I sit in my chair by the window and grip onto the arms. I dig my fingers hard into the chintz fabric. It is not the shock of Papa’s death that has knocked me off my feet. It is something much worse. I swallow the howl that rises to my throat. Then, with unsteady legs, I stand and walk to the mirror and stare at the girl who looks back at me. Her face is pasty and greasy as pig’s lard. It looks all the worse framed as it is by ropes of dark, unkempt hair. But it is her eyes that frighten me the most. They are black and glittering and wild. Like the eyes of a madwoman. Like the eyes of a murderer.
‘You did it, didn’t you?’ I say to the creature in the mirror. ‘You murdered Papa.’ The girl’s lips move in time to my words. ‘You wished this to happen,’ I say. ‘You wished for something, for anything to happen, so you would not be sent to the asylum.’ The girl in the mirror widens her eyes. ‘Don’t look so surprised,’ I tell her. ‘What did you expect?’
She looks back at me at steadily, with her bold accusing eyes. But she doesn’t answer. So I take the poker from by the fireplace and I smash it into her face, until she shatters to the floor in a hundred pieces.
Fifteen
Mama has taken to mourning with a passion. I think perhaps she was born to be a widow. The word slips over her head and fits her as neatly and as perfectly as the most costly gown in her wardrobe.
By midday, she has had every mirror in the house covered in black crepe. The pendulum has been removed from the long-case clock in the hall and the time has been stopped at six, the nearest hour to Papa’s passing. She has instructed that every window in the entire household is to be covered. Not a chink of natural light is to penetrate Lions House. She has banished the sunshine until further notice.
I slip through the house unseen. No one has bothered to lock my door. No one seems to remember I exist. Everyone is too busy dealing with the business of death.
The dressmaker comes and Mama orders a selection of modestly cut gowns made in the finest of black silks. She also chooses a dozen black veils of intricate lace and a selection of exquisite mourning jewellery fashioned from the finest quality jet. She sends William to purchase a sheaf of writing paper, edged in thick black, with matching envelopes. I watch through the door as she sits with a straight back at her desk in the parlour, scratching with a pen across one sheet of paper and then another. The notes are sent from the house to all those of any importance in Bridgwater, to inform them of Papa’s death.
Eli will not come out of his room. I have knocked a few times, but all he will say is, ‘Go away, Alice,’ in a weary old man’s voice. I wander down to the kitchens. No one notices me there either. It is all hustle and bustle. Cook is rolling out a rich, yellow slab of pastry on the kitchen table. Some other girl is polishing crystal glasses. And another is drawing hot water from the copper and setting aside clean rags. It is as though nothing terrible has happened at all. The only difference between now and before is that all the servants are wearing black armbands.
It is my fault, I think. He is only dead because of me.
I stand with my back to a wall and watch all the comings and goings. The smell of hot fruit – gooseberries perhaps – drifts towards me. But instead of making my mouth water, the green sweetness makes my stomach lurch. I think I will never eat again.
Sarah scurries into the kitchen. She bobs quickly when she sees me standing there. Then she hurries over to the kitchen fire and fills a bowl with water from the large kettle and picks up a pile of washcloths and clean rags. For the laying out, I think I hear her say to Cook. Missus has asked me to help. She passes by me again on her way out, but now her face is rigid with concentration and she doesn’t acknowledge me again. I follow her through the house and up the stairs. She walks carefully, steadying the bowl of water in her hands. The bundles of cloths are thrust under her armpit. It is only when we reach Papa’s bedchamber that I understand what she is about to do.
‘Are you coming in, miss?’ she asks.
I shake my head. ‘I can’t,’ I whisper.
She tuts in sympathy then nods at the door. ‘Would you mind opening it for me, miss?’
I do as she asks and she slips past me and into Papa’s chamber. The smells of lavender and burning wax coil out of the room. And another smell too: the warm comfort of Papa’s tobacco. I find that I cannot close the door on it. So I leave it open, but just a snatch, and I stand still and watch.
I see Mama first. She is hovering at the foot of Papa’s bed. Then I see William. He is stripping Papa of his nightgown from under the modest covering of a sheet. He pulls the nightgown over Papa’s head and hands it to Sarah. I watch, with my heart sliding around in my chest, as William then packs freshly laundered rags into Papa’s mouth and deep into his nostrils. I let out a breath. Then Mama ushers Sarah to the bed. She brings with her the bowl of water and bundle of washcloths.
