The Lodger

by Louisa Treger

  As Dorothy helped herself to toast and coffee, he said “Last night, life seemed perfectly sweet. I don’t understand why I’ve fallen, suddenly, into a pit of sadness.”

  “Oh?”

  “I mean, nothing in my circumstances has changed. Yet I feel so … unsettled and estranged. My life seems nebulous and ephemeral; everything is sliding away from me as I try to grasp hold of it. I’m plagued by dark thoughts, which skitter all over the place in the most disturbing way and won’t be controlled.” He rested his head in his hands, as though its weight had become too much for his neck to bear.

  They sat in uneasy silence. The strong succulent smells of coffee and frying rashers seemed an affront to his mood. Dorothy buttered her toast and took a bite, laboring to chew as softly as possible. She set it down on her plate again. Her heavy knot of hair was pulling at the back of her neck; her fringe prickled her forehead disagreeably.

  There was a completely different side to him, she realized. The sparkling charm had vanished. Underneath his success and his intellect and marriage to Jane, he was unhappy and lost and needing solace. Dorothy experienced a keen urge to comfort him. She had woken up full of resolve to be sensible, yet his pain and complexity only drew her to him more strongly.

  Jane walked into the room, looking fresh and pretty in a dark green gown with white lace at the collar and cuffs. “I feel so much better for a good night’s rest,” she said, as she sat down. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Like a baby,” Dorothy told her.

  “I had an awful night,” Bertie said, irritably.

  Jane’s face fell, but her voice was even as she said, “I’m sorry to hear it, my love. What happened?”

  “I had the most horrifying dream.”

  “Would it help to tell us about it?”

  Jane poured a fresh cup of tea and passed it to him; he waved it away. He was making the small grunts in the back of his nose: hnc hnc. They seemed to say: Don’t bother me; can’t you see I am trying to think?

  “I was wandering in some godforsaken and noxious slum,” he said at last, “completely displaced and confused. It was grotesque, and yet horribly familiar. I couldn’t find my way out of the cramped, twisting streets that went endlessly on and on, framed by small and squalid houses. Nauseating smells rose from open sewers. Hungry, grimy, insufficiently clothed children came to the doors and stared. I passed an emaciated girl with a grey face, who peered at me dimly, her cloudy eyes struggling to focus. She had no front teeth, nothing but rotten stumps. She caught my arm in a grip that was surprisingly powerful for one so slight, and refused to let go. ‘Not unless you take me with you…’”

  “What happened then?” Dorothy asked softly.

  “In trying to shake her off, I woke myself up. With the horror of my dream still fresh I got up and made a cup of strong, sweet tea. Going back to sleep was out of the question. I passed the time til morning trying to write. I like working in the middle of the night. It’s so peaceful, so focused.”

  “You always work well in the still hours,” Jane said.

  “I didn’t last night. It’s maddening, really, when it’s all been going so smoothly … I became locked in a battle with my own style. The words and phrases seemed to develop unruly minds of their own; each one marched an independent association and inference onto the page, and choked off what I wanted to use it for…”

  “When one has a great deal to say, style is a constant problem.” Jane spoke with quiet authority, as though she was used to soothing his doubts.

  “I feel as though I’m always on the brink of producing clear and eloquent prose. Yet what I set down on paper is insufficient; it fails miserably to live up to the purity of my intentions.”

  “You’re a wonderful writer,” Dorothy said. “Nobody else sees life so clearly; you’re like a pathfinder in a new world. Your voice is fresh and vivid, your presence leaps out from every page.”

  Bertie shook his head. “My work is poor and unsatisfactory in every way. When I started this novel, I could see the plot with utter clarity. But on rereading it, I was horrified. It was thin and pathetic; completely lacking in sparkle or profundity. Bits of it didn’t even sound like me; it appears I’ve been plagiarizing, half consciously, from Henry James.”

  No amount of reassurance from Jane or Dorothy could convince him otherwise.

