Bertie was sitting at a stone table, pen in hand and sheets of paper spread in front of him. Jane had warned Dorothy not to disturb him, but when he looked up and saw her, a pleased smile lit his face. He patted the empty space on the stone bench next to him and said, “Come and sit with me for a while.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to disturb you.”
“It’s only a book review. Something I’m scribbling for The Saturday Review.”
She did as she was told, feeling suddenly awkward and shy. She glanced down at her hands twined in her lap. They looked large and raw, like inert cuts of meat—repulsive. Why did no one else’s hands look like that? Bertie’s hands were strong and blunt-fingered; his rolled-up shirtsleeves revealed forearms covered with golden hairs. She looked up and saw him following her gaze. His eyes were densely blue; the dark bands circling the irises looked like they had been dipped in ink. His expression was hard to read.
For a long moment they sat in silence, the sunshine pouring down on them like melted butter. The air was cool and refreshing; Dorothy could feel it soothing away the ravages of the night, making a delicious contrast to the warmth of the sun on her face. A light breeze moved Bertie’s sandy hair.
“May I look?” she asked.
“Not yet. It’s still in its infancy.” He stacked up the pages with care and placed them face down on the table.
“Is it easier than writing novels?”
“In some ways, but it’s a great responsibility. The reviewer must take care not to destroy early attempts, especially ones by writers who are just honing their skills. Authors are like tender young seedlings, they need a great deal of nursing. Sadly, not all critics realize that.”
Bertie paused, his face alight with humor. “We reviewers tread a fine line; it’s not easy to get right. Some of us behave like careless gardeners, soaking the plants in the water of compliments and drowning them, while others refuse sustenance entirely until the plants shrivel up and die. There are a handful of wise and long-sighted caretakers, but they’re a rare breed.”
Dorothy smiled, half closing her eyes. His views seemed less objectionable than they had last night. In fact, he had a vivid way of looking at things that lifted them out of the commonplace.
She opened her eyes. The sunlight cut into the trees in front of her, producing a mass of glittering spires. Two blackbirds, singing a duet in contrary rhythm, stopped at the same moment. In their silence, she could faintly hear Jane, out of sight behind the red walls of the vegetable garden, humming and enjoying herself as she worked. Dorothy could picture her in her old faded bonnet, a basket at her feet and her beloved red-handled gardening shears in her gloved hands.
Two
It would be better not to see the Wellses again. There was something all wrong about being with them … back in London, it seemed wrong. Heavy-limbed with fatigue, Dorothy got off the train and dragged herself up the long platform. She could feel the weight of her Gladstone bag thumping against her leg. Inside was her signed copy of The Time Machine.
The station was shrouded by clouds of billowing grey smoke. The platform lights, battling to cut through it, served only to thicken and reflect the murk. The air smelled of smoke and metal; a dry bitter tang that scorched Dorothy’s nostrils and lingered unpleasantly in the back of her throat. The dark figures and spectral faces of fellow passengers loomed out at her as they approached, then vanished again, as though gulped down by the besieging shadows. A train shrieked suddenly, a harsh blast that startled her.
Her family and the Harley Street dentists would certainly think spending time with the Wellses was wrong if they knew Bertie had divorced his first wife for Jane. They had heard of his work, they knew he was standing on the brink of fame … that people were starting to talk about him. But if they saw how he had looked at Dorothy, they would be shocked. They would never understand his extraordinary ideas, his way of seeing the world. He was rather like Lucifer; a fallen angel. It would be impossible to describe the visit to anyone she knew.
The sense of lit streets waiting for her under the night sky, of a rich interesting London life, revived her for the walk home.
Emerging from the station, the quiet dark buildings and the blackness between the lamps seemed to expand around her. The moon was almost full; a hard, cold plate in the sky. She savored the clipped sound her footfalls made on the irregular flags of the pavement, the traffic rumbling past, the sudden blaze of yellow shop light. People walked by, looking pallid under the streetlamps; their faces caught up in invisible thoughts. A young woman in a silver cloak and a matching floating scarf, walking rapidly, her head bent. A bald man with a terrier in a tartan coat. It was a relief to feel part of the familiar London atmosphere, to be absorbed by it.
