The Woman in the Mirror:

by Rebecca James

  I swallow. ‘Your father has nothing but love for you,’ I say, dismissing his words as procrastination. ‘He wishes to shelter you, that is all.’

  Edmund’s eyes narrow. ‘Not you as well,’ he says shortly.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The last one grew soupy over Father, too.’

  Constance’s voice is meek. ‘That’s enough, Edmund. Don’t talk about that.’

  ‘And now we’re stuck here, with only you stupid women for company.’

  I seize his shoulder and lift him out of his chair.

  ‘I will not tolerate such talk in my classroom,’ I say, opening the door and releasing him. ‘You will stand there against that wall until I tell you to come back in – and until I do, you will reflect on what you have just said. Do I make myself clear?’

  Edmund lowers his head, snivels, and for a moment I think he is crying. Oh, but he is just a boy! A poor, lost, frightened boy! And the frustration of his captivity must be too much to bear, and I ought to understand; I am, after all, his carer, and often it feels I am more than that, so strong is my instinct towards these children. I rush to him, my arms outstretched, but then he looks up and into my eyes, and I see that he is not weeping at all but laughing. It is a dry, thin sort of laugh. I straighten, my hands trembling, and re-enter the drawing room, shutting the door behind me.

  ‘He won’t stay there,’ says Constance. ‘He never does.’

  *

  Constance works diligently for the rest of the afternoon. If only I could say the same for myself because my thoughts grow as tangled as the forest wallpaper in my bedroom, twisting and looping until I can make sense of neither head nor tail. Edmund is damaged, that much is clear, and it is my duty to help him – to help them all, to bring this family back together and breathe the heart back into Winterbourne! I long to take Constance’s face in my hands and kiss it over and over, to kiss his too, these precious children, these children in need, for surely that is all it is; surely Edmund’s behaviour is a simple consequence of the trauma he has suffered? No child should ever lose his mother. I must be patient. I must find a solution. I must save him!

  And the girl is not without my concern. Constance’s disturbance might be less evident than her brother’s, but still it is glaringly real. I read about somnambulism and learned that it invariably has a psychological cause. The fact she has experienced repeated episodes proves her upset. Dear, unfortunate child! I realise that I have been brought to Winterbourne not just to tend to these children’s daily needs, but also to address a greater one beyond. Perhaps the captain is aware of it, perhaps he is not, but I will not rest until I have made progress. Mrs Yarrow’s allegations make sense. The twins have likely stepped out of line – on occasion they might have leaped right over it. But I see the root of their problems. I understand that they are not at fault. It is another force at work inside this house, the legacy of their doomed mother and the ordeal they suffered when she died – not to mention what happened to the poor woman before me! The children are not to blame.

  Neither is the captain. With each hour that passes, he continues to fascinate and distract me. How I wish I could help him, as much for his benefit as for my own. In Jonathan de Grey I see a man I can mend, with affection, with devotion, with loyalty, and in mending him I can make right the wrongs of both our pasts.

  ‘My darling,’ I go to her desk, ‘I wish to speak with you.’

  ‘About Edmund? About the woman we had before you?’

  ‘No, darling, not that.’

  ‘Because he didn’t mean to… I’m sure he didn’t mean to.’

  I shake my head. ‘Didn’t mean to do what, sweetheart?’

  Constance’s blue eyes are imploring, her words coming fast. ‘She didn’t like it, Alice; she didn’t like what he did – and it wasn’t kind, really it wasn’t. But neither of us meant to. We were told to do it. Told to say it. Then she went and killed herself, out there on those rocks. And Father found her, and we never said anything because we didn’t want to get into trouble. But we thought it would make her pleased with us!’

  I take my child in my arms, my dear, sweet child, and stroke her silken hair.

  ‘Hush now,’ I say, ‘there’s nothing to be frightened of. I’m here.’

  ‘And so is she!’

  ‘Constance,’ I draw back, ‘it’s just you and me.’

  ‘Then who is that?’

  I startle, pull away, look about me. ‘Who?’

  ‘She was right there, behind you, right at your shoulder. Her!’

