Eye of a Rook

by Josephine Taylor

  It began over the fridge, of all things. Her inattention, when they arrived home with the shopping, to his preferred method of division between the two crispers. One for salad veggies, one for cooking veggies: one of the unwritten domestic rules she’d signed so many years ago, back when she didn’t understand how foundations determine what’s built upon them.

  So, Duncan objected to her carelessness, which led to regret at her new, sloppier habits. And then, surprising them both, complaint leaping to blanket grievances. To accusations already curdled by constraint.

  ‘But that’s what people do, Duncan: they change. I might have changed now, but I changed when I met you too. I changed who I was to be with you, to be who … what you wanted.’

  She closed the neatened fridge. Stuffed the shopping bags inside each other and held them to her chest.

  ‘That’s rubbish, Alice. It’s you I met. You I wanted.’ He leaned back against the kitchen bench, regarded her frostily from his side of the kitchen. ‘Nobody asked you to change anything about yourself.’

  ‘But that’s what women do, or what young women do, maybe. Women who aren’t certain of themselves, who can’t know … people who don’t trust their own judgement. Maybe you didn’t see it was even happening back then. I didn’t – or … I didn’t let myself.’

  ‘Well the changes must have been bloody tiny, because I didn’t know about it, I can assure you. And I never asked you to make them.’

  Her heart juddered into her throat, but she couldn’t stop herself now: ‘Not in words, perhaps.’

  ‘Oh, bullshit. And if you did have to adjust, so what? You think I didn’t make changes? That I didn’t have to accommodate when you moved in? Make compromises in my own life? This is entirely different, this bloody vulvodynia and who it’s made you become.’

  So, it had returned to this: his repugnance, her defence.

  ‘People change when … because they have to.’

  ‘Not like you have. Not so radically, not across the board. Not if you’re fundamentally happy with who you are. And it’s just …’ His eyes softened. ‘You’ve lost something, Alice. Like … sweetness. A kind of lightness and generosity. Just who you are.’

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. Tried to close herself to the unexpected appeal in his voice.

  ‘But what if you start seeing things differently?’ she said. ‘I thought I was happy with who I was, but when my body changed … when I had to adjust to this new reality … And, look, I don’t – I didn’t, anyway – want this reality, I hated it! But everything about me had to change, just to keep living and –’

  ‘But if you hate it so much … You don’t have to change everything, surely, not everything. That’s just wilful and … bloody-minded.’

  Maybe she should back down. Give him something – anything – to break this impasse. But she felt herself shrinking at the thought. It was him or her, now.

  ‘Duncan, that’s the thing. I realised I wasn’t happy – or at least I couldn’t be happy anymore with how things were, how they … are – not as this new person, anyway.’

  ‘So, what are you saying? That you don’t love me anymore? Is that it?’ His face was white now, tight with hurt or fury. ‘How fucking predictable you are – you know that, right? It’s pathetic.’

  ‘Oh, Duncan.’ She watched her hand reach out to him. ‘I’m –’

  ‘You’re what? Sorry? For deciding things without telling me? Cutting me out of your life?’

  He turned his back, paced to the window and leaned over the sink. She saw his shoulders shudder.

  ‘But I haven’t decided … I’m just trying to tell you … You act like I had some choice in it –’

  ‘You did and you do – of course you fucking do!’

  ‘No, I fucking don’t! And don’t fucking yell at me!’

  They faced each other across the kitchen table, panting. Then he lunged at her and she stumbled backwards, fell against the wall, her arm over her face, only to see it was the table he was aiming for, the heavy bowl at its centre, its clear glass blushed with fruit. He lifted it, held it up high, looked at her for a long moment and then slowly, very deliberately, loosened his grip.

  ‘Alice.’

  His voice was soft. So, she knew it was over, the argument. The pieces of it swept up and emptied into the bin with those sticky, crimson shards of glass.

  ‘Come here.’

