The Looking Glass House (17 page)

‘But it
is
out of the way to hear a rabbit speak,’ said Ina.

‘Normally I suppose it would be, but not today. But when the rabbit took a watch from its waistcoat pocket and looked at it, Alice started to her feet, for she realized she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat pocket, or a watch to take out of it—’

‘Just like Father!’ said Ina.

‘Yes, just like your father. Alice ran across the field after it, and was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit hole under the hedge.’

‘Oh, what happened then?’ asked Edith.

‘Why, she went down after it, of course,’ said Mr Dodgson.

‘But how would she get out?’ asked Ina.

‘Well, she didn’t consider that.’

Mary had heard Mr Dodgson tell the children stories before. This one wasn’t so very different, only it was longer. Mr Dodgson talked on, his voice dizzy against the water. Occasionally he said, ‘That’s enough till next time!’

‘It
is
next time,’ said Alice.

It was unfair to the other girls to reward Alice’s obnoxious behaviour by making her the heroine, thought Mary.

She stared at Mr Dodgson’s elbow, rising and falling as he manned the oars.

He had hardly looked at her today. It might be because he was shy – God knows, sometimes she could not bear to look at him.

She heard Nanny Fletcher again, her embarrassed voice, and grasped on to it. Other people thought it was true. It
must
be true then.

‘That’s enough till next time!’ said Mr Dodgson for the third time. His chin fell down on his chest and he pretended to snore. But Alice got to her feet, unnerving the boat, and prodded him. She must have the story, she was determined; she would never make it home without it. Otherwise she would be bored to death. Otherwise Alice would become quite savage.

Mr Dodgson pretended to wake up and began telling the story again, speaking very fast, still looking out over the river, until they told him to slow down.

Down the rabbit hole, the tale spooling out like a river weed, winding round them all.

A secret door, like the one in the Deanery garden.

DRINK ME.

EAT ME.

Mary watched Mr Dodgson’s mouth, no hint of primness now.

Alice changing size, changing shape; there was no centre to it, no solid ground.

No moral, no happy ending.

‘Dodgson, is this an extempore romance of yours?’ asked Mr Duckworth, after a while.

‘Yes, I’m inventing it as I go along,’ said Mr Dodgson.

‘But will I grow small again?’ said Alice. ‘I cannot stay that big for ever.’

‘You can stay big and you will, though happily for me not yet,’ said Mr Dodgson. He pointed at Mr Duckworth with his oar. ‘There was a Duck, a Dodo, a Dodo, a Dodo .  .  .’

‘Dodgson!’ said the children.

‘A Lorina,’ Mr Dodgson pointed at Ina, ‘or Lory for short, and an Eaglet.’

‘Am I Eaglet?’ asked Edith.

‘You are, and you are all in the pool with several other curious creatures who happened to be there. At length everyone got out on to the bank, but the first question was how to get dry. Indeed, Alice had quite a long argument with Lory, who at last turned sulky and would only say “I am older than you and must know best,” and this Alice would not admit without knowing how old the Lory was, and as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was nothing more to be said.’

‘I do not mind my age being known,’ said Ina.

‘No, but in a year or two you may – at least I know a lot of ladies who prefer not to be asked.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘Because it is rude.’

‘But why is it rude to know someone’s age?’

‘Because ladies are never meant to grow old, unfortunately for you. They are meant always to stick at one-and-twenty, though I think they ought better to leave off at seven and a half. Which means that you, I am afraid, dear Alice, have already gone too far. And so have you, Edith.’

‘But what happened next?’ said Edith.

‘Well then, at last the Mouse called out, “Sit down, all of you, and attend to me! I’ll soon make you dry enough!” They all sat down at once, shivering, in a large ring.’

Mr Dodgson’s voice rose into a squeak: ‘“Ahem! Are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, please! William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the Pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the Earls of Northumbria .  .  . ”’

Although Mary kept her eyes fixed on the water, she could tell the children were looking at her. Grinning, she knew it, by the change in the shape of their faces, though she would
not
give them the satisfaction of having noticed.

Her cheeks were hot, her neck was hot. Perhaps they would think it was the heat of the day. She shifted her weight on to her outer thigh, pressing hard down on the wooden seat, to the bone.

He was mocking her because he felt comfortable enough. He was mocking her because he felt close enough to her to be able to do it. He mocked everyone.

‘“Edwin and Morcar, the Earls of Northumbria, declared for him, and even Stigand, the patriotic Archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown.” But since all were as wet as ever, the Dodo moved that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adop­tion of more energetic remedies.