  ‘Stop it, Constance,’ I demand, my voice trembling. ‘That’s enough. You’re seeing things. You’re tired, and of course you are, you spent half the night walking about Winterbourne. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, not this nonsense, not Edmund. Now pull yourself together, both of you. What would your father say?’

  Constance watches me. ‘She’s going to get me,’ she says. ‘She’s going to get us all. Then you’ll know. Then you’ll know why.’

  *

  At half past seven, I change my clothes for my appointment with Henry Marsh. Already I can picture the interior of the Landogger Inn, its reassuring fire and the comforting chatter of locals as they gather round it. Normality. Ease. Winterbourne has seemed a fiend to me today, and while I try to put the twins’ behaviour to the back of my mind it is difficult. At the same time I am aware of my own inclination towards getting carried away; everything I have been privy to at the house has a reasonable explanation, and that explanation is the deaths of two women. I must keep a level head. I must see to the plain truth. An evening with the doctor is precisely what I need: kind, logical Henry with his medical good sense.

  Before I pull my bedroom curtains shut, I check that the front of the house is quiet. No captain. No Mrs Yarrow. No Tom. They will have retired to their respective diversions for the evening. I have agreed to meet Henry on the drive, out of sight.

  I see my reflection in the darkening glass, the blush of lipstick the likes of which I haven’t worn since the war. I close my eyes. I remember how I used to get ready to see my love, the excitement and anticipation of his lips meeting mine, his arms round my waist, and for a moment I can conjure his smile so exactly that it takes my breath away and I must open my eyes again to make it stop. It is too painful.

  I haven’t gone out with many men since. Thinking about it, I have been a one-man girl since I was seventeen. A tear escapes. I wipe it away. Those days are gone. I rest my hand on my stomach, warm, tender, and torment myself with another ending, one where he hadn’t died, one where we had all been together. Stop daydreaming, Alice. It is pointless wishing for what cannot be. Pointless and painful. What is, is.

  And I deserve it – don’t I?

  I pull the curtains shut. As I do, I see the little farmyard painting on the wall. Peering in, it seems to me now as if the girl at the cottage window has turned her back to me, and she is smaller still, making her way further into the house. I cannot swear it; I cannot swear I saw her face the times before. Did I? It’s hard to be sure. A chill trails down my spine and I tell myself I am fine, I am well, there is nothing to fear. I step back and turn away myself. I take my purse and prepare to sneak downstairs.

  Chapter 17

  Alice, London, December 1940

  Betty woke me in the small hours. The night outside was absolute, the dark around me so close that it seemed to fill my mouth and ears. In the distance, or perhaps it was my surfacing perception that created the distance, erupted the shaking blast of a falling bomb, closely followed by the spit of ack-ack gunfire. For a moment I forgot. And then I remembered. A dull cramp had started in my belly. Maybe it had even been part of my dream: I dreamed I was being carried across the desert on a stretcher, wounded in some way to my abdomen, the sun flashing and superb above me in the sky, and I didn’t know if I was being carried towards him or away from him.

  ‘What’s the time?’ I whispered to Betty.

  ‘Half past two,’ s
he whispered back. It seemed a violation, at that hour, to do anything other than whisper. Perhaps we were fearful of the Germans hearing us. We dressed in the dark. I laced my boots and tied my coat and tried not to dwell on the ache in my stomach, receding at points like a forgiving tide and in others butting forward, fast becoming pain. I winced, but turned away to do it. Betty didn’t know. Nobody here knew. My shame bore me down and wore me out.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked me. ‘You look pale.’

  ‘Just tired.’

  Everyone was tired: it was an acceptable response. In the canteen, we lit the stove and made the tea, pouring it into large urns ready to serve when we arrived at our destination. The depot told us it was a trench shelter in Green Park. The bombs were still falling. Houses there had been blown to smithereens. People were afraid.

