The Lodger: A Novel (12 page)

“Miss Leslie-Jones,” Mrs. Baker murmured, as Dorothy sat down.

Dorothy saw a beautifully molded oval face, shining dark eyes framed by a mass of tumbling curls, and a satiny peacock-blue dress that gleamed in the dimness. Beside Miss Leslie-Jones, the other boarders looked dowdy and insipid. She had charm, a slightly unnerving poise and charm. Dorothy’s appreciation of these qualities battled against the alarm that jolted through her suddenly …

The girl held out her hand with studied grace. “You must call me Veronica. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Dorothy took the offered hand. “I am happy to meet you, too. I’m Dorothy Richardson.”

“Yes, I have seen you around the house. You always look as though your thoughts are far away, so I hesitated to introduce myself.” Veronica paused; she leaned toward Dorothy, dramatically conspiratorial. “But I wanted to talk to you from the moment I laid eyes on you.”

Dorothy was silent, trying to cope with the sense of invasion. Veronica’s elegant poses were irritating, yet Dorothy was attracted, despite herself, by her warmth. Veronica was pouring glasses of water for both of them.

“Are you staying here for long?” Dorothy asked. “Or just passing through?”

“I don’t know if I will stay. I came from Paris—I made my family send me there to study art. There are so many things I prefer about living in France.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, I could give hundreds of examples. Mainly it’s the food and the way of living, the little everyday things the French do so much more elegantly and comfortably. Then there’s the way the English dress…”

She raised her eyebrows and drew her shawl more closely around her shoulders, as though trying not to become infected by the English lack of style. “But I do like this house. The atmosphere of faded gentility appeals to me very much. And Mrs. Baker is a perfect darling.”

“I agree with you,” Dorothy said warmly, glancing at the landlady, who was on her feet handing round plates of soup. By the look of it, there would be no chance of a private conversation tonight.

They began their meal. The usual talk started up among the boarders about the weather (more rain was prophesied). Things were passed around the table with a great deal of efficient politeness. Veronica began telling Dorothy about her family, ignoring everyone else.

Her oldest brother was in Simla: she made Dorothy see the unimaginable landscape of the Indian hill station—think Surrey, with slightly more dramatic scenery, she said. Dorothy could picture the brother standing in the clean bracing air: tall and aristocratic looking, benevolent and wealthy, coming to the rescue of his adored younger sister when their parents refused to pay for the art course. Veronica spoke of her younger brothers in the services, and her titled relatives and their country estate. She had broken away from them because she couldn’t stand the suffocating life. There was a brief engagement to a curate. She seemed to have difficulty describing him, abandoning the attempt to explain instead the puzzling way he shrank and shrank in her mind, until he scarcely seemed real. She left for Paris after their engagement ended. Her family were relieved to have her out of the way until the gossip in their village had died down.

Veronica spoke matter-of-factly; she was clear-sighted and a little disillusioned. Despite her sophisticated and affluent family life, she seemed as displaced as Dorothy. Her exclusion of the other boarders was plain bad manners, but it was hard to resist the sense of intimacy she created within the public social occasion. She asked Dorothy about her family.

Dorothy sighed. “Well, my mother is dead. I have three sisters. My father lives with the eldest, Kate, and her family at Long Ditton in Surrey.”

Her father was unchanged, despite everything that had happened. He still clung to the appearance of power, while lacking the substance. He laid down the law in Kate’s household, and depended on the charity of Kate’s husband. Dorothy sent him half a crown as often as she could, and visited less and less.

There was a pause.

“Doesn’t talking about anybody’s family bore you?” Dorothy asked eventually.

“I hope I didn’t bore—”

“Oh no,” she said hastily, “I didn’t mean that at all, I loved hearing about your family. It’s just … I … I find it difficult to speak of mine.”

When the meal came to an end, Veronica said, “I had a marvelous evening. It’s been a long time since I met anyone I can talk to as easily as you. Would you like to go for a walk? Perhaps we’ll find a café, and we can sit and talk some more.”

Dorothy declined as politely as she could. She escaped back to her room, vaguely promising to be at dinner again quite soon.

