Dreams That Veil

by Dominic Luke

  But when Eliza retreated to her room, Daisy after a moment followed. The sheets needed changing, the room must be aired. Why didn’t Miss Eliza find herself something to do instead of moping around with a face as long as a gasman’s mackintosh?

  There was no talking to Daisy in this mood. She still harboured a grudge over the Zack Hobson affair and was making Eliza pay. It was best to get right away.

  Downstairs in the hallway as Eliza tried to make up her mind what to do she became aware of voices in the parlour – loud voices. They had to be loud to carry all across the breakfast room and out here into the hall. Mama and Roderick were arguing. They were actually shouting at one another.

  Eliza clapped her hands over her ears. She didn’t want to listen. She didn’t want to know. It was all very well for Roderick to say that he wouldn’t let Mama tell him what to do but no one went against Mama and got away with it. Most people were too sensible even to try. It sounded, however, as if Mama and Roderick wouldn’t stop until they had torn each other to pieces.

  Hounded out of the nursery and now out of the house itself, Eliza took refuge outside. The wintry gardens were bleak and withered. Frost lingered in patches. The sky was gunmetal grey. In the old summer house she sat on a creaky wicker chair amongst the dust and the cobwebs and the mouse droppings. She thought of Mama and Roderick arguing in the parlour. She thought of Daisy clatterbanging round the nursery. She thought of Miss Halsted and the baby. It seemed to her that everything was falling apart. The whole world was as grubby and decayed as the summerhouse.

  She sat there in silence, unmoving, all alone.

  Chapter Nine

  The wedding was arranged for the end of January, to take place in Tonbridge. It had to be done in a hurry because of the baby. Eliza wished she could ask Daisy about the baby but she baulked at showing herself up again as she’d done with the monthlies (if monthly was even the right word: Daisy did not always use the right word for things).

  The baby was causing all sorts of trouble and it hadn’t even arrived yet.

  ‘Mother was absolutely furious,’ said Roderick cheerfully. All his doubts appeared forgotten. He was smiling his cat-with-the-cream smile. ‘You should have heard her, kiddo! You wouldn’t believe what a scoundrel you have for a brother. I’m a stain on the family name, we shall be the talk of the neighbourhood, I’ve ruined our reputation forever. There was a lot more. I can’t remember half of it. I’m surprised she didn’t have me horsewhipped.’

  But this was overplaying his hand. Mama would never have hurt a hair on his head no matter how much in disgrace he was. All the same, Eliza looked at him with a new respect. He had stood up to Mama and he had won. She would never have believed it possible.

  As for Mama herself, she did not waste time with wailing or beating her breast. As Billy Turner might have said, what was done was done and now it was a case of making the best of things.

  ‘But I do wish Dorothea were here,’ Mama sighed. ‘She was such a help at times like this. There is so much to do.’

  What exactly needed to be done wasn’t clear. When Eliza offered her services, Mama merely told her to stop making a nuisance of herself: she had enough to cope with already. Eliza muttered to herself darkly: ‘Mama would rather have Dorothea as a daughter than me. I am just a changeling who nobody wants!’

  Like Mama, Eliza had doubts about Roderick’s wedding. To marry Miss Halsted seemed rather rash. She couldn’t imagine him married. Would he be different? Would he change?

  Doubts aside, there was plenty to look forward to: a new frock, a trip to Tonbridge, a stay in a hotel. Nothing so exciting had happened since the continental holiday and that seemed an age ago now. Best of all, the wedding meant that Eliza would be free of the hated academy for an entire week. That really would be a treat.

  She began counting the days.

  The big day drew steadily nearer. It made Eliza go hot and then cold to think of it. It made her head throb and sent her dizzy.

  ‘It sounds to me more like you’re sickening for summat,’ said Daisy. She felt Eliza’s forehead. ‘I was right, miss. You’re burning up.’

  The doctor was sent for.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel quite well.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that,’ said Dr Camborne, opening his bag.

  ‘But the wedding!’ Eliza was ready to beg and plead. ‘I must go to the wedding!’

  ‘We’ll see.’ He checked his thermometer. ‘You are running a temperature. Probably a touch of flu. Bed for you, young lady. Plenty of rest. I shall call back tomorrow to see how you are.’

