? Shamed, fallen women? Women who were pregnant or too poor to support themselves? You could just wait for the river to deposit them on the banks, nice and chilled for either the artist or surgeon. Both wanted to take a peek inside.’
Kirsten put the images down. ‘There aren’t any of men?’
‘There were a few of what you’d call medical paintings, but not half as many as there were of women. It was a kind of voyeurism, I suppose; it was titillating for a predominantly male audience to see women
so exposed.’
Manon’s eyes seemed to sparkle as she spoke. In the light, Kirsten could see a fine smattering of downy hair along her chin and top lip.
‘It was a time of demystifying women,’ she went on, ‘of trying to figure them out. And how do you do that? Why, place them on a slab and cut them open.’
Kirsten stood. The room was suddenly unbearably warm, overpoweringly so, this nest of paper and books threatening to smother her.
‘Anyway, you didn’t come here to discuss dead women,’ Manon said, taking her arm. ‘I hope you’ll excuse an old academic getting carried away.’
‘It’s just rather warm,’ Kirsten said, making her way to the door.
‘To keep the damp away.’ Manon leant in close. ‘You need to dry it out.’
Kirsten wasn’t sure if this was the most logical solution for a leak, but she nodded politely and thanked Manon for the coffee. Opening the front door, the cold air hit her like a wave. It seemed to sober her a little so that Manon’s next comment seemed all the more surreal.
‘Sometimes old places like this retain a bit of the past, in the fabric of the building, and occasionally, they seep.’
8
Evelyn
Evelyn was sitting on the banks of the Thames. It was a warm spring day and people had flocked to the river to enjoy the fine weather. Women paraded past in the shade of their parasols, governesses pushed their charges in prams or chased behind them as they toddled in the long grass, and family groups stopped to fed the ducks at the water’s edge. At Evelyn’s side sat a young woman with dark hair. She had tied it up for this occasion; it made her look more refined that way. But the summer breeze had teased out a handful of tendrils which swayed lightly in the air like the dandelion heads along the hedgerows. Evelyn produced a brightly papered box from her pocket and slowly undid the ribbon that bound it together. Then she removed the lid, offering the contents to her companion.
‘Milly?’
Milly smiled and fished inside. Turkish delight. She lifted a piece to her mouth, icing dusting her blouse. Evelyn watched fondly as she tutted and shook the fabric.
Milly had brushed up well away from the slums. Here, in the sunshine, by the river, she looked like any other respectable young woman. Except she was far more beautiful than most. In the sunlight her hair was so black it seemed to sparkle blue. Had she been born into Evelyn’s class, she would’ve had suitors lined up. Even with a meagre dowry, Milly would not have struggled to secure a husband.
Milly was indeed a rare gem. Made all the more precious because of where Evelyn had found her. In an alleyway off Drury Lane. Hidden in the shadows, nursing a face that was the same blue-black colour of her hair. The gentleman client who’d had left her in that sorry state had decided to pay for her services with his fists instead of money. Evelyn had wrapped her cloak around her and walked her out of that life and straight to the refuge. She couldn’t help but delight in the fact that she had found her, that she had been the one to hew her out of that rough earth and into the light.
And look how she sparkled now, sitting in the sunshine beside the river. Evelyn wasn’t the only one to notice Milly’s beauty. A couple of young men punting on the river had been casting surreptitious glances Milly’s way for a while now. But Milly was oblivious to them, eating Turkish delight, watching the water. Evelyn often thought what a curse beauty was; that those in possession of it couldn’t help that others were unwittingly drawn toward them. They had no choice in who they attracted. Even Evelyn, for all her intellectualising, wasn’t immune to physical perfection. They were like beacons, shinning brightly in dark waters, unaware of how many ships flocked to their light.
Evelyn didn’t delude herself that she was beautiful. She had a satisfactory bearing and had been fortunate to be born into a good family, where money and standing had given her more freedom than most women could expect. She sometimes mused over what it would be like if she and Milly were one person, if it were somehow possible to merge all of their qualities and virtues together. What a formidable woman they would make.
Milly edged closer to Evelyn. The fragrance of rose lingered on her breath.
‘Tell me about Melusine.’
‘But you’ve heard the story hundreds of times.’
‘Tell me the bit about her being a serpent from the waist down.’
