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Waste of bloody time.
He’s a dead one.
I want to be a dead one for them. Blood settles in a slow night-fall into the pouches of my cheeks. The muscles of my face remember; begin to knit and heal and make me whole again, and they are never tired. I am already forgetting that I have done this. My body remembers, and keeps it secret. I go forward into darkness, into the fear. To find that light I saw and lost.
EVE
London, March–April 1857
Mama and I thought the knock at the door was the man come for the collars I had sewn; but a stranger’s voice gusted down the passageway to my customary sheltering place in the crook of the door, out of sight of the street.
‘My dear madam, forgive this intrusion,’said the voice.
I could sense Mama’s eyes creasing at the corners, the marbles of her thoughts clacking together. Who is he? Do I owe him money? The air rippled as he raised his hat; the stitching in his coat creaked as he bowed politely. I heard him say, ‘Is your sister at home?’ And Mama’s surprised, ‘Sister? I have no sister,’ and only then halting, realising it was flattery.
She brought him in, and he bloomed to the very edges of our meagre walls. He was of middling height, but held himself taller; of a middling girth, but bulged himself fatter. He pigeoned out his chin, which was shaved so close I wondered if he hated his own beard and moustaches. He looked at the small table and the sewing laid upon it; the truckle-bed huddled in the corner – everywhere but at me.
Mama stared at his waistcoat, a gaudy affair of vermilion brocade before which I could have warmed my hands. He turned this way and that, the fabric gleaming, complimenting Mama on the tidy industry of the room, the delicate embroidery of the collars, and every sentence held an apology for having so intemperately disturbed the retirement of her afternoon. His hands peeped from the tight cuffs of his shirt, soft as a midwife’s; there was a shine on the seat of his trousers, a stain of sweat creeping around his hat-brim.
Think of him peeled from his linen, his wool, his velvet, whispered Donkey-Skin.
I shushed her, and the noise made him turn, as though he noticed me for the first time. He bowed, very slowly.
‘Dearest miss,’ he breathed.
I dropped my eyes, tried to find a place to conceal my paws, and settled for behind my back.
‘Do not be alarmed, dear miss,’ he said. ‘I mean neither you nor your mother any mischief.’
Don’t be alarmed, sneered Donkey-Skin through her nose. I giggled: she was a very good mimic.
‘Have some manners,’ hissed Mama, and I was quiet.
‘Do not scold her on my account,’ he said. ‘It is fitting for a young lady to be shy in the presence of a stranger. Therefore let me introduce myself, I entreat you.’
He cleared his throat, and puffed himself out some more.
‘I am Josiah Arroner. Amateur Scientist. Gentleman of Letters. Entrepreneur.’
Taxidermist? murmured Donkey-Skin. Careful, girl, or he’ll skin and stuff you before you know it.
Mama was already bustling about him, offering him the sturdier of our little chairs, bleating excuses for the lack of tea, lack of sugar, lack of milk. He took out a sovereign from his pocket with the carelessness of finding a coat-button there and shone its little sun upon the dullness of our room.
‘Ah, the labours of a caring mother. They are never done, are they, madam? Pray do send a boy to bring us tea, and milk, and sugar – plenty of sugar.’ He smiled. ‘And a penny for the lad himself.’
‘Oh no, sir, I could not,’ Mama lied.
‘You are right. How unfeeling of me to expect you to work whilst I rest! No, it is not fitting that you should prepare tea for an unexpected caller. I observed a restaurant on the corner as I came this way. Pray, send the boy there instead, so he may fetch a can of good sweet tea ready-made, a plate of bread and butter and some slices of beef. I declare I am a little hungry and would not eat alone.’
Mama paused for precisely as long as was necessary to indicate her treasured respectability; then raced down the passage and bawled to the woman upstairs for her eldest to run an errand, now. I stared at my lap and counted the seconds before she returned and resumed fussing once more about our guest’s comfort. I was the one hairy as a dog, but I believe she would have rolled on her back and stuck her paws in the air if she had thought it might please him.
I watched him through my eyebrows, simpering at my mother, making little jokes at which she tittered. When the food arrived, Mama left the room to argue about the change and he occupied himself gazing at the tobacco walls, the empty grate, the unlit gas-bracket, the cracked picture of a cow up to its hooves in a puddle, once again avoiding the sight of me. I folded my hands, stroking the fur on my knuckles and wondering why my breathing seemed so excessively noisy this afternoon.
The boy followed Mama into the room, his right cheek glowing with the pinch of her fingers. Mama scurried like a girl-of-all-work, finding a plate here, a cloth for the table there, chasing the lad upstairs for a third chair, because our visitor refused to stay seated whilst one or other of us remained standing. At last the tea was poured, the beef slapped on to a little plate beside the bread, and all of it sitting between us, curling at the edges.
‘Take some,’ Mama urged me, ‘and do not be so ungrateful.’
