Girl in a Blue Dress

by Gaynor Arnold

  “Not necessarily.” She tosses her head and the slivers of jet at her ears do a macabre dance. “But now he’s no longer here, you don’t need to be loyal. You can admit it all now, surely.”

  “Admit what, Kitty dear?” We have been over this so many times.

  “Oh, Mama! Admit that he never gave you anything but heartache. And children, of course,” she adds sarcastically.

  I won’t have that. “If I have had heartache in my life—and God knows I have—your father was not to blame for it. He gave me everything I have valued. If blame there is, well, it is the fault of circumstance.”

  Kitty glares. “Circumstance? Oh, of course,” she says, starting to pleat her handkerchief with angry movements of her fine, active fingers. “The One and Only cannot be wrong. Yours Truly remains forever above reproach.”

  She means to provoke me; but I know her of old, and will not be drawn. “You may pretend to think ill of him, Kitty, but he has always shown a proper regard for me: I have these comfortable lodgings in a nice part of town, with Mrs. Wilson to look after me—and Gyp, too, to keep me company.” Gyp barks as if he acknowledges the memory. He is old and fat, as I am, but still affectionate. I laugh and tickle his nose.

  Kitty won’t have it. “He gives you a wretched apartment in a wretched area of town. With one servant, and no carriage—and a dog with a foul temper. A fine arrangement!” She springs up from the little stool, but she forgets the weight of the train she is wearing and staggers a little against the fireguard, making the fire irons crash into the grate.

  I want to smile—but I have to hide it. Kitty can’t abide being laughed at, any more than a cat. “Mrs. Wilson cooks and cleans for me,” I say. “I need nothing more.”

  “But you never venture out. You’re like a hermit. Or a ghost of the past, wandering around the room in the dark. Expecting him to ‘turn up,’ perhaps?” Kitty brushes the coal dust from her skirt and turns to pour more tea.

  “I’m not at all like a hermit. I see you. I see O’Rourke.”

  “Michael? Oh, but he’s so thin, and old, and unexciting! He was like a skelington in a suit today. You might have thought he was the corpse himself got out of the coffin!”

  “Kitty! How can you say such a thing?” (But I can’t help thinking that Kitty is, as always, wickedly apt.) “If it were not for Michael, I don’t know what I would have done these ten years.”

  “Don’t you? I cannot imagine what he’s done for you, other than be two-faced about the whole affair!”

  “Two-faced?” I am a little angry with her now. “Why do you persist in saying that? He’s been my advocate with your father on every little matter: the rent, the bills, the laundry—”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “And he’s always been most faithful with the books. He gets me every new edition straight from the press.”

  “Does he, though?” She looks at me dully, as if it is no great matter.

  “Yes,” I say stoutly. “I think I’m the first person in London to lay eyes on them.” I cast a glance at the dark red line of Alfred’s novels in the bookcase across the room, some of them so battered that they are about to fall apart. “I still read a chapter every day, you know, Kitty. And when I finish each book, I start another. And when I finish them all, I start at the beginning again. When I read, I can hear your father talking to me exactly as if he were in the room; when he used to rush into the parlor, pen in hand: What do you think of this, Dodo? Does this make you laugh?”

  “Or cry, more likely.” Kitty stands by the fireguard, punishing it with her boot.

  “Indeed,” I say. “He was a master of every emotion. I knew that from the very first day we met.”

  AS I SPEAK, I CAN see it. My bedroom, with its casement window opening upon the garden, the balmy weather, the fragrance of the lilacs drifting in, the growing dusk as I stand quietly folding sheets and pillowcases. I am completely and utterly content. Every day is tranquil, full of family affection. Every evening I can be sure Papa will come home at seven sharp, and equally sure my two little sisters will rush to greet him, pulling his hat and cane from his grasp, and making him sit in a chair while they chatter about their lessons, their games, and what they have seen on their walks.