She followed Endsleigh Gardens as it opened out of Gower Place, bordered by the gloom of the dimly lit Euston Road and the mysterious bulk of St. Pancras Church. The roadway was lined with majestic plane trees, their shadows clear on the narrow pavement; dense with secret perspectives.
The dusky figures of prostitutes stood at intervals against the lamplit green. They looked like sentinels, warning her. She knew they would be there, yet the sight of them never failed to send a jolt through her.
A strident voice rang out as Dorothy turned off into her own road … “I said to him, I’ll bloody stab you if you come any closer…” The words ricocheted around Dorothy; she fought a rising desire to break into a run. The street was full of anger and violence. The woman’s grating voice seemed very near; Dorothy could picture her truculent expression … Jack the Ripper had carried out his grisly murders not so very long ago, not far from here … he had left his horribly mutilated victims in plain sight, for anyone to stumble on. Dorothy could almost hear the pad of footfalls behind her, she half braced herself for the cold bite of the knife in her neck … Fear quickened her steps to an urgent trot.
She reached her front door with relief. The house had always seemed to belong to her. The first time she’d seen it, after answering the advertisement for boarders, she had the sense it had been waiting for her through all the years of turmoil. It was a refuge, despite its air of genteel decrepitude—or perhaps, because of it. She loved the sleepy grey street, the high stately houses with their rows of gracious balconies, the green squares at either end like oases, sweetening the air with their breath.
She fished in her bag for her proud latchkey and opened the door. The hall was hushed and deserted. Gaslight streamed down onto the smudged marble top of the hall table and glared against the dining-room door. The interior had a rich comfortable brownness. It was one dark even tone throughout, like living in brown soup. Dorothy walked up the dimly lit stairs, past dark landings and closed doors whose polished wood gleamed dully. The tall windows were concealed by soot-stained lace curtains. Dust lay in the cracks between the floorboards and coated the skirting. There was a strong smell of dust in the air.
She reached the short winding flight of uncarpeted stairs that led to her attic room and ran up it thankfully, anticipating the peaceful evening that lay ahead of her. She would be able to mull over her weekend with the Wellses; to straighten it out in her head. In the train, she had been battered by a gale of thoughts. They had swept over her tumultuously, each exchange with Bertie and Jane rising up and clamoring to be analyzed. An interval of solitary reflection was necessary; she could picture the gaslight under the sloping roof, making a winter coziness in springtime.
The brass doorknob wobbled in her hand; the hinges creaked as she pushed open the door.
She gasped; peace draining out of her. Standing on the hearthrug was Benjamin.
Dorothy looked at the frock-coated Russian student in dismayed silence. She was stricken with guilt for not once having thought about him during the weekend. At the same time, she had the strange sense that their not-quite-ended entanglement had already shifted into the past.
Her mind flew back to the early days with him. She had been cajoled into giving him English lessons by t
he landlady, who was anxious to retain her hold on a well-to-do foreign boarder. They had quickly discovered a shared love of books and ideas. Yet it was as though their joyful establishing of common bonds across different languages and cultures had happened to two entirely different people, who now seemed slightly out of focus, like a fading photograph.
He was walking toward her; he grasped both her hands; his sonorous voice rang out: “Ah, I am glad to see you. How was your weekend?”
Disengaging herself, Dorothy said it had been good. She was stirred, despite herself, by his gentle resolute features: the wide forehead, the kind dark eyes, the lustrous black hair, and neatly pointed beard. She crushed her feelings with urgent resolve. After all her attempts to extricate herself, tenderness would not do.
“What was your friend like?” he asked eagerly. “Still sympathique, as she was at school?”
While she described Jane, she wondered if he could sense the change in her. This was the man who knew her thoughts. But her connection with him seemed hollow and treacherous now. “What did you do all weekend?” she asked guiltily.
