The Lodger

by Louisa Treger

  In part, it was a relief. She couldn’t banish the uneasy feeling there was something wrong about seeing them, something irregular about the whole setup. It was preferable to keep her distance; their continuing silence was for the best.

  She felt curiously flat, dulled and exhausted by the fatigue of a day’s work in the heat. Her heart beat sluggishly, her head throbbed, and her eyes were dry. She should get something to eat, but she was too tired to go out and she couldn’t afford one of Mrs. Baker’s shilling dinners; there was barely enough money for next week’s food. As minutes crept by, hunger and loneliness gripped her. There seemed nothing in her life but bitterness. It was a heatwave in spring and life was passing her by, in a stifling dusty attic.

  A sleepless night lay ahead of her; the top floor was a heat trap that refused to cool down, even in the hours before dawn. She crossed the room and washed her hands with the sliver of soap in the dish; it was cracked and darkly veined with grime. The washstand swayed precariously as she splashed her face with lukewarm water. She dried herself with the threadbare face towel and surveyed her room. Everything in it was grubby and decrepit; it was a seedy room in a cheap boardinghouse. Her eyes burned with tears and she sank onto the hot floor.

  As she lay there, curled in on herself, a picture came into her mind of the Wells’s sitting room, far from the noise and grime of London: it would be blazing with open-windowed spring sunshine. She imagined the life of the house going on without her … everything revolving around Bertie’s writing, Jane and the servants tiptoeing about so he wouldn’t be disturbed, the nourishing meals, the bright comfortable rooms, the flourishing sea-facing garden.

  She thought about the sense of belonging she’d felt in their company, about listening to Bertie’s ideas, torn between infuriation and reluctant admiration. Helplessly, she let her mind flit back to their conversations: “You must come and see us more often, Miss Richardson. Being here evidently agrees with you. And we like having you around, don’t we Jane? We like having you around … like having you around…”

  A flicker of feeling tugged at her belly, like electricity.

  Later, she dragged herself downstairs to get a bread roll and a bit of cheese for supper. There was a letter for her on the hall stand; she recognized Jane’s hurried yet elegant writing instantly.

  She tore it open and devoured the words, fatigue forgotten: “You must come and see us as soon as possible … We have been frightfully dull without you … This weekend? Let me know as soon as you can … sooner…”

  Three

  On the first evening of her visit, Dorothy came shyly down to dinner to find Bertie and Jane sitting side by side in front of the drawing room fireplace.

  “Look at you!” Jane exclaimed, rising to her feet and holding out both hands to Dorothy. “You’ve spent the week toiling in city heat, yet you look as fresh as you did when we were at school.”

  Dorothy took her outstretched hands. Bertie stood up, his eyes on Dorothy, taking in the way her hair fell, the creamy lace tie that transformed the old black silkette evening dress she hadn’t the money to have altered. Her clothes had made her sick with their shabbiness when she dressed for dinner, but his eyes and the candlelight seemed to draw them together into a pleasing whole.

  “You ought always to go about in a tie; they suit you,” he remarked.

  “You wear ties better than anyone I know,” Jane said, adding “I wish I could hang things around my neck and look as nice.”

  “Dorothy can hang anything around her neck and look nice.”

  “An old shoe lace or a—a—a string of sausages!” he finished triumphantly.

  “Idiot!” chided Jane.

  Bertie was still looking.

  He gave her his arm as they walked into dinner, saying confidentially: “Well, you must tell me everything you’ve been doing. Taking London by storm, I’ll be bound.” The little creak in his voice meant he knew he was about to be entertained.

  “Did you have a good week?” Dorothy asked when they sat down.

  “It was better than average, thank you,” Bertie said. “After days of sweating blood, my book is finally turning a corner. It’s getting a new lease on life. I managed to get to that elusive state of deep concentration from whence my best work comes.”

  “Can you tell me about it? It sounds fascinating.”

