After Such Kindness

by Gaynor Arnold

  ‘Margaret?’ Robert has come in so quietly that I haven’t heard. I colour, close the journal quickly.

  ‘What’s that you’re reading with such rapt attention?’ He comes towards me, smiling, conciliatory.

  ‘Nothing of importance, Robert.’ I slide it down by my side, against the inner arm of the chair, and give him my most confident smile.

  ‘On the contrary, you were quite engrossed. More engrossed than I’ve seen you for a long time. I think I have the right to know what it is.’ He is holding out his hand, certain that I will surrender it to him. ‘Is it a romance?’ he teases. ‘Now, don’t be ashamed to admit it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say, equally playfully. ‘Or maybe not.’

  He’s encouraged by the playfulness. He comes towards me, rests his hands on the back of my armchair and bends to kiss my neck. I feel the tiniest edge of his tongue as he does so, lapping at me, awakening – what? A thin tremor of desire? I’m not sure; I hardly dare think about it. He whispers in my ear: ‘Come, now, let me see what you’re hiding.’

  ‘No, Robert, it’s a secret.’

  ‘Is it indeed? Have you forgotten so soon – there should be no secrets between a husband and wife. We are one person – one flesh, in fact. Or will be soon, I hope.’

  The word ‘flesh’ seems to excite him, and I can sense that he wants to kiss me, and hopes that this time I will kiss him in return. But I can hardly breathe. It takes me an effort to control my voice, to turn the conversation back to the mundane. I pull back from him, laughing gently: ‘It’s not really a secret, Robert. Just a book from the toy-box; hardly your sort of reading matter.’

  ‘Oh? And are you sure you know what my “sort of reading matter” is? I believe I have quite catholic tastes: adventure, comedy, ghost stories – even romance.’ He smiles knowingly. He explores down the inside of the chair, his fingers contriving to caress the contours of my hip before they tighten over the book. ‘Here it is! Now I’ll find out what your secret is!’

  I trap his hand with a deft sideways movement. ‘Please, Robert,’ I say. ‘I’d rather you didn’t. As a favour to me. Please.’

  ‘Ah, my wife asks a favour, and I’m happy to grant it.’ He retracts his empty hand. ‘But what will she give me in return?’ I can see his long, dark face reflected in the looking-glass, hovering expectantly next to mine. His eyes drop to my breast, and now he can see my unfastened bodice, my loosened stays. I feel his breath quicken. ‘What’s this, Margaret? En déshabille at six o’clock?’

  I’m horrified that he will misinterpret this. ‘I was a little uncomfortable, that’s all. A little breathless after all that effort this afternoon.’

  ‘But you are recovered, now, it would seem,’ he says. ‘Very much recovered, if I am any judge. I don’t know what is in that book, but I would say it had made you quite pink and rosy.’ His voice has taken on a caressing quality, which makes me feel uneasy. I don’t like that silken tone of voice; it’s always a prelude to something unwelcome. And it is: his hand is stroking my exposed bosom.

  I flinch, but he takes no notice. He may even think it’s a response of pleasure. He does. ‘Oh, Margaret,’ he murmurs. ‘May we try again tonight?’

  Tonight? The giddy feeling rolls and swells through my body. The wedding night flashes before me in all its horror – and I am tense from head to toe. ‘Please, Robert. Not quite yet. I’m not ready.’

  I wonder, though, if I’ll ever be ready. If it’s not tonight, then it must be tomorrow, or the day after. And it must be done. It’s like a high hedge that has to be painfully scrambled over, but, surely, once on the other side there should be smooth pastures – happiness and affection and the beginnings of family life. Everything I want, in fact.

  I glance at Robert. He is less nervous than on our wedding night, and I am calmer too. Maybe now is the time to abandon myself to his touch, here at six o’clock on an autumn evening in our own room with an hour to spare before dinner. I can let my eyes fix themselves on the watercolours of the Lake District, the pretty brocade curtains, the fading light through the window – anything so I don’t have to think about what he is doing with his hands and his lips – or the other, more appalling parts of his anatomy. I merely need to make the effort.

