‘Did your father send a message to the hospital to inform me of his absence?’ asked Barry curtly. He refused to sit down. These were the first words he had spoken. Lotte was beyond shame.
‘Of course he did. I intercepted the messenger. You had been invited and I wanted you to come. I didn’t see why you shouldn’t. I wanted to see you.’
Her brother exploded into giggles.
‘Fruit cup, doctor?’
Barry nodded and peeled off his gloves. The fruit cup was laced with brandy and very strong. It was also very refreshing in the hot night. Barry drained two glasses and sat back. He could either disappoint her mightily by gathering up his dignity with his coattails and gloves, and taking his leave at once. Or he could give them both a run for their money.
‘Dinner is served.’
The servants in the Governor’s household were Portuguese. They were clearly all vibrating with laughter in the kitchen. They couldn’t wait for the second act, which, as they were serving at table, they would observe at close quarters.
Barry was taciturn over supper. The fish was well cooked with capers in a pepper sauce. Lotte chattered on, repeating all the gossip she had heard. She ordered up expensive imported wines from her father’s cellar, about which she knew nothing. It was considered correct in good colonial society for a young woman to put her handkerchief in her glass to indicate that she did not take wine. All the young ladies in the colony followed the practice. Not Lotte. She sat at her brother’s left hand and served herself with gusto. Had her father been present she would never have dared. And Barry did not try to stop her. By the time they arrived at the dessert, a lavish glass dish filled with dates, apricots and sweet peaches, she was wielding her fruit knife like a rapier. Her cheeks were deep pink and covered with tiny drops of perspiration. Her brother was slurring his words and asking impertinent questions about officers who were suspected of private visits to Barry’s clinic after sorties to that part of town known as The Middens, a network of streets notorious for gaiety and disease.
‘You must see very many members of our little world, Dr Barry,’ he guffawed, ‘in fact quite a cross-section!’ He then sank into a jolly heap, quite overcome by his own vulgarity.
Barry insisted that Charlotte withdraw into the drawing room while he set the Governor’s son straight on one or two points of unpardonable bad manners. Joe Walden was as contrite as a young man can be when impossibly, uncontrollably drunk. Barry finished the port, which was excellent and almost certainly taboo for general consumption. Joe joined him in a glass or two, then passed out, and collapsed over the table. Barry could hear Charlotte’s polkas becoming ever more frenzied and inaccurate. Then, suddenly, the music stopped altogether and she appeared in the dining-room doorway, pink and white at the extremities, like a vampire’s victim.
‘Call one of the servants to help me carry your brother upstairs,’ said Barry quietly. He stood up. He was slightly paler than usual, but neither his voice nor his hands betrayed the slightest tremor. His collar was still stiff, white and straight, his cufflinks firmly fastened. Lotte’s jaw dropped a little. She was unsteady on her feet as she crossed to the kitchen door.
‘Antonio,’ she bellowed, far too loudly as it happened, for Antonio was bent double on the other side of the door, his eye fixed to the keyhole.
The debauched scene of the completed feast with the young master slumped beside his plate was not unknown in the Governor’s house, but it was rare enough for Antonio and the other servants to be scandalised and delighted. Charlotte staggered on ahead with a lamp raised above her head, like the Bleeding Nun. She wobbled dangerously as she circumnavigated the landing. Barry caught the young man under the armpits while Antonio steered his feet up the curling staircase. They laid him out magnificently on his small cot bed, clearly left over from childhood. He was already snoring. Barry ordered a bucket, just in case he should be sick, and left him carefully propped upon his side, all his buttons undone, with a mass of pillows behind him. He ordered Antonio to check on the young master at hourly intervals.
The doctor then prepared to say his farewells to his hostess, who was teetering about in her brother’s bedroom. As he raised his face to hers, she pounced. Seized with an excess of tact, Antonio scampered off down the dark stairs. Lotte abandoned her lamp in her haste to embrace the diminutive Dr Barry.
