Dancing With Mr. Darcy: Stories Inspired by Jane Austen and Chawton House Library (18 page)

My inspiration:
Having visited the Jane Austen Museum at Chawton twice, once as a child and once as an adult with my own family, I wanted to look at how learning about Austen’s life, where she lived and how she worked could inspire someone young.

WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT MR COLLINS

Mary Howell

‘Cup of tea, Charlotte? Black isn’t it?’

‘Lovely,’ Charlotte smiled. They were practically friends. Eliza, the only woman she would trust to cut her hair, wayward curls that needed a firm hand. Charlotte smiled again before retreating under the pile of glossy magazines and the noise of the blower and a good half hour’s staring. Weekly trips to
Thin Lizzie’s
on the high street were the highlight of her quiet life; a constant round of light dusting, light shopping, light gardening, light strolls. Here, in Eliza’s capable, manicured hands, she had her light trim, light set and, very occasionally, low lights to mask the incipient grey.

She found going to the hairdresser very pleasing. Nothing was expected of her as she sat inventing lives and intrigues for the other ladies reflected there and listening to the lop-sided conversations half drowned by mechanical sounds. The mirror in the salon was a perfect medium, allowing her to see the world yet to see only its reflection refracted many times, multifaceted yet flat like the pages of novels.

‘Thought I’d buy ready-made and pass it off, save all that slog in the kitchen. Anyway I’ve clients till half six.’ Eliza’s hands-free phone was on constantly.

None of the ladies ever complained of inattention, so grateful perhaps to have a decent hairdresser in the village. She was pulling out curlers from the woman two seats down, running her hands through the fine grey, her red nails disappearing and reappearing rhythmically, repeatedly down the salon in smaller and smaller versions.

‘Do you want hairspray, Gladys?’

The can was out in a flash, perhaps Gladys had commented on the windy day. Charlotte watched the slack lips move in the mirror but could not make out what they said. She imagined the hiss of the can and saw the cloud of fine spray.

Yes, definitely a hairspray day.

‘She’s not wearing hairspray ‘

‘Oh yes she is,’ and workmen looking meaningfully into the young girl’s shopping basket and seeing Harmony.

‘A face without a trace of make-up.’

Charlotte laughed out loud and Eliza turned and smiled. Charlotte could meet her eyes in the mirror and see the woman’s lips move wordlessly in front of Eliza’s smile and the little black microphone in front of her teeth.

‘Well you make it then if you’re so bothered.’

Charlotte imagined the other end of the line. A husband, athletic, handsome in an earthy way with a broad back that would ripple under Eliza’s red nails, who loved Eliza’s no nonsense approach to life. Perhaps this was an important business supper and the husband needed to impress in order to make that step up the ladder.

‘If I don’t die of boredom I’ll kill you for inviting him.’

She could not help feeling that Eliza should be a little more sympathetic to the needs of her husband and his associate. She could see her impudently picking her nails with her teeth at the table, fidgeting one slim leg over the other with a scrape of black stockings, to distract the men from their serious discussions. She was sure that, in Eliza’s shoes, she would be more sensitive, she would know instinctively what was needed.

‘A whole evening of Mr Collins would be fatal.’

The name made her focus and she was not often called in to the real world. For a delightful moment she imagined the clatter of a carriage, the rustle of silk and the appearance of the rector and his patron. She felt there was a place for her somewhere in the pages of this novel. Why else had she been christened Charlotte? The unmarried daughter of respectable, elderly parents now deceased, leaving their unmarried elderly daughter comfortably off but elderly and unmarried.

She was hot under her blower, with an uncomfortable sense that time had dislodged and been lost somewhere.

‘Thanks very much, Gladys.’

The cash till registered with a ching, and a welcome rush of cool air as the door opened and closed, then relief when Eliza turned off the machine.

‘Think you’re cooked, Charlotte. You’re all pink.’

Curlers dropped one by one onto the waiting trolley with a little click and Charlotte’s hair recoiled.

‘You’ll have to ask someone else as well.’ Eliza sounded almost petulant.

‘Call me back will you.’ Eliza moved the mouthpiece above her head. It looked like a hover fly, Charlotte thought.

‘I could come and entertain Mr Collins for you.’

She laughed at her reflection, face to face with the multiple reality of it, pleased that the words were spoken. It was quite short notice, but with her hair done, no need to worry on her account, Mr Collins would do all the talking.

It had never been her intention to be a heroine, a romantic lead, but she thought, given an evening in the company of Mr Collins, even she could persuade him. She longed to be part of that world, any world, to join the sorority of married women whose bliss and trials she read about so often. At least, she thought she did until she got to the happy ending. Much as she enjoyed happy endings she could not trust them. They were a failing in novels, in life, a blind alley, a cul-de-sac; their inevitability ruined many pages, many days. She often did not finish books for that very reason, preferring to leave endless possibilities.