  The pies turned my stomach as I put them into the gas oven. I clenched my jaw to bite away the sickness. Weeks ago, when I’d first found out, it had been a terrible sickness, a constant heaving sea – and that was how I’d first known, really, because my bleeding had often been erratic and it wasn’t unusual for me to be late. But now the sickness caught me off guard, suddenly strangling before melting away. It was akin to my dread, in fact, because in some hours the whole predicament seemed manageable, even desirable: this was the very last piece I had of him and I loved it, I loved it fiercely, and no matter what I had to do we would come through this together. But in other hours my panic overwhelmed me. I knew I was completely alone. I had no idea what I would do or where I would go, or who would have me.

  At three-thirty a.m. Betty and I hitched the canteen on to the car. It was a considerable effort, especially as we were aided only by torchlight, and one of us had to hold the torch so there were only three hands between us. Over the wall of the depot I could see pockets of sky illuminated, bruised pink and flashing orange, and the low grumble of enemy aircraft. The air smelled of soot and burning, an acrid, chemical stench that mixed with the hot sweetness of the pies and made me want to retch. The cramping in my stomach was getting worse. I climbed behind the wheel.

  Betty guided me out of the depot. It was difficult to see by the thin light of the torch but presently we were away. I knew the streets like the back of my hand and appreciated the focus of the drive, away from my own problems and into a bigger picture. It was amazing how bright the moonshine seemed when there were no other lights to be seen. London was a blackened city in more ways than one, and the shapes of its landmarks – the spires of Parliament, the dome of St Paul’s – crept out of the deep night like black cats on a high wall.

  Minutes later we arrived at the park, reporting to the ARP warden at his post.

  ‘It’s been a bad night,’ he said. ‘We’re thankful for the WVS.’

  Betty and I attached our steel helmets and set about preparing the canteen. For a moment I lost my troubles in the plain occupation of the job. Londoners emerged from their night-long shelter with hands outstretched, cold fingers longing for a warm mug of tea, bellies grumbling for sustenance. It felt satisfying to pour the tea and hand out the pies and buns, which were for the most part enjoyed in silence. In a quiet moment Betty stepped outside the canteen and lit a cigarette; I could see the flare of the match as it lit up the inside of her hands, then the glow of the tip of her smoke.

  As night began to break to morning and the all-clear sounded, we could start to make out the devastation around us. Buildings had collapsed; heaps of rubble stood in their place, and where they had fallen, swathes of sky appeared that shouldn’t have been there, the surprising blowouts between buildings like missing teeth.

  We loaded our trays with food and drink to take down to the shelter. Not everybody was able to come up to the canteen, those who were old or infirm, or plain scared. In the trench we were met by relieved faces – relief at the raid being over, relief at seeing us – and we passed the refreshments into grateful hands. An elderly couple had brought a table and chairs from home and I wondered how long they had been there. The woman looked at me with crinkly eyes that seemed to linger on me a moment too long, as if she could tell, as if she knew, and her silent sympathy made me weep. When I passed her her tea, she held my fingers in her soft ones and whispered, ‘Thank you.’ Betty called for me to come back up.

  It was frightfully cold. Outside the canteen, I bent to the ground to wash the tea mugs in a bowl of water and the water stung my hands. I could see my breath in the wintry air, and on a nearby bench the first light of day illuminated a white sheen of frost. Men had arrived to clear the debris from this raid, having spent the night in the same employment elsewhere, and were glad of the hot tea and the chance to smoke. It was as I was leaning over Betty to collect a pack of cigarettes that the cramp in my belly intensified, and buckled me over. Betty caught me.

  ‘Alice – what’s the matter?’

  ‘I need to sit down,’ I said.

  ‘Here.’ She guided me gently to the stool at the back, sitting me down and touching my shoulder. She thrust a warm mug into my hands. ‘Drink this.’

  ‘I don’t feel well. I think something’s wrong.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  But I couldn’t say. My mouth was dry with fear and sickness, and a terrible, stretching, opening sadness, and the sadness seemed to come from nowhere and was the worst thing of all. ‘Alice,’ Betty pressed, ‘what’s happened?’

  ‘Something I ate,’ I forced out. ‘I’ll be all right.’

  Betty didn’t look convinced, but she returned to her post and did the job for two of us. When we were done at Green Park, Betty washed the mugs and I helped her stack them on to the trays, despite her objections.