  ‘I’m well, quite well!’ Eliza announced when Daisy came into her room next morning. ‘I don’t feel ill at all.’

  She had done everything in her power to see off her sickness. She had prayed fervently to God for half the night. But as she slipped out of bed whilst Daisy was opening the curtains, spots appeared before her eyes and her legs gave way. Before she knew it, she was in a heap on the floor.

  At once the room was full of people. Basford lifted her up, placed her gently back in bed.

  ‘Send for Dr Camborne,’ Mama ordered.

  ‘At once, ma’am,’ said Mrs Bourne.

  ‘No, no, no!’ Eliza turned, twisted, fighting thin air. ‘Not the doctor, I don’t want the doctor!’ It was a plot, Mama and Mrs Bourne together. And to have Dr Camborne examine her again: the thought was unbearable, his clammy hands sliding over her skin.

  ‘Stop this at once, Elizabeth!’ Mama used the tone of voice that everyone invariably obeyed. ‘You are ill. You need the doctor. That’s an end to it.’

  And so Dr Camborne came. It seemed to Eliza that he took great pleasure in pronouncing her doom. She was much worse today. She would need at least a week in bed. Eliza wanted to protest. She wanted to scream and shout, to demand to be taken to Tonbridge. But when it came to it she found she was too weak even to speak. She burst into tears instead.

  ‘There, there, my dear, it can’t be helped.’ Dr Camborne patted her as if she was a dog – as if she was Roderick’s Hecate. ‘It’s only a wedding, not the end of the world.’

  Eliza glared up at him through her tears. How she hated him! She hated him with a passion that seemed to burn her up inside. Everything about him was repulsive: his smarmy smile, his prying hands, the sinister way he knew every detail of one’s body. Perhaps he even knew about the monthlies. Perhaps he could tell just by looking. It was too demeaning for words.

  When he’d gone, Eliza lay in bed silent and still. Her head ached, her nose ran, she felt weak and watery, the daylight hurt her eyes even with the curtains closed. How spiteful of God! How unutterably spiteful and after she had prayed so hard! She could just picture him – God/Colonel Harding – laughing and sneering, pointing at her with his vindictive finger, pressing down and down on her, squashing her to nothing.

  Mama came up to the nursery in her travelling clothes. She looked incredibly upright and elegant, a match for anyone, even Mrs Somersby. Unlike Mrs Somersby, however, there was never anything showy about Mama. Her hat, for instance, was quite plain. But the way the wide brim was poised at a perfect angle made your heart swell to see it.

  ‘Now, Elizabeth,’ she began crisply, looking down at Eliza. Then she paused. Her expression softened. She took Eliza’s hand. ‘Such a shame, to be ill at a time like this.’

  But to be pitied by Mama was awful, far worse than being chastized. Eliza found herself wishing that Mama would just go, go, go.

  Alone in her room, she heard the sound of the motor’s engine fading down the drive. Mama was off to Oxford. She was going to meet Roderick, they would travel together to Tonbridge, and then—

  Oh, but what was the use in thinking about it? It made her head hurt. It made her chest hurt. It made her heart hurt most of all. Her heart was aching and aching. To miss her brother’s wedding; to miss the only bright spot in all the long, dull months: it was unbearable.

  She curled up shivering, awash with miser
y.

  She woke from a deep, deep sleep. She was not sure what day it was or how long she’d been sleeping. The curtains were half shut. A cold grey light came into the room. Was it morning or afternoon? She couldn’t tell.

  She raised her head. Daisy had been peeking in, was about to close the door. It must have been the sound of it opening, Eliza realized, that had woken her.

  ‘Daisy, wait!’

  ‘So you’re awake, miss. I wasn’t sure. There’s a visitor. I can send him away if you like – if you don’t feel well enough.’

  ‘Don’t send him away! Show him up! I feel quite well enough for visitors.’

  Eliza sat up, straightened her hair, tucked the bed-covers round her. She’d forgotten to ask who the visitor was. Daisy hadn’t said. An unreasoning fear took hold of her. What if it was the turnpike sailor? What if he’d tricked his way into the house and was coming to get her? Rigid with fear, she gripped the blankets in her fists and waited.

