Eye of a Rook

by Josephine Taylor

  Eyes caught by vesta, higher on the page. Returned, again, to the primary-school class. Myths of ancient Rome. Gods and goddesses. Sun through the skylight illuminating the word on the board. Vesta.

  The pad at her hand, the here and now: notes jotted just yesterday, drawn from that drowsy memory.

  Vesta, virgin goddess:

  Not represented in art as human (as were other gods and goddesses).

  Present in flame kept burning at centre of homes and cities and in temples devoted to her.

  Turning to the dictionary: Vesta, Roman goddess of the hearth and household. Then vestal … chaste, pure … vestal virgin … Reaching for the book that came to mind. There … Plutarch. Taken as young girls from their families, made vestal virgins. Her hand flicking to the half-remembered words.

  That they should vow to keep a Lease of their Virginity, or remain in a chast and unspotted Condition, for the space of thirty Years.

  Thirty years tending the sacred flame and whipped if it died. Buried alive if they broke the vow.

  Chastity. Did they choose to take it?

  A lithe young body dragged from a weeping mother. Smaller sisters and brothers grasping at bare legs. Was their sister lost to them? Was it an honour for the family?

  The vestal virgin the gateway to holiness? The hearth its threshold?

  Virgin … that other meaning. That challenge to its modern understanding. The anthropology stack. Where? Holding the pile firm from the top. Sliding out The Mothers and the book beneath. The Golden Bough. Skimming the tabbed pages. Scribbling in her pad.

  James George Frazer & Robert Briffault: correct translation of Greek word parthenos (e.g. applied to Artemis) not ‘virgin’ but ‘unmarried woman’ or ‘unwed’ – not woman without sexual experience, but one who was independent.

  Her pen scoring the page: independent. Fixing it in her mind.

  This changed things. Permitted paradox. Vesta, the patroness of virginity; Vesta, known as ‘Mother’; Vesta, inspiration for a cult with phallic emblems. And Artemis, chaste yet fruitful, goddess of childbirth. The other one … Virgin goddess Ishtar, ‘the Prostitute’.

  A link between virginity and holiness? Where did it come from, centuries before Christ?

  Christ.

  The dream that had made even less sense than dreams usually do. Stretching for her journal. Scanning … scanning …

  Here.

  I am a prostitute. Though I can’t have intercourse I am in high demand because I am so sexy. I have a boyfriend & I have a little lamb that I saved from slaughter. It follows me everywhere.

  The rush of meaning quick. Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow … Virgin Mary and Jesus, the Lamb of God.

  She, herself. Virgin and prostitute? Sexual priestess – vessel for the divine?

  What on earth did any of these whirling, spinning, weaving thoughts have to do with this pain? This suffering?

  Slow down. And breathe. Finish them off, the thoughts. Let them settle where they need.

  So. A portal. Where did it lead? An entrance. How could it be crossed?

  Scanning the wheel of papers and pages. Dragging the bits and pieces towards each other. Images, ideas, memories, thoughts all swirling together. Letting them coalesce. Feeling them point, like an arrow, to that book – Woman’s Mysteries – that tab – that quote. Philo of Alexandria:

  For the congress of men for the procreation of children makes virgins women. But when God begins to associate with the soul, he brings to pass that she who was formerly woman becomes virgin again.

  Ah, of course…

  Visited by gods. Made virgin, once again.

  CHAPTER 10

  January 6th 1865

  Dear Bea,

  Yes, we are home—though I feel we have left home too, so pleasant was it to be with my new family for Christmas at Herdley. Portland Place may be smaller than Hierde House, but it feels larger, just now: an echoing cavern in which I am nervous even to ring the bell for my Millie! But I must re-assume the mantle of housekeeper after our little holiday—after all, we had barely time for me to assert my authority as mistress of our London home between the honeymoon & Christmas, & now I must decide on further servants. I have dear Millie, of course, & we have Mary downstairs & Mrs Fennell, our wonderful cook, as well as the new tweeny, Gladys, & the yard-boy I told you about. Upstairs there’s Johnson, & Nancy is doing a fine job as parlourmaid. What do you think? A coachman is probably most pressing … I am dreading the idea of more interviews & decisions, especially with Arthur returned to work from Monday.

