‘Of course, Deedee. How else would I know his name?’ said Annie, with her usual spirit.
I touched my hat. ‘I am J-John Jameson, a tutor in mathematics at the University of Oxford,’ I explained.
‘Sir.’ The nursemaid gave a quick curtsey, while keeping one hand on Lou’s shoulder and the other around a boy of about four.
‘Annie is a little friend of mine,’ I went on. ‘She has come to tea at my college several times, with her mama’s permission, and I have taken her photograph.’
The nurse still looked wary, as if I might be about to doff my respectable suit of clothes and turn into a serpent, so I tried again. ‘I am also the friend of the Reverend Mr Baxter, of St Cyprian’s.’
‘Oh, Mr Baxter.’ Her face softened. ‘Oh, yes of course. We all know Mr Baxter. He gives a lovely sermon – the best in Oxford, Mr Warner says. Still, Lou’s got no right to go rampaging into you like that, friend or no friend. I don’t know what might have happened if you’d not been there to stop her.’
‘I was slowing down,’ said the child, crossly. ‘He just got in the way.’
‘Ah, young lady,’ I said, bending down to her. ‘What you don’t know is that other forces may have acted upon you – a sudden gust of wind, for example, or the unexpected eruption of a rabbit from a rabbit hole – which may have changed your trajectory and sent you over the edge. Fortunately, it is a calm day and I have seen no rabbits; and, therefore, on balance, I conclude that it was not dangerous. But, because of all the variables and unforeseen possibilities, it was not undangerous either.’
‘Undangerous? That’s not a word!’ Annie laughed.
‘You’ve heard of undignified? And undamaged? So why not undangerous?’
‘You may as well say ungood, or unbad,’ she added.
‘You may as well say unspeak and hold your tongue,’ I countered.
She looked abashed. Then, as was always the way with Annie, all was forgotten and she laughed. At which point Mr and Mrs Warner came round the corner with the rest of the family, and introductions were effected all round. And thus I achieved my entry into the Warner household. They were a rather boisterous family, who did not stand on ceremony in the slightest. Indeed, Mr Warner always said, when anyone came into the room, ‘Don’t stand on Ceremony – sit on Him,’ before erupting into guffaws. Mrs Warner was also very good-natured and so very much on the portly side that I was unsure if she was or was not in an interesting condition. She had very dainty hands, like many a well-built person, and employed herself in crocheting every spare minute of the day. Her particular speciality was ladies’ mittens and she must have netted dozens of them while I was there. The children consisted of two older sisters – Bella, shortly to be married and continually preoccupied with wedding arrangements, and Eliza, who was studying at the Royal Academy of Music and forever practising on the pianoforte. Then there was a fourteen-year-old brother of rather plain features, who was destined for a life at sea (and spent all his time looking moodily at it; sitting on the shore like a young Raleigh). Then, after Annie, were two younger children – Louisa, aged six and a boy aged four – who were under the supervision of Deedee.
The family had rented a house just beyond Hele, and I was given an open invitation to join them whenever I wished. I also received permission to take photographs of the children, which I availed myself of instantly. I took the whole family grouped in the drawing room, with the light coming from the left, and Annie and Lou with their little dog in a kind of bower in the garden – very pretty, I thought, and with quite an original composition. I also accompanied the three younger children to the seashore and drew sketches of them in their bathing dress, pottering among the pools or digging holes in the shingle of the quiet beach. They would bring me empty shells by the dozen, and any live creature they could find – spotted gobies and grazing snails, tube worms and periwinkles. We clambered on the rocks and I showed them three varieties of anemones and several small sponges, and was able to point out the solitary cup coral that Gosse had identified just seven years before. When the tide came in, we collected the backbones of cuttlefish and the light pieces of pumice that floated on the waves – and the small pieces of coal that came from the steamships that were forever crossing on the horizon: white-coloured pleasure ships from further up the coast, and black and red coal ships from South Wales. And the children took long pieces of seaweed – bladder-wrack and kelp – and adorned themselves with it, and tried to adorn me too. They piled on so much that I began to look like Jack in the Hedge, and I thought happily of my childhood, and Mary running in to tell us the mummers were come – ‘and a whole hedge walking with them!’ Usually Deedee was with us, but sometimes we were alone, and I couldn’t have been happier. One day I paid a woman to let us ride her donkeys along the beach, and Annie was the first to be hoisted up. I felt her firm, stocky body under my hands, and could not help wishing it was Daisy’s sylphlike form.