Charlotte noticed that Eliza did not stop to run her hands over her head in that satisfying way she usually did but seemed to punish the curls with her brush.

She was looking quite out of character, her mouth knitted in a tight knot of disapproval as she worked deftly, methodically. The salon with just the two of them seemed cold. There was tension in the spray that landed finely on her hair that Eliza had not offered and she had not accepted.

A border had been crossed: the fine line of professional and personal. Charlotte saw in her reflected pink face all the what-ifs of her life, the if-onlys, the wasted possibilities and was on the verge of falling into the bleak emptiness of it.

‘Know what, Charlotte? I think you should come and meet Mr Collins.’

The emptiness receded.

Eliza tweaked at her fringe, bending her knees to get closer then put her head next to Charlotte’s, resting her hands on her shoulders and fixing her eyes on the reflection.

‘Like seafood?’

All of a sudden, the weight of Eliza’s hands was unbearable. She saw for the first time how shrewd her eyes were; how calculating and she wanted to brush them off, free herself from the eyes, the salon and the whole sorry business. The impudence of the headset. Why should she, Charlotte Lucas of independent means and a comfortable home, entertain ideas of marrying?

‘Who is Mr Collins?’ her reflection asked. She could see she had recovered her usual pallor and poise.

Eliza took her hands from Charlotte’s shoulders, pulled down the mouthpiece, still hovering, and listened. The salon was very still. Charlotte wondered if she should get up from her chair. She was ready to go home now.

A high snivelling sound came from Eliza. Tears were falling from her eyes.

‘Well be like that, you bastard.’

A new chapter, a new book even. Charlotte thought she was letting herself down and pretended not to hear for as long as possible. Then it occurred to her that this was drama, a real-life drama reflected in the mirror before her.

‘Is there anything—’ Charlotte let the words trail, seeing herself in the mirror, the older but still attractive woman lending her worldly wisdom to the jilted youngster crying into her headset. Was the young man still there? Was he feeling remorse for his harshly spoken words? Not a bit of it, Charlotte decided. He would be brutish and arrogant and gone. Tears would not melt his heart. ‘I hate it when you cry. Whatever you cook and whoever you chose to invite will be wonderful.’ That type of happy ending was reserved for the type of books she did not read. Not to the end, at least.

Distinction blurred; a car door banged and the door to the salon was flung open with force such that it hit the wall. A man stood in the doorway, smiling. With the setting sun behind his head like a halo, he strode towards Eliza and taking her in his manly arms— ‘Charlotte, Charlotte,’ she heard her name repeated and felt a sharp tapping on her hand. He had come to take her for the meal of ready-made food. Her Mr Collins, whose presence Eliza could not endure for one evening.

A handsome young man in uniform was kneeling beside her holding her wrist.

‘Please do not kneel.’ Her words, though fully formed in her head, sounded jumbled.

‘Can you hear me?’

What a ridiculous question. Then she remembered that was what is said at disasters when the hero or heroine is dying. ‘Well, I’m not dying.’ Again the words did not come.

Eliza was still tearful, ‘She came over all, well, you know, and just slumped in my chair. I thought she had fallen asleep, she often does, but when she wouldn’t wake up I thought I’d better call you.’

‘You did the right thing, people often leave it too late and don’t want to bother us. We’ll take care of her. Do you know of any relative we can contact? I think it best to take her in.’

‘Lives on her own – as far as I know she’s an old maid.’

It dawned on Charlotte that they were speaking about her: she was the old maid. She would have liked to check the role in the mirror to see if it suited her noble profile but her head was so heavy she thought she would leave it for now. She was tired of the effort of life, tired of pretence. They had come to take her away, the fear of the old and lonely. Perhaps this is what happened in all those endings she had refused to read. It would be a new chapter in her life, hospital she supposed, for this was not the usual story. Perhaps she would be home again, back to her light, gentle life full of empty days, and that would do for the end.

Then Eliza, her practical friend, was beside her with her head close to hers.

‘This gentleman is Mr Wickham. He thinks it best to take you in.’

None of it made much sense to Charlotte and she was in no mood to be taken in, certainly not by Mr Wickham. He had already taken in enough people when what everyone needed was truth and plain speaking.

‘We may as well carry her; she only looks two scraps of nothing.’

Charlotte would have liked to look to see who they were talking about now, but she could not focus.

‘Charlotte, I want you to put your arms round my neck, I’m going to take you—’

She felt the muscles taut across his shoulders and he lifted her as if she were no more than a feather. She laid her head on his shoulder and felt the stiff cloth of his uniform on her cheek. His smell was essence of man, of horse leather and fields and cigar smoke. It was pure Mills and Boon. Her mother had always warned her against filling her head with romantic nonsense but she felt the time had come to let herself go, ‘Why, Mr Wickham.’

