I dissected the parasol, discarded its stem and spokes, and turned the pale blue silk into an embroidered pocket-book, trimmed with its own point-lace. I striped ribbons of cream silk from the scarf over the brown silk of the dress, for several albums. The tortoiseshell top of the hair comb became a buckle on the edge of another brown silk volume, and I fashioned a fastener out of silver wire so it would snap shut. The purple feathers bedecked the ivory silk of the petticoats; the black feathers sprayed around the black rose from the centre of the dress’s bodice in an unusual and beautiful centrepiece on the cover of a scrapbook. Everything – except Lucinda’s coat – was sacrificed to the alchemical process that provided me with a frenzied focus, as if in work I would find the answer. The work consumed me, and for a while consumed my guilt, and the immoral life I had been leading.
But as I sliced up the silk and wrapped it around the boards, I could only think of the poor unfortunate whose skin had been used for the binding. It was a woman, it had to be. Was it the Hindoo widow, dragged from the fire? If so, how did she ultimately meet her death at the hands of her so-called saviours? I was angry; angry for her ignominious demise, and angry for my unwitting role in furthering her dishonour. I had read of it in a thousand vile books, but I had not realised until this moment how closely allied were anger and desire. And as in every one of those books, my desire was indeed to violate the one towards whom I felt anger. I wanted one thing only. Revenge.
Go to the police, an inner voice called! Pah! To what effect? Look at Charlie Diprose, prancing out of his cell a week into what should rightfully have been a four-year sentence! If that odious man could slip so fluidly out of the hands of the law, why should I imagine that Sir Jocelyn Knightley was any less untouchable?
If only I had known before Diprose brought me the leather. If only. I would have burnt it in the fire before it left my hands to deny the twisted pleasure of so diseased an imagination. If only. And what if. What if I could find out where the book was now? What if I could retrieve it? I could destroy it myself. I could go to Holywell-street – in disguise? I could send . . . who? I could break in . . . I could break in to Berkeley-square? I could send Sylvia back one last time? I could . . . I could . . . I could not think of a single reasonable plan, and the brown silk kept turning to skin beneath my accursed fingers, and I retched, and swooned, and burned with rage and impotence.
My anger was my consolation, though. I thought of Lizzie, whom life had taught that there was no point in getting angry, for nothing would change by it. Anger is a luxury for those who still have hope, who still have dignity; those who have neither, those like Lizzie, know not to waste their energy on anger.
I tried to annihilate the book from my thoughts by focusing on the women who might own these silken journals. I didn’t want to give them to a bookseller who might prove to be another Diprose. I wanted to hand them out on New Cut and Lambeth Walk, throw them from Waterloo Bridge to the mud-larks, walk up the street and give them to Mrs Eeles, Nora Negley, Patience Bishop, Agatha Marrow. Write them, I would scream at them. What are we to write, their faces would ask, looking as blank as the pages within. Your dreams, I would cry. Your thoughts. Your fantasies. Yours, and yours alone. In your own voice. Not constructed for you by Mr Eeles, Mr Marrow, Mr Bishop or Mr Negley, dead or alive. Author your own body. Walk your own text. Is it not constantly being read anyway, each time you walk up the street? You read mine often enough.
Ha! I rued. Would it could have been so. For more likely than not, I knew that every one of these brown-silk beauties would be bought by some rich roué, and some would go to appease the wives, and some would tickle the fancy of the courtesans, and the brothel-keeper would keep her illicit accounts in one, and the dilettante would sketch his naked mistress in another, so ha! Ha to my noble thoughts! And so the world goes, and so our bodies rot and turn to dust, to gold, to nothing. Welcome to Damage’s Bindery. The Whore of Bibliolon.
For, once again, more than for peace of mind, I was working, still, for money. The chinking of coins saw me through every fold, every stitch, every cut and every paste, for money was what would see me through, and time was running out.
For one thought sounded clear in the morass of confusion. I could no longer continue to work for Charles Diprose and the Noble Savages. Which would mean that I would break our unwritten contract. Which would mean that London – possibly even England – would become unsafe for us. I needed money to do what I knew was inevitable.