  “I’ll try, though it’s hard to put into words … It’s a strange, unpredictable mode of being—so profound and revitalizing, it’s almost a trance.” He paused, making the little grunting sounds in the back of his nose. “You mustn’t hesitate, nor worry about which words to choose. When you are in the right mood, they appear faster than speech or even thought; your pen follows them as quickly as your hand can move it across the page, and sometimes, the most exquisite phrases spill out. It’s hard to explain what a wonderful feeling it is; it smooths out all the creases in your mind, and completely revives you. And you see life with such clarity …

  “The English language is marvelous raw material; you can do whatever you want with it … You can make it strut or flow or dance; it can be as hard as marble, or as intangible as gossamer or froth. I don’t think there’s another tongue with as much flexibility.”

  Dorothy sat watching the singular mouthing of his lips beneath the thin mustache, arrested by his ability to illuminate and color and enhance a topic, making her see in a new way. She was too caught up in the distraction of listening to the way he put things to articulate her growing sense there was something wrong in it. Were authors consciously aware they were producing “effects”? If so, it meant writing was a clever trick, a sell. Bertie’s approach was too knowing: his presence intruded into the story, showing the reader how clever he was, yet unwittingly draining the life from his work in the process. Style was nothing but a trick that ruined books.

  She emptied her glass of claret and felt its tingling warmth running through her blood, dissolving her opposition. A mellow glow began to fill the room, turning everything in it into a warm blur. The only chill was Jane, who looked paler than usual and said very little.

  Bertie carried on talking, his grey-blue eyes returning to Dorothy’s face. His eyes were intense, hooded, holding secret depths. Dorothy could feel herself flushing all over her body.

  She glanced at Jane uneasily, and saw that Jane was watching her, with a coolly appraising gaze that held both dismay and recognition.

  * * *

  WHEN THE MEAL was finished, Jane announced she had a headache and went to her room to lie down.

  Bertie took Dorothy into his study. They sat side by side, in matching deep and worn leather armchairs. The clear blaze of a coal fire cast a soft light on the books and papers scattered on his desk.

  He said quietly, “Jane tells me you’ve had a bad time at home.”

  Dorothy nodded; the room pulsated curiously.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I’m not sure … It’s not easy to talk about.”

  “If you feel able … if you think it would help at all, I’d love to listen.”

  She fell silent, looking at the patterns on the deep red Turkish carpet, feeling the familiar dragging anxiety in the pit of her stomach. She inhaled deeply. “When I was seventeen, my father went bankrupt.”

  She paused again, wondering how much to tell Bertie about their troubles. An image of her father appeared in her head: Charles Richardson was a tall man with long white hands, golden-haired, and charismatic … He used to call Dorothy his “son” sometimes, because she was a disappointing third daughter, not the longed-for heir. He came from a family of tradesmen, but he wanted more than anything to be a gentleman of leisure and cultivation. He was a passionate amateur of the arts, and a keen follower of the latest developments in science.

  His money came from selling the family business in wines and provisions. He invested most of it speculatively. He wasn’t interested in secure investments: he needed more money than he had to support his lifestyle. He knew he was living
beyond his means, but he was stubbornly optimistic that things would work themselves out. He never talked to his family about financial matters, but an atmosphere of tension filled the house nevertheless. Dorothy and her sisters became increasingly uncertain and anxious, and their mother’s innate softly smiling vivacity turned into a taut watchfulness. She laughed less often than she used to; her face, in repose, looked haunted, glimmering with exhaustion. She began to suffer from headaches.

  Charles seemed not to notice the change in her. He insisted that appearances be kept up at all times. They entertained lavishly, putting on a good show. He prided himself on his cellar. There were supper parties, musical evenings, tennis and boating afternoons, huge picnic parties and dances in the drawing room. Charles hired a governess for his daughters. He kept up membership of his club, and of the British Association for the Advancement of Science. He never missed a gathering of the latter, at home or abroad.

