The Unexpected Education of Emily Dean

by Robertson, Mira;

  ‘It’s William. William’s home,’ Grandmother said in a tremulous voice.

  ‘Where’s Lydia?’ Eunice piped up, looking around in bewilderment, for the shock of William’s arrival seemed to have temporarily erased her memory.

  Uncle Cec broke away from the group, and took hold of the whisky decanter from the marble-topped credenza. Emily thought he was going drink straight from the decanter, but instead he fumbled for two glasses and splashed whisky into each, before lifting one to his lips and gulping down the contents.

  William swung his crutches forwards, followed by his good leg. He reached an armchair and sank into it just as Uncle Cec arrived and thrust a glass of whisky into his hand. Like Uncle Cec, he drank it down in a single gulp.

  After that, everyone waited, as if time itself had stopped and they were holding out for a word from William to release them. But he remained silent. He stared straight ahead again to where Emily was standing in the doorway, for the general paralysis had affected her too. She could tell by his unblinking eyes that he was not seeing her. His vision was inward. Her own gaze was drawn to the empty trouser leg where some part of her mind kept attempting to see an ankle and boot to match the other one.

  Suddenly Grandmother clapped her hands, breaking the spell that had come over them. What were they thinking? William must be starving. She rushed to the door, shooing Emily out in front of her. Eunice followed, a step behind.

  In the kitchen Della and Florrie were hovering, keen to discover who had arrived so unexpectedly, but neither Grandmother nor Eunice said a word, their faces blank. Now that she had been released from shocked immobility, it was as if movement itself were saving Grandmother from collapse. Together, she and Eunice rushed to and fro, from pantry to kitchen table and back, ferrying Della’s egg and bacon pie and cold meat from the safe, and slices of homemade bread, a jar of chutney and some rhubarb and apple tart.

  Della drew Emily aside and gave her a look that needed no interpretation. ‘Well?’

  Florrie hurried to join them.

  ‘It’s William,’ she whispered.

  ‘Never!’ Florrie clapped a hand over her mouth. She hadn’t meant to shout. It did not matter, for Grandmother and Eunice were utterly focused on loading the tray and seemed not to hear.

  Della’s powerful fingers were squeezing her arm. ‘What about his leg?’

  ‘You knew? You knew about his leg?’

  ‘Blasted bloody war,’ Della fumed, leaving the question unanswered.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ She couldn’t help feeling that the cook had betrayed her and turned to Florrie. ‘Florrie? Did you know?’

  ‘Your gran said we weren’t to say. We must protect the child,’ Florrie added in an uncanny imitation of her grandmother’s voice.

  Emily tried to pull away from Della. ‘I’m not a child.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Della insisted, still gripping her arm. ‘How is he in himself?’

  ‘I don’t know. He hasn’t spoken.’

  Della let her go then, which was a relief as her arm had begun to throb. Seeing Grandmother pick up the tray with Eunice in close pursuit, she hurried across to open the door and followed the two women out of the kitchen.

  Uncle Cec was alone in the sitting room. ‘Gone to bed,’ he said, in answer to the expression on Grandmother’s face.

  ‘But he must be hungry, he has to eat …’ Grandmother set the tray down on the credenza. Her face was crumpling as if she was about to cry, and it struck Emily for the first time that her grandmother had emotions in the same way that she herself did. How could she have imagined otherwise? And yet it was true that she’d never given it a thought. Grandmother was a pillar of strength who held everything together, the rock on whom they all depended. She was the one who enforced the rules and laid down the law, harrying them all to do better and not to let standards slip. The idea that she might feel sorrow, fear and uncertainty was so alarming that Emily felt light-headed and had to put a hand on the back of the nearest chair for support. She wished she could say something comforting but no words came. She was not ready to accept what she’d seen. She did not want Grandmother to be a mere mortal.

