by Sarah Waters
She went on like this—until at last, in the same quick, queer spirit in which I had handed her the book, and then the pen, I said: ‘Aurora! You may say then, Aurora! For that is a name—it is a name that—’
I did not of course say it was a name that Helen gave me, before she married my brother. I said it was a name I used to like to call myself, ‘when I was young’. And then I blushed, to hear the foolish thing spoken aloud.
She, however, only looked solemn. She gripped the pen again, wrote a line through Margaret, and put Aurora in its stead.
And then she said, ‘Selina, and Aurora. How well they look! They look like angels’ names—don’t they?’
The ward seemed all at once terribly quiet. I heard the slam of a gate in some distant passage, and the shrieking of a bolt, and then I thought I caught the sound of sand crunched beneath a prison heel, much nearer. Awkwardly, feeling her fingers hard against my own, I took the pen from her. I said, ‘I’m afraid I have wearied you.’
‘Oh, no.’
‘Yes, I think so.’ I rose, and went fearfully to the gate. The corridor beyond was empty. I called, ‘Mrs Jelf!’, and heard an answering cry—‘One moment, miss!’—from some far cell. Then I turned and—since there was no-one, after all, to overhear or to see—I held out my hand. ‘Good-bye then, Selina.’
Again came her fingers in mine, and she smiled. ‘Goodbye, Aurora’—she whispered it into the cold air of the cell, so that for one long second the word hung white as gauze before her lips. I drew away my hand and made to turn towards the gate; and then it seemed to me that her look again lost a little of its artlessness.
I said, Why did she do that?
‘Do what, Aurora?’
Why did she smile, in that secret way?
‘Do I smile, in a secret way?’
‘You know you do. What is it?’
She seemed to hesitate. Then she said, ‘It is only that you are so very proud. All our talk of spirits, and—’
And what?
But she had grown suddenly playful again. She would only shake her head and laugh at me.
At last, ‘Give me the pen again,’ she said; and before I could reply she had seized it from me and stepped again to the book, and begun to write upon it very rapidly. Now I did hear Mrs Jelf’s boot upon the passage-way. ‘Quickly!’ I said—for my heart had begun to beat so fast in my breast, I saw the cloth above it give a quiver, like a drum-skin. But she smiled, and wrote on. Still the boot came closer, still my heart thumped!—and then the book was closed at last, the pen screwed up and returned to my hand, and Mrs Jelf made her appearance at the bars. I saw her dark eyes searching, in their usual fretful way; but there was nothing now to see, except my fluttering breast—and that I covered with my coat while she still turned the key and pushed the gate. Dawes had taken a step away from me. Now she put her arms across her apron and bowed her head, not smiling at all. She said only: ‘Goodbye, Miss Prior.’
I nodded to her once, then let myself be escorted from her cell, and across the wards, without a word.
But all the time I walked I felt my note-book swing against my hip: she had made a strange and terrible burden of it. At the junction of the gaols I took my glove off, and placed my naked palm upon the binding, and the leather seemed warm, still, from the grip of her rough fingers. But I did not dare to draw it from my pocket. Only when they had shut me into a cab, and the driver had put the whip to his horse, did I pull the book free again; then it took me a moment to find the page, and then another to tilt it so that the street-light fell upon what she had written. I saw it, then closed the book at once and placed it back inside my pocket, but kept my hand upon it, still, through all that jolting ride—at last the leather grew damp.
Now I have it before me. There are the blots of ink, the names she wrote—her own, and my old, secret one. And there, beneath them, is this:All our talk of spirits & not a mention of your locket.
Did you think they wouldn’t tell me, when they took it?
How they smiled Aurora, to see you search!