  It was the way he said it – so gently, as if she’d been a naughty girl he was now forgiving – that invited her to curl up in his lap and rest her weight against him. To forget what was happening to them. To forgive him. Forgive herself.

  ‘You know I love you.’

  But did she? She looked at him in the armchair. His long, straight legs, crossed at the ankle. Chinos and deck shoes. And when he walked, that slow roll of the hips. He was as he had always been. Why, then, did he look different to her?

  ‘Alice.’

  It was a promise. It was a command.

  How long would it take her to no longer love him?

  CHAPTER 21

  March 28th 1866

  Dear Beatrice,

  Just to let you know we arrived safely in Almsford.

  I had a peaceful sleep & will rest & recover today. The staff are very welcoming & Millie is enjoying being reunited with old friends from amongst them.

  Mam is keen for us to have a short walk tomorrow & to show off countryside I have not yet seen. It’s not as hilly as Herdley—there are thick patches of forest broken up by lovely dells & a pretty river that flows through it all.

  Your Em

  April 3rd 1866

  My dear Bea,

  Mam & I have had a thorough assessment of my daily habits & we are determined to make some changes.

  First, clothing: On Friday we went through my wardrobe, & the first items to be ejected were those horribly tight corsets—no more will they cramp & suffocate me. And I am fortunate society is deciding the mighty crinoline is passé, because then it was the turn of the cage: out it went, along with my several big, heavy dresses—to the joy of the parlourmaid, who we spotted parading proudly along the main street of Almsford on Sunday! I have taken over one of Mam’s dresses for now (which flops on me terribly) & some flounced muslin petticoats, & we are about to visit a dressmaker in Almsford that Mam swears by; we are thinking a morning dress, a tea gown for special occasions, & a shortish walking skirt & blouse should be enough. Mam says I must pick bright colours to brighten myself up, & light poplins & merinos & such, to give me ease.

  Next, medicines: We decided to slowly reduce my dependence on all the tonics & tinctures recommended by the London physicians (Father does not know). I have found a change already with the lower doses of laudanum—I can think again, Bea, & the pain has not worsened. And Mam has a further plan: Rosie, in the kitchen, has a mother who is an old “healer” & we have organised to visit her. All hush-hush, of course.

  Then, exercise: I have begun to take daily walks—very slow & short, to start. Without stays I can breathe in the scent of bluebells as I enter the wood, & I feel my spirits lift when I round a bend & see their blue carpet before me. Oh, & the cheery wild pansies & daisies & buttercups dotted about & the apple buds springing open: I had forgotten how such beauty sustains me.

  Mam is also encouraging me to eat more & build up my strength so I can take longer walks. She is being a perfect angel in all affairs & becoming known to me as her own delightful person away from Father. And that devil that tortures me? It is difficult to hope these changes might help me—might help us—when my hopes have been dashed before, but this all feels right to me. So, dear Bea, I will ignore the terrible pains as much as I am able & continue on in hope.

  With my love,

  Emmie

  April 10th 1866

  Oh Bea,

  I have slumped. I did too much after February’s crisis & in the elevated spirits of our arrival & now must pay the price. “Some days of rest will see you right,” Mam says to me.
Will it? I must not think, & just endure.

  Em

  April 16th 1866

  Yes, we have visited the healer—Ada, her name is—& been given several home-brewed cordials that I must take each day. I cried & cried when we talked of my pain & its recent resurgence, though I didn’t mean to. She comforted me & said, “You mustn’t worry yourself, my dear: it will pass.” Bea, she sounded so completely without doubt that I almost believe her. She says we are doing exactly the right things & that I must avoid the city if I can, & too much excitement—that I am sensitive, so my spirit & body are easily troubled.

  We visit the parish church most days, which is restful, & attend at least one service every Sunday. I stand at the back & hope that no-one notices me. The wee building has been restored recently & a small organ installed, & on Sundays the church swells with the voices of an enthusiastic choir. The clergyman, who has been vicar here for many years, knows only that I have been unwell. His wife has come to call several times, but we are not too encouraging, as I am not yet ready for regular visitors.

