Dreams That Veil

by Dominic Luke

  She sat up on the settee. Sleep fell away.

  ‘I have been to what you English call a pub,’ said Kolya, addressing the plain, painted ceiling. ‘Vilyam Turner took me. That is his name: Vilyam. We are now best of friends. I drink much ale. I try to forget. I do not forget. Wedding is real. Wedding has happened.’

  ‘But it had to happen, don’t you see? It had to happen because of the . . . the baby.’ She blushed at the whispered word baby. She was beginning now to guess where babies came from and it was nasty, loathsome, unthinkable. But the sense of adventure stirred within her once more and she blurted out, ‘Where do babies come from?’

  He turned his head to look at her. ‘You do not know?’

  ‘Nobody tells me anything!’ The blood was throbbing in her cheeks. He would think her such a child, the way she had giggled earlier over beards and now showing her shameful ignorance.

  But he did not laugh as Daisy would have; he did not mock like Roderick. His bony fingers picked at the carpet as he carefully picked his words. ‘Baby grows inside woman.’

  ‘But how does it get there?’

  ‘Is – is – I forget word. My head is all jumble. Is something that happens between man and woman. Is nothing to be afraid of, Leeza.’ And indeed, the way he explained it made it sound not nasty or loathsome but plain and simple – if rather improbable. ‘Is not mystery. Is instinct, is nature – is beautiful. You will see.’

  ‘Is . . . is it love?’

  ‘Love is part of it, yes.’

  ‘But love is such a nuisance! Love makes people do silly things. Love makes you unhappy, because of Miss Halsted.’

  ‘Yes. I do love Rosa. I cannot help this. She is strong woman, she is intelligent woman, she is – but how do you say. . . ?’ Growing animated, he made an effort to sit up but immediately sank back down with a groan. ‘Room is going round. I must stay on floor.’

  He looked rather helpless, spreadeagled on the carpet, like a fish washed up on a beach. His boots were scuffed, the heels worn; his trousers were rather shapeless and baggy; the middle buttons of his waistcoat were missing. She felt sorry for him, so drunk and down-at-heel and disconsolate. Sliding off the settee, she sat beside him on the floor and took his hand: the hand that didn’t make her skin crawl, the bony fingers that had been picking at the carpet.

  He stared up at the ceiling through narrowed eyes, grey as flint. With Rosa by his side, he said, there was no knowing what he might have achieved. Without her, he was nothing. But this was wrong. It was weak. A man could not be a true revolutionary if he was swayed by love. A revolutionary must renounce love, must renounce all ties of affection. A revolutionary lived only for the destruction of society.

  She didn’t understand. Why did he want to destroy things?

  ‘Urge to destroy can also be creative urge, Leeza. Society must be destroyed to its roots before we can build better world. This is what I want – what I dream of, what I long for: better world. While men remain slaves, I cannot truly be free.’

  ‘Sometimes I think that . . . that God wants to destroy us. That is why he makes bad things happen.’

  Kolya looked at her with unguarded eyes. ‘Leeza, there is no God.’

  ‘But there is! There is! There must be!’

  ‘You want God to be real because you are afraid. But we cannot make things real by just wishing. God is superstition. I believe in science. I have faith, yes, but my faith is in people, in human spirit.’

  ‘How can you have faith in people when so many of them are horrid and wicked?’

  ‘No one is born wicked, Leeza. It is society that makes us so. We do not need God to tell us what is right. We know in our hearts what is right.’ With an effort, he sat up. ‘Now I must go to bed before I fall asleep on floor.’

  She watched him walk unsteadily out of the room. He left the door open. A draught came in. It made the dying embers glow with renewed life. Eliza sat on the floor hugging her knees. There is no God. Was Kolya right? Dorothea would never agree! But Dorothea believed in a God with a kindly smile, not God with the vindictive finger.

  Eliza hugged her knees ever tighter. A cold, sharp, shivery feeling took hold of her. She would never go against Dorothea, but just imagine if it was true, if there was no God: just imagine!

  The cold, sharp, shivery feeling surged through her so that she came up in goose pimples.

  ‘Moya golova! Moya golova!’ Kolya in the breakfast room sat slumped over the table holding his head in his hands. ‘Never shall I drink your English ale again. I shall drink only Russian vodka.’