  In those days, on summer evenings, it was our habit to sit together in the garden before supper. And after supper, Papa would read to us in the drawing room, or we’d gather around the piano to sing before Alice and Sissy were sent up to bed. So I had no reason to think that particular May evening would be any different, or at least not different enough to give me a moment’s pause. I suppose I heard the usual click of the gate as my father passed through. I suppose I heard his footsteps coming up the garden path in the usual way. And if I heard some quicker, lighter footsteps alongside his—and I cannot swear I did not—it was of no significance to me. After all, my father often brought home unexpected guests who had to be smiled at and played to. If there was such a personage lurking below, I was in no particular hurry to make his acquaintance. So I carried on folding and stacking the linen, making sure the edges all came together neatly, that the corners were well turned.

  And then something happened. I can hardly describe it, though I have tried again and again. It was the way the scent of the lilacs and the sound of a clear, cheerful laugh drifted in through the window at exactly the same moment. I could hardly tell the sound from the scent; yet each entity seemed completely entrancing and divine. I stood in the middle of the room with the sheet in my hands as if all my senses were in suspension. Yet all the time I could hear my father talking quite normally outside, and I picked out the words “Alfred Gibson” and “supper.” And then the stranger laughed again and I realized that I was trembling—no, more than trembling: giddy. And faint. And hot and cold all at the same time. I was in a complete state of confusion, and yet that confusion was more delightful than anything I had ever known. I lost all sense of reserve and rushed to the window. I think if it had been required of me, I would have waded through oceans to see the owner of that wonderful laugh. As it was, I could just see the top of my father’s head as he called into the house. “Dodo,” he said. “There is someone I want you to meet.”

  Even if I’d wanted to, I could not have answered him. I was transfixed by a vision: the figure of a young man standing perfectly still in the spilling lamplight below, dressed in an eye-catching way I knew was not quite gentlemanly—a scarlet waistcoat, a sky blue coat, and slender trousers of a buff that was almost yellow. He had voluptuous long hair, far too wayward and rich for a man; and deep brown eyes, too wayward and rich for anyone. They shone like stars. His whole face seemed illuminated.

  I’m sure I didn’t make a sound, or even a movement; but he looked up suddenly as if he knew exactly where I was. And he smiled. And bowed. He walked backward to bow; he bowed in the middle of the lawn, an extravagant, theatrical bow—very quick, yet very low. I could not take my eyes off him. He was a complete wonder. He was standing in our garden in Chiswick. And he was coming to supper.

  Of course, my father looked up too, calling out in his usual affectionate way: “Ah, there is my Swan! There is my Loveliest of Girls!”

  And I called out desperately to stop him going further, lest the stranger would expect a beauty and be disappointed. “I am coming,” I said as loudly as I could manage. “I am coming!”

  I truly cannot imagine how I contrived to get down the stairs, my legs were so tremulous. I must almost have slithered down, as running water finds its level. My skirt seemed to rise up and float around me and all the while I could feel my face burning ever brighter. When I reached the newel post at the foot of the stairs, I clung to it as if I would collapse without it. Our maid, Nancy, stopped at the dining-room door with the extra knives and forks in her hand and looked at me, her eyes round with surprise: “My! You look as if all the blood’s gone to your head, Miss Dodo,” she said. “I’d sit down for a spell if I was you. Get your nice complexion back.”

  So I settled my
gown, pressed my hands against my cheeks, and waited for my gasping to subside before stepping into the drawing room. The long windows were open, and I could see the garden stretching back, clots of blossom white in the twilight, a hazy blur where the dark hedges met, a hint of high brick wall and the dim shape of the wicket gate. The scent of the lilacs was so rich, I could almost taste it.

  My mother and father were sitting outside, but there was no other person with them. I thought for a moment that I must have conjured up some kind of vision, and that there was no such being in the world as the radiant Mr. Gibson with the bright clothes and the wonderful laugh. Then I saw him. He was lying in the middle of the lawn. He had his arms spread, his eyes closed. For a second I thought he might be ill, or even dead. My blood seemed to stop in my veins. But then Alice and Sissy tiptoed forward, fingers on lips, and I realized with relief that they were in the middle of a game. But Mr. Gibson’s stillness was amazing; he showed no flicker of life; then, at the very last moment, when my sisters were emboldened to come close, his hands shot out as if they were pistons and entrapped their ankles. And at the same instant he opened his eyes wide and showed his teeth like an ogre. They screamed, and I screamed too, from relief and delight and the general wonder of it all—the young man lying there with such an air of abandon, his poet’s hair spread out on the lawn, his yellow trousers and sky blue coat given up to grass stains, his dignity compromised so thrillingly.

