“What a grand house you have, Dodo!” Sissy had said, twirling around, admiring the crystal chandeliers and the vast mirrors that Alfred had had installed. “All this glass must take a great deal of keeping clean!”
“Oh, yes,” I said eagerly. “Alfred is most particular. Everything is cleaned with vinegar and newspaper. He has it all laid down. The servants report to him every morning for their list of duties.”
She looked surprised: “Good Heavens, Dodo! Surely Alfred has enough to do without bothering himself with domestic matters?”
“I don’t think it bothers him, Sissy,” I said, glancing quickly at Alfred, and feeling for the first time that there might be something wrong with the way we managed our household. “In fact, it pleases him to see to such matters himself. I’ve no wish to interfere as he is so very particular and liable to be such a bad-tempered bear if things go wrong!” I laughed, and to my relief Alfred laughed too.
Sissy did not laugh. “Well, now I am here, I can take it all in hand. Simply tell me what needs doing, Alfred. Poor Dodo need never be disturbed.”
Poor Dodo—how quickly I came to live up to that description! As soon as she learnt that Fanny was expected, Sissy began to treat me as an invalid, advising me on my diet and need for regular rest; admonishing me if I did anything so foolish as opening a window or trying to take a book down from a high shelf: Do try and be sensible, Dodo. She made me loosen my stays and put back my hair, and would not let me drink more than a glass of wine each night. Instead she brought me tisanes and dried biscuits by the score. I have to confess to a certain mute rebellion as I poured half the tea away in the potted ferns and gave the biscuits to the dog or, when the dog refused, threw them on the fire, where they burned with a resentful glow.
I felt I should be glad that she was relieving me of all the chores that I found tedious or simply did not have time—or strength—to do. But I was envious of her ability to elicit praise from Alfred and, instead of being grateful, I was inclined to be cold to her. Maybe if I had made more effort to be sisterly, the course of my life from then on might have been different. But in all honesty, she didn’t seem to care about what I said at all. For her, the important thing was Alfred—and second to Alfred, the children. She made some sort of pretence at consulting me, standing in the doorway with a pencil and notepad: Shall we have rabbit pie or a mutton joint? Is it time the chimneys were cleaned? Do you think Georgie should be in breeches by now? But it was clear that she had her own methods, and no real intention of allowing me to disrupt them with my vagueness and indecision. She was up early every morning—before even Alfred was up—and she’d make sure his breakfast was to his liking, his shoes properly polished, his newspaper folded, and that his study was clean, the fire banked, and his writing implements arranged as he liked.
So Alfred saw no fault in her, and the children (as children will) cared only for the moment, responding with gusto to her enthusiasm for outings, games, and competitions, activities I could no longer attempt. It was “Aunt Sissy says” and “Aunt Sissy thinks” from morning to night, especially from Lou. Only Kitty held out against her charms, spurning the list of duties Sissy had drawn up for her. I hate her! she’d say, glowering in at me from the doorway. She thinks she is my mama—and she’s not!
For a long time I swallowed my resentment, feeling some rapprochement would surely take place; but instead she began to encroach more and more on my wifely duties. One day I could bear it no longer. I went looking for Alfred and found him in the library. “I am no longer Mistress in my own home,” I complained, barely managing to keep back the tears in my voice. “Sissy keeps all the keys in her possession, and today I can’t even arrange the flowers in the drawing room because she has done them already.”
He looked up from his book. “Ah, yes, she has quite a talent for it, don’t you think? Such cheerful colors! But if you wish to arrange the flowers yourself, I have no real objection. It’s hardly a hanging matter.”
“It’s not only the flowers, Alfred. It’s everything.” I felt like a little girl, pouting over some imagined slight, and his surprised look made me even more conscious of it.
“But surely that is why Sissy is here, Dodo! You should be glad she is so willing to take on the work, and that she is so efficient at it. I think she would be worth two hundred pounds a year if we had to pay her a salary. And you have to admit, dearest, that the household now runs much more to time.”