  ‘I don’t want to sit around,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to do nothing.’

  But Betty insisted on driving to our next stop. As we leaped and bumped over the ruts in the road, my stomach tightened and loosened. I rested my head against the window. I felt weak. It was without thinking that I touched my belly and thought about the tiny person inside, and yearned for them yet was afraid of that yearning, and loved them deeply yet was afraid of that love, and wanted them but didn’t want them.

  ‘Alice,’ Betty asked, turning to me. ‘Are you in trouble?’

  I hadn’t needed to reply because she had already stopped the canteen, in a side street off Holborn. She touched my arm. ‘Oh, Alice,’ she said.

  I shook my head. ‘I’m losing it anyway,’ I said, and a hot choke escaped. ‘It doesn’t feel right. Not today. It’s leaving me. I can feel it.’

  ‘Is he married?’ she asked. ‘Is he a soldier?’

  I squeezed my eyes and the tears wrung out like water from a twisted knot. ‘No,’ I whispered, ‘not married. But he was a soldier. He died.’

  ‘And did he know…?’

  ‘No.’

  Betty passed me a napkin to wipe my eyes. I kept my hands pressed over my face. ‘Alice, it happened to me too,’ she said. ‘It happens to girls all over. The war doesn’t change things, doesn’t make it go away. Mine was married; I had to see a doctor – well, he called himself a doctor – to stop it. If you are losing it, maybe it’s for the best. Maybe it’s not the right time to have a baby. You’re barely twenty.’

  ‘I’m twenty-one.’

  ‘You’ve got your life ahead of you.’

  ‘My life was supposed to be with him. Oh, Betty, I’m scared!’

  ‘Does your family know?’

  I turned away. I remembered the glass falling from my mother’s hand, the arc of spilled liquid; I remembered my father’s inhuman expression, grey and closed and utterly unfeeling. ‘I’m on my own,’ I said, and never had it felt so true – because whatever was inside me, whatever had been inside me up to that point, holding me as tightly as I held it, had gone. I knew it as clearly as the day of the week. The cramps, the waning nausea, the growing sensation of dampness between my legs…

  ‘This,’ I touched my stomach, ‘was all I had left.’

  ‘But, Alice, a woman can�
��t do this on her own – especially now. What will you do? Where will you go? Would you give it away?’

  ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘You might have to, if you can’t look after it.’

  ‘He asked me to marry him before he left. He promised me we’d be together. I wish I could have told him about the baby, I wish I’d known before he left. I expect him to send me word from abroad, there’s been a mistake and he’s still alive…’

  Betty’s eyes were full of sympathy, as only a woman’s can be.

  ‘War is a time for pragmatism,’ she said. ‘You have to be strong – whatever cards you’re dealt. All this is is a bad hand. You’ll be dealt a better one, in time.’ Seeing my expression, she added softly: ‘Alice, you don’t know that you’ve lost it.’

  I turned to her. ‘Look away,’ I said, and she did.

  It was difficult to manoeuvre in the tight space, but at that point I barely cared who saw. I unbelted my coat, lifted my bottom from the car seat and raised my skirt. I pulled my stockings down my thighs and bent so I could see inside my knickers.

  ‘I need to visit the bathroom,’ I said to Betty, in a small, strange voice. I didn’t want to see her expression so I didn’t turn to meet it. All I could think was, This was always going to happen. You’ve lost everything, and it’s exactly what you deserve.

  She started the engine and we drove on, through burned out streets and burned out houses, traversing the graveyard of London, where somewhere, although it was nowhere that I could see, life clung on for all it was worth.

  Chapter 18

  Cornwall, present day

  The letter she found was just the beginning. Over the next two days Rachel unearthed a trove of missives, all roped up inside those study boxes and all in the same vein – this woman, Alice Miller, was imploring Jonathan de Grey to bring her home.

  Home, Alice wrote in one letter. I have come to call Winterbourne my home. Did you know, Jonathan, that I have never named another place such? Winterbourne is where I belong, with you, with Constance and Edmund. With the secret I now carry.