I took the largest slice of meat, rolled it into a cigar and placed it in my mouth where it collapsed deliciously on my tongue. The more I chewed, the more delectable it became: I could not remember when I had tasted anything so good. We dined in silence, Mama and I endeavouring to eat as slowly as possible. The plate emptied. Mr Arroner cleared his throat once more.
‘Dear ladies, I hope you will forgive such a rude invasion into the peaceful business of your lives.’
He sipped at his tea with feminine delicacy.
Donkey-Skin snorted: Why does he not growl, and toss it down his throat?Why does he not drink it like a man?
I ignored her. He turned to Mama.
‘With your permission, I would present myself as a friend to you, madam. And may I blushingly say it, to your delightful and most remarkable daughter.’
Delightful? said Donkey-Skin, pretending to search the room. Remarkable? Of whom does he speak? You? Ha!
He put down his cup and pressed his hand to his breast. ‘Ah. Dear madam, I can dissemble no longer. I am a simple man and your wits have found me out: I confess it is indeed your daughter with whom I wish to be more closely acquainted.’
Mama’s tea-cup paused partway to her lips. ‘My daughter?’
‘I have heard of her. By reputation.’ He coughed gently. ‘I have also heard of certain cruelties visited upon her person. I declare this has moved me deeply. Ah! To hear of the callous spite of those who neither understand nor appreciate that which is truly gifted, truly different, truly extraordinary! I resolved that I would visit and offer myself as a kind soul possessed of fellow feeling. One who might dare to offer his hand humbly in friendship.’
Mama blinked at this vision. He scraped his chair to face me directly. I raised a lavish eyebrow. Moisture gleamed each side of his nose and upon the thick curtain of his lips.
‘My dearest miss, I entreat you, do not dismiss me as incapacitated with impetuous foolishness. It will be clear to you that I am no longer a young man. However I do declare that it is most distracting to find myself in such an intimate setting with you.’ He took a deep breath and bowed his head. ‘I hope you might forgive such a passionate outburst.’
I picked up the last slice of bread and beef and began to devour it.
‘Ah. I have said too much.’
I looked at him, in agreement for that moment. Mama kicked me under the table, and it wobbled.
Donkey-Skin laughed, and then grew quiet. He’s lying, she whispered.
I know, I thought in return, but discovered that I was blushing. I swallowed my mouthful.
‘Dearest miss, I can see by your bashfulness that it is true. I have spoken too hastily, and have offended your modest nature.’
I wondered if he thought he could read me through my fur.
Perhaps he is not lying, suggested Donkey-Skin.
Mama’s hands trembled; she could not lift the tea-cup to her lips.
‘What a fool I am!’ he continued. ‘Why should you trust me, when you do not know who I am? When I have not shown you my recommendations?’
He reached inside his coat and brought out a folded paper with fine scrollwork at its head, declaring itself sent from the Royal Society of Philanthropic Science. Mama crabbed her eyes at the scramble of fancy letters, taking in the sealing wax and the quality of the ink.
‘Read the whole, madam. The whole, I beg of you. I have noth-ing to conceal. I am a scientist, it is true; but alas, not wealthy. My studies are of the unrecognised kind. There is a fearful prejudice against men such as myself: men possessed of intelligence and skill, but lacking the requisite high birth. It is the greatest scourge and scandal of this society we live in.’
Mama nodded as though she understood what he was talking about.
‘However, there are gentlemen who recognise the talents of a man who does not have Lord So-and-So as his father, nor Lady Blank as his mother. Upon them do I rely, and to them I turn for encouragement and honest employment.’
Mama chewed her lower lip. ‘It is a fine document,’ she pronounced, when enough time had passed that our guest might think she had read it.
I scanned it carefully; it was a fine piece of work, full of phrases praising his tact, extolling his intelligence, his application, his scholarly virtues.
‘You appear before us a paragon,’ I said, when I had read enough to get a taste of the whole.
Donkey-Skin read it over my shoulder. Too princely, she tsked. He is lying after all.
He rocked back, and I hoped the chair would not faint beneath his well-fed shoulders.
‘So do men find me. I would not be so bold as to heap such compliments upon myself.’
He bent forward, bringing his face very close to mine. The chair groaned.
‘My dear miss, I desire most earnestly that you might trust me.’
He smelled of tea and beef and something else, some underlying spice I knew but could not name.
‘In some small way I know what it is to face the hurts of the world. A world which turns aside that which it does not comprehend. I offer you the hand of comradeship, and a fine understanding of the world’s wounds.’
He made one of his deep inhalations and my breath was sucked into his nostrils.
‘I know what it is to gird on a sword and buckler to withstand the onslaughts of society. I know the daily battle – the loneliness of the fight!’