  * * *

  AFTER BREAKFAST, BERTIE shut himself into his study, and Dorothy did not see him again until it was almost time for her to go home. He emerged as she was dragging her Gladstone bag down the stairs.

  “There you are,” he said, smiling at her; he was his old self. Evidently, his moods lifted as suddenly and inexplicably as they arrived.

  “Yes, here I am.” She set down her bag and straightened up.

  “Are you leaving us so soon?”

  “I’m afraid I must.”

  “Come and talk to me before you go.”

  “I can’t. I’ll be late for my train.”

  “Just for a few minutes.”

  There was no refusing him. He led her into his study, a high-ceilinged room with book-lined walls. The French doors leading to the garden were wide open, and a fresh breeze from the sea sauntered in, stirring the curtains and the heap of papers on his desk. The room looked across the bay to the distant French coast, and everything blazed in the light he cast.

  “Well, what have you been doing with yourself?” he asked.

  “Jane and I went for a stroll along the beach. It was a chance to catch up with what’s happened since we last saw each other. Actually, when I’m with her, it feels like no time has passed since we were schoolgirls walking to Miss Sandell’s Academy together, along the Upper Richmond Road. We used to chatter about everything under the sun…”

  “Oh, I wish I could have heard you,” he said, wistfully. “I’d have been fascinated by the to and fro of your budding minds. Tell me more about being at school with Jane.”

  “Well, we often wondered what we were going to do with our lives.”

  “What did you envisage for yourselves?”

  “I thought I might become a musician or an actress. Jane was going to take a degree in mathematics. I was rather in awe of her scientific cleverness and confidence; she seemed destined for a brilliant future. Though it seems neither of us ended up exactly where we imagined…” She broke off, mortified by her tactlessness in implying that Jane hadn’t fulfilled her potential.

  But Bertie didn’t appear offended. “I’m glad she had you for company,” he said. “Sometimes, I worry she finds it lonely when I’m shut away writing for hours on end.”

  There was a pause. He was sitting close enough that she could see he had different colored irises: one pure blue, the other with a small patch of grey that dispersed into minute flecks around the edges and merged with the surrounding blue.

  “I’ve been thinking about you,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, when I should have been working. It was most inconvenient.”

  There was an extraordinarily focused gleam in his eyes as they met hers again. She felt an answering pulse deep within her belly, electric in its intensity. “What … what were you thinking?”

  “That you’re not like other women.”

  “Really? In what way?”

  “There’s nothing catty about you; not a single drop of poison or pretense. One feels that at once. I also like it that you’re not afraid to speak your mind, and you have a mind worth listening to.”

  He was the only person, apart from her family, who saw her difference as a positive attribute, a mark of character. It made everything seem better.

  “I feel sure you’d never disappoint a chap,” he went on. “You aren’t like those women who appear intriguing when you first meet them, but grow tiresome once you get to know them. It’s no end of a letdown.”

  She opened her mouth to reply. Presently, he would find out she was something of a misfit, and not as interesting as he believed. Before she had a chance to
form the words, she heard Jane’s voice: “Dora! Dora, where are you?”

  Dorothy looked at Bertie. Something passed between them; that crackle of electricity again. She shivered.

  Jane was getting closer. “It’s late! You’re going to miss your train.”

  She appeared at the door. She seemed faintly agitated; her cheeks were flushed and she was a little out of breath, as though she had been running. “There you are!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  “I was down here the whole time.”

  “Really? You might have told me.” A fleeting look of irritation crossed her features. “Are you ready? I’ll walk with you to the station, but we’d better hurry.”

  Bertie held out his hand, suddenly formal. “Well, it was nice to have you down for the weekend.”

  Dorothy took his hand. “Thank you. I enjoyed it, too…”

  She hesitated; it was surprisingly hard to leave him. A tide of shame and remorse welled up inside her: what was she doing harboring these feelings? Having to conceal them from Jane immediately tipped their friendship onto a false footing. She wondered what on earth they would talk about on their way to the station.