  Will this ever come easily to me? Will I ever stop wondering why all these people should run around for us? It is something Arthur & I discuss often, this accident of birth, this set of circumstances that privileges us above others, & how awkward it feels to support better conditions for others less fortunate, while relying on them in our daily lives. We usually reassure ourselves that we treat our own staff with as much courtesy & respect as we can—&, of course, we look to the future & the possibility of Arthur having influence upon such matters as equality & suffrage in the political sphere … Time will tell, as Mam says!

  I am so pleased & relieved you plan to return to London before our soirée. You know how nervous I am at the thought of the important people who will be here. The Dowager Duchess preached Liberal politics at me on our only meeting & I did not know enough about Peel & his influence to answer her sensibly—I could benefit from further instruction if you have time? Lord Hargrave alarms me very much, but Arthur says I will find him a perfect darling once we talk. I cannot imagine it; I am sure they will all see through the veneer I have carefully painted over this trembling form. Yet I am excited at the same time, & keen to show society how well the young Rochdale couple conducts itself.

  I have been “counselled” by the good Mrs Beeton & have decided to pull ideas from all her suggested menus for our party of twelve. Mam swears by her own white soup recipe, so I might add that, if Mary can find veal knuckles near the time … & Mam also suggests Scotch bread along with the other desserts, to bring in our heritage & remind them of the link to Gladstone. Will that be elegant enough, do you think? Please hurry to London, precious guide!

  Your sister,

  Emmie

  January 30th 1865

  Dearest Bea,

  Is it my imagination or was the evening a success? How smoothly everything ran! None of the misfortunes I imagined came to pass: no burned turkey, no dropped platters, no servants in a pother … How strangely satisfying it is to host a successful evening & to have intelligent conversation to which I feel I can contribute. It has given me confidence to have more—& I am glad of this, as I know how important these connections are for our future. Which of the politicians should we approach next? Do you think a ball would be too much for me to organise? I know the season has barely begun & Cissy is yet to come out, but I have a certain gentleman in mind for her already … Can you guess who I mean?

  We can put our heads together at dinner on Wednesday!

  My love to you, dear sister,

  Emmie

  February 4th 1865

  My dear Bea,

  How well you know me already & the way in which I run ahead, scaring myself half to death! Yes, I would find arranging a ball dreadfully frightening; you are right to advise me, “slowly, slowly”. A debutante ball at your Westminster home will be a wonderful way to show off our beautiful Cissy & an opportunity for us to plan together, while you bear the burden of responsibility. Thank you for your thoughtfulness. I have noted April 22nd in my diary; in the meantime, I can practise here with smaller dinners & “evenings”.

  I am so glad you agree with me about the Earl of Whatley: he is rather earnest, & older than Cissy might like, but he is kind, I think, & might settle Cissy’s youthful giddiness. We will see in April … I do hope she enjoys coming out more than I did. It is rather discomfiting to wear an expression of happy unconcern on your face as you wait for a young beau to ask you to
dance!

  Arthur & I are about to take advantage of this cold snap: we plan to skate in Hyde Park this evening. Arthur insists he is terribly balanced on the ice & I insist he can be taught!

  Love Emmie

  February 12th 1865

  Dear Bea,

  I do apologise for my absence yesterday & am grateful for your concern. Don’t worry, it is only a slight indisposition, I’m sure, & a niggling discomfort that is settling already. Will you be free to ride on Wednesday instead?

  Emmie

  February 22nd 1865

  Dear Bea,

  You understand your brother well. There is something worrying him: a client who might lose his living, if the findings are against him. Such cases upset him terribly. Though you say Sir George is grown “tougher” with age, I see a likeness between father & son, especially in their diligent sense of duty, & I am glad we can be of service to the male members of our family—to provide quiet advice & to ease their worries.