“I have been resting … the whole day until about an hour ago,” Benjamin said. “I am a little sleepy, but there are many things I want to tell you…”
The thought of having to bend her mind around his thickly accented sentences was exhausting. “It’s late. Can’t we talk tomorrow?”
“But I want to talk to you now. I have been waiting all weekend to see you.”
A fitful night breeze touched the window, making it rattle gently in its frame. Dorothy sighed. “Go on then,” she said.
“With you, I have been perfectly happy. Happier than I’ve ever felt in my life. I don’t want to let go of that; I can’t.” His white eyelids were downcast; the black lashes skimmed his cheek. He raised his eyes again, searching and earnest. “I know now what real love is … I would even give up my Judaism for it…”
“I’d never let you do that. You must keep your religion.”
“You must marry me.” His voice broke pitifully, in expectation of a rebuff … He was falling again into his determined hope. Her heart ached for him. He seemed unable to relinquish the hope of her changing.
She said, “You know I can’t. I’m sorry. Our worlds are too different; the gap is unbridgeable. We’ve been through it countless times and, deep down, you agree.”
“Look, Dorothy, instead of refusing me, why don’t you tell me what you want from marriage? Perhaps we can reach an understanding. I am neither obstinate nor intolerant. I am just trying to grasp what you want—”
“It would never work. As a husband, you’d slide into the role of Jewish patriarch, complete with prayer shawl and traditional views; utterly secure in your store of ordered knowledge and never questioning its value. You have admitted as much yourself. We’d be a disaster together, because I could never be the compliant mate you really want. Anyway, I am quite sure now that I don’t want to marry anyone.”
She walked to the window and stood with her back to him, gazing unseeingly out of it.
He put both hands on her shoulders and turned her around gently to face him. “You think you will never marry, ever? What makes you so certain?”
“It would mean giving up this life…”
“Your independence is precious, yes. But at what cost? A few years from now, you might look back and regret.”
There was silence, except for the traffic rumbling along Euston Road. Benjamin moved away from her and stood in front of the empty fireplace. His lightless eyes scanned the distance unseeingly, as though he was remembering some faraway thing. He radiated European culture and polish. What was he thinking? Was he musing about the distant beauty of Russia; about the expansive life of foreign universities, the study of Continental philosophy and literature, to which he belonged?
He cleared his throat and spat; there was a flabby thwack as his saliva struck the grate. Dorothy stared at him in icy disbelief. His foreignness had at first seemed so rich and compellingly strange, but in the end, it was the thing that drove them apart.
Invigorated by disgust, she found the courage to speak. “There’s no point in carrying on. It will only get more painful.”
“You are right, it will hurt us both.” He exhaled noisily. “Perhaps I should leave this house.”
The pit of her stomach was dropping away. “Do you want to?”
“No, of course not. But it might be easier if we are not under the same roof … Next week, I shall look for new lodgings.”
There was nothing to say. She had never realized how sad it was when love turned to dust. Though she no longer wanted him, she shrank from the thought of letting him go. It was confusing and contradictory. His departure would leave a yawning void; this corner of Bloomsbury would be haunted forever by his gestures and his warm deep voice … Unthinkable that the kind booming voice would no longer be part of daily life. She felt herself recoiling from the loneliness that would sweep in to fill the vacuum.
I shall miss him in so many ways, she mused. His sensitivity; the things he understands without being told. And his absolute sweetness; there is not an ounce of malice in him … the things he does for me. Small tender things, like doing up the buttons of my coat when it’s cold.
She imagined him walking away from her toward a new life, new attachments. Jealousy ripped through her: she would rather see him dead than in love with another woman. Remorse immediately followed: she was self-centred, a monster. I am unworthy of him, she reflected sadly. He would be better off with someone who adores him unconditionally; it’s what he deserves.
It was her fault their attachment had curdled. In the end, she spoilt everything, for reasons only half-understood. It was something in her nature that flailed out and wreaked destruction … I have nothing left now but my pugnacious and agonized self, having violently charged at things and smashed them up, she thought miserably.
