The Lodger

by Louisa Treger

  She had wanted to dazzle Bertie with the blouse. More than that, she’d cherished a secret fantasy (no use denying it) of toppling the fragile balance of their arrangement. It was amazing what power she’d attributed to a piece of silk. She had hoped to turn Bertie’s head, to bring his barriers crashing down, to have him helplessly promising … promising what exactly? To leave Jane, to love Dorothy eternally, to be lost without her? She wasn’t quite sure what she’d hoped for, but she did know her lack of control over their situation was galling. She hated the gaps between meetings, spent waiting for him to be free. Well, the blouse hadn’t worked any magic. Faced with a week of going hungry, it seemed a stupid and ruinous extravagance.

  By the time she reached her attic, she felt exhausted and convinced of her unworthiness to lay claim to any significant part of Bertie’s life. He had such a profusion of interests: they seemed to float, vivid and alluring, just out of her reach. What could she possibly offer to match them? Only her unconnected dissenting self, poor in every sense of the word, peculiar and unworthy …

  Perhaps it would be better to give him up entirely than to have such a meager share of him. The joy of his company was virtually extinguished by the uncertainty and the dislocating wrench of parting.

  * * *

  THE ENCHANTED TIMES came around less and less often. Sometimes, they had dinner at a quiet restaurant in Bloomsbury where he was not likely to be recognized. But increasingly, Bertie preferred Dorothy to buy food and they would eat it in their room, not venturing outside together at all.

  For the relationship to continue, she had to surrender to these limitations. She had to accept that only a fraction of his attention was hers. He was given to periods of intense work lasting for many days and nights, which were followed by moods of irritability and depression if the writing went badly. He and Dorothy were together when he could leave his work and Jane, not when it suited Dorothy. On more than one occasion, he came to London at short notice, and she had to disrupt her plans to see other people.

  She faced the fact that Bertie would never leave Jane. Her feelings about Jane fluctuated wildly between remorse and bitter envy. Like one’s tongue helplessly seeking out a sore place in the mouth, she couldn’t stop thinking about them together. Did Bertie look at Jane with that focused gleam in his eyes; was he touching her, asking what she was thinking? She felt haunted by Jane: her old friend had become her nemesis, her living ghost.

  At times, Dorothy’s jealousy goaded her into making cruel remarks.

  “It’s unnatural to be this tolerant,” she grumbled one day. “Jane must be made of ice water, not blood and nerves and guts. I mean, she must suspect something; you’re never at home.”

  Bertie’s eyes were dark, the grey and blue fused by anger. “I won’t listen to this,” he said tightly. “Jane’s the most loyal wife and friend I could hope for.”

  “Any woman with an ounce of spirit would challenge you. If it were me, I’d be making the most awful scene. In fact, I’d probably get revenge by taking a lover of my own.”

  “Will you stop this perpetual sniping? It isn’t part of our pact.”

  Dorothy fell into a sulky silence, beneath which she was churning. Lashing out at the constant inescapable presence of Jane was like striking with your bare hands at something as fixed and enduring as a marble statue. It was utterly ineffective and it hurt Dorothy more than it hurt Jane.

  She was not even sure if she wanted Bertie to leave Jane. She could never manage Jane’s role. She couldn’t run his house and navigate his moods and make a haven for his creative life; she had no interest in doing so. If Bertie divorced Jane and married Dorothy, they would have a terrible time. Displaced from his cozy and secure life, Bertie’s feelings of guilt would destabilize him. He would not be able to carry on.

  She was beginning to understand that although Jane’s position must at times have felt unbearable, it was utterly secure.

  * * *

  A BAD ATTACK of neuralgia brought home to Dorothy how unsatisfactory it all was. For three days, she was confined to her bed in a darkened room. Every movement sent a jagged pain through her head, so piercing it felt as if her brain was going to shatter. Burning chills coursed through her body. The sounds of London traffic from outside were magnified; they grated unbearably on her ears. Despite her increasingly desperate requests, Bertie couldn’t get to London to see her.