I am writing by candle-light, and the flame is very low, and dipping. The night is a harsh one, the wind slithers beneath the doors and lifts the carpet from the floor. Mother and Pris are asleep in their beds. The whole of Cheyne Walk might be asleep, the whole of Chelsea. Only I sit awake—only I, and Vigers, for I hear her stir above me, in Boyd’s old room—what has she heard, that makes her so restless? I used to think the house grew still at night; now I seem to catch the beating of every clock and watch in it, the creaking of every board and stair. I look at my own face, that is reflected in my bulging window: it seems strange to me, I am afraid to gaze too hard at it. But I am afraid, too, to look beyond it, to the night which presses at it. For the night has Millbank in it, with its thick, thick shadows; and in one of those shadows Selina is lying—Selina—she is making me write the name here, she is growing more real, more solid and quick, with every stroking of the nib across the page—Selina. In one of those shadows Selina is lying. Her eyes are open, and she is looking at me.
26 November 1872
I wish my aunty might see me where I am now. - For I am at Sydenham, at Mrs Brink’s house! She has brought me here, all in the space of a single day, saying she would rather have me perish than have me pass another hour at Mr Vincy’s. Mr Vincy said ‘You may have her, ma’am! & much trouble I hope she will bring you’, though Miss Sibree wept to see me pass her door, saying she knows I will be very great. Mrs Brink drove with me in her own carriage, & when we arrived at her house I thought I should faint, for it is the grandest place you ever saw, with a garden all about it & a path of gravel leading up to the front door. Mrs Brink saw me looking & said ‘My child, you are white as chalk! Of course, this will be queer for you.’ Then she took my hand to lead me through the porch, then took me quietly from room to room, saying ‘Now, how does this seem to you? Do you know this - & this?’ I said I was not sure, because my thoughts were cloudy, & she answered ‘Well I daresay it will come, in time.’
Then she brought me to this room, that was once her mother’s & is now to be mine. It is so large, I thought at first it must be another parlour. Then I saw the bed in it, & I went & touched the post of it, & I must have turned white again for Mrs Brink said then ‘O! This has been too great a shock for you after all! Shall I take you back, to Holborn?’
I said she must not think of doing that. I said we must expect that I should grow weak, but the weakness was nothing & would certainly pass. She said ‘Well, I shall leave you for an hour, to grow used to your new home.’ Then she kissed me. She did it, saying ‘I suppose I may do this, now?’ I thought of all the weeping ladies whose hands I have taken in the past half-year, & besides them of Mr Vincy, putting his fingers on me & waiting at my door. Yet no-one has kissed me, no-one at all, since Aunty died.
I had not thought of it before today, I only felt it now, feeling her lips come upon my cheek.
When she left me I went to look at the view from the window, which is all of trees & the Crystal Palace. The Crystal Palace however, I do not think is quite so marvellous as people say. Still, it is a better view than I had at Holborn! When I had looked at it, I walked about this room a little &, the floor being so wide, I tried a polka step upon it, the polka being a dance I have always longed to dance in a large room. I danced very quietly for a quarter of an hour, first taking care to remove my shoes so that Mrs Brink might not hear me in the rooms below. Then I looked about me, at the things that are here.
This is, after all, quite a queer sort of room, for there are a great many cabinets & drawers here, with things in all of them, such as, pieces of lace, papers, drawings, handkerchiefs, buttons, &c. There is a vast closet, & this is filled with gowns, & has rows & rows of little shoes, & shelves with folded stockings & bags of lavender. There is a dressing-table, with brushes & half-used bottles of scent upon it, & a box of brooches & rings & an emerald necklace. And though all these things are extremely old, they are all kept dusted & p
olished & smelling fresh, so that anyone seeing them, not knowing Mrs Brink, would think what a neat lady her mother must be. They would think ‘I’m sure I ought not to be here handling her things, she is sure to be back in a moment’ - when in fact of course, she has been dead for 40 years, they might stand & handle them for ever. I knew this, but even I felt I ought not to touch those things. I thought that if I did, then I would turn & see her standing at the door, looking at me.