  ‘Bacon, sir?’ said Basford, hovering.

  ‘No. No bacon. No anything. You eat bacon.’

  ‘Beg pardon, sir?’

  ‘I see you looking at bacon as if you are hungry. If you are hungry, eat. Sit. Eat.’

  Eliza paused with her fork halfway to her mouth, uncertain if Kolya was being serious or not. Basford looked affronted at the very idea but couldn’t stop his eyes sliding round to take another peek at the dish of bacon on the sideboard.

  Eliza jumped up. ‘Why don’t you sit with us, John? You ought to!’ It would be rather funny, rather naughty, to eat breakfast with the footman. She would never have thought of it. It was always Kolya who came up with these interesting notions.

  ‘Sit at the table, miss?’ Basford spoke rather stiffly. ‘I couldn’t possibly, it wouldn’t be right! What would Mr Ordish say? And Mrs Bourne!’

  ‘Fiddlesticks to Mrs Bourne! You know I’m not afraid of Mrs Bourne. Neither should you be, a big, tall man like you!’ Eliza pulled out a chair. ‘Sit here! Do please sit!’

  ‘Well, miss, if you insist. . . .’

  ‘That’s it. Pull your chair in. Now: what would you like? Bacon? Eggs? Coffee?’

  ‘You mustn’t make fun of me, Miss Eliza. It’s not fair.’

  ‘I’m not making fun, John. I shall serve you for a change, instead of the other way round. But I can’t keep calling you John. What’s your real name?’

  ‘Basford, miss.’

  ‘I know that! Your first name, silly!’

  ‘Well . . . er . . . it’s . . . Herbert, miss. My name’s Herbert.’

  ‘Herbert. That’s a nice name. Like the Prime Minister. Much better than John. Here’s your breakfast, Herbert, a bit of everything. And here’s your coffee.’

  Basford eyed his plate greedily. ‘I shall get my marching orders if anyone catches me like this!’

  ‘No you shan’t, I shan’t let them,’ said Eliza as she returned to her own breakfast. She noted that Kolya had stopped clutching his head and was now watching closely. She felt pleased to have done something that had aroused his interest. ‘You are not doing anything wrong, Herbert, because . . . because . . . I don’t know what it’s because. Kolya will explain.’

  Kolya broke into a grin. ‘All men are created equal,’ he said in a rather throaty voice.

  ‘There! Do you see, Herbert? We are all equal.’

  ‘If you say so, miss.’ Basford glanced once more at the door before giving in to temptation. He took off his gloves, picked up his knife and fork, tucked in. ‘This is first-rate bacon,’ he said with his mouth full. ‘We don’t get nothing like it downstairs. Cook’s a right skinflint, I can’t tell you. It’s like being on holiday, this is.’

  ‘Yes, you’re quite right, that’s just what it’s like, with everyone away and with Kolya here. What a shame Mama is coming back so soon! Roddy will be back too at Easter: back from Oxford.’

  ‘Don’t remind me!’ exclaimed Basford, forgetting himself and then turning red.

  ‘What’s the matter, Herbert? Don’t you like Roddy?’

  ‘It’s not that, miss. I know Master Roderick is your brother and all, but by jiminy he’s hard work! He likes all his clothes laid out just so, shirt on the left, trousers on the right, and woe betide if you get it wrong. He shaves sitting in his bath and all, which I think is downright dirty. But what do I know? I’m just the footman.’

  ‘No man
is a hero to his valet,’ said Kolya.

  ‘Ain’t that the truth, Mr Anpitov!’

  ‘Mr Antipov, Herbert: it’s Antipov,’ said Eliza, laughing.

  Kolya was laughing too, his hangover in abeyance, and Basford was grinning all over his face in true Basford style, chewing all the while. His breakfast was disappearing like frost in the sun. Eliza had never known anyone eat so quickly. She had never known, either, breakfast to be such fun. This was just the right way to start the day.

  The holiday spirit was short-lived. Kolya announced after breakfast that he had to leave.

  ‘Oh, must you? I wish you could stay!’

  ‘I have appointment. I must visit acquaintance of my father in Hampstead: cultured man, rich man. He translates into English the works of Tolstoy, Chekhov, Dostoevsky: Russian writers. I help.’

  ‘Can’t the man do without you just this once?’