*   *   *

DOROTHY’S OPPORTUNITY TO
talk to Mrs. Baker presented itself at the weekend, when the landlady came to clean her room. She knocked softly and pushed open the door, hovering just inside the threshold. “Ah! I hoped I’d find you in, young lady.”

“Yes, here I am.”

There was a pause while Mrs. Baker came fully into the room and set down the mop and pail. She shut the door firmly behind her.

Dorothy said, “I’m glad to see you, because there’s something I want to speak to you about.”

“Actually, young lady, I need to speak to
you
.”

Dorothy looked at her in surprise. But Mrs. Baker’s tired face was expressionless, revealing nothing.

“You know I think a lot of you,” Mrs. Baker told her. “You’ve been one of my best boarders, from the moment you arrived. To tell the truth, I’ve a bit of a soft spot for you.”

“And I for you, Mrs. Baker.”

“Well, I know you’re busy. I don’t want to waste your time, so I’ll get straight to the point. It’s about him. The Canadian doctor.”

“Dr. Weber?”

“Yes. He was worried almost out of his mind about you.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

Mrs. Baker flushed and drew herself up to her full height. “You may be wondering why I’m here, bringing this up … you see, Dr. Weber saw you in the street with that … that man of yours.”

“Which man? Benjamin?”

“No. I wish to goodness it
had
been Mr. Benjamin.”

“Who was it? Who did he see me with?”

“The other fellow. The
writer
.”

Dorothy felt herself blushing deeply.

“Oh, I feel so badly about it,” Mrs. Baker continued. “And the worst of it is the doctor never let slip a single word until he left.”

There was silence while Dorothy tried to take everything in. Dr. Weber had gone … disappeared back to Canada. Some smart pretty Canadian nurse would snap him up … he hadn’t even said good-bye.

“I feel I have to tell you,” Mrs. Baker said. “You see … Dr. Weber had made up his mind to ask for your hand.”

“Oh.”

“He was one in a thousand, mark my words. It was the chance of a lifetime, and you’ve lost him. Lordy! I wish I’d known what you were up to with that married fellow. I would have told you to stop it at once.”

Dorothy recoiled. She had lost all desire to talk to Mrs. Baker about Mr. Cundy. She only wanted her to leave—as quickly as possible. “My goodness,” she said in a trembling voice. “Dr. Weber was an awfully decent man.”

“Isn’t it a shame?” said Mrs. Baker with real feeling. “It vexes me dreadfully to think how foolish you’ve been.”

The room throbbed with tension. Dorothy couldn’t meet Mrs. Baker’s eyes. She looked instead at her small battered chest of drawers, the yellow wardrobe and the bed tucked under the slope of the attic, feeling wildly estranged from them. Mrs. Baker had violated the tranquility of her room. Dorothy wondered if her beloved things would ever seem familiar again. She willed Mrs. Baker to leave. She only wanted to be alone with her thoughts.

“Well, I felt obliged to come up and tell you,” Mrs. Baker said, at last. “I felt you ought to know what happened. I couldn’t have lived with myself otherwise.”

“Yes. It was the right thing to tell me. Thank you. It’s like, um … a mountain out of a molehill.”

“It’s no molehill, believe me,” Mrs. Baker said darkly, brushing at her skirt. “I hope you’ll give the fellow up, now you know how carrying on with him is harming you.”

Dorothy stared at her, a multitude of unspoken thoughts and questions rushing through her head. How many people knew? Was everyone gossiping about her and Bertie? She shuddered at the thought of the judgments, the acid commentaries that were being directed their way. Mrs. Baker thought it was a scandal.

It was the first time she’d realized her affair with Bertie might have wider repercussions. It was like throwing a stone into a pond: the ripples kept spreading. Another scandal could damage Bertie’s career. Dorothy’s reputation was in shreds, though she was still a virgin. A sudden thought brought her up short:
If her reputation was already wrecked, what was the point of staying a virgin
?

Her mind flew back to a conversation she’d had recently with Mr. Badcock. She had been hurrying to leave work. He’d hinted he didn’t like her new hat; that it was a bit on the showy side. It made her look fast, he said. He’d seemed worried about her, in a brotherly sort of way; he seemed to feel responsible. His concern was quite touching, but she’d snapped back “Please don’t worry yourself about the speed of my clothes, Mr. Badcock.”