And as I thought that I did turn, & did look at the door, & there was a woman standing looking at me! And I saw her, & my heart went into my mouth -
But it was only Mrs Brink’s maid, Ruth. She had come quietly, not like Betty used to come but like a real lady’s maid, like a ghost. She saw me jump & she said ‘O, miss, I do beg your pardon! Mrs Brink said you would be resting.’ She had brought water for me to wash my face in, & when she had come & poured it into Mrs Brink’s mother’s china bowl she said ‘Where is the gown you will be changing into, for dinner? If you like, I shall take it & have our girl press it up for you.’ She kept her eyes on the floor, not looking at me, though I think she might have noticed that my feet were bare, & I wonder if she could have guessed I had been dancing. She stood waiting for my gown, though of course I only have one dress that is finer than the one I was wearing then. I said ‘Do you really suppose that Mrs Brink will expect me to change?’ & she said ‘I think she will, miss.’ So I gave her my velvet dress & she brought it to me later, they had steamed it & it was very warm.
I sat in that dress until I heard a bell struck at 8, which is the astonishing hour at which they serve the dinner here. Ruth came for me then, & she unfastened the bow at my waist & retied it, saying ‘There, don’t you look handsome?’ & when she took me into the dining-room Mrs Brink saw me & said ‘O, but how handsome you look!’ so that I saw Ruth smile. They put me at one side of a great polished table, Mrs Brink sitting at the other, watching me eat & saying all the time ‘Ruth, will you give Miss Dawes a little more potato? - Miss Dawes, will you let Ruth cut you some cheese?’ She asked me if I cared for the food, & what sorts of food I liked best. The meal was an egg, a pork chop & a kidney, cheese & some figs. Once I thought of Mrs Vincy’s rabbit, & laughed. When Mrs Brink asked me why I was laughing I said it was because I was happy.
After dinner Mrs Brink said ‘Now, shall we see what influence this house might have upon your powers?’ & I sat entranced for an hour, & she I think was very satisfied. She says that tomorrow she will take me shopping for some gowns, & that on the next day or the day after that she will have me lead a circle for her friends, who want very much to have me work for them. She brought me to this room again, & again she kissed me, & Ruth brought more hot water & took my pot, which was not at all like Betty taking it, & made me blush. Now it is 11 o’clock & I am wide awake as anything, which I always am after a trance, though I did not like to tell them that here. There is not a sound in all this vast house. There is only Mrs Brink & Ruth, & the cook & another servant, & me, in all of it. We might just be a lot of nuns in a nunnery.
The great high bed has Mrs Brink’s mother’s white lace gown laid out upon it, which Mrs Brink says she hopes I will wear. But I should not be surprised if I do not close my eyes at all tonight. I have been standing at the window, looking at the lights of the town. I have been thinking of the very great & marvellous change that has come so suddenly upon me, & all because of Mrs Brink’s dream!
The Crystal Palace I will admit looks something now, with all its lamps lit.
Part Two
23 October 1874
It has grown colder this week. The winter has come early, as it came early in the year that Pa died, and I’ve begun to see the city change again, as I watched it changing in the miserable weeks when he lay ill. The hawkers on the Walk now stand and stamp their ragged-booted feet, cursing the cold; and where horses wait you see knots of children, huddling at the side of the beasts’ great wet flanks for the sake of their heat. There was a mother and her three sons found starved and frozen to death, Ellis told me, in a street across the river from here, two nights ago. And Arthur says that when he drives along the Strand in the hours before dawn, he sees beggars crouched in doorways with their blankets rimed with frost.
There have come fogs, too—yellow fogs and brown fogs, and fogs so black they might be liquid soot—fogs that seem to rise from the pavements as if brewed in the sewers in diabolical engines. They stain our clothes, they fill our lungs and make us cough, they press against our windows—if you watch, in a certain light, you may see them seeping into the house through the ill-fitting sashes. We are driven into evening darkness now, at three or four o’clock, and when Vigers lights the lamps the flames are choked, and burn quite dim.
My own lamp is burning very dimly now. It is as dim, almost, as the rush-lamps that used to be lit for us at night, when we were children. I remember very clearly lying, counting the bright spaces in the rush-lamp’s chimney, knowing I was the only wakeful person in all the house, hearing my nurse breathe in her bed, and Stephen and Pris sometimes snore, sometimes whimper, in theirs.
I still recognise this room as the one we slept in then. There are still marks on the ceiling where a swing once hung, and still some of our nursery books upon my shelves. There is one there—I see the spine of it now—that was a favourite of Stephen’s. It has pictures of devils and phantoms in it, painted vividly, and the object of it is that you must gaze at each figure very hard, then look quickly at a blank wall or a ceiling—when you do that, you see the phantom floating there, very clearly, but in quite a different colour to the original.