  Em

  April 30th 1866

  Dearest Bea,

  Arthur writes that he has read Baker Brown’s book on his operation, just published, & discussed it at length with Tom. Arthur says I shouldn’t read it—that it would only upset me where there is no need.

  Now that the possibility of this operation is completely gone, I feel as if a noose has been taken from my neck. How could I countenance that most precious part of me being cut? How could I allow Father to think, Arthur to wonder, at the possibility of unhealthy practices on my part? What was I thinking? Do you know?

  Love Emmie

  May 4th 1866

  Bea,

  No, no improvement yet. I try to remain hopeful & trusting, & I take joy in the serenity around me, & I wait.

  Em

  May 21st 1866

  Dear Bea,

  Arthur left early this morning for London & says he will come again very soon. I must confide that almost two months away from each other has given me respite, not because Arthur is demanding in any way—he is not, at all—but because I have had only to think of myself for many weeks & not really take another’s feelings into consideration. Yet I have missed his presence, too, so it was with a full heart I greeted him, & with sorry hearts that we bid each other farewell.

  I feel that I have been blind to Arthur for most of our short married life, with this disorder, & now I am left to consider the many ways that bind me to him & make me grateful: he is tender & caring, he is merciful to those reliant on his good graces, he avoids topics that irritate people unnecessarily, he is unobtrusive in company & humble in general, he takes no part in idle gossip, he is patient & prudent, he takes unfair advantage of no-one.

  I am so very fortunate to have my dear husband & you, my dear sister.

  Your Em

  June 1st 1866

  Dear sister,

  Some news: I am able to walk further & with greater ease. I hardly dare say it, I hardly dare believe it, but I think the pains do not bother me quite as much as they did.

  My love,

  Emmie

  June 8th 1866

  Dear Bea,

  I am “middling, middling”, as Father says. The improvement is so slow as to be almost invisible, but if I compare the pain to what it has been, yes, I do think it might be waning.

  Bea, I’m scared. Scared to hope or believe recovery might be possible, & for hope & belief to be crushed again.

  Emmie

  June 22nd 1866

  Dear sister,

  Every day I have my quiet walk with Millie or Mam. We call in at Ada’s wee cottage or at the parish church: both help me feel more at home with myself & give me the sense that I am in some way making peace with God, after feeling so much anger & despair. It is precious solace.

  Emmie

  July 2nd 1866

  Oh B,

  It is as if I am waking from the sleep of one hundred years. I see that the world around me has changed; that people have gone on with their lives in the meantime. I realise the pain & my determination to survive it left room for nothing else, not the fortunes of my family, nor the fate of our nation. There is so much to catch up on: Cissy’s courtship & now her engagement—how exciting. The defeat on the proposed Reform Bill, & Derby & the Conservatives back in power—how upsetting for Father Rochdale & the party. I know I am meant to be kept calm, but surely a little news will not hurt?

  Arthur & I are very happy when he visits. What a trial this has been for us & how grateful I am for my understanding husband. He has given me the most perfect gift for our new beginning: a silk purse. Bea, apart from their old-fashioned clothes, the couple on its front panel could be us. Arthur says it was this semblance & the love in their faces that compelled him to buy it. So now the purse sits by my bedside at night, & I take it with me on our walks, like a friend. I am looking at it right now. You will see it when we come to Herdley—what date do you think you will arrive?

  Your M

  July 20th 1866

  My dear B,

  I do appreciate why you must stay in London, for the moment, whilst Parliament is all in flux, & reformers agitating so on the streets. Arthur says that Gladstone will need to curb his irritable & imperious manner in Parliament if he wishes to lead the Liberals when Russell has had his day. And he tells me that Gladstone is become quite the hero with the press—& with the masses, though they do not know how ambivalent he is about reform … Please write me the political news, Bea, so I can think about it properly & from Father Rochdale’s perspective—but only if you have time.