“Oh, time!” I said, with a great rush of annoyance. “You and your time! Tick-tock, click-clock! Pick-pock!”
“Dodo, you are being childish. And ungrateful. I’ll hear no more of it. I have serious matters to attend to.” And he went back to Health and Sanitation Amongst the Labouring Classes. And I left the library, feeling a terrible inner rage I could direct at no one.
The worst thing was that she kept me from my children. I tried to tell myself she was only concerned for my welfare as she dutifully brought them in to kiss me good morning and good night with every expression of loving concern. But she forbade them to bother me at any other times, saying, Your Mama needs her rest. I felt I did not need quite so much rest as was being prescribed, and I would have welcomed the comical liveliness of the children’s conversations to break up my lethargy. I longed for the chance to set little Georgie on my lap, kiss the top of his head, and feel the chubbiness of his arms and legs as he wriggled about. But Georgie was under a precise regime of naps and walks, and the other children had tasks to do with which I dared not interfere. Even my visits to Ada were rationed, for fear she would become more excited than was good for her health. “We have to be sensible,” Sissy said, somewhat sanctimoniously. “I know you like to see the child, but we cannot always do as we should like in this world.” I knew Ada was always eager for my visits, though, and her eyes seemed brighter when I was there to talk to her. So whenever Sissy was out walking I crept to Ada’s couch and read to her, stroking her silky hair as the clouds raced past the window outside. Don’t tell Aunt Sissy, I’d say. This has to be our secret.
I did my best to not to be jealous of Sissy. I tried to smile as I saw her with Alfred, their heads together over some bill or letter, or as she sat copying out his manuscripts. I tried to persuade myself that such things were a tedious part of my life I could happily be without. She is not his wife, I said to myself; and she never will be. She will never share his bed or know his loving embrace. I need have no fear. So whenever Alfred slipped in beside me and said, “Are you well enough tonight, Dodo?” I’d always say yes, even though I dreaded the idea of another confinement—not only for my own health but because Alfred himself had distinctly fallen out with the joys of fatherhood, complaining continually about the excessive number of children I had already provided him with, how costly and troublesome they all were, and how he had a mind to become a hermit to escape it all. Sometimes I would catch him looking at one of the children with such a dead eye of disapproval that my heart would sink within me. In those moments I wondered if he really cared for children at all.
But the children kept coming. After Fanny was born, I’d hoped that nursing her would spare me for a while but, barely six months later, I woke with the old, familiar feeling of nausea and knew that I would have to face Alfred once more. When I screwed up the courage to tell him, I only got as far as “Alfred dear, I have some news …” before he closed his eyes in despair and silently lowered his head upon the final chapter of James Bartram. I could not help but rejoin, a little testily: “You must own your part in it, Alfred. Lord knows I cannot beget children entirely on my own!”—but he did not reply, or even look at me, merely groaned in a theatrical manner.
And the poor babe-to-be seemed to sense she was not welcome: she gave me continuous pain, so that I could hardly walk a few yards without having to stop and stretch out my leg with the cramps. Alfred fretted and fumed and paced about, angry at my awkwardness and his impotence in the matter: “This is too bad, Dodo. Phelps will have to find something stronger for you.�
�� Something stronger was duly found, and had the effect of making me lose what sense of time still remained to me. Some days I was too distracted even to venture downstairs. And in spite of spending so much of my time asleep, I seemed to have an unerring ability to act foolishly when awake. I had sudden unaccountable bouts of hiccoughs. I forgot things. I lost things. I blundered about half-dressed, surprising the servants and alarming the children with my unkempt appearance and continual queries about Alfred’s whereabouts. I felt agitated and restless and somehow lacking in air, as if I were choking from some invisible dust.