  ‘Perhaps he can do without me. But I cannot do without him. He gives me money. I need money for living in England. What my father sends from Petersburg is not enough.’

  Eliza was surprised how disappointed she was. But with Kolya gone and Mama coming back, life would take a turn for the worse. The academy was waiting to claim her and there was all the uncertainty of having Roderick’s new wife at Clifton: for while Roderick would be heading back to Oxford, Miss Halsted – Mrs Roderick Brannan – would be arriving with Mama.

  ‘She doesn’t like me. She thinks me a child.’

  ‘You do not know each other yet, that is all. You will be friends. You are much alike. Rosa has made her own way, as you do.’

  In the hallway Kolya kissed Eliza’s hand, put on his battered hat, picked up his Gladstone bag. Basford had the door ready.

  ‘Do svidanye, Leeza.’

  ‘Goodbye!’ When would she see him again? Not knowing was torture.

  Kolya shook Basford’s hand then ran down the steps, calling a greeting to Billy Turner – Vilyam – who had the old governess cart ready. The sky was white and pale grey as if draped in muslin. The horse’s breath steamed in the cold air. Eliza stood on the doorstep waving until the creaking cart disappeared down the drive.

  Basford closed the door. ‘Well, miss, he’s a caution right enough,’ he began. But his words were cut short. There came a sound of jangling keys getting rapidly nearer. Both Eliza and Basford turned and fled.

  In the day room, Daisy viewed her with concern. ‘You look peaky, miss.’ She felt Eliza’s forehead. ‘Yes, you’re running a temperature again. All this gadding about. Well, back to bed with you.’

  Eliza was too weak to argue. She really did feel quite poorly though she would never have admitted it. As she lay in bed she thought of Kolya, who’d stayed such a short time. A large portion had been spent with Billy Turner in the pub. What had they talked about, what had they done? Only Billy would know.

  ‘Daisy, will you fetch Billy up when he gets back from Welby station?’

  ‘What do you want with a useless lump like him?’

  ‘Please, Daisy!’

  ‘Oh, very well, miss, if that’s what you want. But get some rest first. You look like death warmed up.’

  Billy Turner came clomping in his hobnailed boots, cap in hand. His face was bruised and grazed.

  ‘Mind where you’re going, you lubbering great lump!’ Daisy scolded him. ‘Look at the mess you’ve made with those dirty great boots of yours, treading muck everywhere! As if I hadn’t enough to do without cleaning up after you. I’ll need the dustpan and brush, I can see.’ She paused on her way out, raised an eyebrow at him. ‘You want to watch it, giving me those dirty looks. If the wind changes, you’ll stay like that.’

  Sitting in bed cushioned by her pillows, Eliza questioned him. Yes, said Billy, he and Mr Nicholas had stopped off in the village on the way back from the station. Mr Nicholas had caused quite a stir. They weren’t used to foreigners in the Barley Mow. He had some queer ideas, too. But he’d stood his ground, whether or no, and he’d told some rum stories of Russia and the like. They’d had quite a time of it.

  They’d had quite a time of it. It didn’t seem fair. Why couldn’t she go to the Barley Mow? Would she always be left out? It made her feel quite angry and she took it out on Billy, asking him sharply about the cuts and bruises on his face. Had he been fighting with Jeff Smith again when she’d specially asked him not to?

  ‘I done my best, miss, to keep the peace. But he’d argue with an echo, that Jeff Smith.’

  ‘What do you argue about?’

  Billy scratched his neck. ‘Motor cars. Horses. He lords it about the place because he was born in the city and I wasn’t. He calls me a yokel. And he was so cock-a-hoop about going to Tonbridge that I couldn’t help but. . . .’ He trailed off in a mumble, avoiding her eyes, taking quick peeks around the room instead. He looked rather shamefaced. He looked rather awkward and cumbersome, standing there. Her anger evaporated. It wasn’t Billy’s fault that she couldn’t go to the Barley Mow. Whose fault was it, then? Who made the rules? Perhaps Kolya would have been able to explain. Certainly Kolya would not approve of her shouting at Billy. Kolya never shouted. He spoke to servants as he spoke to anyone. She’d only really noticed it on his last visit when he’d made friends with Vilyam and had told Basford to eat the bacon. Oddly, Kolya’s attitude reminded her of Dorothea, who’d also had her own way of speaking to the servants. Yet in every other respect Dorothea and Kolya could not have been more different.