  After years spent struggling to cling to solvency, a crisis struck. Charles’s investments tumbled. He told his family they must rein in their spending and entertain less. There was no cause for alarm, he reassured them. But some of the servants were dismissed, and the girls had to refresh last season’s dresses with new ribbon and lace, and wear them again. The situation continued to deteriorate; after a while there were no dinner parties at all, and Dorothy and her sisters were expected to help with the housework.

  He was still unrealistically optimistic when he was forced to tell them that the worst had happened and they were bankrupt. But they understood only too well the gravity of their situation. After all the years of masquerading, of pretending to be like other people, their disgrace was sealed. Bankruptcy was a stain they couldn’t escape from.

  “What are you thinking?” Bertie asked, wrenching Dorothy away from her musings. “You have a habit of leaving your thoughts lying in your face, you know. I want that one; the one that crossed your features a moment ago.”

  “I was thinking … my father’s bankruptcy wasn’t the worst of it,” Dorothy said slowly. “Not long afterward, my mother became ill. A lifetime of being obedient to him, and the strain of pretending to other people that our financial problems didn’t exist were too much for her. She began behaving strangely…”

  She stopped, unable to check her rising tears. After a moment’s hesitation, Bertie took her hand and captured it gently between both of his. She caught her breath. In spite of her grief, her hand floated and tingled in his warm grasp. And yet it also perturbed her greatly, so she withdrew her hand, and forced herself to keep talking.

  “The doctors suggested a change of air. Clearly, something had to be done. With money given by my brother-in-law, Philip, I took her away for a few days to Hastings. My mother was very attached to me…” Mother was tiny, smaller than any of her girls; she had dark eyes and delicate features. “You should have been a man, Dottie,” she was fond of saying, in a tone that was half flirtatious admiration, half reproof. “You are the only one who understands me.” “My family pinned its last hope of recovery on my being with her…”

  “You were very young to be given that responsibility. It would have been a heavy burden, even for someone far older.”

  Dorothy did not reply. She was remembering sleepless nights in the small lodging house room they shared, listening to her mother’s tormented voice cleave through the darkness: blotted words and high-pitched laughter and silence. Dorothy had lain frozen in bed, stupefied by anger and anguish. Refusing to believe those sounds were coming from her, the kindest gentlest creature she knew. But they were, and there was no one to help. “It’s clear now,” said a shrill voice. “I have seen the truth … I have no illusions.” Mumbling and cackling … Dorothy was more frightened and helpless than she’d ever been.

  With effort, she carried on talking.

  “As a last resort, I took my mother to see an old homeopathist who lived at the other end of town. When the consultation was over, he took me into another room and explained urgently that I must summon help immediately, a trained nurse. My mother ought to have professional help twenty-four-hours a day. He seemed to understand the strain I was under, and spoke about my youth. ‘It’s a grave mistake for you to be alone with her,’ he added. My face flamed with shame as I explained we couldn’t afford help. He listened sympathetically, and repeated that it was essential.

  “By the next day, I felt I was going mad myself. I went out for a short walk … when I returned she had taken a knife, and…”

  Tears were raining down her face.

  “My poor girl.” Bertie placed his hand on hers, then removed it. He offered his handkerchief; she waved it away.

  “It’s … my fault … if I hadn’t left her…”

  “She was beyond your help—or anybody else’s. You must try not to blame yourself.”

  There was another long pause. Dorothy’s sobs were turning to hiccups. She couldn’t help thinking what a sight she must look, her eyes and nose red from crying. She could feel her hair escaping from its pins.

  “You have come through it exceptionally well,” he said, at last.

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes, there’s a natural poise that shines through you, and no outward sign of scarring. You’re open, straightforward; there’s not a trace of hysteria or bitterness. I admire that.”

  “Really? I’m not sure; I’ve never spoken about it to anyone before,” she stammered. “I don’t know why I find it easy to talk to you.”