Sarah wets one of the cloths and wrings out the excess water. Then she reaches under the sheet and begins to wash Papa’s body. She washes him from his neck down to his feet and not once does she baulk at her task. She might as well be wiping down a table. I can’t help but wonder what it must be like to touch Papa now. Is he still warm? Or is his body already cold and stiff like the pig carcasses I sometimes see hanging outside the butchers on Friarn Street? I shiver in disgust, but I can’t help feel a pang of envy that Sarah is able to be so close to him.
William brings a set of clothes over to the bed and with Sarah’s help he dresses Papa for the final time. Between them, they put Papa in a white shirt with a high, starched collar and then they bend his arms into a low-cut embroidered vest. They pull a pair of tapered woollen trousers onto Papa’s useless legs and then they button him into a matching frock coat with velvet lapels. Finally, William ties a black cravat softly at Papa’s throat and tucks Papa’s gold pocket watch into his vest.
I swallow hard. Papa looks so handsome now. Except his hair is ruffled from where William and Sarah moved him. I want to go and smooth it back. It is the least I can do for him. I push at the door gently. It whines at the hinges. Mama whips her head around and she fixes me with a glare. I haven’t forgotten about you, she says, without even opening her mouth. Then, as though she has read my mind, she walks to Papa’s side and smoothes his hair flat again.
Sixteen
Sarah comes to help me clear the mess of broken mirror from my floor. I tell her it was an accident and she says to never mind, miss. All the mirrors are covered anyway. And she hangs a piece of black cloth over the empty frame. I am to dress now, she tells me, for the photographic artist, Mr Gibbs, is on his way and I will need to look my best. I ask her if she has had much practice arranging hair, and she tells me that as she used to plait the mane of her father’s horse in readiness for the springtime fair, she’s sure she could manage.
Sarah helps me into a green shot-silk gown. You will do very well in this one, miss, she tells me, until your mourning gowns arrive. She brushes my hair to a shine and with a simple twist, she pins it to the back of my head. ‘There,’ she says. ‘I think you are ready.’
I walk through the house towards the front parlour. Everywhere there are candles burning and whispers hanging in the shadows. I walk by the long-case clock and it is strange to see it so still. The door to Papa’s study is ajar. I catch a whiff of brandy and smoke and it stops me in my tracks. I cannot resist pushing the door open to see if Papa is there, sitting in his chair with his papers before him and his brow furrowed in concentration. But of course his chair is empty. I drift into the room and run my hand across the pile of papers on his desk. I hold it there for a while, imagining Papa’s hands shuffling through the pages only hours since. There is an empty glass on the desk too. I pick it up and hold it close to my face. I see the trace of sticky lip prints on the rim. Papa’s lips. I press my mouth to the glass. A last kiss. But I feel no comfort. I place the glass back on the desk, and as I leave the room I whisper, I’m sorry, Papa. I am sorry for my wickedness. I never meant for you to die.
I he
ar noises and voices coming from behind the door to the front parlour. I do not want to go in. I cannot face them all. I stand outside, hesitating, one hand on the doorknob. I want to go back to my room. I want to go back in time, to before any of this happened. If I could, I would be a small child again and I would try to be who they wanted me to be from the very beginning. Then maybe Papa would still be here. But I can’t go back in time. I know that. The very best I can do is to change. I have to be the person they want me to be now. That other person, the other me, is no good. She hurts people. She made Papa die by wishful thinking.
I take a deep breath and close my hand around the doorknob. But before I have the chance to turn it, the door is pulled open from inside. I jump back. It is Eli. Relief crosses his face when he sees me. ‘I was just coming for you,’ he says. ‘We have been waiting. Mr Gibbs is ready for us.’
I swallow hard. ‘I am ready, too, Eli,’ I say.
The light in the front parlour blinds me for a moment. The room is ablaze. There are candles on every surface and an oil lamp burning in the centre of the table. I peer into the light and I see a bespectacled man standing in front of me. He is fiddling with a large contraption, a box on long spindly legs. ‘This is Mr Gibbs, Alice.’ Eli introduces me. I nod to the man. There are beads of perspiration dancing on his forehead. ‘Ah, good,’ he says. ‘We are all here then?’ He gestures for us to move to the other side of the room.