I would flee with Lucinda.
I would find Din before he left, and together the three of us would go to the only place we could possibly go together.
America.
‘You must be insane! Insane!’
There is no hope; no, for I have loved strangers, and after them will I go.
‘Sylvia!’ I had figured that the remarkable and rather beautiful change that had come about in her since Jocelyn’s final dismissal of her would have opened her to a more sympathetic understanding of my plight. There was nothing else for it, than to broach the issue. ‘Sylvia,’ I repeated, more softly. ‘Is there something behind your anger?’
‘I do not follow you.’
‘Is there something you wish to tell me about your relationship with . . . with . . . Din?’
‘Your intimation, please?’
‘Nathaniel,’ I whispered, but immediately wished I hadn’t, suspicious fool that I was. Of course she would deny it, but I had not appreciated with how much vehemence.
Her mouth fell open, and her eyes widened, and she looked as if she would hit me, but instead she slumped on to the chair and said, ‘Not you too! Do you mean to say you have not believed me all this time? Do you accuse me too?’
‘Sylvia,’ I said gently. ‘I know about your evenings with him. I know about the spear.’
‘Pshaw!’ she said. ‘It was not only me. We all have our curiosities. But as if I would take it any further! Dora, you revolt me. You are worse than Jocelyn. But then, you really have slept with a black man, so of course, you suspect everyone else of having the same letches.’
There is no hope; no, for I have loved strangers, and after them will I go. Where had I read that recently?
‘And you! You, leaving for America, with him! I have never heard anything so mad! I should call for a doctor immediately!’
I remembered the quotation. It was from the book of Jeremiah.
‘What you are saying is an abomination! You disgust me! Never in my wildest dreams!’
‘Be that as it may, I persist in thinking it would be safest for me to leave. But I am concerned for you, and leaving you behind.’
‘Dora, Dora darling. Let me talk some sense into your feeble little head. I do understand, really I do, or at least I think I do, that your Black Prince may now be to you some darling thing with kinky hair and velvet skin, but let me tell you in no uncertain terms, painful though it may be, that in time he will revert to type. I have learnt more than I care to share with you through my work with the Society. They may be our brethren, but they are not our equals. To such a man, his wife is by custom his slave. She is nothing more than a tiller of the ground, a vessel for more children than nature can cope with, and an outlet for his rage!’
‘Sylvia . . . !’
‘He will kill you, one day, in a savage attack! Or he will take another wife! Or, heaven forbid, wives plural! And Lord, knows, he may not be a bachelor now!’
‘Sylvia . . . !’
‘Dora! You are very naughty!’ She opened her eyes wide and dared me to interrupt her again. When she continued, her voice was calmer, and she had changed tack. ‘Dora. There is one reason above all others why I would never have relations with a black man. And that is, that in so doing, one foolish white woman endangers all other white women! Think of your American sisters! Your impropriety will have completely changed that man’s expectations of them; their safety has been jeopardised, by you! You! Your actions have served to weaken the very Empire! I have absolutely no idea why you
would want a nigger for a lover anyway.’
‘And you never did?’ I retorted, despite myself. Even if Din wasn’t Nathaniel’s father, who was to say that she didn’t have her way with one of the other slaves bought by the Society? I settled on that as the most likely explanation; it soothed me better, at least.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed again, and then her tears started, and I did not move to stop them. I did not even fetch her a handkerchief. ‘Oh Dora, forgive me! Forgive me! I am an evil, evil woman! My words are wrong, and I am ashamed! I speak only out of fear for myself, and a deep, and I fear, fatal, disillusionment about love.’
‘Well may you say that now.’
‘I guessed about your feelings for Din,’ she continued, ‘a long time ago. But I wish you well. I know you must leave me, and I am sad about that; you showed me unusual kindness in my time of greatest distress, and I fear you are not just the only friend I have, but the best friend I could hope to have. Do you believe me when I tell you I love you?’
I had no answer. I didn’t know what I believed of what she told me any more.
