The Journal of Dora Damage (31 page)
As we ambled, our three blacked heads were sorely outnumbered by the wealth of black plumes nodding to us from all corners
of the hearse and on the heads of each horse. But we were joined at the Church of England platform by Din, and by our former
journeyman Sven Ulrich, who squeezed my hand tenderly and offered me sweet words of sympathy, and by Peter’s older brother
Tommy. Arthur, he said, could not get leave from the Church. It struck me that I had possibly caused offence by not asking
him to take the service; I did not think to be offended that he had not offered.
There were three classes – First, Second and Third – for both the living and the dead – and we were in Second. Peter would
have approved of the middle way; Sir Jocelyn was a clever man. He did not attend, despite having borne the cost, although
I was relieved in part. However, just as Peter’s coffin was being loaded onto the hearse car, Mr Diprose turned up and breezed
into the passenger carriage with us, fresh from prison, and with a notable spring in his step. He uttered the usual words
of condolence, only in French.
The person who was most conspicuous by his absence was Jack, dear Jack, who had worked for Peter for six years. Jack, who
hadn’t seen his father since he was eleven, and who treated Peter as a respectful son would a father. How could Jack miss
this day? Jack was not playing truant; something bad must have happened to him. My gut ached as I thought of him, and I still
could not help but wonder what his disappearance might have to do with my husband lying cold in his box. I felt for him like
a mother for a son; I clutched Lucinda’s hand tightly, and wondered at this pomp and ceremony for our dear departed, when
there are people left behind in this life who are suffering and abandoned. I looked at the fields and trees flashing past
the windows of the train, and wondered who this was all for, really, who we were trying to console with such funereal ostentation.
Even Peter, I would wager, would have disapproved if it had been bestowed on anyone else. I felt removed from the outward
display, from the vanity of it all; my grief bore inward. I did not wish to show my pain to the good folk of Ivy-street and
get their approval for it. I wished to suffer it alone, and know the knife-edges of grief, and guilt, and not have them appeased
by my neighbours’ self-satisfied nods, or the clutches of Mrs Eeles’s hands.
We arrived at Brookwood an hour later, where we received a simple, short service in the chapel. When we drifted out again,
it felt only natural that Mrs Eeles, Lucinda and I lead the pitiful handful of mourners through the avenue of birch trees
to the graveside, and not an eyebrow was raised at our sex. I was glad to be seeing where Peter would be laid to rest, and
that it was proper. Brookwood was indeed a splendid place: everyone got a plot to themselves, even if one was in Third Class,
and there were plenty of watchmen and high gates and fences. I knew he would be safe here. Burke and Hare might have been
relegated to the role of bogeymen with the passage of time, but resurrection men still stalked the pages of our newspapers,
and our nightmares. I did not want my husband dissected, even by the likes of Sir Jocelyn Knightley. Strange to think that
so fine a physician could only become so by chopping up dead, possibly snatched, bodies, but such was the way of the world.
Strange, too, the thoughts that wander through one’s head on the way through the quiet eeriness of the cemetery; I tried to
shake the vision of Sir Jocelyn’s knife penetrating Peter’s cold flesh as we approached his graveside.
To distract me I looked up at the clouds, and the slender, leafless birch trees flexing in the wind; even grief and the severity
of the occasion did not prevent my work-addled mind from perceiving the trees as giant whips, flexing in the wind as if the
clouds themselves were fluffy bottoms waiting excitedly for flagellant attention. I lodged the image in the recesses of my
filthy brain, with intentions to inset a watercolour on vellum of this very row of birch trees topped by fluffy,
derrière
like clouds, into the morocco binding of my next whipping-themed commission. For this was how my mind worked now: I could
not see nettles growing in the hedgerows without thinking of whipped fundaments, could not hear of a nunnery without thinking
of a group of cats licking each other as if they were bowls of milk, of the Irish without thinking of their antics in the
sheep-fields, and, worst of all, of the Italians without thinking of corpse profanation, which of course brought me back to
the cemetery at Woking, and the interment of my poor Peter, whose body was just now descending into its pit. Earth was shovelled
back over the coffin, until I could no longer see it. I rubbed my hands together to keep them warm, and felt my fingers through
my black gloves and the place where my wedding ring should have been.
‘Wery sowwy, Mrs Damage.’ It was Skinner, at my elbow, leering at me, with a thick-set, squat man by his side, like a mastiff,
whom I presumed was Mr Blades.
‘That a man could pass on without settling ’is debts in this lifetime is indeed a twagedy,’ said Skinner.