He leaned back then, and I steadied myself from tumbling into his wake. Could he be the prince Donkey-Skin told me about? She wasn’t answering. I glanced at Mama, her tea growing cold in its cup, and saw the famished look written on her: hungry to be rid of me, to walk out of the house without the thought of me warming the shadow of her steps. She seethed with hope, and guilt, and fear; and though he saw less than half of it, I knew he saw enough to wet her, stick his thumb into her innards and spin her like a pot on a wheel.
‘Dear ladies.’ He stood, squeaking back his chair. ‘I have taken up too much of your valuable time. I will leave you now.’
He stood before me, and I dropped my eyes to the floor. His boots gleamed. I thought of his elbow, in and out, in and out, pumping a shine into the leather. He lifted himself on to the balls of his feet, lowered himself, and then rose again. My neck ached from staring at the rug.
‘Madam,’ he coughed. ‘You have a jewel here. A pearl of great price.’
I lifted my head at last, to snort a laugh into his face, but a fire had been lit in his eyes and it quenched all my sharpness. I had a sudden fancy he intended to swallow me up, then and there, thrusting his teeth into the pit of my stomach. I found myself quivering.
‘I have stayed too long. I should not wish to tire you or your esteemed mother any longer with my tiresome chattering.’
Mama jumped up, begging him to stay, but he would go with the most earnest politeness. I stayed seated, and did not speak a word to hold him. Still he paused, holding my eyes with his.
‘I beg your mother’s permission to leave you a small gift. Perhaps you would look upon it kindly after I have gone?’
He did not place it into my hand directly, but laid it on the table.
‘This token is for you,’ he said. ‘Open it later and think of the giver.’
Mama stood behind me and twisted the hair on the back of my neck so that I had to grind my teeth against the pain.
‘Thank you, Mr Arroner, for your kind attention,’ I squeezed out.
‘Dear madam,’ he said to Mama over the crown of my head. ‘I thank you for permitting me to visit you and your enchanting daughter today. Most devoutly I hope you might permit me to call upon you at a future date? If that does not inconvenience you overmuch?’
I felt the tremor of Mama’s frantic nodding. He gripped the brim of his hat and tipped it to me, flapped the tails of his coat like a ringmaster. I looked down straightway.
‘Dear ladies. I will now take my leave, and wish you a pleasant afternoon, and a more pleasant evening.’
His feet crossed the floor; the door opened, he stepped through it, and the door closed.
I hovered my hand in the empty space where he had stood only a few moments before and felt the air that had just now lapped his cheek.
Mama returned. ‘Well, then?’ she whispered.
‘Well what, Mama?’ I yawned.
‘The gift. What has he left you?’
‘I had almost forgot it,’ I lied. ‘I suppose I must see what it is.’
I stood and walked to the table very slowly, for all that Mama would not stop clucking for me to hurry. It was a kidskin pouch, glazed to a top-of-the-milk sheen, the breadth of my palm and containing something square and unforgiving: a piece of slate, perhaps. I lay my hand where his had been and took the pulse of whatever lay within, testing the beat of its tiny heart. I undid the string and ferreted my hand into the smooth dark burrow, soft inside as it was outside.
Donkey-Skin was whispering: Tight as a purse and you are the coin inside. Are you so ready to be spent?
My palm dampened inside the tight grip of the bag. It could almost make me believe I was hairless. I felt him watching me, so close his breath warmed my ear. Slip in your hand, he said. Discover what is within the suppleness of this little pouch. Think of me as you do it; for I am watching the expression in your remarkable face as you draw out the treasure I have given you.
Blood crackled in my veins; my fingers closed around a hard object and I pulled out a looking-glass. It froze at the sight of my face and leapt away from me, clattering against the skirting board.
Mama shrank away. ‘It is a vile thing!’ she cried. ‘What a cruel gift. Throw it away!’
I bent and picked it up. It had not suffered the smallest chip. I looked at it more carefully: it did not jeer ugly, ugly, ugly. Did not wink its broad silver eye and hiss, Who are you to crack me from side to side? How dare you look into a glass? Leave mirror-gazing to pretty girls with plump pink cheeks.
Instead, it shimmered with admiration at my hair: how it waterfalled down each side of my nose! See the curls twirling on each temple! It admired my beard: oh, the softness! Those honeyed lights shining like a twist of caramel sugar!
Who gave you that? asked Donkey-Skin, peering over my shoulder. She picked at a lump of mud in her hair.
I smiled. ‘No one important.’
She laughed, and her teeth rattled in my ears. The Cat-Faced Girl has got a beau! At last, at last, Beast has got a Beau. Let Heaven rejoice! Ma can be shot of you.
I had to smile. She was my friend. ‘I think it’s time for you to go,’ I said, not taking my eyes off the mirror.
When I was a child, I had Donkey-Skin for my friend, a thing sewn from raw-headed scraps of dreams and rag-tag stories, knitted out of all the words my mother could not say, from the grandmothers I never met, the fag-ends of fathers who never stayed long enough for me to know their names. Now I was a woman. It was time to put away childish things.