‘“Speak English!” said the Duck. “I don’t know the meaning of half those long words and I don’t believe you do either! ”’

Mr Duckworth laughed. ‘I may take offence, Dodgson, if you are not careful.’

Well then, everything was still all right. She must show how she could take a joke too.

She used the muscles of her mouth to pull her lips up into a smile. But everyone was looking at Mr Dodgson, and Mr Dodgson stared at the river, moving past in its bright pieces.

Mary had not known that all this time inside of her was a gaping hole, that she could have lived for twenty-eight years thinking that she was a person, but she was not. She wanted Mr Dodgson to look at her with half-lidded eyes, as he had on the bench in the darkness. She wanted him to speak to her.

She wanted him not to speak to Alice.

‘Carry on with my story!’

No more story. Mr Dodgson had told them enough for one day.

Mary took a breath. She pulled herself up, as sharply as she could – her ribs tore with the effort of it – into the afternoon. ‘Stop!’ she said. ‘Please!’

She stared at the bank, at the couple walking by. He had hold of her gloved hand and was kissing her fingers.

‘That is what I thought you would say.’ Did Mr Dodgson mean her or Alice?

‘
Please!’

‘It is not
your
story,’ said Ina.

Mary was about to say, no, she knew that it was not her story, but she had had enough. Hadn’t they all had enough?

But Alice said: ‘It is! I am the heroine.’

Mr Dodgson sighed. ‘Very well, Alice, I will finish it. But it is only for you that I make such an effort.’

Mary let her shoulders slump and her spine bend. She stared down at her boot. Water swilled around in the bottom of the boat and over the tip of it, making its own watermark.

The boat drifted on, the only sound the drop of the oars and the voice of Mr Dodgson rippling out again over the river.

The children and Duckworth laughed, the sound of it skimming over the water.

Alice’s neck stretched out as long as a serpent.

Alice, who played croquet with ostriches, who expanded and contracted.

Two Alices, impertinent and cocksure; one had powers of the grotesque.

‘“Hold your tongue!”

‘“I won’t!” said Alice. “You’re nothing but a pack of cards! Who cares for you? ”’

The boat was drawing near at last to Folly Bridge as Mr Dodgson finished his story; the sun had stained the fields a dark purple. The river was a deep black pulse and pushed the boat like a heartbeat towards the bank.

‘It was all a dream?’ said Alice.

‘Yes, the best stories are.’

‘It feels like a dream,’ said Alice. ‘The same way that a dream sometimes feels more real than real life. I should like you to write it down so that I might remember it always.’

‘Write it down? If you’d like. But we must get home; your mother will be wondering what has happened to us all.’

Mr Dodgson helped Mary to the bank, his hand firm on her arm. Usually this would have given her consolation.

Alice kept going on at him, would not leave him alone.

‘Promise me you will write my story down, so that I may have it by my bed.’

‘If you’d like, I will promise. Though I hope you don’t start asking me to write down every story I tell you.’

‘Just this one,’ said Alice.

Chapter 26

Mary had intended to read her book for the whole evening, in her room. But she had been staring out of the window, the book unopened on her lap, and she saw him just at the exact moment that she felt her head might burst with the thinking of him. And she was sure he looked up at her window. Perhaps he always looked up as he passed, to see if her light was glowing, just as she always stared hungrily at his as she went by with the children.

Mr Dodgson must be thinking of her – the look proved it. If she could secure a meeting, make it seem by chance, then he would be bound to reveal himself to her, just as he had on the bench, or at the play.

She quickly put on her cape, pulled the hood over her head instead of a hat, and ran downstairs. It was still bright daylight, even though it was past seven o’clock.

As she turned into the High Street, she saw Mr Dodgson on the opposite pavement, at a fair distance and heading away from her, his back straight and immobile, his knees lifted an inch higher than other people’s knees, about to disappear into the crowd. She stepped into the road to follow him. A carriage passed close by, spraying a ribbon of mud up her cape.

She fixed her eyes on his top hat. The High Street was full of people, even at this hour, all of whom seemed to be going the other way. Mr Dodgson always walked fast, even if it was a stroll by the river. All his movements were precise – unless he was telling them all a story or a riddle. Then his words were the ribbons that weaved in and out, and his very face seemed to lose substance.

Mary looked up the street. She could still make out Mr Dodgson’s top hat, merging with all the rest. She wanted to run but she did not dare. She could not fly up behind him and tap him on the shoulder, gasping for breath. But she had to move quickly.

The silk of her skirts swashed against her legs as she walked; the hem of her dress was splattered with damp. He was at the corner of Turl Street now. What would she say to him? He would wonder why she was out on her own at that hour. She would say something about the children. One of them was sick and she was sent to get medicine. But that would not work – he would worry and he would ask them to their faces about it tomorrow.