  It was not yet nine o’clock, but the safety of the white room beckoned, and she slipped out of the sitting room without even saying goodnight and was soon in bed. She turned out the light and lay down. The curtains were open and she could see the shape of William’s punching bag outlined against a faint glow of moonlight. If only she could stop thinking about William’s leg. The missing bit. There was an old man in a wheelchair whom she’d often seen outside the Eastmalvern train station. He had no legs, just stumps that in winter were wrapped in a tartan rug. He smoked skinny rolled-up cigarettes, and the ends of his fingers on his smoking hand were dark brown, and his face was grey and all sunken valleys. Her father said the old fellow had been a soldier in the Great War and that he deserved better. She always tried not to notice him and had even wished he would die, for that way she’d never have to see him again.

  At least William had one leg, and a bit of the other one, although having half a leg did not seem to be much better than no leg. To distract herself she began to sing softly, the first thing that came into her mind. ‘Ten green bottles, hanging on the wall and if one green bottle should accidentally fall …’

  But that was as far as she got before being startled to a stop by the jangly sound of the telephone extension bell in the hall outside the billiard room. Someone was making a telephone call. Were they ringing the McDougalls’ in order to tell Lydia?

  23

  THE SUN HAD ONLY JUST breached the horizon when she woke, but light suffused the room, for she no longer bothered to close the curtains at night. Something was different, but what was it? As soon as she saw the punching bag outside she remembered. William was home.

  After breakfast they set off for church without him. She’d heard Grandmother calling and knocking on his bedroom door, but when they gathered on the front verandah waiting for Uncle Cec to bring the car round there was no sign of him.

  Now the black Packard was turning out of the homestead drive and onto the road, and a mausoleum-like atmosphere had settled over them all. Emily watched the landscape whizzing past. She began to count the fence posts.

  Uncle Cec let them out opposite the church before driving the car further down the street to park under a tree. Emily fell into step with Grandmother and Eunice as they hurried across to Lydia, waiting near the church gate; she had never seen Lydia so pale.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He wouldn’t come.’ Grandmother reached out and took Lydia’s hands.

  ‘Is he … how is he?’ Lydia asked, her voice cracking.

  Grandmother shook her head, her mouth set tight. Emily felt sure it was to stop herself from crying.

  A matronly woman approached on her way into the church yard. ‘We’re all praying for him, you know,’ she said, rather too enthusiastically.

  Grandmother flicked her a disparaging glance. ‘That wretched party line,’ she said, when the woman was out of earshot.

  ‘Gossips, the lot of them,’ Eunice added.

  ‘What does it matter,’ Lydia said. ‘It doesn’t change anything’, and she pulled away from Grandmother. Emily watched her move past the familiar groupings of parishioners and saw how their heads turned, their eyes following Lydia as she entered the church. The news of William’s return had spread like a grassfire.

  The service was over and, as they made their way outside, Reverend McIver took Grandmother’s hand and patted it.

  ‘You must be strong,’ he said in a firm voice. ‘God’s will –’

  But before he could go on Grandmother withdrew her hand and, straightening her spine, drew herself up to her full five feet. She looked him in the eye, which meant craning her head back. ‘God’s will be damned.’ She turned away and, linking arms with Eunice, moved towards the church gate.

  On the drive home Emily glanced at Lydia and wondered what she was thinki
ng. If only she could make some kind of connection, something to break through the isolation that seemed to be afflicting everyone since William’s arrival. His homecoming had changed everything. Poor Lydia. William was her brother. He was Father’s brother too. A vision of her father with one leg caught her by surprise, and she had to stifle a sob.

  The car bumped over a pothole, knocking her sideways. She quickly tried to right herself, knowing how Lydia hated being jostled or even touched by accident. But instead of recoiling or snapping at her, Lydia grasped her hand and squeezed it briefly. They had both taken off their church gloves, and the feel of Lydia’s warm dry hand scarcely had time to register before she let go. Tears sprang again into Emily’s eyes. She blinked them back, knowing that it was not her right to cry.

  They had not been home long, and Emily was setting the table for the Sunday roast, when Grandmother appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Go and see if Lydia has found William, would you, my dear? Tell them to come to lunch.’ There was a look of despair in Grandmother’s eyes that she wished she had not seen.