  But even as logic is telling my mind to submit, my body is in a panic. Robert is breathing hard and doesn’t seem to notice my distress. He’s plucking open my chemise, murmuring things I can’t hear. I know that they are words of love and desire. I’m sure that they are meant to melt me, make my arms soft and my lips ready – but I’m a piece of wood beneath him. I feel the old nightmare returning; the dark shadows, the hot sense of guilt. I cannot, cannot do this; I rear up from the chair and push him off. My strength surprises me. It surprises him too – he falls heavily against the dressing-table, striking it with his elbow, and then slides to the floor, making my eau de Cologne bottle topple over with a crash. He looks up at me. His shirt is open, the buttons on his trousers partly undone. He’s lost all his dignity.

  I feel instantly ashamed. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Dear Robert, I am so sorry.’

  He shakes his head. He is perplexed and angry and sympathetic all at once. ‘I’m not a demon from the depths of Hell, you know. Just a man wishing to make love to his wife.’ He gets up, rebuttons his trousers and smoothes his sleek black hair.

  I apologize again. ‘You must think me unloving – but it’s simply that I can’t . . .’ But I cannot explain. I’m shaking head to foot.

  He takes my hand – tentatively this time, as if he fears I will hurl him to the ground once more. ‘I know you’re apprehensive. It is a natural thing in a modest and well-brought-up young woman. But you are perhaps taking such feelings to the extreme. There is nothing to fear – from me at any rate. We have known each other for eight years. Surely you trust me by now?’

  His kind words hurt me more than harsh ones. All my attempts to pretend to myself that only time is needed, that I will habituate myself to the idea if I am left alone, now strike me as weak and self-deceiving. I squeeze his hand; notice how his sallow fingers contrast with my white ones, as if we are opposites never to be conjoined. ‘Oh, Robert, you are kind and admirable and everything a husband should be. But I have an irrational fear. I cannot describe it. I cannot understand it myself.’

  ‘You know I won’t hurt you – at least not more than I can help.’ He sounds as if he might break down in tears.

  ‘I know you won’t, Robert. And, anyway, I can bear pain.’ I know that for certain. I’ve tested myself over and over, just to make sure. I’ve held my fingers over candle flames, and jabbed darning needles into my palm six at a time.

  ‘Then I’m at a loss.’ He puts his face in his hands, hopeless. We are silent for a while. Then he raises his head. ‘Margaret, I hesitate to say this, but I feel maybe the time has come when we should consult a medical man. This antipathy of yours cannot be normal. It must be some sort of nervous condition.’

  I need to offer him some hope. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Maybe you are right.’

  He smiles like a man who has been given a new life. ‘I am glad you agree. I will ask Dr Lawrence to recommend a specialist. Someone in London – Harley Street perhaps. We will have this cleared up in no time.’ His face is flushed and joyous, and I feel guilty for encouraging him along what I am sure is the wrong path. ‘Now, will you come down for dinner – or shall I have something sent up?’

  ‘A little soup, perhaps?’ I am anxious to perpetuate the notion that I am in somewhat fragile health. I kiss his hand. My lips feel the little black hairs that cluster there and I have to suppress a shudder. ‘You are so kind, Robert.’

  He looks gratified. ‘Nonsense,’ he says. ‘You are a dear girl and I love you. It’s simply that I wish to love you more fully. As is right for man and wife.’ He bends and kisses me on the forehead, a kiss of forgiveness and absolution. ‘I will sleep in the dressing-room tonight. Let you rest with no fear of – well, you know.’ He backs away to the door
and gives me a parting smile. ‘Goodnight, dear.’

  ‘Goodnight, Robert.’

  He’s forgotten all about the journal. But I can feel it against my thigh, an insistent presence, and now (maybe) my salvation. Memories are emerging in small and elusive flashes. Robert won’t come back tonight, so I can read as much as I want. I draw it out and open it again, skimming over my innocent prattlings about teatimes and theatre visits, finding where I left off. There is a storm to come, I feel sure.