Ever since the first time Evelyn had affectionately called her Melusine, Milly could not get enough of the story of the water spirit who inhabited rivers and springs. Like most enchanted beings, Melusine couldn’t help but make men fall in love with her. The story itself concerned a knight who, after chancing upon Melusine in a forest, begged her to become his bride. She agreed, but only on the condition that he would not enter her bedchamber on a Saturday. Folklore dictates that there is always a condition when a fey unites with a mortal. Of course, the knight didn’t keep his promise and entered her chamber, only to discover her reclining in her bathtub with a monstrous serpent’s tail where her legs should be.
The story is more about his transgression than about her deformity. Though she initially forgives her husband, when he exposes her secret in front of his court, Melusine transforms herself into a dragon and flies away, never to be seen again. In essence, it is a story about the need to keep a part of yourself back, that we all have a secret side we don’t want others to see. It also suggests that the most beautiful are often afflicted with a monstrous side, which can be managed and tamed when they are alone and away from the world.
Milly had been wearing Evelyn’s green dress the first time she heard the story. The shimmering fabric had leant her a strange aquatic beauty. Mesmerising. Like the knight in the forest, Evelyn would have agreed to any of Milly’s conditions on that particular night, had she made any. She wondered if Milly was troubled with her own dark secrets, perhaps she carried something monstrous around inside her too, something that she kept repressed and buried.
‘Are there other women in the water?’ Milly asked, leaning back on her elbows.
Evelyn ignored the obvious answer. Too many fallen women ended up in the river. Beneath Waterloo Bridge, the water swelled with drowned girls. It was better to focus on the mythical women who swam in the depths.
‘Of course, there are rusalkas and nixies, sirens, undines.’
‘No men?’
‘Oh no, the water is a female domain.’
‘That’s good.’ Milly smiled. Then she lay down in the grass and closed her eyes. Evelyn watched her for a few moments and then she lay down beside her.
9
Kirsten
Kirsten sat at her window with a mug of coffee. The evening was overcast and grey. The wind whistled past Wakewaker, stirring up the river, which seemed to possess a wildness she hadn’t seen before. She couldn’t help but think of what Manon had said about the river, about all the drowned women it had carried along in its current. There was never a shortage of corpses, Manon had said; the river was full to the brim with those who had no place in the real world.
The surface of the water seemed to grow more tumultuous under her scrutiny. She wondered if it had a sentience, the river, whether it was conscious of all the people that had fallen into its depths. Perhaps it was the sum of the people that perished in its depths. It made sense: how could it not absorb the life force of those who died within it. Kirsten had always nurtured a romantic idea that when someone died, their soul would float out of the body and up into heaven. But the water could make that tricky. Perhaps a soul wasn’t strong enough to break the surface. Then, she supposed, it would have to linger beneath the water, occasionally aggravating the current into rippling waves and peaks as it was doing now.
She sipped her coffee and was glad to be inside in the warm. Part of her wished Manon had not told her about the river. She wanted to feel that naïve awe again; she wanted to look on the river with only simple wonder. But Manon had marred it, talking about
the past and its ghosts.
As if thinking about her was enough to summon her into being, Manon came into view beside the river. Kirsten instinctively drew back from the window but continued to watch. It was a particularly blustery evening to go walking beside the river, where it was muddy and wet.
Manon seemed dressed for such rigors. She had on high Wellington boots and a hooded anorak that she almost sank into against the ferocity of the wind. After casting a few furtive glances toward Wakewater House and, Kirsten assumed, towards her flat, Manon picked up a large stick from along the bridleway. Then she moved down the bank with ease, slipping behind the shrubs and briars and out of view.
What was she doing at the water’s edge? Kirsten remembered the first time she had met her, when she’d been hunched beside the water, poking her stick into its depths. It seemed a strange, almost childish thing to do. Not at all what you would expect of a woman, she now realised, who knew quite a bit about quite a lot of things.
Kirsten moved away from the window and towards her bedroom. Manon had been right about the leak. After putting the heating on for half an hour or so, the dripping had stopped. She still planned to mention it to the developers, but for now it wasn’t a problem she needed to deal with. She sat on her bed and pulled a book from her bedside table. Inside was one of the images Manon had showed her the previous day. She remembered Manon handing it to her and talking about it, before showing her countless others. It had been so hot in Manon’s flat, so overwhelming, that she didn’t realise she hadn’t given it back until she was in her own flat. As much as she was loath to have it in her apartment, she couldn’t face going back up the stairs for another encounter with Manon. She was resigned to returning it at a later date.