His head turned in her direction. He saw her. He would wave. She could go to him, he would wait, they could walk on together. She would say she was just going for a stroll.

But he had turned away again. He must not have seen her. Another carriage sparked past, hitting her ears like an assault.

Alice had been going on and on about her story. How she wanted it written down. Perhaps she could mention that.

They had turned into Broad Street, where there were more people. She must get to him – make it seem natural, as he had done in the meadows. But it was so much harder for a woman. Near the Sheldonian Theatre a crowd aggregated on the pave­ment, ready to be assimilated within. They all had an excitable sense of belonging: the men in their top hats, the women with their bare shoulders and jewels around their neck.

Mr Dodgson had stopped on the edges. Mary had almost caught up with him: if she spoke loudly he would hear her, but she shrank from doing so. She pulled her hood tighter around her neck.

When she had stepped out of her room, she had not meant to find herself at the theatre, standing alone in the middle of a crowd, and she thought about turning back. But she had come too far; he was too close. She could not face the exile of her room when here he was near enough to touch. Perhaps she would not need to say anything to explain herself. He would look at her and understand.

Mr Dodgson took out his pocket watch and scanned the crowd. Now was the moment. Mary stepped forward.

‘Hullo!’

He looked at her. His face was blank. ‘Good evening,’ he said.

‘Are you here for .  .  .’ She looked in through the doors to see what was on. ‘Are you here for
The Tempest
?’ Her words came out stretched and tight.

‘Yes. You?’ Still he spoke to her politely. She realized he did not recognize her.

‘No. I was .  .  . I was just passing, when I saw you.’

Mr Dodgson stopped looking at the crowd; he stared at her then. His eyes widened. ‘Miss Prickett!’

‘Mr Dodgson.’ The heat of the crowd transmitted itself to her, made her cheeks burn.

‘What are you doing here?’ He took a step away, pressing himself on to the back of a broad man in a topcoat. The man looked round in surprise; his eyebrows were great caterpillars.

‘I was just passing, when I saw you,’ Mary repeated. She saw the impossibility of it now, surrounded by people ready for their evening out. No intimacy would pass between them tonight; she had been a fool.

Mr Dodgson looked from side to side again. He resembled the white rabbit he had told them about on the river, his eyes darting this way and that.

He had heard the gossip.

‘I am meeting Mr Southey,’ he said. ‘He is late.’ He tried to take another step back from her, but the crowd was too tight. ‘I ought to find him, before the performance begins.’

‘Yes, it is late.’ Mary had the feeling that she was pretending to talk, that she didn’t exist, that her words could not be heard.

Inside, a bell rang. Immediately there was a move inwards by those surrounding them. Mr Dodgson used it to turn away from her towards the theatre.

Mary stayed where she was, rubbing at the material of her cloak between her thumb and forefinger.

‘Good night,’ he said, but without turning back to her, pushing with the sharp edge of his shoulder through the crowd to get inside more quickly.

If he had heard the gossip, he would not want to be seen in public with her, for fear of adding heat to the flames. He hated gossip, whether it was true or not. She knew that about him.

But he might want to speak with her privately, still. He was a man of different faces, each one unrelated to the other. He could pass between several in the course of a day. Tomorrow might be different. Still, Mary wondered why she felt as if she might cry and why her legs were heavy, would not carry her away. She leant against the wall, listening to the hubbub from the pavement being sucked ever deeper into the theatre, until it was silenced.

She closed her eyes.

She didn’t know how long she had been standing there, but when she opened them again there was another man, a stranger, standing quite close. She wondered if he had to do with Mr Dodgson, if he had been sent for her.

‘Good evening, miss.’ There was wine on his breath.

‘Good evening.’

He put his hand on the wall just above her shoulder and leant in. ‘Are you having a pleasant evening?’

Mary didn’t know how to reply.

He squinted at her. ‘Do you work around here?’

‘Nearby,’ Mary said. He was not from Mr Dodgson, then. ‘And I had best be going home.’

‘Can I come with you, to your rooms? If you name me a price.’

Mary stared at him. His nose was engorged; three black hairs sprouted from the tip. The surprise of what he had said surged through her breast.

Could he see her, did he know why she was here, that she had followed a man?

She could name him a price, an extortionate one. She could change her life, for good. It was as easy as stepping off a cliff.

‘I’m afraid.’ She leant over, away from his arm. ‘I’m afraid you have mistaken me.’

She ducked down and around and walked away, feeling his eyes boring holes into her back, her shoes loud on the pavement.