  The troubled darkness, which had been banished by Bertie’s nearness, returned with an intensity that almost unhinged her. As she lay in a stupor that stubbornly refused to turn into sleep, trapped and enduring, she found herself plunged back into a chaotic void, where everything in the world seemed hostile and useless. She was tortured by memories of the past and goaded to the limits of endurance by the grime and uncertainty of the present. Her life appeared in a bleak relentless light: she was poor and isolated, hovering permanently on the brink of catastrophe, without security or prospects. A combination of hard work and insufficient nourishment was destroying her strength. If she wasn’t fit to earn a living, what would become of her?

  For the first time, she regretted losing Dr. Weber and the shelter and security he offered. If it wasn’t for Bertie, she might be married by now and living in a home of her own, unscathed by poverty and uncertainty.

  She was frightened, lonely, and angry with Bertie. She hadn’t been through so much, nor won her hard-earned independence to be subject to a man who offered so little of himself in return. Her pride and independence—the very traits he had fallen in love with—rebelled against the situation.

  He came a few days later with armfuls of flowers, a bottle of sweet wine, and tasty delicacies to build up her strength. He was full of contrition and more loving than he’d ever been. She lay with her head in his lap, inhaling his honeyed smell, while he massaged her temples and called her his true love. His high, husky voice enfolded her, his dark-ringed blue eyes looked down on her tenderly.

  Nothing was more glorious than being in the full glow of his attention.

  * * *

  ON HER NEXT visit to the Wellses, Dorothy found Jane in the drawing room with a guest. As she hovered at the doorway, she remembered Jane had mentioned in a letter that a friend’s daughter was coming for lunch.

  “Hello, Dora dear,” Jane exclaimed, getting to her feet and drawing Dorothy into the room. “How lovely to see you. I hope you had an easy journey?”

  Dorothy said it had passed uneventfully.

  “Dorothy, I’d like you to meet Anne. Her father and Bertie have known one another since Bertie was a struggling teacher; they used to work at the same school. Anne, this is Dorothy. She’s an old friend, too, you know. We were at school together.”

  The girl stood up and Dorothy held out her hand, fighting to keep the dismay from her face. The presence of an extra person was a hindrance; there would be less of Bertie’s attention to go around. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said.

  Anne took her hand shyly. “I’m glad to meet you, too.” She was very young; she could scarcely have been more than eighteen. She had a dreaming face upon which the soft contours of childhood were still imprinted, hazel eyes and thick brown hair.

  “Where is Bertie?” Dorothy asked Jane.

  “Just finishing work. He’ll be here in a minute.”

  No sooner had she spoken than Bertie came bounding in, his energy lighting up the room. He greeted Dorothy affectionately and turned to Anne, looking her up and down.

  “Why, the last time I saw you, you were in pigtails,” he said, sounding surprised. “You’ve grown into a lovely young woman.” The little creak in his voice meant he was anticipating pleasure. The sound of it caused Dorothy a pang; previously, it had been there for her alone.

  Anne blushed deeply and thanked him.

  “I’m sorry to rush you, but I think we’d better eat,” Jane said, in her bright bustling way. “Lunch has been ready this past half hour; it’s going to spoil.”

  Dorothy felt a flash of irritation w
ith Jane for her unfailing cheeriness, for keeping everything going, as usual. Contrition followed almost immediately. She seemed to have no control over her emotions, they ricocheted all over the place, destabilizing her.

  “Come and share the feast with us,” Bertie said to Anne. He gave her his arm as they walked into the dining room, and pulled out a chair for her at the table. “How about a bit of chicken?”

  He carved chicken and dished up salad and new potatoes from the sideboard; he insisted on serving her himself. “Have a biscuit and butter, Anne? No? Another glass of wine?” He sat down next to her and busied himself with his lunch.

  “Now my dear, how’s your father?” he asked. “I want to hear all the news; you must tell me everything you’ve been up to at home. What are your interests these days? Do you read? Which are your favorite authors? How old are you? Do you like salad?” He scarcely gave Anne time to reply, often starting the next question while she was still talking.