My inspiration:
I wanted to write something giving minor characters a major role. I thought of Charlotte as the anti-heroine marrying the unfortunate Mr Collins so that at least she would have a modicum of independence. The thought of Mr Collins immediately made me want to laugh so the story would be droll. I love
Pride and Prejudice
but wanted a story that did not work out.

BINA

Andrea Watsmore

She could be sitting right next to them and they wouldn’t notice her; the teachers, the boys, the other girls. She could slip into class wearing a menstrual red jumper that brought out the grey umbers and ochres in her skin, and that pulled tight across her small peachy breasts and still they wouldn’t see her.

She was the only girl amongst us who could slowly peel a banana and bite into its flesh without the boys drooling at her. She was pretty though. Everything in the right place. And when she spoke, when she bothered, it was usually to say something considered. Not timid, like you might expect.

Then one day, I watched Mr Burdage pull her to one side at the end of Art, period three. He asked her what she wanted to do with her life. She held his eye and told him: lawyer.

Is that something you want to do, or something your family wants for you, because you have a talent in art, have you thought about studying it further?

And she smiled and asked him: was art something his family had wanted him to do?

He turned cerise and got excited and said: you know it’s all going to become clear to you at university. The different ways you can live. There will be more people who… get you. Then he turned and scurried back into his art room.

Everyone knew that I liked Mani Burdage. He had never asked me what I wanted to do with my life, even though he knew that I wanted to go to Art School. He also knew that my dad was against the idea but that I wasn’t going to let that stop me. We would be good together, Mani and me. I dreamt of living and working with him in his studio. Maybe even marrying. We would be a partnership, like Gilbert and George. Or open a shop and make and sell our work like Tracey Emin and Sarah Lucas did in the nineties.

Seeing as how Mani saw something interesting in Bina, I decided to adopt her; keep your rival close, they say. Also I was confident that I would look well next to her. That once I had brought her out of herself, she wouldn’t appear layered and mysterious to him. She would be just the same as everyone else. Besides I was short on friends at the time.

This was our final year at Aloysius, so I had to act now. I decided to follow him, to see where he hung out. I knew where his studio was. I’d been there in September. He worked there on Saturdays, Sundays and on Wednesdays, his day off. It took a couple of days to persuade Bina to come with me. At first she pretended she didn’t like him. Went all wide-eyed,
he’s old enough to be my father,
at me. But I explained to her that he was only seven years older than us. That you had to see beyond the beard. Look at the thickness of his eyelashes; it’s as if he wears mascara. See how unusual his dark blue eyes are against his green-gold skin. Watch his quick and clever hands when he draws. Feel his energy.

I wore her down in art. I threatened to tell Mani that she fancied him unless she came with me. Mani sealed it by asking us what all the fast talk and giggling was about. I looked at Bina, her name already formed on my lips and she held her hands up and said: okay, okay, I’ll come. He became nervous around us after that. Kept giving us these fluttering pretty side-looks.

Late the following Saturday afternoon we sat in my mum’s Honda watching his studio. I had parked it on a raised slip road at the back. From this position the area looked worse than I’d remembered. I could tell that Bina was not impressed; she was quiet, but not in that comfortable way of hers. The studios must have been ordinary offices once, perhaps for tax inspectors or telesales; row on top of row of balconied windows, punctuated with faded mustard panelling. Retro, but not in a good way. Many of the windows were boarded up. There were plants crushed against the glass on the inside and climbing green leaves coming through from the outside. Like
Romeo and Juliet,
only squalid. Perhaps if we had come at night, or if it had been a sunny day it might have looked better. The wall that half hid the skip-sized bins had been painted three shades of blue. Someone had graffittied a face with huge teeth and red and white eyes on it. Underneath they had written, Mine, all mine. I took my phone out to snap it. Bina said: you’re not taking a picture of it? It’s horrible. It’s not Banksy, you know. It’s just a crap drawing on a nasty wall using the paint left over after they’d finished decorating their bedrooms.

I had to photograph it then. Besides Banksy’s first stuff wouldn’t have been great either. Everyone starts somewhere. I opened the window to lean out. The stench outside was gagging. It stuck and clung in your nose and throat. Bina leant across me shrieking and hit my button to close it. The smell was inside now. A thick, heavy green fug. We started to laugh.

I tried to explain Mani’s work to Bina. At his private view there had been two video monitors each showing the head and shoulders of a different woman. They were both talking, one at a time, as if in a conversation, but what they were saying didn’t add up. They were isolated in these screens, not able to listen or respond to each other.

