Bodies of Water

by V. H. Leslie

  But looking at it now, it wasn’t quite as repellent as she’d remembered. The image was produced on a glossy postcard, deemed tame enough to be sold in a museum gift shop. And the image itself looked as if it had been completed by a draughtsman; there was something very beautiful in the precision and detail of the composition. At the centre of the drawing, illuminated by an overhead lamp, was a beautiful dead woman. And crouching over her with a scalpel in hand, a man appeared to be drawing back the flesh of her breast. The image possessed a strangely clinical beauty; perhaps because it was black and white, devoid of the garish red vibrancy of blood and viscera.

  Kirsten remembered what Manon had said about those pioneering medical men of the nineteenth century, that all they really wanted to do was to get up inside women’s skirts and have a good old look around. Though the focus in the drawing appeared to be on the woman’s torso, on a table in the foreground lay a section of skull and in the background an upright skeleton could be seen, depicted from the pelvis down. It was a powerful contrast to the beautiful corpse; a clear way to show what lies beneath our pretty flesh if the surgeons keep pulling back the layers.

  At least this drawing wasn’t as bad as Manon’s images of Anatomical Venuses. There was something unsettling about those, something wrong about capturing a woman’s likeness in wax. Kirsten didn’t know why she objected more to this idea. Did it matter what medium the artist chose to replicate his sitter? But a drawing of a dead woman was only that – a drawing. You couldn’t touch her and hold her hand, or if you had the inclination, to reach into her body and pull out her insides. That was what Kirsten found so disturbing: that you could interact with this work of art; a work of art that had been constructed from the wax mouldings of human parts.

  Kirsten lay down on her bed. They were most likely the precursors to the life-size fetish dolls that had become so over-exposed in the media. At least the Anatomical Venuses had the pretext of being used for science. What did men find so repellent about real women that they preferred an imitation, anyway? Perhaps this was the natural conclusion when men seek to demystify women? They pull back the layers and find them wanting, realising that women are only human after all. So they decide to build their own version, like Pygmalion; an improved version, because their prototype doesn’t talk back.

  She rolled over and placed the postcard down. She didn’t want to think this way about men. She didn’t like the way her mind had started veering toward such negative stereotypes. But the end of her relationship had felt like being on that slab. She’d let Lewis cut her deeper each day with his words, and she’d allowed him to get under her skin. She may as well have run the knife through her flesh herself and peeled it back to allow him greater access to her heart. And he had rummaged around inside and had taken everything out, like the neat innards of a wax model, removing them parcel by parcel, until she was left hollow. Then, at her most vulnerable, he had walked away.

  Maybe, she was to blame. If she were honest, she’d wanted to share all of herself with him, right down to the ugly depths. Isn’t that what love is all about? This act of surrender, of opening yourself up and letting someone else in, even though there’s no guarantee they’ll like what they see. And sometimes they don’t. Because it’s the doll they really want. They don’t want to spoil a beautiful package with human frailties and imperfections.

  Kirsten curled into a ball and cried.

  10

  Evelyn

  Evelyn lay beside the water. She’d spent most of the morning resembling a mummy wrapped in wet sheets, only to break from her chrysalis for a sitz bath, before breakfasting and now finding herself in the Turkish bath. She infinitely preferred the end of the treatment – lying on a couch in the cooling room – to all those hot rooms. Despite the sound of the fountain, she enjoyed the surroundings. The tiny mosaic tiles that made up Neptune and his entourage of sea creatures never failed to occupy her, and if she became bored with that view, she could always become lost in the watery wall tiles, wading between the wispy fronds of seaweed on the ocean bed.

  A large woman, Mary, the water attendant, administered the procedures without much interaction. The Water Cure, Evelyn supposed, was about calm and introspection. If she wanted to talk about any of her treatments she could always speak to Dr Porter, but on the surface at least, things appeared to be going swimmingly. She did feel more relaxed, though she wondered if this was more about the break in her routine than anything to do with the magical properties of water. Besides which, she had her doubts about the doctor’s prognosis. Nervous tension – hysteria. It seemed too broad and vague. Perhaps it was right that it should be treated with a wishy-washy cure.