  But as soon as he had caught them, he let them go, resuming his apparent slumber in an instant, and they came at him again, giggling and holding their breath. But this time he contrived to miss them entirely, rolling about the lawn with great energy and animation, and somehow managing to grasp at the hem of my gown as I stood looking on. “Aha!” he cried out, tugging the muslin so I had to move towards him, until I was standing right over him. Then, without warning, his other hand reached up and caught me firmly by the waist, pulling me so close that my bosom was almost touching that astonishing waistcoat of his. “What’s this, what’s this?” he cried out, his eyes still fast shut. “Not Miss Alice, I swear.” He fumbled a little at my bodice. “Nor Miss Cecilia either. Good Heavens, something Even More Delightful!”

  Then he opened his eyes and looked straight up at me. Such a bold and inviting look, yet so full of laughter! From that moment I was completely lost. Indeed, a minute more, and I would have been in his arms on the grass. But he was already jumping up, letting go my skirt, and bowing: “Miss Millar, if I am not mistaken! Dear Miss Millar! Can I ever hope to be forgiven? Overexcitement, I’m afraid. A fault of mine when in the company of Young Persons. But if you knew my remorse, Miss Millar, you’d forgive me. I’m struck to the Very Art, indeed I am!”

  I don’t know how long I would have stayed looking at him—forever, I think. But Papa came towards us, laughing and rubbing his hands: “Dodo will indeed forgive you, my good sir. She is the kindest girl in the world—and the prettiest, although she doesn’t like me to say so.” I blushed and shook my head. Although I possessed the blue eyes and golden curls young men were supposed to admire, I’d always felt that I was too soft and sleepy looking to be appealing; I’d always wanted to be one of those dark, lively girls with darting eyes and vivacious manners. So I could feel my cheeks flaming afresh as Papa introduced us, saying that his new acquaintance was a writer of plays, and a young man of whom he had great hopes, and that he had been pleased to help him with a little “pecuniary advancement.” “I am sure that it will lead to great things, great things,” he said. “And the first great thing is that Mr. Gibson’s play is to be performed in Stepney a mere week on Friday. He has invited us all to see it. And, more over, Mr. Gibson will be taking a leading part.”

  Mr. Gibson smiled at me. “I am very ugly,” he said.

  “Indeed you are not,” I protested.

  But I was too hasty. I blushed as he added, “In the part, Miss Millar. I am very ugly in the part. I have no end of hair and eye patches. It’s capital stuff.”

  GYP INTERRUPTS MY reverie, jumping off my lap and waddling towards Kitty, who is staring deep into the fire. “Well, you say he was master of every emotion,” she says. “But it was all for the Public, not us. Sometimes I think the most wretched pauper on the street knew him better than I did.”

  “How can you say that? You were always his favorite, Kitty—always at the center of his heart.”

  “So everyone says!” She frowns ferociously. “But what good did that do me? Even that very last day, I had to wait my turn. And then he actually”—she rests her forehead on her hand as she leans against the mantelpiece—“Oh, I hate him for it, Mama!”

  She is always saying how she hates him. The poor child confuses hatred with anger and pain. And with love, too, of course. She wants so much to talk about her father but she has no one to confide in. Except me. Yet whatever I say seems to anger her more.

  “How can he have done it?” she cries. “He knew I was waiting. He was expecting me, after all. He had clocks; he had that wretched pocket watch of his—and you know how he could guess the time almost to the second. He needed only to open one door—one door—and say a kind word to me. He could have explained that he was busy. He could have given me a kiss and asked me to wait an hour or so, as any reasonable person would. But he wouldn’t—or at least he didn’t. So Mrs. Brooks was obliged to sit and make me endless cups of tea, and I had to listen to her going on about the price of sugar and bootblacking, while she knitted potholders by the yard. Sissy and Lou didn’t show a fin. They were apparently Not At Home, but I could hear them opening and closing doors, whispering and laughing. It made my blood boil.”