‘And that I love Lucinda? Look how I love Nathaniel, now that I have embraced my role as his mother! How could I not love Lucinda, who loves him so? Do you not know that?’
‘I do,’ I whispered.
‘And know then, that I wish you well. For I do love you, Dora, and I love Lucinda. So, can’t you see, that I cannot bear for two people I care about so deeply to be going to a country racked by civil war! Don’t you see that you and Lucinda and Din will be torn apart by more enemies than you can possibly imagine? Have you no eyes, no ears, no worldly wisdom, no common sense? Or has love so deluded you?’
But despite Sylvia’s sentiments, I went to Mrs Catamole’s boarding house on Borough High Street, but the woman was out and her girl did not know of her tenants’ whereabouts. I left a note for Din, but heard nothing, so Friday found me hailing the omnibus at the Strand and returning to Whitechapel. I willed it to quicken its slow crawl through the traffic, and the moment I got off at Whitechapel I ran through the streets, my veil obscuring my vision. It was harder this time, for then I was following Din, and not logging landmarks and street signs. But I told myself over and over that I would not be too late. It was hard enough, I knew, to find the right ship, with a decent-minded captain, and once he had, she might not sail for weeks. I would not be too late.
And yet again I asked myself as I ran, bumping into passersby, who spun round to watch me with affront, whether I truly loved the man, or whether I saw him as my way out. But I knew that every black face I saw in the crowds made my heart leap in expectation, and I also knew, despite everything that Sylvia had said, and anything she might have made that man do to her, that the moment I saw the real Din I would fall in love with him all over again, even though every inch of my body was already possessed by love for him.
I skidded on the cobbles on the corner opposite the pub, for I came upon it sooner than I had expected. The door was open at the top of the stairs. Who would be below? And what would I say to them? They would recognise me from the veil, at least. I opened the door. It was dark within, but I found the first step and started to climb down. I held my breath; the cellar smelt musty.
I had reached the halfway step when I knew that what I was doing was ridiculous. But it wasn’t until my foot landed on the grainy cement on the bottom that I knew for sure. There were shapes in the darkness, but they were the forms of barrels and kegs, boxes and crates. I quickly went back up and stood outside. Then I turned and went through the other door, into the pub itself, and pushed the veil back over my head.
If those within had stopped their talking and turned to stare at me, I wouldn’t have been aware of it, for I steeled myself against their gaze, found my target and marched towards him, barefaced, without hesitation. The landlord was filling a glass for a customer; his head kept disappearing from view behind a crowd of dirty barrel-like backs.
‘G’is a cuppa lightnin’,’ someone bellowed.
‘Excuse me,’ I announced, and yanked at each back, each waist, with my gloved hands. They pulled back as if stung; some chuckled when they saw me, some gawped. But in time the backs parted, and I reached the cherry-wood bar.
‘Where’s Din?’ I shouted at the landlord. I had seen him, of course, but he had never seen me. ‘Din. From downstairs.’
‘What you wanna know for, then?’
‘He works for me.’
‘Not any more he don’t.’
‘Have they left?’
‘Yup. Every last one.’
‘Where to?’
‘Why should I tell you?’
‘Because I’m asking you.’
‘What’s in it for me?’
‘Have they gone to America?’
‘So you know then?’
‘I came to a meeting, last November.’
He stopped pulling the pint, and placed the glass down on the bar, then he wiped his hand on a glass cloth and did not seem to hear the orders coming from around me.
‘They left for Bristol on Wednesday.’
‘So quick?’
‘It was Din that did it. He said they couldn’t stay another day.’
‘So could he still be in Bristol?’
‘Only if he misses his ship. It was going to be tight anyway. It leaves on the morrow!’
And then he turned away from me, and poured the quart of porter, the quartern of gin, two pots of heavy brown, and a dog’s nose, which he dumped on the bar with a ‘damp yer mugs, gen’emen’, and the backs closed on me again, and hefty boots trod on my fine ones, and I hunched my shoulders together as if I were folding myself in half, and I slipped out from between them, and into the night air.