  Everyone else at Wakewater seemed to regard the Water Cure with a kind of reverence. As if the water that gushed from the pipes was not merely the purified water from the Thames but holy water, each drop capable of healing its true believers. Mary had refined her job to a fine art; each treatment followed Dr Porter’s strict instructions; the various baths drawn to his exact recommendations regarding temperature and volume. Some days Evelyn would be gradually chilled, on others she’d luxuriate in warm waters. Only Dr Porter knew what combination of cooling the body and inducing sweating would lead to her miraculous recovery. The only other person who seemed to see the absurdity of it all was Blanche.

  It had become their habit to take a walk after lunch. They’d start at the house, then cross the fields toward the hills, then back down again towards the river. Sometimes they’d sit in the orchard among the fallen apples that were overripe and insect-ridden. Evelyn didn’t mind being so close to the river. If she were sat among the trees she could hardly see it. She hadn’t seen the figure by the water again – the woman at the water’s edge with the long dark hair. She’d glimpsed her so briefly that she’d begun to think that she had imagined the whole thing.

  Evelyn tried not to think about it, which was easy to do when you were in Blanche’s company. Blanche filled the world so entirely, with her laughter and conversation, her easy demeanour. Evelyn couldn’t help but find herself under her spell. She could feel herself opening up to her, confiding in her. They talked about everything: their treatments, the other guests, Blanche’s loveless marriage. They couldn’t just talk about the damn water.

  Sometimes Blanche would ask about her work with the Rescue Society. She wanted to know about the fallen women; not the ones who had seen the error of their ways and were on the path to redemption, but those who were enjoying their journey down to the bottom. What was the life of a prostitute like, how did they dress, wear their hair, conduct their business? What kind of men arrived at the brothel doors? She was curious about this world of vice that Evelyn had access to, hungry for all the shocking details. So Evelyn gave her the details. She’d tell her about the women she’d visited, bed-ridden with disease or from taking too many beatings, the ones who were marked out with the scabrous signs of pox. The young girls who flaunted their bodies like the older madams, their childhoods lost irrevocably.

  Evelyn allowed her body to sink deeper into the couch. She wanted to forget about it, that world, at least while she lay gazing up at Neptune on his chariot. She looked past him to the higher windows where she could glimpse the sky. The clouds drifting by, and the sound of the water, gave the impression that she wasn’t in the cooling room at all, but outside, floating along the river.

  Blanche was different to a lot of women Evelyn came into contact with. Though she socialised with many of the Rescue Society ladies, there was always an agenda to their gatherings. They didn’t have a lot in common besides their shared desire to help those less fortunate. Most of these women were rather matronly, with responsibilities at home; pious women who felt philanthropy was their Christian duty, though they probably relished the escape from their own marital obligations. Blanche, on the other hand, was young, vibrant, carefree. She was opinionated, open with her feelings and affections. And she was much more educated than the you
ng women Evelyn saw on a more regular basis – the fallen women – whose company she enjoyed no less because of their situations in life. After all, it was inevitable that friendships would be built in the process of reform. But could she really, truly regard them as her equals?

  Evelyn felt a heaviness in her limbs as if she were in the water and not lying upon a couch. The bathing dress she wore was far less restrictive than her normal clothes and she stretched her body, relishing the freedom of movement. She thought of Blanche, how she craved being in her presence, eager to receive the odd touch or caress she threw her way. Evelyn would never instigate any physical contact between them; she was too timid, too scared of rejection. It was Blanche who linked arms with her, who reached for her hand, or placed her arm around her waist as they walked. She was so free with her body, free of the constraints of how one should act. Evelyn liked that. She wished that she could feel similarly unshackled.