  I feel for her. I, too, remember that house with its background of stifled sounds, that sense of being unwelcome and faintly ridiculous. “They treated you shabbily,” I say. “But don’t blame your father for that. You know how it was when he was writing.”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean, Mama. That’s exactly what I mean. Everything revolved around him. He never considered the rest of us.” She is up and walking about again; she has his continual nervous energy. “And don’t try to excuse him. Don’t tell me how good he was. Don’t tell me that he paid for my clothes and piano lessons and singing lessons—because I know it. I was his child after all; he was obliged to. And don’t for Heaven’s sake say he wrote for my benefit because we all know he wrote to please himself. And his blessed Public, of course.”

  She circles the room, then sits down, staring gloomily at the carpet. “You know, don’t you, that I almost went away without seeing him? I’d got up to go at least three times, but Mrs. Brooks kept saying, “Wait until five o’clock, my dear!” so I stayed. But when five o’clock came, and no sign of him, I was so cross I put on my bonnet and shawl. Mrs. Brooks had gone and I was buttoning my gloves to go, too. Then—” She stops. She chokes, her voice full of tears. I want to put out my hand and take hers; I want to share that moment with her; I want us to grieve together as a mother and daughter should. But Kitty won’t look at me. She doesn’t want my compassion.

  She struggles on: “They say he couldn’t have spoken, let alone called out—but I heard him, Mama, I swear I did. ‘Kitty!’ he said. ‘Kittiwake, come quick!’ He sounded so desperate, as though he needed me so much—yet I still knocked on the door for fear of interrupting him!” She gives a dry laugh that doesn’t cover the sob beneath. “And then, even when I was in, I thought I’d made a mistake. He was in his usual place facing the window, his back to me. Everything was as it always was. Then I saw that he was not sitting quite as straight as usual and that his arm hung down a little awkwardly. And then I saw that his pen was rolling on the floor.” Her voice breaks. “Even then I hoped he might be having one of his little jokes and in an instant he’d be up, laughing and making me feel a fool. But once I saw his eyes, I knew it wasn’t a joke. He was staring ahead, seeing nothing; but breathing in a rasping kind of way. I didn’t know what to do, Mama! I shook him, I think. ‘Papa,’ I said, ‘it’s Kitty. I’ve come to
you.’” She swallows hard. “I tried to lift him—but he was as heavy as wood. I could only manage to lift his arm, and hold his face against my shoulder. I whispered to him, some nonsense or other. Then there was that dreadful rattle in his throat. And I knew, Mama, I knew! And then the rest of them came running in. There seemed to be hundreds of them, laying hands on him, pushing, pulling, screaming, wrenching him away from me. I was dragged out of the room. Can you believe it—dragged out! I’ll never forgive Sissy for that. Never!”

  I close my eyes. I cannot bear to think of his last agony, to know that other hands closed his eyes, washed his body, dressed him for the grave. But I have always expected to be shut out, whereas Kitty has hoped otherwise. She turns on me as if I am to blame. She would rather I were to blame, I know. “How can he have done that! How can he have kept me waiting until it was too late! How can he have died almost in front of me? Three hours I waited, Mama. Three hours!” Her voice becomes angrier. “Why did he have to slave away anyway? He was rich enough to keep us all in clover without putting pen to paper ever again. He could have done exactly as he pleased—and taken tea with me every afternoon for a month! But he still set himself those ridiculous deadlines as if he were the most junior of struggling hacks! As if he were paid by the word. As if his life depended on it.”

  “Because it had, once, my dear. You know that. And as with many habits formed when we are very young, he couldn’t rid himself of it. You know, even when we were first married and enjoying a modest success, I’d often find him late at night, fretting over the accounts: Prepare for the workhouse, Dodo. I cannot make ends meet.”

  “Well, since none of us was ever obliged to don pauper uniform and drink gruel out of metal mugs, he must have realized that that particular danger was past.” She wipes her eyes defiantly.

  “No, he always feared that one day his ideas might desert him and his money would dissolve. It was always at the back of his mind—even that day, I daresay.”