I hadn’t forgotten my little flower, of course. I wrote to her as often as I could, hoping she was better, and enclosing a picture or two of Ilfracombe and the little cove at Hele.
I wish you were here with me, my dear, to be enjoying the sea air and all the delights of the resort. Do you know there is an anemone here on the beach that is called a ‘daisy anemone’? When I saw it, my thoughts immediately flew over the rooftops and all the way to Oxford, landing I hope, in your very own bed in your very own room where you were waiting to catch them. But your friend Annie is here, keeping me company, and she will have to do in your place. She can never really fill your place, of course – but I daresay by mentioning that we have been on Donkey Rides the whole morning, I hope I can make you furiously jealous, so that you will be even more glad to see me when I return. You know you should really not have got scarlet fever at such an inconvenient time and I suggest you speak sternly to yourself on account of it. In fact, I suggest that you line up in front of yourself and put your hands on your head in penance, promising most faithfully never to do it again.
Please pass on my regards to your parents, and tell them I would be glad for a line from your father, even though I know he must be very busy.
To my surprise, and in spite of sending several more letters, I received neither a reply from Daisy nor any word from Daniel. I went so far as to go to the post office and enquire whether anything had been sent there by mistake, but the postmaster assured me that, provided the address of my hotel had been ‘put down correct’, any letter would have been delivered. I began to wonder then whether I had for some reason put the name down wrongly, or forgotten it altogether – and almost persuaded myself that I had done so – before remembering that I had used the headed notepaper thoughtfully provided by the hotel.
I remained a full four weeks at Ilfracombe, and during this time I heard nothing at all from any member of the Baxter family. I began to feel anxious and apprehensive and even contemplated cutting my holiday short, when a lavender-scented letter arrived, which I knew immediately was from Mrs Baxter. Why was she of all people writing to me? I opened it with some trepidation. It was very short.
Dear Mr Jameson,
Circumstances compel me to request that you do not correspond with either my husband or my daughter for the foreseeable future. Please honour this request as I shall have otherwise to return your letters unopened.
Yours sincerely,
Evelina Baxter.
Naturally, I was taken aback. In fact, I found my hands and fingers trembling as I held the note, my heart beating wildly as to the possibilities. The tone was so stern and uncompromising – yet there was no explanation. And why should I not write to Daniel? It was hardly Mrs Baxter’s role or privilege to forbid such a thing. And why was Daniel not writing himself? If any offence or breach of etiquette had occurred, it should have been Daniel who admonished me. Once more it seemed to me that Mrs Baxter was using her influence against me as she stood as guardian to the domestic portals of Westwood Gardens, determined that I should be kept out. But wh
at new thing had occurred to bring about such a sudden and drastic fracture of our relationship? Terrible fears consumed me as I thought of Daisy and the photographs, and what scandal might do to a bachelor such as myself. It did not, however, explain Daniel’s silence.
‘Has anyone heard from Mr Baxter?’ I asked, the moment I got out to Hele. I’d hoped Mr Warner, as a churchwarden and treasurer of the Indigent Widows Committee, the Sunday School Fund and the Working Men’s Educational Union might have had some information to enlighten me. He had not, he said. He regarded a holiday as a holiday, and did not favour mixing it with parish business of any kind.
But as it happened, the eldest girl’s fiancé arrived from Oxford within the hour and he was full of news. The vicar, he said, had been taken ill. In spite of having been spared his clerical duties to nurse Daisy, he had come unexpectedly into the church the previous day and had interrupted Mr Morton during Matins, mumbling and raving and trying to mount the pulpit although Mr Morton was already in it. ‘I gather he had to be helped home by members of the vestry committee. The congregation, thank goodness, was very small on a weekday morning – but you know how bad news spreads.’