‘Which room is yours?’ snapped Barry, disentangling himself from Lotte’s fragrant and abandoned grasp. Lotte was by now well beyond any form of rational discouragement and thrilled to the tips of her nipples by the doctor’s authoritative approach to seduction. She indicated the room at the end of the corridor and then threw her full weight rhapsodically into the doctor’s arms. She was far heavier than her brother. He half carried the drunken girl down the passage, bumping into invisible chairs and ornamental tables with a sequence of theatrical crashes. The door fell open and Barry threw Lotte down into a gleaming pool of white linen, simply because he was unable to carry her one step further. Lotte, dizzy with expectation, lost her satin slippers in the process. She closed her eyes in rapture. It was all exactly as she had dreamed it would be.
Barry looked round the room, vaguely expecting to see a rocking horse and a pile of china dolls. But no, Charlotte had begun to accumulate the symbols of young womanhood. Here was a dressing table, overflowing with pots of powder, brushes and ribbons, and numerous phials of perfume. Here was a pelisse draped over a chair and a smelly little pile of dancing shoes, with the left heels all worn out.
Barry shrugged in exasperation. Yet he had never seen Lotte looking so presentable. For once she was not trying to entice the doctor into ogling her bosom. She was natural, at last. And completely drunk. He imagined her headache in the morning. The fruit cup alone, which she had clearly been sampling well before his arrival, would ensure a darkened room for the entire day. He chuckled to himself and bent down to kiss her forehead before departing into the night. But Lotte was not as comatose as she appeared. Nothing stops a virgin hell bent on pleasure. Her bare arms flew up and encircled his neck. Then, demonstrating considerable strength and presence of mind, she capsized James Barry into her feather pillows. The buttons on his jacket were tangled up in silky ribbons and the soft white folds of her petticoats, which were strewn all across the bed. There was no escaping her now.
Barry’s first thought was that he was still wearing his boots. Meanwhile, Charlotte was intent on stripping off all her clothes. She heaved in the dim bed like a porpoise. Barry pinned her down before she could lose every last shred of her remaining modesty. There was only one way to end this. He pulled her face round towards him and kissed her ferociously on the lips. Lotte sank back with a gasp.
Never before. No, not ever. Et cetera.
She was overwhelmed, intoxicated. She flung herself against him. He kissed her again, harder this time.
Lotte let out a ravished sigh, which turned into a somewhat less romantic whistle. She had all her desires at last. She had captured the alluring, the enticing, the mysterious Dr Barry.
Not quite.
With his left hand Barry pulled her skirts right up to her thighs and beyond, then reached down into her most secret places. She cried out, startled and amazed. The doctor’s expert knowledge of anatomy came into play. She was soaking wet with involuntary excitement. He found out the source of her pleasure and rubbed her gently into ecstasy, his mouth hard against hers, stifling the little screams which poured forth, one after another. He waited until the soft electric shocks subsided, then began to liberate himself, with some difficulty, from her octopus petticoats. Lotte’s breathing steadied. The alcohol was now racing frenziedly through her system, and she was almost unconscious. Barry found a little water in her floral pitcher that was not too stale. He soaked one of her handkerchiefs and wiped her face gently. Then he covered up her pretty, vulnerable form that was on display for all the night to see.
‘Lotte, can you hear me?’
‘Mmmmmmm . . .’
‘
Listen to me, Lotte. Don’t ever get so drunk again with a man you don’t know. Someone will take advantage of you. And you make it shockingly easy for them to do so.’
Pause. Long drowsy breaths rose peacefully from the bed.
‘Lotte, are you listening?’
‘Mmmmmmm . . .’
‘You may get away with it. But then again, you may not.’
Pause.
‘Goodnight, my dear.’
She did and did not hear him. She failed to understand. She did feel the fatherly kiss, which he at last bestowed on her damp curls. But she no longer had any idea who he was. The entire affair had lasted somewhat less than seven minutes. Charlotte’s magnificent bosom never did form part of the picture. Yet this young woman fell asleep feeling nothing but the warmth and dizziness of satisfied and completed love.