  Evelyn was so lost in her thoughts she didn’t notice that the fountain had stopped. It was only when she stretched again, leaning back heavily into the upholstery and hearing her movements so audibly that she realised there was no sound coming from the fountain.

  ‘Mary?’ she called hesitantly, wondering if the water had been stopped on purpose to signal the end of her time in the cooling room, the commencement of a new treatment. Her voice sounded diluted in the cavernous room. There was no reply, just the encroaching silence.

  Evelyn pulled herself lazily from the couch and, looking up at the fountain, saw how eerily still the surface was without the cascade of water causing it to bubble and spit. She could appreciate now how large the basin was without all that excessive water. It would be quite easy to step inside and bend down into the cool water, to coil yourself around the central column, beneath those canopied tiers. You wouldn’t be able to see the sky there, in that sliver of water.

  Evelyn didn’t know why, but the temptation to touch the cold, still water suddenly overcame her and she made her way slowly to the fountain and knelt beside it. The water was as cool as she hoped, her skin still retaining the heat from the hot rooms and hot baths that had constituted her morning. She traced her finger across the surface, thinking of Blanche and the orchard, her thoughts meandering away from the water and from Milly.

  The shock of the pale hand emerging out of the water, the sensation of coldness as it clasped around Evelyn’s wrist, made her jolt back instinctively. But the hand was strong and it pulled her towards the water. Off balance, Evelyn clutched at the marble border, her hands slipping against the ornamental waves as if they were rolling her down to the centre of the pool. Knowing that she couldn’t avoid falling, Evelyn looked into the depths as if staring into a well, and saw the woman in the water gazing back at her.

  Evelyn pulled against the current, looking away from that pale face encircled by that dark halo of hair, and thought how impossible it was, how improbable, though she could see the hand above the surface, the cold, hard fingers, digging into her skin.

  Twisting against the momentum, Evelyn began to prise the hand off hers, leaning away from the pool with all her might. And suddenly she heard Mary panting across the room.

  ‘Miss Byrne, did you call?’

  The pale hand relinquished its grip and Evelyn fell hard against the tiles.

  She heard the roar of the water first, before she saw Mary at her side, looking down at her with concern. Helping her upright, she stooped before the fountain, held up by Mary’s strong arms, as water gushed and poured onto her.

  11

  Kirsten

  Kirsten could feel the water. She could feel its cooling touch on her face and shoulders. The shiver of cold as it touched her neck. She was reclining into it, her body tilting back, expecting the river to support her. She spread out her arms and legs, stretching as much as she could, letting the water enjoy as much of her as possible. She opened her mouth and the water gushed in. She welcomed this feeling of immersion, of surrendering briefly to its influence.

  But when she turned her head to clear her lungs, she couldn’t seem to get rid of the water. Instead it felt as if there were more of it, that it was overpowering her. She began to sink beneath the surface, the water in her mouth and stomach, a lead weight dragging her down. She tried to expel the water, but every time she opened her mouth, more rushed in. She thrashed and flailed and she sank deeper.

  She opened her eyes but still couldn’t breathe. She was conscious of the familiar surroundings of her bedroom, but she felt as if she were still ingesting the river water. It was a dream, though she realised with alarm that somehow she couldn’t get her breath. She sat up in bed and began to cough up what had found its way into her throat and lungs.

  She keeled over exhausted. Water smattered against her head and she realised that the bed sheets were soaked. The leak must have begun again in the night, this time in earnest, almost drowning her as she slept.

  She hauled herself out of bed and out of the range of the dripping water. She put on dry clothes and made her way to the door, cursing Manon for making her believe that she could magic this problem away. The water had to be coming from somewhere and she wouldn’t leave Manon’s flat until she had discovered its source.

  She made her way up the flight of stairs and knocked heavily on Manon’s door.

  Almost instantly she heard a low scratching on the other side of the door. Sahara, Manon’s cat. She knocked again. Still no answer, but the scratching seemed to double in intensity. Maybe Manon had gone out and had forgotten to feed her.