‘Baxter mumbling and raving?’ said Mr Warner. ‘What do you mean, Bertram?’
‘Exactly that, sir. Talking about the need for baptism and the benefits of cold water. And in a state of undress, too – Miss Bessemer was very frightened of him, by all accounts. I’m glad you were not there to see it, Bella.’ And he took his fiancée’s arm and pulled her towards him protectively.
I could hardly believe what I was hearing – although at the same time, in the light of Daniel’s passionate recklessness, it seemed almost too possible. It would certainly explain Mrs Baxter’s letter. And we had our old friend Cold Water again. My agitation doubled and then trebled.
Mr Warner was aghast. ‘Good heavens, I can hardly credit it. Baxter of all people! Are you sure?’
The young man said he was absolutely sure. He had got it from Mr Attwood himself. ‘He was going to write to you, sir, but as I was coming down in person, he thought it more discreet for me to break the news.’
Mr Warner shook his head. ‘And dreadful news it is! We must all pray that he will be recovered soon.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said the eldest girl with a look of consternation. ‘I hope he will be recovered by our wedding day. I’d hate Mr Morton to take the service. He has such a very apologetic appearance and speaks so very faint.’
Mr Warner looked sternly at her. ‘I think your wedding arrangements will be the least of our concerns, Bella. I must go back to Oxford, see what I can do to assist. The parish will be in chaos without him; he is so much the fons et origo of every undertaking.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ I added quickly, anxious to be on the spot if rumours of any kind were circulating. And so it was that Mr Warner and I found ourselves together in the first-class smoking carriage en route for Oxford.
‘Known Baxter a long time?’ asked Mr Warner, puffing meditatively at his pipe.
‘Only eight months or so,’ I responded, wishing he would put the wretched thing out, and wondering if I might open the window.
‘Sound chap, would you think?’
‘Very.’
‘So what do you make of this behaviour of his?’ He puffed again.
‘Daniel is very conscientious in both his faith and his works. I do not need to tell you that. He works harder than any man. And as you know, his daughter –’
‘Ah, yes, Daisy. We have had her to tea. A dear little thing, very sedate. Clara says she is one of those children who watches everything and misses nothing.’
‘Well,’ I said, bridling at this description of my darling. ‘Be that as it may, she has had the scarlet fever, as I’m sure you know. Baxter himself has been nursing her night and day, with only a servant to help him. I expect it is no more than a form of nervous exhaustion.’
‘Hmm. You may be right. I suppose every man has his limits. Even a man like Baxter. Still – mumbling and raving, Jameson. Does that not argue something more serious? Some form of – insanity?’
I shrugged my shoulders. I was beginning to think that pipe-smoking itself was a form of insanity, and privately wished I might oblige Warner to sit out on the roof until we arrived at Oxford. But I really could not think what might have occurred to my friend. If Daniel was mad – why, he was in good company. All the greatest men have been, in my view, a little mad. I think I am a little mad myself. And it is the reaching after the unknowable and believing the unreasonable that often puts churchmen and natural philosophers in the same boat – that is, mad, but only ‘north-north-west’, as Shakespeare has it. I wondered if Daniel had been contemplating Eternal Damnation again, and the paradoxes of it all had driven him to the edge.
My mind seethed with a mixture of tobacco smoke and apprehension as we chugged and whistled through the Devon and Somerset fields. By the time we reached the panorama of ‘dreaming spires’, I was feeling almost sick.
19
MARGARET CONSTANTINE
I sit with my eyes closed. The room is hot, the curtains are drawn and the lamplight is faint, casting shadows everywhere. The door is shut and the key is on the table. He’s bending over me, touching my cheek, smiling at me with that special smile, the one I like and don’t like at the same time. He pulls my head to him and I feel the rough hair of his chest rubbing against my cheeks. I don’t like being so very close to him. But he says it’s the holiest thing in the world and will save us both. He lifts his head and prays. I am always afraid when he prays. I shrink back and shut my eyes.
