The Dollmaker

by Nina Allan

  I am Nelly Toye, she thought, as if she needed reminding. She had told Harry about the screen test, that she would be away for a week and then depending on the outcome she would secure an apartment for them both, together with a guarantee from the university that Harry would be able to continue his studies in Berlin.

  “This will solve everything, don’t you see?” she had assured him excitedly. “If I land this part it will mean money – real money. We won’t need to struggle any more.”

  She had promised to tell Mason she was leaving him as soon as she returned. She trembled inwardly at the thought of it, the outburst of rage and accusations and threats such a confession would provoke.

  Luckily, it would not be necessary. By morning Mason would be dead, and Nelly would be on a train bound for Berlin. The police officer who brought the news of her husband’s murder to the house on Golovinsky Street would be obliged to send a telegram instead.

  This city had had its hour. It was time to leave.

  Finally, she rose. Her hands in their threadbare gloves felt numb with cold. She crossed her arms, hugging herself for warmth as she made her way back through the maze of side streets to the small cobbled courtyard opposite the Black Angel. The air was midnight blue, and sharp with frost. She leaned upon the balustrade, and waited. Around a half an hour later, the front door of the pension eased open and Rosa emerged into the light from the carriage lamp over the doorway. She was wearing her red coat. Nelly recalled how three hours earlier Mason had seized Rosa’s arms, forcing her up against the wall as he fumbled with his belt. Christ, I’m horny, he had muttered. Nelly had heard him quite distinctly. She had been horrified, convinced Mason was about to force himself on Rosa right there on the street, that they would never get inside the hotel at all. Rosa had pushed him away, laughing, said something about a nightcap. Eventually they had gone inside.

  Rosa now looked perfectly composed, her coat buttoned up, her hair loose about her shoulders but not unduly disheveled. As if nothing had happened, Nelly thought. In a little over two hours the dawn would be breaking, and this business would be over, once and for all.

  She waited until Rosa was gone, then stepped forward from her hiding place and hurried up the steps to the hotel. The door opened soundlessly. A single lamp burned dimly in the hallway. Mason was in Room 16 – she had agreed this vital detail with Rosa beforehand. Nelly was surprised by how calm she felt, but then that was often how it was when she learned a new part: she would be nervous for weeks about forgetting her lines, then once she was actually onstage her fear disappeared.

  Like opening a door and stepping through.

  The building was old, and like all cheap hotels smelled faintly of dead chrysanthemums. The floorboards creaked as she climbed the stairs, but the guests, behind their locked doors, either did not hear or did not care to investigate. Room 16 overlooked the back – the yard and, beyond that, the railway sidings. The door stood ajar. When Nelly bent her ear to the crack she heard the low, unmistakable sound of Mason, snoring.

  Put out the light, and put out the light, Nelly’s lips formed the words. Othello. She wondered how it might feel, to die in your sleep. Was there a frantic, painful instant of passing over, or would you simply go on dreaming, never to awake? She felt in her cloak for the stiletto, the handle sliding into her palm softly as the light from the streetlamp spilling into the room. Mason lay on his side with his face in the pillow, the quilt askew. His bare shoulders gleamed like marble, a toppled god. There was something magnificent in his robustness, his certainty even in sleep that the world was his.

  The Duchess drew forth her weapon, the lamplight flowing like mercury the length of the blade. She could hear her own breathing, rasping in time with her husband’s snores.

  “For thine is the kingdom”, she whispered. She bent over his body, breathing in his scent, the raw, rich, life of him. The idea that such a life could be stilled at her behest, the earthy reek of his armpits, his groin might be turned in the space of a second to the stink of corruption seemed suddenly in this private darkness to be the worst kind of sorcery.

  In the morning she would be a murderess. Harry need never know the truth of what had happened, but he would sense she had changed.

  Nelly lay down on the bed, pulling up the quilt to cover her legs and resting her forehead in the small of Mason’s back as she had done in the old days. Mason did not stir – he slept like the dead. Nelly imagined how if she were to wake him and confess everything – her affair with Harry, her deception with Rosa – he would make light of the whole business, assure her they need never think of it again, that this world of lowlifes and cripples and boarding houses was nothing to do with them and never had been.

  He would buy her something beautiful and expensive, laugh about how she was always letting her imagination run away with her.

  “You theater types,” he would say, shaking his head. “Honestly.”

  The next day, or the day after, he would renew his suggestion that they emigrate to America, where his brother still ran the family business.

  “We would have a good life there. Better than here. Europe is going to the dogs, everyone who’s anyone can see it.”

  She drew the point of the stiletto gently across his shoulder blades and then laid it aside. She was damned if she would let her hatred of this man, her husband, steal her future. Murder was too good for him.

  Go back where you came from, Mason, she thought. Just – go.

  She stood up from the bed. On the floor at her feet lay Mason’s clothes, crumpled together carelessly like a discarded costume. From the top pocket of his jacket she drew his handkerchief and the onyx fountain pen he always carried with him, a gift from his father.

  She spread the handkerchief on the dressing table, pinning it down with a half-empty wine bottle so she could write on it, taking care not to blot the ink.