  ‘I’m sorry, Billy. I shouldn’t have shouted.’

  ‘Never mind, miss. In one ear—’

  ‘—and out the other: yes, I remember!’ She laughed and he dared to look at her face for a second, smiling one of his rare, fleeting smiles. He flushed. The colour rose up his neck and flared in his cheeks. He looked very out of place in her bedroom just as Basford had looked out of place sitting at the breakfast table. Would she be equally out of place in the Barley Mow?

  Billy had been up to the nursery once before, it emerged, a long time ago when he was a lad and it had been Dorothea’s birthday. His mother had sent him from the village with some flowers. ‘Miss Dorothea had her new frock on and Mrs Brannan was there and all manner of people. I didn’t know where to put meself.’

  It was only when Billy had gone that Eliza remembered she had been in the nursery that day too. Billy had not mentioned it. Perhaps he’d forgotten. Or perhaps at the time he’d never even noticed her.

  A wave of misery washed over her. The academy was waiting to claim her as soon as she was well again. Now the wedding was over there was nothing to look forward to. Days, weeks, months stretched ahead; the whole of 1914 was a desert. And after 1914 would come 1915 then 1916 and her bleak existence would go on and on, no end in sight.

  She rolled onto her side, biting her lip. She would not cry. She was determined not to cry. Kolya had gone and Billy no doubt thought more of his ferrets than he did of her but she could at least pretend to make them proud.

  She was not a child any more.

  Mama was back. Eliza was still in bed, unwell. She thought this might stir some sympathy. Not a bit of it.

  ‘How many times must I tell you, Elizabeth, about consorting with the servants? I have made myself quite clear. But I come home to find – well, where do I begin? Mrs Bourne and Cook have been quarrelling again after all I’ve done to keep the peace, Turner was seen in the nursery where he’s no business being, and John, by all accounts, sat and had breakfast with you!’

  ‘His name is Herbert Basford! He’s a person just like anyone else! It’s rude to call him John!’

  ‘His name in this house is John, Elizabeth. It is John.’

  Mama was standing tall and straight by the bedside. No fault would be found at the academy with Mama’s deportment. Her blue eyes were icy, her skin clear and smooth. The few lines on her face only served to give her an added dignity. There was a timeless quality to Mama which could not fail to impress.

  She sighed. ‘For the last time. Servants are people one
employs. One cannot be friends with them. It does no good on either side to be overfamiliar. You must learn to find companionship amongst your own kind.’

  Eliza found she was crying. She’d promised herself not to, never again, and she knew it would do nothing to raise her standing with Mama, but she simply couldn’t help it. She wasn’t even sure what she was crying about: everything or nothing.

  ‘Why can’t things turn out nice for once?’ she sobbed.

  ‘It does no good crying about it,’ said Mama crisply. ‘If I’d taken your line, Elizabeth, sighing over castles in the air, I’d still be waiting now, after forty-nine years, for things to turn out nice. You must learn to make the best of things as they are. I say this for your own good. Now,’ she added, leaning down to straighten the counterpane, her manicured hands working quickly, efficiently, ‘no more tears. No more wishing for the impossible. Remember that God’s purpose is worked out in all our lives. You must trust to Him to know what’s right for you.’

  But there was no God, thought Eliza as Mama left the room, closing the door quietly but firmly behind her: there was no God and there was no hope. She wished she could believe, as Kolya did, in the possibility of a better world; she wished she could believe that people were good and noble. Eliza wanted so much for it to be true. But it just didn’t seem that way to her. Without God, what was there to stop people running riot and revelling in their wickedness? Without God, what purpose would her life have?

  It had been easy up until then to forget that Roderick was married, but now his wife had arrived to take up permanent residence. Mama took the trouble to show the erstwhile Miss Halsted to her room. Eliza trailed after them, not sure if her presence was required.

  Opening a door, Mama said, ‘I thought you’d like this room, a room of your own.’ It was at the opposite end of the corridor to Roderick’s.

  ‘I will leave you to settle in and to dress for dinner. The gong will sound when it’s time.’

  Mama swept off. Eliza was about to follow when Miss Halsted put a hand out and touched her gently on the arm.