My mind still clutched on to hope, and resorted to logic. They left on Wednesday. Would they have found lifts? Or had they the money for a train? Either way, they would only arrive in Bristol today at the earliest. But it would take me another three days from now, too. I will send a telegraph, I thought. I will go to the all-night office at St Martin’s-le-Grand, or West Strand, even, if I could face it, and send a telegraph – but to where? And what would I say?
I would tell you, I thought, why I pushed you away in my fear, why I did not draw you closer, for support; why I told you I had blood on my hands, when I had only held a dry epidermis in all innocence. I am not a murderess, I would say to you, only the murderer’s unwitting assistant. I would tell you all this.
I could not, of course. But what if I had? Would he have stayed? No. He would have gone anyway, to fight for his country. Would he have let me come with him? No, not if he had had any sense. But at least I could have kissed him farewell, stood on the quay, and waved him off with my handkerchief, praying for his safety. But what of that? Would that have helped either of us any? He would always be an absence.
Danger lurked between every pool of gas-light on my way home, but I did not fear it. My only fear was that I would live to face the rage and despair that was consuming me. I felt my aloneness and insignificance, and shook with anger and pain, and, ironically, it was my pain that protected me from harm. For it was as if my affliction left marks in the air as I stumbled over Waterloo Bridge, and even those of malevolent bent saw it, and left me alone to my misery.
* * *
‘Wake up, Dora! Dora, wake!’ Sylvia was shaking me. Her hair was messy. I could see that, which meant that it was light. Which meant that I had slept in. I tried to remember why.
‘The postman has been. He brought this!’ She was brandishing a letter. ‘I did not find it at first; I was hiding from that dreadful Charles Diprose.’
‘Diprose was here?’ I said, sitting up in bed. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, disinterestedly. ‘I didn’t want him to see me here. I stayed upstairs. Listen, I want to read you this.’ I reached for my shawl, and started to think about a cup of tea. ‘It starts, Constance. That’s my second name. He used to say he appreciated its sentiment more than Sylvia,
which was too pagan for him. But I digress.’ I was trying to concentrate, but it still felt so early. ‘“Know that I have little care for your desires, but should it be desirous to you, I will grant you a divorce. It is, quite literally, immaterial to me, not that your not insignificant dowry was ever why I first foolishly fell in love with you. Out of the goodness of my heart and way beyond anything expected of me by the courts, I offer you an annuity of three hundred pounds. I refer the matter now to my solicitors, Messrs Krupp and Tadyer, who will be dealing with it on my behalf given my imminent removal to Africa. Your speculations are dangerous and serve you ill; now you have no need to harbour such vain fantasies, and I trust you shall release them as our marriage too is relinquished. My wishes to you are of the very best variety. Yours &c, Jocelyn.” ’
‘No mention of his son,’ I said to her, as I reached for my dress.
‘None whatsoever,’ she replied.
‘But I doubt he would have left you an annuity if you had not had him.’
‘Do you think not?’
‘I think not.’
Sylvia sighed. ‘I used to think he was quite the Renaissance Man.’
‘Resurrection Man, more like. He holds a candle to the devil. Or is that too harsh? Let me be more precise. He is, in fairly equal proportions, a third despot, a third idiot, and a third coward.’
‘And a third insolent,’ Sylvia added.
‘Come, let’s go downstairs. I need some tea.’ I pulled on my boots, and descended, with Sylvia following me. ‘Lucinda,’ I called, as I reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘Lucinda?’ But she was not in the parlour, nor the kitchen. I looked out into the street, but she rarely played outside any more, and besides, it was too early for that.
‘Sylvia, have you seen Lucinda?’
‘Why, she opened the door to Charles. She can’t be far. I simply couldn’t face him, Dora, now that he knows we know.’
I did not need to check the door; I knew it was ajar from the coldness breezing through the house. But I felt an inner chill. ‘We know what, Sylvia?’ I asked, but I knew the answer before she replied; the woman was more foolish than I could ever have anticipated.
The Journal of Dora Damage Page 39