  I know you were here, she scrawled, in block capitals. She thought about signing her name, then decided not to. If her identity wasn’t obvious it soon would be. The play was over.

  * * *

  —

  The sky was powdery gray with the promise of dawn. As she came down the back steps and into the yard, Nelly heard the first train leaving the station, the familiar screech of brakes as it slowed down to cross the viaduct, in the silence that followed the chiming of hammer on metal down by the tracks.

  A railway worker cursed. A burst of laughter.

  You nearly had my thumb off.

  Fuck you, granddad.

  The Duchess pulled the cloak more tightly about her shoulders as she hurried along. She would buy Minna a new coat, she decided. Something warmer, and better quality. It would make a fine parting gift. For the first time in many weeks, she felt entirely free.

  West Edge House

  Tarquin’s End

  Bodmin

  Cornwall

  Dear Andrew,

  I was given my first doll as a present, completely by chance.

  In spite of his affinity with machines, my father never went anywhere by car if he could help it. He would drive to the outlying villages for work, but in his free time he preferred to walk, or else he took the bus. Our car always smelled of my mother, of her skin and hair and the soap she used, which was lemon-scented, and came in a cardboard box patterned with yellow flowers. My mother used to go driving most afternoons. She would wait until she knew I was home from school, then she would take the car keys from the china pot on the hall table and often wouldn’t get back until six or seven in the evening. When my father came in from work he would cook supper for us both, then I would do my homework and he would watch Nationwide, and whatever came on afterwards. When my mother arrived home she would sometimes make herself an egg on toast but that was all.

  Every now and then she would take me with her. She never told me where we were going. Sometimes we just drove out into the countryside
around Truro and then came home again. Once we went to a small seaside town on the northern coast called St. Clare. My mother parked the car then led me towards a café on the narrow high street. There was a woman waiting for us, standing outside on the pavement. She had polished red lips, and dense dark hair with a silver streak running through the middle of it, like Cruella de Vil.

  “I don’t like going in on my own,” she said to my mother. “People give you funny looks.”

  My mother didn’t introduce me, but in the course of the conversation I discovered that the woman’s name was Ingrid. A waitress brought tea and scones, and my mother talked to Ingrid about a concert she had heard on the radio. After about an hour we left and drove home again.

  Our visit to Catherine Sharpe began in the same way, except that Catherine Sharpe lived in Truro. On the outskirts anyway, northwest of the city center and almost in the country. Her house was large, set back from the road at the end of a gravel drive. She used to be my mother’s singing teacher, though I did not understand that until a long time afterwards. She wore her white hair pinned high on her head in a style that reminded me of a picture of Marie Antoinette I had seen on the cover of a book in the school library.

  My mother leaned forward to kiss her. Then she did an incredible thing.

  “This is my daughter, Bramber,” she said. “She likes making up stories.”

  I blushed. I could sense my mother’s hand, hovering beside my arm, curled into a shape that would have fitted my elbow exactly.

  “She looks just like you, Lisa,” said Catherine Sharpe. “It’s strange to think that you have a child.”

  My mother laughed. After that she didn’t speak of me again. She seated herself on one of the large, chintz-covered sofas that took up most of Catherine Sharpe’s living room and began talking about a record she had just sent off for, from London. Both women seemed to have forgotten I was there.

  I moved around the margins of the room, examining the dark paintings in their ornate frames and the tiny gold carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Eventually I found my way out into the hall. There were four doors opening off from it, each revealing a narrow slice of the room beyond. The largest of the rooms had three tall windows overlooking the driveway and contained a grand piano. In the bathroom I hovered in front of the mirror, watching myself reflected against the dark blue tiles. In the room next to the bathroom stood a single brass bedstead and a glassfronted bookcase crammed with sheet music. On top of the bookcase sat a doll. I gazed at her steadily and she gazed back. I couldn’t get over the feeling that she seemed to know me.

  She wore a plain brown dress and long, leather lace-up boots. Her hair was reddish and curly, and felt real. I grabbed her around the waist and lifted her down. I didn’t notice that Catherine Sharpe had come into the room behind me. When I heard her call my name I almost dropped the doll, from fright. I felt certain Catherine Sharpe had been spying on me, following me around from room to room. Later I realized she must simply have caught sight of me on her way to the bathroom.

  “Do you like her?” she said. I stared at her silently, not knowing if it was safer to admit that I did or pretend I didn’t care. “Take her home with you if you like, she’ll just be cluttering up the room otherwise.”

  “I can’t,” I said at last. My heart was thumping. I tried to think of a reason, of something I could say that wouldn’t sound rude. I could already imagine my mother’s silence in the car as she drove us home, her anger at the foolish way I’d behaved in front of her friend.

  “Don’t be silly, of course you can,” said Catherine Sharpe. “It isn’t valuable.”

  She gave a funny little laugh, as if the whole incident had amused her greatly. She took me by the hand and marched me back to the living room. My mother was still on the sofa, leafing through a magazine.

  “I’ve given your daughter that doll.” Catherine Sharpe waved a hand in my general direction and I realized she’d forgotten my name. “You don’t mind, do you? It’s just some old thing that used to belong to my sister. I’d forgotten I had it.”