  The visitor walked in.

  ‘Oh, Kolya, it’s you, it’s really you! How lovely!’

  It was like seeing a vision. She feasted her eyes on him. Almost half a year had passed since his last visit to Clifton but he was just as she remembered – unless he was perhaps a little more dishevelled even than usual. He had his overcoat on. His hat was in his hands.

  ‘If you are poorly, I shall go away.’

  ‘Don’t go, please stay!’ She held out her hand. ‘I feel so much better now. It was only influenza.’

  He took hold of her hand, allowed himself to be drawn towards the bed, sat down on the edge. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes bright, as if he’d been walking in the cold. But his hand was warm, his grip firm.

  ‘I’ve been so sleepy,’ she said. ‘I feel like I’ve slept for days and days. I’ve lost track of time. Is it morning or afternoon? Is the wedding over?’

  Instead of answering her questions, he said softly, ‘ “Sleep is a gentle thing, beloved from pole to pole.” One of your English poets wrote that. I cannot remember which one.’

  ‘I don’t know about poetry. They don’t teach us things like that at the academy. I go to an academy now: an academy for young ladies.’

  ‘What do they teach you at this academy?’

  ‘Dull things, boring things: how to behave at dinner, how to cultivate the art of listening – cultivate, as if it was a plant! I get into trouble because I always say, “I ride in the train to school,” when I ought to say, “I drive in the train.” Oh, Kolya, you don’t know how silly it all is, how pointless. I spend all day looking out of the window. I watch the children in the charity school opposite. I watch men digging up the road to lay tram tracks. The tram wires are already in place. They look like a giant spider’s web.’

  ‘I also ride in a train. I ride from Tonbridge to see you.’

  ‘To see me? You came all that way for me?’

  ‘Mrs Brannan was most anxious. She thought you might be worse. I came to put her mind at rest.’

  Was it really possible that Mama had been anxious about her? ‘I am not worse. I feel much better. But what about the wedding: won’t you miss the wedding?’

  ‘The wedding. . . .’ He glanced at his pocket watch. ‘The wedding happens just about now.’

  He let go of her hand and turned away but not before she’d seen a spasm cross his face. She understood then why he’d volunteered to come and see her. He’d not wanted to stay. He’d not been able to bear it.

  ‘I set out early. No one was awake. I did not wait for breakfast. I did not even shave.’ He rubbed his chin, his face in profile.

  She reached out. She touched his cheek. His bristles were very fair and almost invisible but they felt prickly against her fingers. What made the hairs grow, she wondered: what were they for?

  She drew her hand back and he caught hold of it and turned to look at her. His questing eyes made her catch her breath. What wild impulse had made her touch him? And now her hand was snared and he was very close with only the bedcovers between them. All she had on was her nightdress.

  But she didn’t feel as she did with Dr Camborne that he had a hold over her. There was no sly smile. Her skin didn’t crawl as it did when the doctor prodded and poked her. She felt instead that nothing bad could ever happen to her whilst Kolya was there. There was something unsettling about him, it was true: but not in a bad way. His strangeness, his foreignness, only served to round him off: Kolya would not have been Kolya otherwise.

  ‘Will . . . will you grow a beard?’

  ‘No. I will not grow beard. Beards are not . . . fashion: is this correct word? Beards once were fashion in Russia but the Tsar put tax on them.’

  ‘A tax on beards? How funny!’ She couldn’t stop herself from giggling. Hysteria, Mama would have called it. She was afraid he would think her silly.

  He smiled. ‘Is funny, yes. But also is unfair.’ His smile faded. He looked at her solemnly. ‘There have been taxes on many different things, on salt, on windows, even on people, but is always the poor who pay most. To a rich man, a rouble is nothing: he has others. A rouble to a poor man may be all he has.’

  ‘I wish I knew about beards and about roubles! Why must I go to that hateful academy where I learn nothing?’

  ‘Every experience has value, Leeza, even your academy. Perhaps what they teach is no good but you learn all the same. You learn what is important and what is not. You learn about human nature. You learn about tram tracks in the road. And you see the tram wires as a spider’s web: that is poetry, Leeza. You are a poet.’