  She knocked on Lydia’s bedroom door, but there was no answer. Nor was there an answer from William’s room and, after searching the house and then the garden, she was about to give up when she remembered the workshop. They were sure to be there, and with that knowledge came the unwelcome memory of her visits and the traces of her presence that she’d not had a chance to remove. The never-ending letter to Dorothy in the desk drawer. The books she’d read and left in a pile by the desk. Fanny Hill. What had she done with it? A prickly wave of heat enveloped her, and she sensed sweat beading on her forehead and under her arms.

  On her way to the workshop, every footstep felt heavier and harder to take than the last. She was still thinking about Fanny Hill and the awful shame and embarrassment that accompanied it, when Dorothy drifted into her mind. What would Dorothy do? Emily remembered how Dorothy had been seen smoking in the street in her school uniform by a pillar of society. Naturally, the Pillar had reported her, but Dorothy had denied it point blank. It must have been someone who looked like her.

  Everyone knew it was Dorothy, but not even Miss Maunder was able to force a confession from her, so magnificent and vehement were her denials. Even the Pillar of Society grew uncertain and declared that perhaps he’d been mistaken after all. Denial at all costs. Was she up for that?

  She stopped in front of the blue door. It was ajar, and she could hear voices. It was not eavesdropping because she was about to knock, and she’d been sent to call them for lunch.

  ‘You can’t. You mustn’t.’ Lydia’s voice dropped, and Emily could not make out the next words, despite shuffling closer, her ear to the gap. There had been something urgent and desperate in Lydia’s tone, and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. If only she could hear what was being said, but the dialogue remained indistinct.

  Then came the sound of scuffling, and a sharp cry from Lydia. Footsteps. Emily jumped away from the door and arranged herself as if she were only now arriving. She was just in time for, a second later, Lydia burst from the workshop and ran straight past her towards the house in a turbulent rush. She wanted to follow but, remembering Grandmother’s instructions, she moved back to the doorway and called through, ‘Lunch is ready.’ There was no reply but it was enough. She had done her duty.

  The atmosphere in the dining room was subdued. William had not yet appeared. Uncle Cec stood at the sideboard carving the leg of mutton as Della moved around the table in her usual stately manner, her lips moving, no doubt with holy phrases. Emily thought she heard the words to everything there is a season, but she couldn’t be sure. She remembered the words that followed – a time to every purpose under heaven – and felt a surge of annoyance at Della. What purpose?

  Apart from Della’s whispered biblical quotations, the room was quiet. When Della finished serving and had retreated to the kitchen, Emily waited for someone to mention William’s absence, but nobody did. She expected Grandmother to say grace, but she held her peace, her gaze fixed on some indefinable spot across the room. How long were they were going to sit there, not eating? What if he did not come? She thought about saying grace herself but did not have the nerve. She was wondering who would break first when the door swung open, banging against the edge of the sideboard.

  William hopped across the room, swinging his crutches. He reached the chair between her and Grandmother, opposite Lydia. As he manoeuvred himself into his seat, his eyes were on his sister, but Lydia stared fixedly at the meal in front of her.

  He leaned his crutches on the table next to his chair. Still nobody spoke, and the air vibrated with tension. Emily had a wild urge to once again hide under the sideboard as she’d done after biting Eunice.

  ‘I shall say grace,’ Grandmother finally announced. ‘For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly grateful. Amen.’

  Emily murmured ‘amen’ with everyone else, one eye on William. He did not say amen, his gaze still focused on Lydia. Knives and forks clinked against plates as they began the meal. She could hear the click of Uncle Cec’s teeth as he chewed and an unpleasant squishy sound of food being swallowed. Without conversation, the whole business of eating together felt too intimate. She sawed at a slice of mutton, attempting to detach the rind of greyish fat. Her stomach heaved and she abandoned the meat, focusing instead on a roast potato, wondering if William was going to eat, for he had not yet taken a single bite.

  Uncle Cec cleared his throat. ‘Better to end up without a leg than be blown to bits.’