Barry let himself out through the front door, well aware that he was observed by dozens of admiring eyes, and strolled home beneath an aureole of stars.
* * *
Speculation about Barry’s sexual past was as dense as the mosquitoes outside the screens at every dinner party in the colony; indeed, at every social gathering where he was not present and at many where he was. Inevitably, his connection with the famous Mrs Jones leaked forth into the stream. Barry had been seen at many of her London performances. He had even once accompanied her on a tour of Ireland and the northern provinces. He had been a frequent visitor at her London house. During a year he had spent in England between his foreign tours he had begged her to abandon the stage and follow him through all the world. Are you sure? The very idea! Everyone was titillated by the piquancy of the attachment, the famous doctor, nephew to Mr B, the painter, and a very close relation to Lord Buchan, in love with the actress of humble origins who had taken London by storm. It was shocking, delightful, perfectly delicious. And quite charming to talk about. But the incongruities were also unavoidable. They were a most peculiar couple: the statuesque Mrs Jones, on the one hand, with her magnificent figure and breathtaking legs, her comic charm and saucy jokes with her devoted audiences, and, on the other hand, the tiny, serious, ice-cold doctor with his sharp tongue and exaggerated dignity. No, the colonial wives, delighted as they were by the oddness of this picture, simply could not see it at all. Mrs Harris, who had wintered in London, attempted direct and provocative action in a bid to ascertain the truth. She took up her position behind the teapot and fired all her guns at once.
‘Our visit to town was quite wonderful. We were invited everywhere. And I had the pleasure of hearing Mrs Jones as Rosalind. I assure you, she was every bit as astonishing as the reputation which precedes her, quite glowing, one would even say radiant, with a very pleasant singing voice. She seems to take charge of everyone on the stage. Even when she is silent, she is somehow at the centre of every scene. The slightest shifts in her emotions are so pretty and convincing. When she appeared in the forest dressed as a rustic gentleman she was quite transformed. And her second metamorphosis from a saucy page boy into a perfect lady was bewitching indeed. As for her performance in the pantomime, I have not laughed so much for many years.’
She paused, expanding her bosom with predatory significance.
‘I gather that you had known Mrs Jones, Dr Barry. When she first began her career . . .’
‘I did.’
‘How interesting this is! Do tell us, Dr Barry – for you will certainly be able to do so – what sort of a person is she in private life?’
The company leaned forwards with a little crescendo of cups, agog to hear what Dr Barry would tell them about the famous actress, the woman who was reputed to have caught the eye of the King himself, if these wicked cartoonists were to be believed. And gossip is never without foundation. No, never.
‘Mrs Jones is a clever, astute and unscrupulous woman,’ said Barry flatly.
The ladies clamoured for more.
‘But she has real talent . . .’
‘I am told that she is very witty and well read . . .’
‘She is our greatest comic actress . . .’
‘But she bests Mrs Siddons in many of the tragic roles . . .’
‘She played Desdemona, with Kean as the Moor. All London was talking of it . . .’
‘Mrs Jones is excellent at portraying injured innocence,’ said Barry bitterly, turning away.
The ladies redoubled their attack.
‘But Dr Barry, she is a great artist . . .’
‘She must have suffered when she was young . . .’
‘Yet she is believed to be quite rich . . .’
‘She was raised in Lord Buchan’s household . . .’
‘Am I correct in asserting that you, Dr Barry, are an intimate of that family?’
‘She has a house on the river in a most fashionable district . . .’
‘And her own carriage . . .’
‘Her costumes alone are worth thousands . . .’
‘Her breeches were quite daringly tight . . .’
But, not even upon the interesting subject of Mrs Jones’s breeches could they draw Dr James Miranda Barry back into their conversation. He refused to play their game. They were not satisfied.