  He wasn’t mocking her. He was quite serious. Nobody took her as seriously as he did. ‘Oh, Kolya, I’m so glad you’ve come! You always make me see things differently. I do feel better now!’

  ‘Good. Is good.’ He smiled briefly then got up, went over to the window. He stood with his back to her, framed against the timeless grey day. ‘Desolation,’ he murmured as if trying out a new word, testing it. Yet somehow she sensed he knew exactly what it meant.

  The desolation of this winter’s day, she wondered, or the desolation in his heart? She could feel his sadness like a sharp pain inside her: it wasn’t just her imagination, it wasn’t!

  He sighed, turned away from the window, came back to the bed, picked up his hat. ‘Now I will go. I will leave you to get well.’

  ‘But you mustn’t, you can’t, you’ve only just arrived!’

  ‘I cannot stay. There is no one to invite me.’

  ‘Yes, there is! I shall invite you! Mama is away, I am mistress. You must stay to dinner, you must stay the night. I shall tell Mrs Bourne to make a room ready. I shall order her. She is a terrible tyrant but I’m not afraid of her. I shall make her obey me!’

  Kolya suddenly laughed. It was enough to dispel all the desolation from the room. ‘And me?’ he said. ‘Shall I obey you too?’

  ‘Of course!’ said Eliza, joining in with his laughter. ‘You have no choice.’

  Time passed quickly in Kolya’s company. It was afternoon before she knew it. She sent him off so she could get dressed. It felt good to be getting up in defiance of Dr Camborne’s orders.

  She found Mrs Bourne in the basement. Despite the early hour, electric lights were on in the gloomy, white-tiled passage. Eliza demanded a room for Mr Antipov and dinner straight away.

  ‘Dinner?’ Mrs Bourne looked askance.

  ‘Well, of course dinner; we’ve missed luncheon.’

  ‘But dinner at half past three? I’ve never heard the like!’

  ‘What’s this about dinner?’ Cook appeared just then, bustling out of the larder with a covered tray in her hand. ‘You can have dinner, my love, any time you want. I’ve half a chicken put by that will do nicely.’

  Mrs Bourne passed no further comment. She put her nose in the air and swept off. The sound of jangling keys faded up the basement stairs.

  ‘Well,’ said Cook with satisfaction. ‘That showed her!’ She disappeared into the kitchen.

  They were halfway through
dinner when Kolya suddenly remembered he’d left his bag at the station: he’d not been expecting to stay and had seen no point in lugging it with him.

  ‘I will send someone to fetch it,’ said Eliza imperiously. But who? Jeff Smith had gone off with Mama and there was no one else who could drive.

  ‘If I might make a suggestion, miss. . . .’ Basford, waiting on, would never have dared speak if Mama had been there, or Roderick. But he was an obliging fellow when he wasn’t being put in his place. ‘There’s the old governess cart, miss. Turner could get it out, drive to Welby, fetch the gentleman’s bag.’

  And so it was arranged. When dinner was over, Kolya went off with Billy Turner whilst Eliza retreated to the drawing room to await their return, curled up on the settee. Basford had drawn the curtains and made up the fire. It was warm and snug. Before long she was fast asleep.

  She woke up hours later. The fire had died down. One glance at the clock told her it was long past bedtime. Kolya had just come in. A smell of beer came in with him.

  ‘I have drunk much of your English ale,’ he said, swaying where he stood. He put his hand on the piano to steady himself. ‘I have drunk your English ale and now I am intoxicated. This is good word, yes? I have never used this word before. Intoxicated.’ He savoured the sound as well as slurring it, his Russian accent more pronounced now he was drunk.

  She was worried that he might fall over but after a moment he got down on his hands and knees and crawled towards the fireplace. He stretched out on the Turkey carpet. Eliza looked on astonished. Had anyone ever done such a thing in the decorous drawing room? How extraordinary to have a grown man lying at her feet!

  Something stirred within her: a sense of adventure, perhaps. Every experience has value, Kolya had said. And here were lots of new experiences all at once.