  Grandmother’s knife rattled against the edge of her plate as Uncle Cec persevered.

  ‘Remember that Wilson fella from Gootmaroot? Came back from Gallipoli with one arm. Damn good stockman. And he could still shear a sheep quicker than most men.’

  William was taking no notice of Uncle Cec. His sole focus was Lydia, willing her to look at him, and Emily found herself willing it too, but Lydia did not waver. And then, to her astonishment, William lifted a crutch and placed it across the table. Perhaps because it was so utterly unexpected, Uncle Cec pretended not to see it and continued to talk about the one-armed Gallipoli veteran who was not only a ‘ringer’ but could roll a cigarette one-handed while at a canter.

  Everyone else watched in frozen disbelief as William slowly and deliberately pushed the tip of his crutch against Lydia’s plate. Nobody moved, not even Lydia, who must have known what was going to happen. Her plate teetered on the edge of the table and then toppled into her lap, meat and vegetables splattering over her and onto the floor.

  William swung his crutch down and pushed himself up out of his chair. He grabbed the second crutch and left the dining room.

  In his absence, a new and altogether more eerie silence overtook them all. Grandmother went to Lydia’s aid, helping her up and taking her off to change out of the soiled clothes, while Eunice, on hands and knees, picked up the food that lay scattered under the table and carried it out to the kitchen. Florrie came in with a basin of hot water and a cloth to clean the Persian rug then left again. Emily and Uncle Cec remained in their seats.

  She could see that Uncle Cec had decided to ignore the entire incident. He ate his meal as if nothing had happened, as if everyone else were doing the same thing, even though nobody was there except for her. She picked up her knife and fork and, imitating Uncle Cec, forced herself to take a mouthful of food. She chewed for a long time; her throat was too tight and she thought she might choke.

  Grandmother returned alone and reported that Lydia was too upset to eat. She sat down, put her serviette on her lap and lifted her cutlery in an effort to maintain some semblance of normality. Eunice came back from the kitchen and followed suit. What had happened was still too fresh, and the implications of it too strange and unknown for it to be spoken of.

  But civilised conversation on neutral topics was beyond them all, and it was not long before Grandmother gave up her pretence and excused herself. Eunice was next to leave, and then
Emily asked to be excused also – a formality she addressed to Uncle Cec, the only remaining diner. He nodded in an absent-minded way and she left the room, not knowing where to go or what to do with herself.

  In that frame of mind she returned to the white room, sat on her bed and picked up Middlemarch – she still wasn’t even halfway through. But, as was so often the case, she could not concentrate. All she could think of was the incident. What had happened between Lydia and William to provoke him in that way? The scrap of conversation she’d overheard held the clue, but what did it mean? Lydia saying: You can’t. You mustn’t. Perhaps he had not been provoked. Perhaps he was …

  She searched for a word that might describe him, remembering something she’d read about soldiers in the First World War who had suffered from shell shock. It was a better word than mad. Mad – like her mother. Why did that have to come into her mind? She tossed Middlemarch onto the bed and stood up. The house felt empty and desolate, as if everyone had gone to ground. She was gripped by an overpowering sense of restlessness. There had to be something to do, somewhere to go.

  Once through the French doors, she gave William’s old punching bag a passing push. At the end of the verandah she stepped down onto the gravel path. She had not made up her mind where she was going or what she was intending to do, but the path led her on towards the yard and she did not resist.

  She heard the sound of male voices and instinctively slipped behind an oleander bush. Peeping through the leaves she saw Claudio and Uncle Cec at the gate. Claudio was carrying a collapsible shearer’s stretcher, and Uncle Cec a rolled-up mattress. Claudio opened the gate, and she watched them reach the blue door and head inside the workshop.

  24

  WILLIAM DID NOT COME TO dinner. It was a dismal affair with everyone avoiding eye contact as if even a look could lead to something disastrous. They tried to keep up appearances and make conversation, but their words got lost and muffled in the heavy atmosphere. There was only one thing to speak of, but it was impossible.