How my mind runs to ghosts, these days!
It has been dull, at home. I went back this morning to read at the British Museum—but it was darker than ever there, because of the fogs, and at two o’clock the murmur was sent out that the reading-room was to be closed. There are always complaints when that happens, and calls for lights to be brought; but I—who was taking notes from a prison history, as much for idleness’ sake as for any more serious purpose—I didn’t mind it. I thought it even rather marvellous, to emerge from the museum and find the day become so grey and thick, and so unreal. I never saw a street so robbed of depth and colour as Great Russell Street was then. I almost hesitated to step into it, in fear that I would grow as pale and insubstantial as the pavements and the roofs.
Of course, it is the nature of fog to appear denser from a distance. I did not grow vaguer, but stayed sharp as ever. There might have been a dome about me then, that moved when I did—a dome of gauze, I saw it very clearly, it was the kind that servants set on plates of summer cakes to keep the wasps from them.
I wondered if every other person who walked along that street saw the dome of gauze that moved when they did, as clearly as I saw mine.
Then the thought of those domes began to oppress me; I thought I ought to walk and find a cab-rank, and take a carriage home, and keep the blinds down till I got there. I started to walk towards Tottenham Court Road; and, as I went, I gazed at the names upon the door-plates and the windows that I passed—taking a sad kind of comfort from the thought of how little that parade of shops and businesses had changed, since I walked there with my arm in Pa’s . . .
And even as I thought it, I saw a square of brass beside a door that seemed to shine a little brighter than the plates on either side of it; and then I drew close, and I saw the plate’s dark legend. It said: British National Association of Spiritualists—Meeting-Room, Reading-Room and Library.
That name-plate was never there, I am sure, two years ago; or perhaps I only never saw it then, when spiritualism was nothing to me. Seeing it now I stopped, then went a little nearer to it. I couldn’t help but think, of course, of Selina—it is still a novelty to me, to write her name. I thought, She might have come here, when she was free; she might have passed me on this very street. I remembered waiting at that corner once for Helen, in the days when I first knew her. Perhaps Selina passed me then.
The thought w
as a curious one. I looked again at the brass name-plate, and then at the handle of the door; and then I grasped the handle and turned it, and went inside.
There was nothing to see, at first, but a narrow staircase—for the rooms there are all on the first and second floors, above a shop, and you must climb to them. The stairs take you to a little office. It is panelled with wood, quite handsomely, and has wooden blinds that, to-day, were turned flat against the fogs beyond the windows; between the windows there is a very large picture—done badly, I thought—of Saul at the House of the Witch of Endor. There is a carpet of crimson, and a desk; and seated at the desk I found a lady with a paper and, beside her, a gentleman. The lady had a brooch of silver at her breast, cast in that device of clasping hands one sees sometimes on grave-stones. The gentleman wore slippers, worked in silk. They saw me and smiled, then looked sorry. The man said he was afraid the stairs were very steep ones; and then: ‘What a shame, you have had a wasted climb! Did you want the demonstration? It has been cancelled, because of the fog.’
He was very ordinary and kind. I said I hadn’t come for the demonstration, but—what was perfectly true—that I had stumbled on their doorstep quite by chance, and crossed it out of curiosity. And at that they looked, not sorry, but horribly sage. The lady nodded and said, ‘Chance, and curiosity. What a marvellous conjunction!’ The gentleman reached to shake my hand; he was the daintiest man, with the slenderest feet and hands, I think I ever remember seeing. He said, ‘I’m afraid we have little enough to interest you, in this sort of weather, which keeps all our visitors away.’ I mentioned their reading-room. Was it open? Might I use it? It was, I might—but they would charge me a shilling. It didn’t seem like a very great sum. They had me sign my name in a book upon the desk—‘Miss Pri-or,’ said the man, tilting his head to read it. The lady, he told me then, was named Miss Kislingbury. She is the secretary of the place. He is its curator, and his name is Mr Hither.