People who knew her—people she cared about—could sense she was becoming risky and disreputable. Half of her minded very much, but the other half didn’t care at all.

Mrs. Baker still was going on about Dorothy associating with a married man; warning her it would ruin her. “The thing is we’ve all got to settle in life, at some stage.”

That was all there was, for Mrs. Baker. Settling. She believed no woman was complete without it; she didn’t see there was so much more to life. Though Dorothy was exasperated and ashamed, she couldn’t help a secret selfish flare of pride. Mrs. Baker knew she could have settled if she had wanted to—and settled well.

Ten

Dorothy didn’t know who reached out first. They hugged each other tightly, rocking back and forth, Bertie’s face buried in her neck. He felt warm and solid against her body. His mouth covered hers and his hands were underneath her hair, stroking the back of her neck. They were in their rented rooms, and everything else in Dorothy’s life seemed far away and unimportant. There was only Bertie and the feelings he ignited in her.

Breaking off to draw breath, Bertie took her hand, kissed the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. “You get more beautiful every time I see you. I don’t know how you do it. Your whole face is glowing today.”

“If that’s true, it’s because of you.”

“I missed you. Badly.”

“Don’t. Missing is for people you aren’t going to see again. I’m always here for you.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

She kissed him again; she was ravenously greedy for him. It had been two long weeks since they’d seen each other, as a bout of bronchitis had kept Bertie trapped at home. As the days dragged by, Dorothy found herself wanting more from their situation. In the beginning, the luminous times in Russell Square were enough, but she was changing. When Bertie was with Jane, missing him was a physical ache that had grown stronger than the pleasure of solitude. At work, Dorothy was unexpectedly tearful. She wanted to be the one who nursed him back to health. She wanted to have his company all the time. To share mundane, intimate, domestic things, like sitting in front of the fire and reading together, or bringing his early morning cup of tea and watching him drink it in bed. The meaning of life seemed to dwell in these small, real, everyday details. She was filled with ugly, scalding jealousy toward Jane for being in possession of them.

Bertie started undoing her buttons. Easing her dress over her shoulders, he let it fall to the floor. As he unfastened her undergarments, she could feel the determination in his fingers. This time, he would not tolerate refusal, and her own fear of sex was being eroded by the desire to bind him to her as closely as possible.

When she was naked, she stood in the middle of the room, shivering slightly, more from embarrassment and nerves than cold, as he took off his own clothes.

He looked at her with longing, as though she was a confection he wanted to devour. He said softly, “You’re a glorious sight.” She felt she should return the compliment, but she couldn’t say anything at all because she was thinking how different his body looked naked, its lines free from the interruptions of clothes. It was interesting, but not attractive. The history of his life was etched on it. The thin arms and scraggy chest were the result of years of being poor and insufficiently fed; the slight tumescence of his stomach reflected his recent prosperity. His face and forearms were bronzed by the sun, but the rest of his body was so pale, the skin had a bluish tinge. The funny hang of the pouch between his legs, his thing nestling against it, looking for all the world like a soft pink snail without its shell, were almost ridiculous.

A stab of pity shot through her, taking her by surprise. She suppressed an urge to clasp him comfortingly to her bosom. All his confidence, his ideas, seemed absurd bravado; the posturing and strutting of a vainglorious peacock. Without his clothes, he was less than himself. Insufficient and weak.

He took her by the hand and led her to the bed. They lay down and he rolled on top of her almost at once, parting her thighs with his hand. She could feel his penis nosing between her legs, hard as a weapon; an unshelled snail no longer. His urgent breathing rasped in her ear. He muttered, “Is this all right? Can’t wait any longer, darling, I want you so much.”

It hurt more than she could have thought possible. It took all her strength of mind not to wince or cry out. But after the first agonizing moments, she found it was possible to move through the pain and emerge beyond it, entering a no-man’s-land where she floated in limbo, her mind clear and active, curiously disengaged from what was happening down below.

She couldn’t believe this was all. This great event in a woman’s life; alluded to in elliptical, whispered asides by her mother and sisters. It didn’t seem possible.