  Her hand slid from Bertie’s warm grasp and she forced her legs to move across the deep red Turkish carpet, one step at a time.

  Four

  It was an extraordinary moment when you felt the bicycle sailing forward. Dorothy was lifted off the ground, skimming through the moving air. I’ve got the hang of it, she thought … I am cycling! She was no longer merely struggling along, trying to forget how wobbly she felt. She could actually control the bicycle’s instability. She could steer with confidence, not worrying about crashing into people.

  She pedaled tirelessly, delighted by her unexpected reservoir of energy, looking around her at Regents Park as it swung past. The wide stretch of succulent grass was studded with daisies. The broad pathway was lined with people sitting on benches; behind them, flower beds flared with color. The translucent fuzz of new leaves blurred the stark lines of the trees, reminding her of an adolescent boy’s first growth of soft facial hair. Globes of cherry blossom were in their full glory, brilliant pink against the cobalt sky, and seeming far too heavy for the frail branches that sustained them. On the other side of the road stood gracefully proportioned Nash houses, their cream stucco gleaming in the sunlight. There were feathery white clouds in the sky … The heavy London air had turned into a fresh breeze flowing around her.

  She could hear the squeak of her gear case, the slurring of firm tires turning on the smooth pathway, the trill of her bell as she approached a turning … How funny I must look with my knees bobbing up and down, all bunched up in my skirt, she thought.

  The feeling of freedom was exhilarating. She couldn’t remember ever feeling quite as free. Friends and work—even Bertie—were nothing compared to this. To be able to ride a bicycle transformed life; she felt like a different person. She pictured herself cycling around London in knickers and a short skirt the whole summer long …

  * * *

  AT DINNER AT the boardinghouse that evening, she told Miss Boyd about her joyful afternoon. Miss Boyd had wings of dark hair coming down from a skillfully twisted bun, and clear dark eyes that shone through gold-rimmed spectacles. It was her last evening at the house; she was leaving the next morning to take up a teaching post in the north of England. “I know exactly how free of constraints you felt in the park,” she said to Dorothy. “Isn’t cycling glorious?”

  Gaslight streamed over the white tablecloth and was reflected in the heavy wooden chairs and huge tarnished mirror hanging above the mantelpiece. A handful of boarders sat around the table, looking haggard and washed-out in the light. There was a new couple: a lady with soft pinkish cheeks wearing a lace cap, and a grey-haired old gentleman with a patriarch beard. They were making jerky remarks, one after the other, about the fine weather.

  “Where is Mr. Benjamin?” Carrie asked Dorothy.

  Dorothy shrugged; she didn’t know where Benjamin was. In the three or four weeks since he’d announced his intention to look for other lodgings, she had hardly seen him. She supposed he had already found new companions. She had pushed him away with such hasty exasperated resolve, yet the reality of him disappearing into another world was strangely painful. Was he with kindhearted people, she wondered; was he already part of their lives … estranged from her; altered?

  She turned to the Canadian doctor on her other side: a tall grey-clad form. He was an up-and-coming young surgeon; one of Mrs. Baker’s favorite boarders. (“A very nice dependable gentleman; he always settles his account on time. I wish I had more like him.”) He had fair hair and blunt, even features.

  “Wasn’t it a marvelous day?” Dorothy asked him. “Did you see the late afternoon light?”

  “Well, no; I was trapped inside the hospital all day,” Dr. Weber said regretfully.

  Did you see the sunset? It was extraordinary this evening … God evidently ate raspberry custard for supper. Dorothy’s breath caught in her throat.

  Dr. Weber was saying, “But on my walk home, I did think it the finest sample of London weather I’ve seen. Generally speaking, the weather is the worst part of living in London.” His low steady voice held a curious rounded intonation.

  “I don’t know what you’ve got against London weather. It’s peerless; you won’t find a better climate anywhere.”

  Dr. Weber’s laugh rang out, lively and deep-chested. “I can’t say I totally agree. Before the current fine spell, it rained for a week without stopping.”