And then my dearest Ada passed away. She had been growing thinner all through the summer, and Dr. Phelps was always going from my room to hers and back again, looking grave and sighing a little more then usual. But in my distraction with my own condition, I had not seen that the end was so near for my darling child, and it came upon me with all the force of a steam hammer. I was given so much laudanum I can remember only blackness. Blackness and more blackness, and a permanent ache in my throat. Alfred standing like stone at the bedside, and Bessie’s mouth open in a silent scream; and somewhere in the distance, the sounds of the children crying. And the black coats and tall hats of the undertakers as they massed in the hallway, and the empty coffin being carried up the stairs. And the floor coming towards me and some unknown person holding me up and someone carrying me away. And my head and limbs and stomach and back feeling one great conglomeration of pain as I was put in my bed with the blinds drawn and the lamp draped with a dark cloth.
Barely six weeks later, Florence May was born. I was not ready for her, and she was not ready for the world. The poor thing could hardly open her eyes, and her breath was so thin and fluttery it barely made a movement in her chest. I held her poor wizened body against me, trying to make her suck, trying to will her into life. But even as I looked at her, her mouth turned blue and her body grew limp; and I knew it was useless. I wept then; I crushed her hard to my bosom and refused to let her go. “I must see Alfred,” I kept repeating. “He will know what to do.” But they said that there was nothing he could do; even Alfred was not a miracle worker, they said; even he could not bring her back from the dead. The midwife tried to release the child from me by force, but I held on to her. Then Sissy leant over me, smelling of carbolic soap, saying I was tiring myself with all this screaming and must let the child go for my own health and sanity. But I still held on, as if Florence May contained in her tiny body some part of my own real life. “Get away from me!” I cried out to Sissy. “You devil, get away!”
Finally, Alfred was summoned. He came into the sickroom like sunshine. He came to the bedside and touched me on the hand: “Let me hold the poor child, Dodo.” And he took her from me gently, and wrapped her in the tiny shawl I had embroidered for Kitty so many years before. As he stood there cradling her, tears started from his eyes and he shook his head: “There must be no more babies, Dodo. I cannot bear to stand over another little grave—I think it will quite unman me! And you, poor dear girl—you must have complete rest. As soon as all this is over, I shall see to it.” I grasped his hand, and we wept together over our child as we had once wept over Alice.
16
I CAN SEE ALFRED SO CLEARLY. HE IS LYING ON A STRANGE kind of dais, draped with velvet. He is young, his skin is smooth, and his lips are full. He is dressed as Abanazar. Sissy and Alice are standing beside me, holding huge bunches of flowers. My own hands are empty. I know that I meant to bring forget-menots—the flower that matches my eyes; the flower he’d put in his buttonhole the day of Alice’s funeral.
But that cannot be right. Alice is here beside me. She is looking at Alfred and smiling. “I love you so much,” she says. “You are my Good Angel.” Sissy says: “I love you too.” She looks as young as Alice, and even prettier. They are almost twins, dressed like brides in the same blue gowns with white veils tumbling down their backs. They look desirable, whereas I am dismayed to find that I am wearing an old black dress, musty and rusty and stained down the front with Dr. Phelps’s mixture. I am mortified; I cannot be seen in this. I must go back home and find my own blue gown.
“It will hardly fit you now!” says Sissy, laughing unkindly. “You are far too stout.”
“Yes,” says Alice, more judiciously. “I am afraid you have broadened a good deal since I saw you last.”
“But I was fitted for a new one!” I wail. “Miss Walters came. I was promised it for today!”
“Too late, as usual, Dodo!” says Sissy, shaking her head. “Shame on you! It was his last request that we should all dress in blue. He was quite specific on that. And, as you know, he is always right.”
“Yes, Dodo. You of all people should know that.” Alice is gliding towards him. She stoops over him and it seems as though she is about to kiss him. But she is only pulling away the Arabian drapery and, as it falls to the ground, I see that Alfred is wearing a sailor’s outfit.
“He may wish to dance the hornpipe later on,” Alice explains gravely.
“Dance? So he is alive?” My heart lifts in a great explosion of happiness, but before I can speak, Sissy shakes her head.
“He is dead to you, Dodo, because you are such an earthly creature. But he is immortal to us because we are creatures of the spirit. We will always be by his side for ever and ever.”