  My mother turned slowly towards me. The magazine fell from her lap and slid to the floor. “She’s too old for dolls,” she said. “Bramber has never enjoyed playing with toys.”

  Neither of the women spoke to me directly, and after a moment’s silence Catherine Sharpe asked my mother if she would like more tea. I understood that I would be allowed to keep the doll, so long as I stayed perfectly quiet and didn’t do anything else to make my mother feel embarrassed. I sat down on a stool close to the window and held the doll in my lap. It seemed to me that both of us were waiting, on tenterhooks, holding our breath. Eventually, my mother got up from the sofa and kissed Catherine Sharpe on the cheek. Shortly afterwards we left. My mother drove most of the way back into Truro in silence. The lights of the oncoming cars kept turning her face yellow, stacking it with shadows.

  Then, when we were almost home, she raised her eyes to look at me in the rearview mirror.

  “I never imagined you wanting a doll,” she said. “You never asked for one.”

  “She was a nice lady,” I said. “I was just being polite.”

  My mother frowned, then turned her attention back to the road. When we reached the house I went straight to my room. Half an hour later my father called me down for supper. He dished up – it was omelet and chips – then started telling us about the JCB Groats had called him in to repair that afternoon.

  “They’re different from cars,” he said. “A machine like that, it’s more like a dinosaur, really.”

  I laughed, but my mother was silent. She seemed miles away. When we’d finished eating she stacked the plates together and took them through to the kitchen. A moment later I heard the taps running and the sound of piano music on the kitchen radio.

  Two of my dolls are wax dolls, a Gerhardt Rilling and a Leopold Toft. The Toft has a broken finger, which I know makes her less valuable but I would never part with her anyway, so it doesn’t matter. I buy all my dolls online these days. I’ve never been to an actual auction, even though I know there are auctions in Truro that I could easily get to if I wanted. A couple of years ago I asked Dr. Leslie if I could go into Bodmin on the bus, but he said he didn’t think it would be a good idea.

  “You know you’re not good in crowds, Bramber. If there’s anything you need you can always ask Sylvia.”

  When Jennifer Rockleaze asked if I could go to Bodmin carnival with her and Paul, the same thing happened. Dr. Leslie said it was nice of them to offer but he wasn’t happy about me being out after dark.

  Jennifer Rockleaze is my closest friend here. She comes up to my room sometimes, puts the kettle on and tells me about the computer business she and Paul are going to set up once they’ve finished helping Dr. Leslie with his research.

  Jennie said it didn’t matter what Dr. Leslie said, that if I wanted to go to the carnival I should just go. When I told her I’d changed my mind she looked disappointed.

  “But we need you, Ba,” she said. “To stop us getting caught up with the freak show.”

  I know she doesn’t mean it about her and Paul being freaks but it still upsets me when she says things like that and I suppose it must have shown on my face because she burst out laughing.

  “Honestly, Ba,” she said. “You do know that’s what we would probably have been doing a hundred years ago, don’t you? Turning somersaults and dancing for pennies.” She flung her arms around my waist. “Nice work if you can get it. I wonder how well they pay.”

  I once heard the postman referring to Paul and Jennie as dwarfs. I hate the word “dwarf.” It sounds stunted and ugly. Paul has achondroplasia. His arms and legs are shorter than normal, but he has a broad, strong chest and beautiful eyes, brown as velvet. He makes all his own clothes. He says he could buy children’s clothes, like a lot of other little people, but he doesn’t really like what they have in the shops.
Jennie’s arms and legs are perfect but she’s tiny, a little under four feet two. When she drinks tea she holds the cup with both hands, as if it were a bowl. She makes everything around her look ugly – oversized and cartoonish. Perhaps that’s what ordinary people are most afraid of when they see people like Jennie and Paul: losing their place in the scheme of things.

  I once asked Jennie why she and Paul even stayed here, seeing as they can leave whenever they like.

  “It’s a laugh, and we live rent-free,” she said. “We’re saving up to get a place of our own.”

  Jennie likes my dolls, she’s even learned all their names. If I were to tell anyone about you it would be Jennie. You are exactly the kind of secret she would love to know.

  It’s been blazing hot here all week, almost thirty degrees. The downstairs rooms are stifling but Jackie being Jackie, she won’t let anyone open a window in case the butterflies get in.

  It was lovely to hear from you, Andrew. I hope you are well.

  Yours always,

  Bramber

  4.

  I FELT GLAD TO BE leaving Reading. The coach kept to the main roads at first, skirting Newbury and Andover and Salisbury, then just after Warminster we turned off onto a B road signposted for Wade. I had a room booked in Wade, which Coastage’s English Almanac described as one of the most attractive villages in East Somerset. I planned on staying there three nights.

  The coach pulled into a lay-by opposite the post office. There was nobody waiting to board, and as soon as I had alighted the coach released its brakes with a shudder and then ground off towards the next stop on its itinerary, which I believe was Frome. Once it was gone, the silence seemed to close in with a rush, as if it had been lying in wait. I crossed the road to the Bluebell Inn, trying to rid myself of the feeling that I was being watched.