Stealing a look at him, she saw an ashen somber face. He was contemplating life without her and resigning himself to it. He had one hand on the doorknob. “Good night, I will let you rest now.”
There was a terrible weariness in his voice. He went out, shutting the door softly behind him.
* * *
DOROTHY HURRIED DOWNSTAIRS the next morning on her way to work. Her eyes were salty and prickly and her chest was tight. It had been a restless night; she felt ill equipped to deal with the week that lay ahead.
Mrs. Baker, the landlady, was standing in the hall. She looked more dingy and decayed than ever, Dorothy thought, taking in the badly dyed hair, half blonde, half grey; the ill-fitting false teeth. Yet Mrs. Baker’s youthful figure and smile managed to transcend everything.
She put a small firm hand on Dorothy’s arm. “Here you are, young lady. Had a good weekend?”
“Yes, thank you. I went to stay with a school friend I hadn’t seen in years and her husband. It was … interesting.”
Mrs. Baker fixed her with a look that seemed to seek out her invisible thoughts. Dorothy colored, wondering what the landlady guessed.
“I see you’re rushing out. Will you at least have a cup of tea before you go?”
“I can’t,” Dorothy said. “I’m late for work as it is.”
Through the half open door of the dining room, she could see the boarders gathered at breakfast. Mrs. Baker’s oldest daughter, Carrie, presided over the tea tray; the younger girl was passing around a plate of bread and butter. The dead fern rested in its usual place at the center of the table. Mr. Cundy was helping himself to jam. The young Canadian doctor sat with his back to the door: a lean dark-grey upright form, long necked and fair haired.
Sunlight was falling onto Mrs. Baker’s faded skirt; she brushed some specks of dust from it impatiently. She seemed to hold the mysteries of the running of the large house in the palm of her hand: the unknown dark caverns of the kitchen and basement, the apathetic smudgy cleaning sessions in the endless rooms, the punctual appearance of daily breakfasts and dinners, the enigma of g
uests arriving and disappearing at different times. The entire world of the house resided in Mrs. Baker’s radiant, encouraging smile, which was given to every one of her boarders, as if she liked them all equally.
Carrie came out of the dining room. Offering Dorothy a shy good morning, she turned to whisper something in her mother’s ear. Dorothy watched Mrs. Baker’s face darken. There was trouble in the house.
“Is everything all right?” Dorothy asked, anxiously.
For a moment, Mrs. Baker seemed to want to tell her something. Dorothy watched her expression harden and close up; she sighed. “People! You’d have a poor view of human nature, if you had this place to run. It opens your eyes, with one thing and another.”
Dorothy wondered if another boarder had left without paying rent. Her old sense of the house as a refuge disintegrated slightly. To Mrs. Baker, it wasn’t a refuge at all: it was ceaseless demands and anxiety, problems she had to keep to herself, and a sprinkling of decent folk thrown in amongst the riffraff. She would never manage to make it profitable. The house was full of people living on the edge of catastrophe, who didn’t pay their bills. One or two hadn’t paid anything for months; Mrs Baker had even lent them money … Dorothy wondered where they would all go if the boardinghouse failed.
“Off to work with you, young lady. Don’t worry about us, you have enough on your shoulders. It’s not as warm as it looks this morning, so mind you don’t catch a chill.”
“Oh well, I’ll try not to. See you later.”
Dorothy opened the front door and stepped out into the shock of the bright morning.
* * *
DURING THE DAYS that followed, the weather turned unseasonably warm. Dorothy’s attic room was sweltering. When she came home from work, its dense oppressive smell of dust nauseated her.
She shut the door behind her and took off her hat. Pulling a chair as near as she could to the open window, she sat watching low sunlight blazing off the leads sloping down to her parapet. Traffic thundered along Euston Road. The skylight above her head was a brilliant glare. She let her thoughts drift … There had been no word from Jane or Bertie; no invitation to visit them again. By the look of things, they had given up on her already.
The Lodger Page 2