  She spoke thoughtfully and intelligently, in a soft hesitant voice. She had just read his Sea Lady, she told him. She’d delighted in his tale of a man who falls in love with a woman he rescues from drowning, only to discover she is a mermaid. She found it whimsical and pertinent and marvelous.

  There was nothing arch in the way Anne flattered Bertie; she was simple and heartfelt, speaking to him like a sort of jolly boy, man to man. Yet she was graceful in a way no boy could have been, and she wore silver earrings that danced in time to every movement she made.

  “Mother said she always thought you had it in you to succeed,” she went on, shyly, “even when you were teaching with Daddy. She said you were so focused and full of energy, yet you had a kind of faraway gleam in your eye … it made me think of what your Sea Lady says in the book: ‘Perhaps there are better dreams…’”

  Bertie gave Anne a swift look. “Oh, my dear! Coming from your young lips, that’s awfully sweet to hear.”

  Dorothy and Jane ate and listened. Dorothy, cutting up food that she could hardly swallow, hated herself for being dingy and dull. She could feel herself grow paler and paler; reduced to a nonentity. The beginning of a headache was creeping up the base of her skull. She must be looking dreadfully plain. Bertie occasionally addressed a remark to her or Jane, but he was almost entirely focused on Anne.

  After lunch, they played tennis. The glorious spring had given way to a disappointing summer, grey and cool. It was perfect weather for sport.

  It was a relief for Dorothy to lose herself in the game. There was only the sea air flowing around her and the feeling of the ball in her hand. She tossed the ball into the air, feeling her whole body turn into a tightly drawn missile as she slammed down with her racquet. The ball skimmed low over the net and bounced just out of Bertie’s reach.

  “Miss Richardson serves from the treetops and my wife returns from the heavens. Together they’re unbeatable!”

  It was pure happiness. It took her back to her old life, before the money worries began. She felt herself young and carefree, transported to a sunlit era of tennis parties with her sisters and their friends, sandwiches and enormous jugs of lemonade afterward, and the exhilaration that came with simple physical exertion.

  Bertie was in a terrifically good mood. He played with great energy and almost no style, hitting the ball hard and managing to rush all over the court and maintain his witty commentary at the same time.

  When the game was over, they went for a walk around the garden. Bertie took Anne’s arm and gave her a guided tour, leaving Jane and Dorothy to follow. Bizarrely, Dorothy felt closer to Jane than she had for some time. The shared experience of failing to hold Bertie drew them together.

  A storm was brewing. The low-hung sky cast a greenish light upon the landscape; a hazy unearthly glare. The trees seemed obscured, yet they loomed, huge and permanent; the densely lined evergreens glowed through the mist. Clouds of midges danced in air that had turned heavy and motionless. The sea hissed and roared emptily in the background; a hard flat grey glimmer, dissolving invisibly into the sky. Gulls hovered over the water, crying hoarsely.

  Dorothy found herself longing for rain, for the sudden multitudinous thudding of drops against her face and dress which would break up the afternoon. It was like being in a vacuum, without oxygen. She felt breathless, unbearably hemmed in.

  Anne bent over to admire Jane’s roses, now in their full glory. The sun was struggling to break through a thinning bank of cloud. The garden had turned lurid grey, incandescent with masked sunlight. The clouds parted suddenly and unveiled light fell full on Anne’s face, just as she stood upright. Setting her hair aglow, it framed her in a fiery halo. Bertie was openly staring, every fiber of him fixed in motionless concentration, his eyes narrowed to practically invisible points.

  He was lost to Dorothy. He had turned into a stranger.

  Dorothy’s entire body throbbed with tension. She told herself it meant nothing, that an appreciation of pretty girls was an integral part of Bertie’s character. Besides, Anne was scarcely more than a child. He would never take her up, pursuing her as he’d pursued Dorothy. Or would he? How well did she really know him? He had broken his marriage vows once; he was capable of doing it again.

  The thought was unbearable. Don’t let me break down and blurt out something that will smash everything, she prayed. Jane must live with this tension, this pressure to keep things going, all the time. How does she maintain her facade of calm humor? How does she manage to prevent an explosion?