  Yesterday I cut my hair short and now everyone is cross with me, except Mr Jameson, who said it made me look prettier than ever. (I know I shouldn’t write down compliments, but he did say it.) I am very pleased with the result, which was mainly thanks to Mr Jameson in the end. Mama looked really cross and said, ‘Really, Mr Jameson, you should have stopped her,’ but I told her Mr J didn’t know I’d done it – so she didn’t say any more. My sisters are being spiteful as usual. Sarah said it wouldn’t grow back for ages, so I said I didn’t want it to, as I wanted it short for ever. Christiana said she thought fringes were very common and it made me look as if I had lice and she’d be ashamed to go out with me now – not that she often does. Papa said he didn’t mind what hairstyle I wore except that there was deceit involved and he was disappointed in me and that I would need to ask forgiveness and learn suitable verses from the Bible. I thought this was a quite lenient punishment for Papa, but I’m not sure that I can ask for forgiveness as I am still pleased that I did it. I hope this will not affect my outings with Mr Jameson. It was truly not his fault, although I did it in his rooms. I hadn’t intended to do it, it just happened on the spur of the moment after we had come back from the Botanical Gardens, which was very interesting as I saw the monkeys again and fed them on bits of fruit. Mr Jameson pointed at one and said, ‘How would you like it if you had that fellow for your great-great-grandfather?’ And I said I wouldn’t like it at all. And he said some people thought we had monkeys for our ancesters but of course that was foolish talk because the Bible says we are all descended from Adam and Eve, and that was far more logical, wasn’t it – at least Bishop Wilberforce thought so. And I said I thought the bishop was right, and Mr Jameson said that was sensible of me, as bishops were always supposed to be right.

  Then we went back to his rooms to have tea, and he said he’d like to take some more photographs of me if I didn’t mind. Then he said, ‘How would you like to dress up as a gypsy girl?’ And I said I would like it very much but I didn’t have the costume. And he said Aha, and opened his bedroom door and there it was already waiting for me, laid out on his bed. He said he had had it sent post-haste from Nathan’s, and he hoped it would fit, as he’d had to guess my size. I don’t know what we would have done if it hadn’t fitted, as Hannah wasn’t there to help and I am not very good at sewing except for plain seams and cross-stitch.

  However, the dress was just right and was very pretty although the top of the sleeves kept falling down over my shoulder, but Mr Jameson said that bare shoulders looked right for a gypsy girl, and went with my bare feet. He said the way my hair was untidy was right too. That was when I told him that I hated my hair and wanted to cut it short like Miss Garfield had said, but I was afraid Mama would not allow it. I said I wished Miss Garfield had had some scissors with her because it was very difficult to cut your own hair especially with embroidary scissors. Then Mr Jameson said, ‘Have you been trying to do that?’ And I said I had snipped a bit off but I was afraid I’d make a mess of it so I’d stopped. And he came and stood behind me and lifted my hair in front of the looking-glass and asked how short I wanted it, bringing his hand higher and higher until it was up to my chin. And I said yes, and as well as that I wanted to have a fringe like Enid and Emma, so that my hair didn’t fall over my face and make me hot. It is so horrid to be hot all the time and I just want to be cool and free. And he stood there holding my hair in his hands and looking at us both in the glass as if we were a photograph in a frame. I asked him if he would be so kind as to cut it for me but he shook his head and said it was Quite Impossible, and I was a bit cross and said it was not impossible at all, and anyway he always said it was important to think the impossible. Then he laughed and said, ‘Don’t you know that a thing can be possible and impossible at the same time?’ And I said that was silly, it had to be one or the other. And he said no it didn’t and that cutting my hair was possible because he knew how to use a pair of scissors – but impossible because it would be wrong. I said it wasn’t wrong as Nettie always used to cut an inch off every month, but Mr Jameson said that was different as Nettie was my nursemaid, but he was a batcheler don and as such he came under the Eye of Society. I wasn’t sure why the Eye of Society was interested in who cut my hair but Mr J said Society was interested in a lot of things it had no business to be, including kindnesses that might pass between a little girl and a gentleman who was not related to her (meaning him of course). Mainly he was afraid that my mother would disapprove and stop me visiting him – which would make him miserable. Well, of course, I didn’t want that to happen but I thought all the same that he was giving in too easily. Surely Mama would not be cross with him as he was a grown-up person and had saved Benjy from drowning? But he said mamas could be very particular about some things and this was one of them.