  Arthur & I have decided that we will take on a housekeeper after all, & the other staff you suggest, even if it makes both Arthur & I uncomfortable. It is something we can manage by drawing on my money & it affords us a respectability that I’m sure will benefit our future. It would be helpful to have a housekeeper in place, too, before children come along & I am less able to manage a larger household. (I might sound as if I am all practicality here, but you know how often Arthur & I imagine our family-to-be!) In all seriousness, I must confess to fear when I think on it all too much—how could I not when I consider dear Mother’s trials? That you & Arthur share my concerns, & that such concerns prey upon you, too, when you recall your own dearest mother, helps me to bear the anxiety & to trouble Arthur with it as little as I must.

  Beatrice, I hesitate before asking you about marriage & children, because you say how content you are acting as a help to your father—both secretary & housekeeper in one industrious package, it seems to me—& how it satisfies your mind’s calling. But I wonder, is there any small part of you that dreams about love & a family? And, if so, are these dreams locked away through fear of a perilous confinement? Pray forgive me if I presume too much in asking you these questions, but you are still young, after all, & it would be terrible to put such needs aside & miss opportunities that present themselves.

  Your loving sister,

  Emmie

  February 27th 1865

  My dear Bea,

  Thank you for answering my questions, when I feared you might find them too presumptuous. I see now that we are different: while your independence is valuable to you—critical you say—I wish to devote myself above all to the domestic life & the sanctity of marriage. My goal is to be the best wife & mother it is possible to be, by understanding my husband’s work & discussing what is important to us both, while yours is to constantly develop your intellect & to use your knowledge of social & political matters to question what is established—even to challenge this. But I am glad you have not discounted love entirely; you have many years ahead to change your mind, as you say. I can vouch for the contentment of married life & can confirm that, while I am not as free to make choices as you, or to carry them out, Arthur considers me in every important decision. It is a blessing to imagine our future years together & to continually discover that we are happily suited in all things.

  Are you bored with me yet? Has my constant eulogising of your brother & our happiness wearied you? I will not apologise!

  Oh, Bea. How contented I feel to be part of the Rochdale family. I cannot imagine greater happiness than this.

  Your Em

  March 8th 1865

  Dear Bea,

  How are you faring in Westminster? Spring is still hiding, but she has sent her messengers to us in Portland Place: the cherry blossom has burst open, & I’m almost sure I heard a friendly cuckoo call this morning, but maybe that is wishful thinking! Still, I feel full of vim without winter’s chill in my bones & quite ready to plan cleaning our stale home from top to bottom. I must ring for Nancy & Mary; I believe it is fine enough for us to launder a whole houseful of bed linen.

  I will see you tomorrow at our usual time. Hyde Park will be hectic, with society’s most fashionable enjoying this early taste of spring. I hope the horses aren’t too skittish!

  Till then,

  Emmie

  March 10th 1865

  Dear Bea,

  No, it is the same problem I had some weeks ago: pain without obvious rhyme or reason. Maybe I should avoid unnecessary activity, for the moment, & see if it settles. And, yes, I would love you to visit me. I feel that I can be utterly myself with you—my muddled, nervous, unguarded self—in the same way I can with Arthur & Mam.

  Your Emmie

  March 14th 1865

  Dearest Bea,

  Better apart from a lingering niggle, thank you. But I am trying to ignore it & to get on as usual.

  Do you remember our tweeny, Gladys? I am having all sorts of trouble with her. She picks fights with Millie & Nancy, & seems to generally sow discontent amongst the staff. Millie tells me Gladys is also a terrible gossip downstairs & chats too easily with tradespeople, so when she is not making little Mary cry, she is setting her a bad example. I am terribly afraid I will have to dismiss her, but I do want a harmonious household. What do you think? (Between us, I am hoping I can swap her for a nursemaid before very much longer. How happy Arthur & I will be, & how our little sons & daughters will love their aunty.)

  Mam is hectic in preparation for their move to Harley Street. The house is perfect for them: there is space for Father’s surgery on the ground floor &, upstairs, room for a commodious family home, so we will all be able to visit them regularly! Mam is very pleased to be moving closer to me & it will be lovely to have her “around the corner”.