  I am doing quite well, thank you. Now that I have it less, though, I find I am haunted by the pain; now I am not fully in its grip, I understand that its severity was even worse than I could admit to myself or show others. Why must life hold such suffering, I wonder?

  Enough! It is a beautiful, hot day & Mam & I are about to walk the shaded tracks to Ada’s, a visit which comforts us both.

  I miss you, dearest B, & anticipate embracing you, walking with you & sharing all our hopes & fears again soon, with great pleasure. How wonderful it will be to see my sister again!

  Till then,

  Your M

  LONDON, JULY 1866

  The yellow calf is sleek under his fingers. It might be a thoughtful gift for Emmie, a handsome journal for her new beginning, but is it too much, straight after the purse? God knows he would like to celebrate his wife’s improvement—sweep her into his arms and twirl her about, yodel to the moon and stars—but it does feel like tempting fate to be too happy. It is only weeks, after all, with progress, not yet complete recovery. And what if it were to rebound, the sickness? Best to leave well enough alone, for now, to tamp down the happy mood that has recently surprised him.

  Arthur edges his body around the legal almanacs hanging from wooden poles, slides past the shelf of law lists in their coats of bright red leather, nods to the aproned stationer and steps out into Chancery Lane.

  It is dust upon dust in the street—the air around the hustling clerks and barristers and solicitors is crammed with it—and Arthur’s brisk pace drives its own grimy swirls and eddies up the plate glass of shopfronts. Through them he catches glimpses of the wares and in each glimpse his phantom wife: guiding her pen at a little leather-topped writing table; assessing skins of parchment, lips pursed; peeking, all wonder, into the pigeonholes of a handsome mahogany desk. Emmie as she once was, as she might be again: smiling, attentive, grave, laughing, pensive, teasing …

  Arthur dodges a youth with bundles of red-taped papers, strides through a dense flurry of men in black gowns and powdered wigs, and skips up and through the doorway of Button’s, doffing his hat and brushing the grit from its brim, peering through the haze for Tom. The dining house is heaving with bodies and food, and great wafts of sweat, beef and yeast sweep over him. He can make out, on the sideboard, hunks of meat sliced from steaming joints, platters laden with roasted turnips and carrot
s, bowls of broad beans, boats thick with gravy and, at the other end, pies that shed pastry and ooze sauce. Saliva floods his mouth—and without queasiness. Something else to be grateful for, the abrupt disappearance of that old problem along with his fortunate decision: when he ’d realised, and put her first.

  There’s Tom at the bar, surrounded by noisy customers. Arthur claps his friend’s shoulder and they edge along with the queue, make their orders of roast dinner and stout, pile their plates high, make their way to a table, and shout questions and answers at each other between mouthfuls: yes, Emmie is still in Almsford and, yes, still improving; yes, Tom has been welcomed at the Hospital for Sick Children; yes, the Rochdale family are thrilled at Cissy’s engagement; yes, the Drury Lane homeless refuge has benefitted from an anonymous donation; yes, the law is still a dunce; yes, it’s hard to find good lodgings for a bachelor physician; yes, Sir George is encouraging the switch to politics—has said, You should consider it, Arthur. Yes, yes, yes and yes.

  They finish mopping gravy with hunks of bread, swig remnants from their tankards, push to the bar for a refill and then, without discussion, make their way to the little reading and chess room where they claim a small table in the corner and let themselves down with sighs.

  It’s a weekly ritual now, luncheon in Chancery Lane—close to Lincoln’s Inn and to the hospital too—and trusting conversation afterwards in this quiet room: their worries, their fears, their hopes. They’ve talked about Baker Brown here, of course, shared their dismay at such wrongheadedness, their relief at disaster averted: Thompson, a colleague in obstetrics, sharing his misgivings about the surgery; the dream that brought light and clarity to Arthur. And they still debate Baker Brown’s book, shocked at the gusto with which the surgeon has speculated, cut and burned.