I see Mama at once. She is standing stiffly with a black half-veil shading her face. And then I see Papa and I start to tremble. He is sitting in a high-backed chair with a large bowl of gaudy roses on a table at his side. The light of the candles shine harshly onto his face and his skin is grey and stretched. I stop and look to Eli. ‘Go on, Alice,’ he says. ‘It is all right.’ But Papa’s eyes are wide open and he is staring at me. Eli gently pushes me forward. As I move closer, Papa’s eyes look stranger still, like the eyes of the china doll that sits upstairs on a shelf in the old nursery.
Mr Gibbs begins to fuss around us. He arranges Mama so she is standing behind Papa’s chair, then he directs Eli and me to stand either side of Papa with our hands placed upon his shoulders. ‘Yes, yes. That’s good. That’s good.’ I am squashed next to the bowl of roses. But even the thick sweetness of them, combined with Mama’s powdery lavender scent, cannot disguise the stench of old bacon that is rising from Papa. My hand sits on his shoulder, my fingertips trembling against the velvet of his lapel. Mr Gibbs adjusts Mama’s skirts. He suggests that Eli puts his free hand in his trouser pocket, and he asks me to move an inch closer to Papa. ‘Perfect,’ he says. He returns to his box and bends down to peer through it. ‘Now,’ he says. ‘I would ask that you all remain perfectly still until I tell you otherwise. Exposure will take about ten minutes.’
And so we stand, this little family of ours, while Mr Gibbs captures our likeness forever.
It is hot in the room. My skin is prickling in the heat and I can feel Mama’s quick, shallow breaths on the back of my neck. Mr Gibbs is humming quietly. He checks his pocket watch and nods encouragingly at us. ‘A moment more, if you please,’ he says. Under my bodice, a bead of sweat rolls slowly down between my breasts. Suddenly, a weight falls onto my arm and my hand slips from Papa’s shoulder. I look in horror to see that Papa’s head has rolled from its position and is hanging awkwardly over the side of the chair. I move away and in my haste I knock into the table and send the bowl of roses crashing to the floor. Mama yelps, Mr Gibbs rushes forwards and in that moment I see why Papa’s eyes look so strange. His eyelids are closed, but someone has fashioned upon them, in paint, the crude likeness of an open eye. It is this, as much as anything, that sends me fleeing from the room.
I dash out into the hallway, desperate for air. But it is, of course, all shadows and dark corners. Where can I go? Every room in the house is smothered and in gloom. The whole place is like a tomb. I look to the great double doors at the end of the hall, the ones that lead outside. I know I shouldn’t, I know it is the bad Alice that wants to go outside. But I have no choice. If I don’t leave this house now, I think I might die too.
I tug the door open and step out into the remains of the day. I walk down the steps, through the iron gates and out onto the pavement. The evening air is soft and warm and I swallow great mouthfuls of it. It has been so long since I have tasted fresh air, I am dizzy with the pleasure of it. I look around and see the street is empty. I should go back inside. My head tells me that is the right thing to do. But the thought of the darkness and the scent of roses and lavender, mingled with the stink of Papa and the heaviness of my guilt, is too much to bear. I find myself walking away from Lions House, listening to my boots slapping the ground. I come to the end of the street and I walk faster. A cab passes me on the road, sending up clouds of dust in its wake. The thick plod of horse hooves echo in my ears. Further on and there is a pair of gentlemen, strolling along deep in conversation. Then there is a girl carrying a basket of wilted flowers. She is scuffing her feet along the pavement as though she has nowhere in particular to go. As I walk on, the streets grow busier. I pass an alehouse. A group of factory workers lean casually against the walls, their caps on the floor and pots of beer in their hands. There is colour everywhere now. In the bonnets and gowns of scurrying women and in the fruits and fancy goods piled up outside the shops.
I stop and listen to all the noises: the hum of voices, the rumble of wheels, the clatter of crates and doors. I turn this way and that, seeing everything, soaking it up, feeling the aliveness of it all. A trail of people walk by and turn the corner towards the town square. More follow, and before I know it, I am carried along with them, curious as to where they are all going.