“But he is my husband! I love him the best! I should be by his side!” I move forward and start to beat them away, but their bodies strangely have no resistance. I wake up gasping.
I can still feel that flaming of hope. I try to hold on to it, to embrace and conserve it within me. If only he were still alive! If only he were here in this room dressed in a sailor suit ready to prance about the furniture and hold me tight to his bosom—nothing he has ever said or done in these last ten years would matter. I would forgive him everything. I would let him have as many women as he liked—even my sisters, if that made him happy. He could sit in state with adoring women all around him, like an Arabian prince in a harem.
I am aware that Wilson is by the bed. She is looking agitated. “Beg pardon, madam. I wouldn’t have disturbed you—but Mr. Norris is here, very insistent. I told him to come back, but he says he’ll wait on the stairs till Kingdom Come. I didn’t know what to do.”
“Mr. Norris?” I am confused. “What time is it?”
“A little after eight, madam.”
I am astonished. I see he can rise early when the mood takes him. “I can’t possibly see him now.”
“He says it’s very urgent.”
“Indeed?” He can go months without seeing me. Now he calls on me every day. “Well, he’ll have to wait on my earliest conwenience, like Boodles.”
“He won’t like it.”
“I daresay. But he’ll have to put up with it. I’ll have my breakfast here, then. I’ll let him know when I have time to see him.”
Wilson goes out. I hear a commotion at a distance. Augustus is not taking my refusal well. “I’ll wait,” I hear him mutter. “I’ll wait all day if I’ve a mind to!”
The voices are coming closer. I cannot believe it—Augustus is almost at my door. I shall clearly have no peace while he is under my roof.
Wilson edges in with my breakfast tray. “Mr. Norris says he intends to wait until you are in a fit state to see him. Which he begs to request will be sooner rather than later.”
Wilson is ruffled. It is not fair to let her bear the brunt of Augustus’s annoyance. “Oh, very well,” I say. “You may tell him I shall see him at half past nine.”
“Yes, madam.” She goes out. I hear words exchanged, then silence. I sigh with relief. Then attempt my porridge and poached eggs. It’s not often I have my breakfast in bed; I don’t like to, as it reminds me of all the time when I was “indisposed,” when Sissy contrived to keep me away from the rest of the family as much as possible. But once in a while it is an agreeable indulgence.
At half past nine, I am ready. Augustus is sitting moodily watching the street from my window, sketching the sc
ene. “You’ve a fine view of the world,” he concedes. “I’ll wager you know more of what happens than you let on.”
“Maybe; maybe not. But that is not the reason you are here. Please state your business—this business that is so pressing that you disturb my whole household.”
“One bad-tempered servant, you mean.”
“No, not only Wilson. I have a routine too. This is the second morning you have intruded upon it.”
“What routine? Reading old letters and such, you mean?” Kitty has clearly told him things. I am cross with her. But Augustus suddenly seems to realize that if he is asking a favor, he is not going the right way about it and his manner softens.
“Look here, Ma. To be frank, I’ve come to ask you to intercede with Sissy.”
“With Sissy?” Even I have not expected that. I look at him, astonished. He must know that Sissy and I have never spoken—never corresponded even—since I left Alfred’s house and she stayed on. Kitty hates her too, but even she is on better terms with her than I. “What on earth can I do to help you? And what help do you want?” As if I didn’t know. He wants her to release the money. And for some reason he thinks I can persuade her.
“You’re her sister, aren’t you? And Kitty is your child. Surely that counts for something.”
“Sisterhood has never counted in the past. She has abused the very meaning of that name. If you are so anxious to influence her, why don’t you see her yourself?”
“I’ve tried. She’s been ‘not at home’ these four days.”
“Perhaps she is busy. I imagine there is a lot to do.”
“Oh, she was there all right. I saw her at the window, lurking behind the curtain.”
“Why don’t you write to her, then?”
“I have written.”
“Well, give her time to reply. Why are you in such terrible haste, Augustus?”
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