‘Oh, a twagedy,’ echoed Blades.
‘’Is debts are now yours, madam. Wha’ a legacy.’
‘Wha’ a legacy,’ came the echo again.
‘They always were, Mr Skinner. Good day to you, Mr Blades.’
‘My lady.’ The mastiff touched his cap and grinned; he lacked his front teeth, but his canines on either side were sharp and
brown.
‘Yeees,’ Skinner said with gratification. ‘I ’ear business is booming. Just as well your ’usband agreed to step up the repayment
schedule afore ’e died.’ He thrust a paper up into my face as I grabbed Lucinda’s hand and stalked round to the other side
of the grave. I did not see them merge back into the the trees and gravestones, but heard Skinner’s voice like a ghost chasing
me, ‘Lookee ’ere, it’s in ’is own ’and. In ’is own ’and . . .’
I saw a ship a-sailing,
A-sailing on the sea,
And oh, but it was laden,
With pretty things for thee!
There were comfits in the cabin,
And apples in the hold;
The sails were made of silk,
And the masts were all of gold . . .
C
hristmas crept up on us unawares after Peter died. It was just another trouble to add to the empty tea-caddy: the worry about
Jack, Skinner’s threats, the chores, the battles of getting fires going on freezing mornings, the coaxing dry of frozen washing,
and the cold fingers of grief and loss that gripped my heart and stole it of all sensation. I wondered if I should start work
again in the bindery, even just to pay the butcher’s bill for Christmas, but there was, in truth, little to do, which troubled
me too. I kept meaning to return my old veil to Mrs Eeles, but put it off for fear that she would ask me not only for the
current rent but also for the two months’ rent the veil initially bought me. No doubt she would have strong opinions about
my returning to work, given that I was meant to be in mourning for a year and a month. A man who had lost his wife would be
expected to mourn for a month, for it would be assumed that he would need to get back to work. But what of a widow who needed
to do the same?
But I could not avoid her for ever, and on Christmas Eve she came knocking on my door with false concern and a breezy smile,
just to ask how I was getting on.
‘Well enough, thank you.’ I did not want to invite her in, but it was cold out on the door-step. ‘Oh, Mrs Eeles, I must give
you back the veil I borrowed,’ I said, quickly, meaning to hand it over and send her on her way before she could settle herself
down.
‘Oh, no matter, dearie,’ she said casually, pushing her way into the house. ‘It’s always handy to have a spare one.’ But as
I was closing the door behind her, we heard the noise of a carriage rattling into Ivy-street; Sir Jocelyn’s brougham lumbered
towards us, patterned with frost, and stopped outside the bindery. The gentleman was not within, but his driver started to
unload first one tea-chest, then another, and then a third and a fourth, while I unlocked the door to the workshop.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Eeles. I wasn’t expecting a delivery.’ She folded her arms as I rummaged for the key in my skirts. ‘Books?’
I asked the boy, but he shrugged his shoulders.
‘Not this one, anyway,’ he added, as he pulled a large, narrow, rectangular box out of the interior.
‘Is that,’ Mrs Eeles started to say, stumbling towards us, visibly disturbed, ‘that isn’t, is that, could it be, a corset
box?’ Her voice reached a shriek.
‘A corset! No, it can’t be,’ I remonstrated, but I could not deny that it was distinctly of the right shape. That, and the
fact that it said, ‘Elegant Line Corsets’ on the top, with a picture of the back of a woman, hair piled up on top of her head,
admiring her elegant line in the glass, in which her frontal glories were fully reflected. ‘Hygienic and comfortable’, the
box declared.
‘A corset!’ Mrs Eeles repeated, in horror. ‘Well, I never knew the like!’
‘But I don’t want it, Mrs Eeles,’ I protested. ‘I don’t want it,’ I said to the boy. ‘Really, I don’t.’ I thought quickly,
to counter her shock and disapproval. ‘If it is one, Mrs Eeles, would you like it? You can have it, in lieu of rent.’
Mrs Eeles’s nose wrinkled slightly as she leant forward to inspect the box closer. ‘Is it a mourning corset?’ she asked, tentatively.
‘Are there such things?’
‘I read of one once. All trimmed in black and edged in black satin. Why, even the stitching was black silk. It must have been
quite a sight to see.’
‘Well, I’m sure it must be, given that everyone knows that I am in mourning.’
I opened the box carefully. Unfortunately for us both, it was a simple ivory corset, with a cuirasse-bodice, trimmed with
lavender lace. I hastily put the lid back on.