In the far corner of the square there is a tight knot of people. There are all types: gentlemen in top hats, dour women in plain dress, merchants, hawkers, flower girls and a smattering of painted ladies. I hover on the fringes of the crowd and watch how each person finds their own spot, then stands still and listens. There is a voice coming from deep within the crowd, from someone that I cannot see. But everyone is listening intently, so I move closer so that I can hear too.
‘THE DAY OF JUDGEMENT IS ALMOST UPON US! THE LAMB OF GOD WILL WALK AMONGST YOU AND THE FAITHFUL WILL CLEANSE THEIR SOULS OF ALL EVIL!’
The voice is rich and powerful. I push my way forward, trying to catch a glimpse of who the voice belongs to. The crowd parts easily. Some are muttering under their breath and are already breaking away. There is a gap at the front, and I position myself between a young woman whose pale face is covered in a riot of freckles, and an older woman who has her hands clasped tightly to her bosom. I look to the speaker and am surprised by what I see. Instead of the grey, papery preacher I was expecting, there is a tall, broad man with hair and a beard as black as mourning crepe. His hair is swept back from his forehead and falls in ringlets past his shoulders. He is standing on a wooden crate and has his arms spread wide as though trying to embrace the whole of the crowd before him.
‘ON THE DAY OF WRATH ALL PROPERTY AND RICHES WILL BE AS DIRT!’
He is dressed simply in a dark frock coat and I am taken aback to see that his feet are bare. Suddenly, he stops talking and he sweeps us all with his eyes. They are as blue as any eyes I have ever seen and are framed by long, black lashes.
‘WHO OF YOU HERE CAN SAY YOUR SOULS ARE TRULY CLEAN?’
The woman next to me whimpers.
‘My soles ain’t clean!’ shouts a voice from the crowd. ‘I just trod in horse shit!’ Laughter ripples through the air and the crowd thins out some more as the laughter eventually drifts away.
The man on the crate just smiles. ‘What those unbelievers do not know,’ he says to the few of us left, ‘is that I am the Beloved Lamb of God.’
The woman next to me cannot contain herself. She steps forward, bends to her knees and kisses his feet. He speaks again, as though he hasn’t noticed her.
‘RECEIVE ME AS THE SON OF GOD AND YOUR FLESH WILL BE LIBERATED FROM SIN IN TH
IS WORLD!’
I cannot tear my eyes from his face: he is so earnest. And although I do not understand much of what he is saying, there is something true and comforting in his expression. He seems not to care what the dwindling crowd thinks of him. He is happy to be who he is.
The girl with the freckles puts her hand on my arm and turns to me. ‘He is wonderful, is he not?’ she says, her eyes shining with tears.
I nod, unsure of what to say. ‘Who … who is he?’ I brave.
She raises her eyebrows in surprise. ‘It is him!’ she says. ‘Our Beloved.’
I am none the wiser, so I try again. ‘I am sorry,’ I say. ‘But I have not seen him before. Tell me, what is his name?’
‘Henry Prince,’ she says dreamily. ‘Our Beloved Lamb of God.’
The hairs on the back of my neck begin to prickle. I turn and see that this Henry Prince is looking straight at me. He gathers me up in the blue of his eyes and he holds me there while he says softly, ‘Are you for saving, little lamb?’
I cannot speak. He is staring at me so keenly I fear he can see right inside my soul, that he can see the badness inside me. My face flushes hot and I look down to my feet. Then he begins to speak again.
‘COME WITH ME AND I WILL SHOW YOU PARADISE ON EARTH!’
I turn swiftly and walk away, back across the square. I feel his eyes following me and I quicken my pace. It is not until I round the corner, to where he cannot see me any more, that I begin to breathe easy again. He has shaken me, and I do not know why.
The sun is orange and heavy in the sky. It is later than I thought. I hurry along the dusty pavements, nervous now, that I have been missed. An aproned butcher, unhooking the last pig carcass from outside his shop, turns to look at me. A tightly buttoned-up woman, pushing a squeaking perambulator, stares at me for longer than is comfortable. I realise I must look out of place. A girl out on her own, wearing neither bonnet nor shawl, is a cause for gossip.
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