  Love Emmie

  March 20th 1865

  Bea,

  Thank you for recommending Mrs Wilson for housekeeper. I have several others to interview, but I feel I have already settled on her. She is altogether efficient, mature & courteous—the perfect combination.

  Really, I do not know why I write so many letters to you, when you are only streets away. What will I do when you move to Herdley for summer?

  Love Em

  March 22nd 1865

  Dear Bea,

  We are planning an expedition to Swan & Edgar on Saturday. Mam wishes to look at some velvet for curtains & I have heard they have some new bolts of very jolly cloth. I know shopping is not your favourite pastime, but would you like to come with us? We can fetch you in the “growler” & after purchasing we might have luncheon in Regent Street … Say yes, dear sister!

  Emmie

  April 3rd 1865

  Dear Bea,

  If you wish to discuss supper details for the ball, I can be there straight after luncheon—I do agree that it must not become vulgarly lavish.

  I am glad we have already secured musicians & settled on the dances. I think polkas will successfully weary all but the hardiest of the young, slow waltzes will allow for some intimacy without matrons having to become too outraged, & even we mature women will be able to enjoy our favourite quadrilles. I know which dance will be Cissy’s favourite: how perfectly delightful it will be to watch her satin whirls about the hall!

  Love Emmie

  April 18th 1865

  Bea,

  Yes, it’s the same trouble, I’m afraid, but the niggling has become sharp & burning. Arthur is worried & I am in such pain I hardly know where to put myself. It is a mystery I cannot account for.

  I do not wish to be a nuisance, when you have so much to do before Saturday, but could you visit, do you think?

  Em

  April 20th 1865

  My dearest Beatrice,

  You are such a comfort to me. Your advice is practical & has settled my panicked thoughts—& you are right: it is a malaise difficult to discuss with Father, but he will know who might help.

  As to your other advice: I cannot imagine not being there for my younges
t sister at her introduction to society. I know you are concerned for my health & spirits, but I feel that I must be there, no matter what.

  Oh, Bea, I wish I could feel myself again!

  Emmie

  CHAPTER 11

  PERTH, JUNE 2008

  This morning it was the bite that assailed her. Since reading about the vagina dentata, she pictured the gnawing sensation as a rapacious woman, all teeth and devouring intent, and sometimes woke with arms flailing against the jagged points of a mouth. I press myself against the battlement of an unforgiving castle. Lean backward, away from the crazed woman. Grey sky looms. Her hair coils around me as I fall.

  In one vagina dentata myth, she recalled, the hero broke the teeth out of the vagina of a maiden and made her a woman. So many heroes in these myths … What would the maiden say if she could talk? Did she want to have those teeth cracked out?

  She reached groggily for her journal and pen. Turned the pad around so she could scribble on the back of a page of dreams. Her brain stirred, drawing together fragments of thought.

  Is the breaking of teeth a way of enabling the union of mature man and woman? A patriarchal fantasy of female subordination? E.g. a means of taming a woman and corralling her sexuality?

  A mumbled exhalation, then a cry. Duncan was asleep but protesting his own dreamscape. His long face was candid, childlike, the bristles and hairy shoulders incongruous. Once she would have been able to comfort him. Once she would have wanted to.

  There, the bite again. She held herself rigid until it eased. Her disordered body was becoming more familiar: she recognised the way increased pain made it react – the tight throat and drumming heart, the lemon on her tongue and looseness at the base of her belly – and named it panic. She willed her taut thighs and buttocks to relax and reminded herself: long, deep breaths.

  Sometimes she woke to the bite, sometimes to the needle or the clamp. The needling made her think of the pink satin of her old nanna’s sewing cushion, its bulges riddled with pinheads. Then the flushed swelling and cruel pins became all that she was – she was nothing but that torn and tearing place between her legs – and anxiety rushed upon her in a wave. The clamp? Her father’s array of tools one of the few childhood memories of him that remained, along with his words: That’s not a clamp, you dill. It’s a Stillson. Duncan had one, too, though she’d never seen him use it. HEAVY DUTY on one side of its handle and DROP FORGED JAWS on the other. The tool rusty with age. Who tightened that jaw so mercilessly? Who pushed pins into her softness?