‘Just give me the money, then,’ Mrs Eeles snapped. ‘I need the last two months by Christmas,’ she called over her shoulder
as she stamped her cold feet back up Ivy-street.
At least I would get a pretty penny for it at the pawnshop, I rued, as the boy ascended the carriage and trundled away. I
settled down to the boxes in the bindery, in the hope that their contents would prove to be more practical. With the claw
of a hammer, I levered out the nails of the first, and prised off the lid. I did not want to see vile catalogues. I put a
hand inside and pulled off the straw padding, hardly daring to look. My hand reached first a bottle, and then another, and
then some more: in total, six bottles of fine wine and two bottles of port. In the middle was a vast, warm lump wrapped in
hemp wadding. I pulled back the hemp, and tore through the wax paper. It was a goose, and it had been roasted. The thoughtfulness
of my benefactor extended even to the details; he had realised my range would never fit a goose inside. I found its cavity:
it had been stuffed, too.
The other crate contained a ham, a Stilton in an earthenware pot, a mature Cheddar in a tawny rind, some fat Muscatel raisins,
a jar of figs in syrup, a box of honeyed dates stuffed with almonds, a tin of candied lemons, oranges, pineapples, plums,
and some fresh winter pears, Ribston pippins, grapes, and pomegranates.
‘For Lucinda’, read the tag of a parcel, which I placed down carefully on the floor. For her also were several brown packets
of bromide.
‘For the able apprentice Master Jack Tapster’, was a bottle of single-estate whisky.
‘For the maid of all work, Pansy Smith’, was a new bonnet, with blue ribbons.
For Din, there was nothing, but that was of no surprise.
And for me, was a sumptuous, brown silk dress, the colour of caramel, and of my boots. It had cream petticoats, and a central
black rose at the bust-line, with pleated sleeves and cream lace edging.
Unlabelled, but I presumed for me too, was a small cardboard box, containing something I would not have been able to recognise
even six months ago. Due to my rapid education in such matters, I was able to work out (within only a few minutes, at least)
that they had a contraceptive function (the words ‘
Ballons baudruches
’ on the side of the box would have given it away to a Frenchman, who would have needed less help than I in their recognition
anyway). I had never seen them before, given that they cost over a pound each, and were only available to those with connections.
I could not help but be shocked. Sexual relations whilst in mourning was as bad as, if not worse than, actual adultery. I
would not be unfaithful to Peter’s memory. Noble Savages indeed.
And finally, there was a book, bound in full aquamarine morocco by Zaehnsdorf himself, with marbled endpapers, entitled
A History of British Birds, Indigenous and Migratory
, by William MacGillivray. It bore an inscription on the ivory endpaper:
To Mrs Dora Damage,
a fine and rare species,
with respect at Christmas time,
Valentine G.
I ran to get Lucinda and Pansy, to show them the sight; it was as if Christmas in some fine town-house had come to pass on
the workshop floor.
‘For the love of – !’ Pansy said, as I gave her the bonnet.
‘And this is for you, Lou,’ I said, giving her the parcel.
‘For me? Who’s it from?’
But I could not answer her as she pulled the paper off, to reveal a pretty doll’s tea-set, with a tea-pot, coffee-pot, milk-jug,
sugar-bowl, and four cups and saucers, all painted with violets and forget-me-nots.
‘Mossie’s got to have some!’ she said, breathless with delight, and raced off to find her doll. When she returned, she blithely
invited Mossie to tea, and together they poured and drank, and made polite talk that was as one-sided as my tea with Lady
Knightley.
Pansy was at the looking-glass trying on her bonnet while I busied myself with the other crate. It was full, as I had both
hoped and feared, of unbound manuscripts. I wished that Jack could have been with me, to investigate their contents first.
I took out the top one, and opened it. It was reasonably benign, as were the subsequent ones. Also included were three Bibles,
and a letter from Bennett Pizzy requesting more pretty albums and fancy journals: ‘your superfluous nonsenses have proved
irresistible to ladies and their menfolk’, he wrote.
So it seemed that Damage’s was back in business, and back to normal, if normal is what one could call it. I wondered again
at this absurd world I had found myself in; a world in which my patrons bought me mourning finery, and yet knew I would have
to continue working as if I were not in mourning; a world in which my neighbours expected me to behave like a widow, but knew
I would behave like a widower. It was, as always, about a woman’s visibility. I would walk the streets in my mourning attire
as a woman, but at home, behind closed doors, I would work like a man.
Wedged down the side of the crate, I found a large manila envelope. I prised apart the seal, and reached inside, where I found
papers, a great many of them, all identical, longer than my hand, black ink on white paper. The words ‘Bank of England’ in
an elaborate typeface, were printed across the centre of the notes, and the portrait of Britannia was in the top left corner.