  “I suppose only a handful of people think English weather marvelous. But it has its own character and charm. I love the misty atmosphere of dull days; it makes everything mysterious and exciting.”

  “Well, there we part company, I’m afraid. I can’t see any merit in your grey days.”

  He smiled at her, showing strong even teeth. His manner was easy and genuine, without being complacent. Dorothy could see why Mrs. Baker was so happy to have him. He was completely oblivious to the shifts and secrets of the bankrupt house, yet he brought an influence into it that was wholesome and distinguished.

  Mrs. Baker was carving the chicken. Carrie handed around two heaped dishes of vegetables. Mrs. Baker put a generous helping of chicken and gravy in front of Dorothy. She took it to pass it on.

  “That’s for you, my dear,” Mrs. Baker said. Dorothy thanked her and was rewarded with the smile that she loved. It smoothed every line from Mrs. Baker’s worn face and made it luminous … her eyes were perfectly kind; her whole being exuded kindness.

  “I don’t know if I should tell you…” Miss Boyd began, looking down at her hands.

  Dorothy turned her attention back to her. “Tell me what?”

  “I went out late last night and cycled around Bloomsbury—in nothing but a petticoat.”

  “Really? How brave you are! It must have been blissful.”

  “It was. I could have wept with frustration, afterward, at not being able to shed my deadly layers of clothing once and for all. It would transform life.”

  “That magnificent feeling of freedom.”

  “Yes, and not only that; think of never having to clean the mud off your skirt again.”

  “I know. It would be heaven.”

  A smile irradiated Miss Boyd’s face, making it nearly beautiful. She hadn’t exchanged more than a few words with Dorothy until now, but their spontaneous last-minute affinity, cemented by a shared love of bicycles, seemed very sweet. It was like one of those sudden mysterious friendships that flower between schoolgirls.

  “I spend hours trying to keep my skirts clean,” Miss Boyd said. “It makes me furious to think of all the other things I could be doing with the time. Life is unfair, for women.”

  “Don’t tell me you’d rather be a man, Miss Boyd.”

  “Oh, sometimes I would.” She sighed gustily. “The world belongs to men. They hold everything in their hands.”

  “I wouldn�
�t, ever. I’d simply hate to have a man’s mind.”

  “Why?”

  There was a pause, while Dorothy struggled to explain herself. The mind of a woman was deeper, more instinctive and less articulate than that of a man. Women were able to see many things simultaneously; they were more profoundly, richly alive … Men saw life in terms of externals, and only one thing at a time. Their sense of superiority was born of being free to be out in the world, but they did not understand what went on below the surface with people.

  Miss Boyd gave up waiting for an answer. “Aren’t you glad you are alive today, with all these things going on?” she asked.

  “What things?”

  “Well, cycling and things. Aren’t you going to have any pudding?”

  There was a loud hammering on the front door; a peremptory noise, not in the least sociable. Mrs. Baker looked up sharply. Carrie was already on her way out of the room to answer it.

  “That was a fine dinner, Mrs. Baker. Thank you,” Dr. Weber said.

  “Well, you wouldn’t have me starve my boarders.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t. Fortunately, the reverse is true.”

  “Another helping of pudding, Mr. Cundy?”

  Mr. Cundy was sitting at Mrs. Baker’s right hand, looking about for the dish of apple pie. His black hair was brilliant with grease.

  “I don’t mind if I do. It seems a crime to let it go to waste.” He smiled sideways down the table, his eyes not quite meeting anyone’s full-on. “Your dinners are miniature masterpieces, Mrs. B, a bright spot at the end of a hard day’s work. Something a chap looks forward to…” He helped himself to pie as he carried on; his obsequious mouth feeling clumsily for compliments.

  Carrie hurried in. Something in her face caused a hush to fall over the assembled group.

  “What’s wrong?” her mother asked.

  “A dreadful thing,” she said, in low stunned tones. “It’s Mary-Lou Jones—”