  Dorothy felt something must give. Murderous feelings surged inside her. She craved pain, she wanted blood to stream from shredded skin. She could have stabbed all three of them and turned the knife on herself.

  The rain started after Anne left, slowly at first, but gaining power and momentum, until large drops were plocking onto the roof and rattling against the landing skylight. Wet trees sighed and rustled in the wind. The maids lit the lamps early; the summer afternoon was all but extinguished by the downpour.

  Bertie was in high spirits. “I feel like a new man!” he exclaimed. “Young girls have a marvelous quality; they seem to hold the essence of life in their hands. When Anne looked at me with that slow hazel-eyed smile … well, I would have turned the world upside down for her.”

  Jane shrugged her shoulders and smiled. She was indulgent with him, as one might be with a small child. Her smile seemed to say, “What will this extraordinary man of mine do or say next?”

  Dorothy was overcome by jealous misery that sent her into a horrible torpor. She took a book from the shelf, but she was unable to absorb a single word of it. The furniture in the darkening room and the figures of Jane and Bertie seemed a great distance away. She couldn’t respond to either of them, but Bertie hardly seemed to notice.

  She was made still more wretched and confused by her own guilt. What right had she to feel upset by Bertie’s reaction to a pretty girl? This was exactly how Jane must have felt when Dorothy first came to stay.

  Eleven

  Mrs. Baker’s piano smelt musty. The keys were loose and discolored by age, but they were miraculously in tune. The last movement of Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata rang out into the stillness of the drawing room: urgent, stormy, and grand. The crash and vibration of the chords was satisfying; it released the pent-up emotions of the past few days and carried her out of herself. Dorothy hadn’t played since her school days; she was relieved to find her hands still remembered the notes. She resolved to spend more time at the piano.

  Through the music, she heard the sound of the door being softly opened. She carried on as someone glided lightly into the room; one of the boarders, or perhaps Carrie, now hidden in a chair. When she came to the end of the piece, they would get to their feet and thank her and say how much they loved the piano.

  It was with a sense of inevitability that she recognized Veronica sitting on the floor beside her, with her skirt draped gracefully over her feet and her chin cupped in her hands. Again, she seemed conscious of the impact her beauty made, and also
, in clear daylight, presenting it as something to be evaluated, like a painting, impersonally, for its own sake.

  The sonata faltered and came to a halt.

  “I am interrupting you,” Veronica said, not sounding in the least bit sorry. With a rapid movement, she was on her feet, her face tilted toward the light streaming through the window, standing immobile as Dorothy looked at her.

  “I used to be prettier, before Paul and I broke up.” Veronica paused, a little pleat appearing between her eyebrows. “I met him in Paris. It was a coup de foudre; I knew the moment I saw him. Have you ever felt that way? Like you belong to the other person? I gave myself to him, body and soul. But it was doomed from the start … he was engaged to someone else.”

  Dorothy hesitated, unsure how to respond to this impossible confession that was also a demand for intimacy. She resented the demand, placed so prematurely on their friendship, while admiring the courage it must have taken to make it.

  Veronica said “It wrecks the quality of the skin. It is never again quite as clear and fresh.”

  There was another pause.

  Veronica said at last, “Does it change your opinion of me? Are you shocked?”

  “No,” Dorothy said slowly. “Not in the slightest.”

  The story of Veronica’s love affair was perhaps not so different from hers with Bertie. If only Veronica knew. Dorothy fought back a desire to reveal everything.

  “Are you sure?” Veronica queried. “You must be a bit shocked. The other women in the house would be. They are virtuous; it builds a brick wall between us. One can’t say these things to an Englishwoman.”

  “You’ve said them to me.”

  A swift secret amusement shone from Veronica’s face, making her lips quiver. Her expression became inward-turning, as if some private hope or suspicion was being proven.

  “Yes, you are English,” she remarked thoughtfully, “yet you are un-English as well. I saw that as soon as we met.”

  She paused, holding Dorothy with her eyes. Again, Dorothy felt a strange, alarming demand being placed on her, amounting almost to an invasion.