  ‘There, there, Sahara,’ she called through the door, ‘Manon will be home soon.’

  She gave one last knock and was about to walk away when she heard a distant call from within.

  ‘Manon?’

  She could hear it again. A soft, low call. Almost a plea.

  ‘Manon, are you OK?’

  There was no letterbox to look through, so Kirsten got down on her hands and knees and tried to peer beneath the door. She couldn’t see much, but she could hear more clearly.

  ‘Manon?’ she called again.

  This time she heard a reply.

  ‘Kirsten, I’ve fallen.’

  Kirsten straightened. ‘Don’t worry, Manon, I’ll get help.’

  She pulled herself off the floor and made her way back to her flat. It was only when she called the emergency services that she realised that her clothes were damp. The floor must’ve been wet as she crouched down outside Manon’s door. Kirsten remembered the watery manner in which she’d woken; it seemed impossible to be dry at Wakewater.

  It took two policemen to open Manon’s door and then the paramedics filed in, one at a time, to negotiate Manon’s clutter. Wakewater was unused to so much commotion. Kirsten wondered if it disliked this sudden surge of activity, that it was intolerant to anything other than the slow, steady progress of the river outside.

  They found Manon in the bathroom. Lying against the tiles. She’d slipped, she told them. Kirsten waited by the front door; she didn’t want to be in the way. But she could see part of the scene: Manon’s legs, the paramedic’s emergency bag resting on the wet floor, and occasionally the paramedics as they moved about, asking questions, checking Manon’s vitals. She watched one of them prepare a syringe. Occasionally she could hear Manon speaking lowly to the paramedics.

  ‘It’s the water, you know, full of oestrogen. It’s feminised the water.’

  ‘There, there,’ the paramedic replied, ‘let’s get you to the hospital.’

  ‘That’s what’s done it,’ she continued. ‘It’s stirred them all up. Brought them to the surface.’

  Kirsten watched as Manon was placed on a spine board. The two policemen helped carry her over the pile of books and paperwork to the stairwell. As she passed Kirsten in the doorway, Manon reached out to her.

  ‘Kirsten, dear, would you look after Sahara?’

  ‘Of cours
e.’ Kirsten smiled. ‘You needn’t worry.’

  Manon smiled back. And for a moment they really looked at each other. Then the calm was broken and an expression of desperation flooded Manon’s features. She grabbed Kirsten’s hand and held it tightly. ‘If they try to come up, push them down again. Push them back down!’

  12

  Evelyn

  They were sat in the orchard among the fallen crab apples. Occasionally Blanche would pick one up and examine its yellow flesh as if she were about to take a bite. Then she would set it down again, knowing the fruit would be too sour. Evelyn hardly noticed; her mind was still in the cooling room with the strange vision in the water. The woman with the dark wet hair. She had been there, Evelyn was certain, she could still feel her grasp on her wrist; she had not conjured her out of vapour.

  Since then, Evelyn could think of little else. She’d seen her once before, that day beside the river. Evelyn positioned herself now with her back to the Thames and could see instead the line of trees stretching towards the house and gardens. But it didn’t make any difference because when she closed her eyes the woman was in her mind, her face just below the surface. Evelyn wanted to forget the water and this strange woman who resided there, but Wakewater’s foundations were too immersed.

  ‘You’re quiet today,’ Blanche said.

  Evelyn managed a smile. Usually she delighted in Blanche’s company, relishing her easy manner, their closeness, but today it felt so flimsy and insubstantial. They didn’t know each other, not really. The only thing they had in common was being here at Wakewater.

  ‘Would you like to know a secret?’ Blanche asked, sidling closer.

  Evelyn shrugged. She’d known respectable women and whores to trade in secrets, using the same luring tone. It was better to pretend you weren’t interested. Usually the purveyor was desperate to give them away.