  He swiveled around to look into her eyes. “Oh Dorothy, I hope that’s true…”

  For a long moment, they stared at each other. The fire was nearly out; it was getting cold. Outside the room, the hall clock softly struck eleven. Rising to her feet, Dorothy stumbled toward the door, and he did not try to stop her.

  * * *

  IN HER BEDROOM, she undressed and unrolled her knot of hair, feeling it heavy and warm about her shoulders, like a stole. She thought about the focused light in Bertie’s eyes when he looked at her, heard the creak in his voice that meant he was anticipating pleasure. Her hand tingled as she remembered how it felt imprisoned gently within both of his.

  Feelings surged inside her, sweeter than anything else, yet more shameful. How had her initial irritation with Bertie turned into this? Her face was hot; sleep was going to be impossible. He was a married man, the husband of her oldest friend.

  Married, yet seeming nearer than other men. More alive, more understanding than anyone she’d ever met.

  She pulled herself up short. She must be wicked or insane—perhaps she was both—even to entertain such thoughts. She couldn’t permit them. She must force herself to stamp them out.

  When she was in her nightgown, she turned off the gas and got into bed. As soon as she closed her eyes, the flashbacks started.

  She was walking; she had to escape for an hour. The town was quiet, the summer visitors long gone. She wandered through streets hemmed in by tall grey-stone houses, their windows blank and unrevealing, like unseeing eyes. The sky was low, the air humid and tasting of sea salt. Her pulse pounded in her head so loudly that once or twice she thought it was footsteps following, and turned around to scan the empty pavement behind her.

  She was desperately trying to forget the self-loathing that consumed her mother’s soul. Mother couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sit still, or stop talking. Dorothy, woken night after night to read the Bible and tend to her, was nearly as exhausted as she was. If she didn’t manage to think about something else, something ordinary and pleasant, she would go mad herself.

  Think about … boating on the river in summer: sunlight on the trees, the sound of water slapping gently against bobbing sculls. For a moment, she managed to hold it in her mind’s eye; she could feel the sun on her skin, could hear the river, and even smell its dankness. But it was quickly replaced by the image of her mother’s pain-filled, accusing eyes.

  After about an hour of walking—she’d lost track of the exact time—she returned to t
heir miserable, genteel lodging house. She hated the house, and its landlady. Appearances were everything, and not so much as a ripple could be allowed to disturb its refined facade.

  She climbed the stairs slowly and opened the door to their room. The grimy white lace curtains were drawn against the daylight; it was dim and hushed, and smelt faintly of dust. From above came the soft creak of a door swinging gently in the wind. Her mother was nowhere to be seen. With a sick knot of foreboding in the pit of her stomach, Dorothy realized she shouldn’t have left her alone. Not even for a minute; much less an entire hour.

  There was a stain spreading across the threadbare linoleum; sticky and rust colored. It was flowing toward Dorothy’s shoes. She tried to draw her legs back, but she found herself fixed to the spot.

  Then she saw her mother lying on the floor: her skin waxy grey, her eyes open and staring dully. She seemed to be looking right through Dorothy.

  A sound escaped from Dorothy’s open mouth; an animal-like expression of shock and pain. She took in the wide glistening gash at her mother’s throat, the soiled bread knife lying by her outstretched hand …

  * * *

  DOROTHY CAME DOWNSTAIRS the next morning to find Bertie sitting at the breakfast table, an untouched cup of tea in front of him. He did not return her smile.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, uncertainly.

  “Such a weight of despair has fallen on me from nowhere,” he confided, “like a meteor from outer space.”

  “Can I do anything?”

  He shook his head. “Whenever I’m at home for too long, I get fed up and depressed. It’s what I call my fugitive impulse. The only thing that helps is getting away, going out into the world … I need a change of surroundings, new life.” He looked past Dorothy with unseeing eyes that were fixed on escape. Evidently, he had built this handsome and comfortable house for his pretty wife, only to feel trapped by his domesticity.