It promised to pay the bearer on demand the sum of five pounds. I had never seen paper money before; it seemed as unreal as
the photographs had become to me, or as real. Eighty fivers. Four hundred pounds.
I pulled out the accounts book and totted up what I was owed. It was all there, for all the work I had ever done for Diprose,
and for the contents of this new crate at least. It would pay off my debts with Skinner and Blades completely. It was a fortune.
First I went to Mrs Eeles, and handed her over three of the precious fivers with a ‘Merry Christmas’ and a smile as sweet
as sherbet, and did not look back to see her face as I hurried out of Ivy-street. Then I went to the pawn-shop and redeemed
my wedding ring, and enquired as to where I might find Messrs Skinner and Blades. A further couple of hours was spent traipsing
from gin-shop to petty sessional court, bottle-shop to auction-house, knocking on all manner of seedy doors and asking of
a great many harassed and worn folk until I found Skinner, who offered to relieve me of the money there and then, only I insisted
so on a solicitor, and although it were Christmas Eve we finally found one of good note, and the matter was settled for ever
with a counting out of my precious papers and a flourish of his pen.
It was fair to say my feet were sore but my spirits somewhat lighter when Din came by that evening to find out how I was faring,
and when I would be opening the bindery again for business. I took him to the drinking-house on the corner that evening. It
was Christmas Eve, after all, when otherwise respectable people could drink here without a stain on their character, even
a woman in mourning, and we stood amongst the husbands with their wives, the legal clerks and the tradesmen, amidst the cries
for porter and juniper, ale and stout, and the exhortations to ‘sluice your gobs, for it’s Christmas after all’; and we drank
awhile and I pondered my peculiar fortune.
‘Come and dine with Lucinda and me tomorrow, Din,’ I asked him as he escorted me back home. The festivities were passing me
by – the strolling carollers with their black lanterns, the brass bands bedecked with holly, fir and laurel, the cries of
‘mistletoe’ from the little girl-sellers, the crowds still pouring into the poulterer’s, the butcher’s, the grocer’s, the
itinerant vendors with scrawny little ducks and geese still alive, albeit barely, pecking at the meagre grains in the mud
– and I felt the need to spend the day itself with people about whom I cared. I bought a ha’pennyworth of mistletoe, then
I stopped at one of the penny-toy men, and bought a handful of tin soldiers, several pairs of brightly coloured knitted gloves,
and a mouth-organ. At another one, I bought a box of paints and a paintbrush, and a monkey whose arms and legs leapt in the
air when one put one’s thumb into the base. But Din shook his head, and said that he had other plans; but beyond spending
the day with those I had seen in the basement of the pub in Whitechapel, eating roast beef at the Christian alms-house, I
could not imagine what they could be. So I sent him home with a side of goose, some ham and cheese, a bottle of wine, and
fruit. Then I handed him the gloves and the mouth-organ I’d bought from the pedlar. ‘And this,’ I said, as I put an envelope
in his top pocket, ‘is your Christmas bonus.’
‘Thank you ma’am,’ he said, and turned to leave me.
‘Ain’t you going to give me a kiss under the mistletoe, then?’ I said in my best Cockney. A little sprig was drooping meekly
from my hand.
He took it from me, raised it over my head, and gave me a little peck on the cheek. ‘Have a fine Christmas now, won’t you?’
‘And give your friends my thoughts for the season,’ I called to his departing back, and watched as he lifted his hand from
his parcels, and waved his farewell.
We are bound to be happy at Christmas, whether we feel it or not. People exhort it of us several times a minute, and being
a good girl, and one always to do what I am told, I felt it insolent to defy them. Yet neither was I relinquished from the
need for cheer by dint of my widowhood: too much pity galls, like too much rain.
Din left me to a warm house at least, filled with unexpected fineries. Pansy had tucked Lucinda up in bed, clutching Mossie
to her breast. I pressed the soldiers and some more gloves into Pansy’s hands, and sent her home in her new bonnet with another
envelope of money and some more victuals from the crates. Then I drifted around the parlour, alone. I thought several times
of going into the workshop and starting on the newly arrived manuscripts, out of force of habit, and something to do.
This loneliness is only to be expected, I tried to console myself, what with my husband so recently passed away. Only I knew
I was not missing Peter at all. This was a different kind of vacancy. I was richer than I had ever dared dream, and yet I
felt bereft and alone to my core, and it was not an obvious bereavement.