  Then he stood back from the glass and said it was time to take the photograph and then he noticed that I was still wearing my pantalettes and he said that, if it was not too delicate a matter to mention, he feared I would need to remove them, as all the frills and ribbons were showing through the rags, which would not do at all. I asked him what real gypsies did when their drawers showed through their rags, and he said, ‘Oh, I think you’ll find they are very free and easy in such matters.’ He then went back into his sitting room and I took off my drawers and folded them up with my petticoats and dress. Then I saw there was a pair of very large scissors on the dressing-table that seemed to be asking to be picked up, so I did, wondering what Mr Jameson did with them. They were very heavy and had big black handles. They were so big that I knew they would cut my hair in no time and once it was done it wouldn’t matter what Society or anyone else said. I stood in front of the looking-glass and put them across my forehead and let the blades crunch through my hair. I couldn’t see what I was doing because my arm was in the way but I saw great long bits of hair fall onto my chest and when I put my arm down I saw my face looking quite different, and I felt quite airy and nice. Then I noticed that the fringe was very crooked so I tried to take a little bit more off one side, but the scissors were so heavy, I couldn’t hold them straight. I began to feel very hot and panicky and was afraid I might end up with no front hair at all like Enid’s sister who had allopeasha and couldn’t go out for a year. So I went back to Mr Jameson in the other room.

  He was so astonished when he saw me that his eyebrows went right up. ‘Dear, dear,’ he said. ‘You have put the cat among the pigeons! But what a very disagreeable job you have made of it. I cannot take your photograph like that.’ I said that his scissors had been too big to do it properly. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I daresay. They are Benson’s scissors as it happens. I asked him to take a couple of inches off my gown as the hem had come undone and I was treading on my tail. But you cannot go back to your mama like that. We’ll have to improve it somehow and you’ll need to stand very still while I do it.’ I was relieved that he was going to help me but I said, ‘What about the Eye of Society?’ And he said, ‘Well strictly speaking I’m not cutting your hair, just trimming it to make sure you’re not too much of a fright when your mama sees you, which is as different as a peach from a perambulator. Now you’d better stand on a chair while I do it.’ And he got a wooden chair and put it in front of the wardrobe mirror and picked up the scissors. I climbed on the chair and said that I was as tall as he was now and he smiled and said in this world it was easy to grow larger but very difficult to get smaller which was a pity as he would rather like to be as small as me sometimes. And I said I hated being small an
d wanted to have long legs like Christiana and Sarah, so I could wear long skirts and petticoats and swirl them around. And he said don’t wish for that, enjoy your childhood while you can. Then he lifted the scissors and started to make neat little snips to my fringe and I could feel his fingers against my forehead and they were so shaky I was worried that he would make things worse but in the end he cut it what he called a Perfect Horizontal at ninety degrees to the plum although I couldn’t see a plum anywhere. When he finished, he said I looked very pretty now and when I looked in the glass I thought I did too and I could imagine myself on the stage with all the other gypsy girls and everybody clapping. Then Mr Jameson brushed the little bits of hair off my cheeks and neck, and his fingers tickled me and I laughed and tucked in my chin and he said he could see I was ticklish which was a sign of a Sensative Nature, and he was rather ticklish himself and his sisters had had no mercy on him when he was a boy. And I asked him how many sisters he had had and he said seven (which meant a lot of tickling!). And then he said we must get on a little faster as Benson would soon be getting the tea ready and would be in a bad temper if we were still in the dark room when it was time to sit down. So we went into that little studio and he lit the lights and told me where to stand and how to turn my head. I was a bit cold without my drawers, but Mr Jameson said it was all in the cause of Art, and Art is very important. DEB.

  I have goose-flesh now, just to think of it – me in my skimpy outfit against a painted background of sky and clouds, carrying a basket as if I’m selling nosegays, and standing on a make-believe rock with my hand on my hip. It’s very clear in my head, because I saw the photograph many times, as Mr Jameson kept it proudly on his mantelpiece in a silver frame. ‘I will always remember you like that,’ he said. ‘Even when you are grown up, you will always be a little gypsy girl to me.’

  ‌9

  ‌ JOHN JAMESON