Now I am falling backwards: away from him, away from everything. Down I go, through the floor, through the room below, through the cellars, and into the deep, dark earth. Nothing stops me; everything melts away, and I pass through solid objects as if they are made of mist. I fall on and on, and it seems I might go on falling for ever, until I reach the centre of the earth. But Papa is falling with me. He grasps me tight and won’t let go. I try to shake him off, but he grasps me even tighter. He says we must stay together always. He says I am his salvation. He is so close I am almost suffocated. Now there are sheets of white paper floating around us. ‘They are the words of God,’ cries Papa. ‘Catch them if you wish to be saved!’ There are so many of them, it’s like a blizzard. I try to catch them, but however hard I try, they whirl out of my grasp. My legs and arms seem not to belong to me, and I feel giddy. Suddenly the ground rises up to meet me like a giant wave and I hit it with a jarring bump, so that all my breath is knocked out of me. My legs collapse, and my knees are suddenly somewhere under my chin. I’m folded so tight I wonder whether I’ll ever be able to open myself up again. Perhaps I’ll stay like this, small and folded up, so nobody will know where I am. I think that might be nice, to stay hidden, away from everyone. But I’m out of breath and panting very loud; Papa will surely hear me. Perhaps he can see me, too. I open my eyes carefully and jump with fright: there’s a man’s face right in front of me.
But it’s not Papa. Relief seeps into me like warm water. But I don’t know this man. And I don’t know where I am. It’s a bedroom, I think, because beyond the man I can see a dressing-table and a wardrobe. But it’s not my bedroom. My bedroom is blue, while these walls have dark green wallpaper, and there are heavy brocade curtains at the window. The bedspread is brocade, too. It doesn’t quite reach the floor, and from my crouched position I can glimpse a flowered chamber-pot beneath the bed. The bed is high and broad and has a big bolster and lacy pillows. It’s a bedroom for married people, for a man and a wife. I can’t think what I am doing in it.
Now the man speaks. He has a nice voice. I think I may know him, after all, with his soft brown eyes and sleek black hair. ‘Margaret,’ he says. ‘Can you hear me? Can you speak?’
Suddenly I remember. I am not Daisy any more; I am Margaret. And the dark-eyed man who is leaning over me with such an anxious look is my husband, Robert Constantine. And the servant I can see ove
r his shoulder is a girl called Minnie, who admires my hair. I try to move, but I’m wedged tight into a corner, as if I’ve been playing a game of hide-and-seek. There is loose paper all around me, the remains of some notebook. My husband kneels on the torn pages as he comes forward to grasp my shoulders. He shakes me gently, as if he is trying to wake me, although he must see that I am already awake. His face seems to grow larger, then recedes, like the tide. I close my eyes – then open them again quickly, frightened of what I might see: the heavy door; the key in the lock; the hands and fingers.
‘For heaven’s sake, what is it?’ He looks distraught – and I know this expression all too well. I see an expanse of white bedlinen, and hear the sound of sobbing. I have made him unhappy, I think. And perhaps myself, too.
‘Do I need to call a doctor?’ he says, and I shake my head vehemently. I don’t like doctors and there’s a Harley Street man I am particularly anxious to avoid. ‘Are you sure?’ He rubs my hand briskly as if to warm life back into it.
I nod. I know I’m not ill, although there is something very wrong with the workings of my brain, and my heart is beating double-time.
‘Then what is it? Tell me, Margaret, please.’ Another kind smile.
I don’t know if I can even breathe properly, let alone speak. The blood is hammering loudly in my ears and all I can think about is falling through the blackness and Papa touching me in that terrible way. And although it was only a dream, it feels real. But it can’t be; it’s too unspeakable. So although this husband of mine is looking at me so expectantly, I cannot explain to him what it was. ‘A dream,’ I say, finally. ‘About Papa. Or rather – a nightmare.’
‘Indeed,’ he says. ‘I could hear all your commotion from downstairs. And Minnie, too – look, she’s come running all the way from the kitchen.’
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