Bina shook her head: so, he’s trying to make the point that some people don’t get other people? That they don’t listen to what the other person is saying? Don’t we know that already?

I told her that there was other stuff, drawings and these hankies embroidered in lilac with random words:
war treats, stone room, extra bullet.
And that also to get into his studio you had to walk under a ladder. This was part of the work, a funny joke, playing with people’s superstitions and prejudices. I didn’t tell her that although he had invited everyone in his year thirteen class, I was the only one who had gone. That Mani hadn’t spoken to me until I was about to leave. Then he asked me to spell out my name for him, as if he didn’t know me: Emma I Dunsley. He scribbled it down in this little square-lined notebook and then laughed, delighted. He told me, I’m collecting anagrams and yours is
unseemly maid.
Thing was, Bina didn’t have to get it, because this wasn’t the world she wanted to be part of.

I told her that we couldn’t sit here in this smell. Who knows how long we would have to wait, even assuming he was in there. We would have to go inside and find him. Then she could judge his work for herself and we could see how he reacted to each of us. Bina got into a tizz and grabbed my hand and said, I can’t go in there. We were both laughing and she pumped my hand and told me: you can’t go in there, because…because…that smell is the smell of dead teenage girl. Mani lures them here and molests them, peels them alive and stitches their skin into canvases. And out of their bones he sculpts the finest, most beautiful miniature animals with his clever hands. Their entrails he just chucks in the bins with the KFC boxes.

I told her that that was the longest sentence that I’d ever heard her speak. She turned her face away and flashed her cobalt-black hair at me. I reached into it and felt the weight of it. It was thick; each piece of hair, not just the volume of it. I plucked a strand, wound it round my finger and told her that you could use her hair to sew with, it was so strong. Then I buried my face in it. It was just washed and the sweet chemicals were so strong that they obliterated everything else. I whispered to her that Mani is a conceptual artist. He doesn’t do sculpting and painting. That he doesn’t have the balls to do something as wild as that. I grabbed her left hand back and laid it on my palm. It was tiny, like a child’s, but puffy and red like an old hag’s. I told her this and she laughed so hard, she started to snort. So I told her that she snorted like a man. And she pulled her hand back and acted all offended: a man? A man? Not even a pig?

I thought I might have gone too far, so I put my lips against her stomach and burrowed and blew into it. I asked her to forgive me, told her that she was the most beautiful girl ever, more beautiful than Shilpa Shetty, hair more lovely than Amy Winehouse, eyes prettier than Mani Burdage—We were squealing and laughing so much it took us ten seconds to register the tapping sound on the glass.

The light had slipped since we had been sitting here and there was a face pressed against the window. We screamed and jumped and held on to each other’s flesh. The figure reeled back like a frightened child. It was Mr Burdage. He waved both hands at us. I dropped Bina, turned my back on her and pressed the window down. I leaned out and filled the space, putting myself between Mani and Bina, so he could see only me.

I held his eyes and started to talk. I could feel him trying to look past me, but I told him we were looking for the Moustache Bar, that it was near here and that because we couldn’t find it we were about to come in to the studios and ask someone. He gave me his down-turned smile, pretended that he believed the story and said no, he had not heard of that one. What sort of bar was it? Then he said we could try
Persuasion,
on the High Road. It seemed to be popular with a young crowd. Then he looked at his watch and said. It’s a bit early, though. I asked him if he goes there. And he said, not me, I’m too old for that. Then he backed away from us. When he was at a safe distance, he moved his finger as if he was scribbling lines between us and said: I’m glad you two found each other. I called after him and asked him what the smell was. He looked confused and said, do you mean the canal?

Bina didn’t say anything on the drive home. I asked her if we should try that bar. She shrugged and said that she had to get home. She was scratching a lot. Her hands, her arms, around her stomach.

In the end I said, Mani Burdage is all right, but he isn’t worth peeling your skin off for. She covered her mouth in an affected way and then leaving one finger across her lips she looked at me and said: I was never interested in Mr Burdage. I don’t know what interested me here.

I almost went after her when she left the car. But what could I say to her? Wasn’t it a shame that he came over when he did, because for a moment there I thought we were going to kiss and I ached all over and this was so pure that the words shouldn’t be spoken or embroidered or played with, and now I feel bruised and I want to sit rigid looking into her eyes, not even touching and then fall asleep wrapping myself in her hair and when we wake we are so entangled that we don’t know where Bina ends and Emma begins. And this wouldn’t be a partnership, a convenience. It would be everything.

My inspiration:
In writing ‘Bina’ my starting point was Jane Austen’s
Emma,
a character whose comic meddling and ambitions set off a chain of events that transform her and allow her to find the love that was there all along. My Emma is the narrator of the story.