* * *
Captain James Loughlin began to make formal calls upon Dr James Miranda Barry. This fact, like every other event in the colony, was much commented upon. James Loughlin was an impulsive, unreflective man. He had no idea how he should behave towards someone to whom he owed his life, but he had acquired a peculiar sense of intimacy with and admiration for the doctor, who had so generously spared him. They never referred to the incident again. But Barry’s bullet continued to slice the air between them. James moved cautiously towards the pale, cold doctor. He befriended Isaac and sent any game he had shot, usually the best cut of the wild boar, round to Barry’s kitchen. He tried to beguile the beast, Psyche, and was bitten for his pains. Barry apologised on the poodle’s behalf. He explained that he had always had a small white poodle called Psyche, but that the last one had been very friendly and gentle, and had loved being kissed and caressed, settled on the ladies’ laps. The present occupant of the post was altogether more cantankerous. James wondered about this. It was a little odd to harbour generations of identical dogs called Psyche. He finally decided that the doctor had so loved the first one that he could not bear to lose the creature, and had therefore settled upon a system of eternal replacement.
‘Nonsense,’ said William Boaden. ‘Dogs all have utterly different characters. He just can’t think of another name.’
In fact, the reason was far more existential than either of the two men could ever have supposed. Barry had no constant markers in his life. He moved onwards from land to land. He had no close friends. He was a public figure in every place where he had lived. He was rarely alone. The first Psyche had been his only unquestioning, loyal confidante. He could not afford to lose her. And so there began the sequence of white poodles, trotting briskly behind him, waiting patiently at doors, on verandahs, under awnings, snapping at flies, gazing suspiciously at ladies who revealed their petticoats, growling on steps in the dark.
James Loughlin sent Barry’s household regular gifts of a sensible, practical nature. But, at the beginning of the hot months, when the ladies had already departed for their summer residences high in the hills, James sent Barry a huge cluster of wild orchids, which he had gathered in the mountain gorges. Barry sent Isaac with a formal note of thanks. Loughlin understood this as permission to visit and called on the doctor at once, despite the oddness of the hour, following Isaac back up the hot rocky hill to the green verandah overlooking the sea. The light was painted into the air, like a breathable cream glaze. The path simmered under his feet and the shrivelled vegetation hung limp under the congealing heat. Isaac walked slowly. James realised that his impulsive visit was very ill-advised. He stood, sweating and wilted, at Barry’s green door.
The doctor wore white shirt sleeves and was sitting smoking in a draught.
‘You’re a very imprudent you
ng man,’ he said, offering James an ice-cold hand. ‘You shouldn’t move at all between twelve and five. As your Chief Medical Officer, I may well order you onto the sofa for the rest of the afternoon.’
The room was disturbed with the heavy purple of the orchids. James looked again into their deep streaks of yellowish white, which addressed the antique lace of Barry’s gently stirring curtains. They had no scent, but they dominated the deep green rooms.
‘Thank you. I love flowers,’ said Barry quietly, uneffusive.
James sank onto the sofa. Barry ordered a tumbler of cold water for them both and Isaac vanished. They spent the afternoon smoking and exchanging occasional comments. James dropped off for nearly an hour, and awoke to find Barry gazing at his face, concentrated, unsmiling, intent. James apologised for his bad manners, and sat up, dizzy and embarrassed.
‘I am told that you spend the nights dancing, drinking and gambling, Captain, rather than sleeping. It is therefore perfectly suitable that you should spend the afternoons asleep.’
‘I say, Barry, don’t you think . . . I mean . . . I wanted to ask whether you’d like to go up to the mountains . . . for a week or so, or even ten days. Just us, and Psyche, of course. My shout, although I can’t think it would cost us very much. But, you know . . . We’d have a terrific ride. There’s plenty to see and you haven’t got much on at the hospital. You could be back in time for your Friday clinic. That’s if you wanted to go . . .’
James trailed off. He had kept on talking because he was too frightened to give Barry the opportunity to say no. Barry was still staring at him, unabashed.
James Miranda Barry Page 26