The Looking Glass House (18 page)

Chapter 27

‘Where were you last night?’ Mrs Liddell asked. ‘You came in late. Past curfew.’

Mary’s hand went to her necklace, a small gold cross hanging on a chain. She pulled the ring from side to side. ‘I was .  .  . out. I was taking a walk. Sometimes I find it hard to sleep.’

‘You look pale. You might try a sleep remedy. Better than going for a walk at that hour.’

Mary looked at the carpet: the design of flowers in a bouquet circled round with ribbon expressed certainty of function and purpose. ‘Yes, Mrs Liddell.’

‘Are you well now?’

‘Quite well.’

Actually Mary had slept very little. A band gripped her round the head, just above the eyes. She could feel, from the heat along one side of her face, that Mrs Liddell’s eyes were still fixed on her.

‘Mr Dodgson is coming today. To photograph Alice. I have said he may use the garden. Ina and Edith will come with me to Lady Astbury’s.
You
may have the afternoon off.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Liddell.’

‘Perhaps you might visit your family. I am sure your mother would like to see you.’

Never had Mrs Liddell looked more hawk-like, with her curved nose, her penetrating eyes and the thick hair that swooped away from her head like wings.

Oxford was a small place and Mrs Liddell knew everything that went on in it. Although she could not know
everything
. Not Mary’s visit to the theatre, unless she had spies all round town. But she might have heard that Mr Dodgson came to the Deanery to pay court to her. And if she had heard – what did it mean? Did it give the gossip more weight or less?

But in spite of Mrs Liddell’s command that she visit her mother, Mary decided to stay in. She had seen her mother only last week and had no news. As well as that, she was tired. It would be much better to sit in the garden, where Mr Dodgson would be, with a book.

That way she might have a chance to write over the awk­wardness of last night. She would ask him about the play – she had read on billboards around town that it had a real sea into which a ship was wrecked. She would ask him about Caliban. It would be a topic for them; she would tell him that she was thinking of going herself.

Mary positioned herself with a book on a bench, near enough to see him and hear him, but far enough away, she told herself, not to be intrusive. If he
did
want to speak to her, she could be incorporated into the conversation quite naturally.

‘I thought you might like to pretend to be somebody else for a change,’ he said to Alice, there on the lawn. ‘It can get very dull being oneself all the time, if there is such a thing as oneself.’

‘Have you written down my story?’ said Alice.

‘Which one?’

‘You know which one!’

‘Not yet, Alice, I have been busy.’

‘
Please
start, otherwise you will forget it.’

Mary risked a glance up. Alice was on her knees, dismem­bering the contents of the dressing-up box, pulling out its bright innards: a Red Riding Hood cape, an orange parasol, a pile of rags.

‘This looks like something that might be worn at a circus,’ she said, holding up a slippery black jacket whose yellow leaves and birds were embroidered at a frantic pitch.

‘It is from the Orient.’

‘I’ll try it.’

She took off her jacket. Underneath she wore a thin blouse. Mary could see, through the material of the blouse as Alice bent over to unlace her shoes, her breasts. Buds of breasts.

She looked away, but the shape of them would not let her go. They reminded her of the springtime protrusions on a sapling: high and tight.

Another night and another morning to follow. Rolling on and on like a celestial carriage wheel, crushing her beneath its constant motion.

Alice put on the Chinese jacket and stuck her hands on her hips. She rolled her eyes up to the sky, as her mother did. She pointed her toe on the ground in front.

‘Look at me!’

Mary looked. Mr Dodgson smiled. He held up a pair of culottes. Alice stepped out of her skirt and her petticoats – left them there on the grass like the cast of a worm. Her legs were pale and smooth and she ran to him and grabbed the trousers.

She was always full of self-regard, poisonously so, but now – Mary stared at the back of Alice’s legs: she was making a display. A girl ought never to revel in herself.

Mary looked at Mr Dodgson for help. Surely they would be in agreement on this. They had always agreed before! About manners, about the need for rules.

If she could only get his attention.

Make him see her.

But he was looking at Alice.

Frustration built in Mary’s ribcage, overflowed into the joints of her, her elbows and wrists, making it impossible for her not to move. She flexed her fingers in and out. She must cut Alice down to size, it was her job, as Mrs Liddell would want her to. She must hack at her.

Pushing the book off her lap, she got up and went to where Alice was. She gripped her hard on her bare arm, below her shoulder. Pain pulled at the girl’s features.

She let her fingers press into Alice’s flesh. Just a little scrimp of muscle, then bone. She dug for the bone with her fingernails. ‘I will not have you running around like that! You are noisy and insubordinate and .  .  .’ As she gave way to her rage, Mary felt soothed. Alice’s face was the reward: twisted away from her, her mouth in the downward turn of a much younger child, as if she was about to cry. In one smooth motion Mary brought her other hand, as hard as she could, up and across to meet Alice’s cheek.

The slap rang out across the lawn, bouncing off the walls of the Deanery and back to the three of them, frozen in a tableau, in the middle of the lawn.

Mr Dodgson took hold of Mary by the shoulder and pushed her backwards. Two red spots burned high up on his cheeks, as if he had been slapped himself.

‘Miss Prickett! Please leave us. We are here to take a photo­graph. Leave us, please!’

Mary looked at him, for a sign, but his face, apart from its colour, was quite blank.

She found she was shaking. ‘Over here? Yes. I merely .  .  . Alice ought not to .  .  .’ What could she say to appeal to Mr Dodgson? Mrs Liddell would not want her daughters .  .  . Alice was nearly a young woman .  .  . She ought not to .  .  . It was for her own good!

Alice met her gaze stubbornly, her chin thrust forward. As Mary walked away, she heard Mr Dodgson ask her, in a low voice, if she was all right.

Yes, said Alice. She did not mind. Where should she stand?

Swifts screeched and doves sang out to one another. The chestnut tree next to the house fluffed up a top portion of its branches and was quiet again.

The sickness in Mary’s stomach pitched her forward as she walked. Her nose itched, her eyes were red with rubbing, her nostrils were full. She had forgotten her book on the bench, she realized. She could not go back for it now.

When Mrs Liddell came back later that evening, Alice was still in the garden with Mr Dodgson.

‘It is getting quite gloomy out there. I can’t think they can
still
be making a photograph.’ Mrs Liddell pulled the strings under­neath her bonnet and threw it off. ‘Could you fetch her for me, Miss Prickett? I cannot face going out again.’

‘Perhaps Ina might like to go,’ said Mary.

‘Ina is tired, and as you know, Miss Prickett, the photo­graphing of Alice is not her favourite topic. You go, bring her to me.’

There was no sign of them outside. Dew was forming on the lawn, staining the toes of Mary’s slippers as she walked. Perhaps the plate had not come out well. By now it would be too dark to prepare another one.

They must be still inside the darkroom. She could hear Alice’s voice, wheedling, whining. In the tone of her words she could divine the shape of Alice’s mouth: bottom lip pushing forward, tight at the corners. Mary had her hand on the heavy black curtain that served as the darkroom door.

Then Mr Dodgson, his voice rising and falling:

‘If you only spoke when you were spoken to, and the other person always waited for
you
to begin, nobody would ever say anything.’

He was talking of manners again, but upside down. That was strange.

‘That is not what Pricks says,’ said Alice.

‘Well, Pricks is full of thorns.’ Both of them laughed, as if at an old joke.

Mary hesitated, not yet understanding, but not going in.

‘Pricks will not get married, at least I cannot imagine it.’ Alice’s voice, careless.

‘No. The man that would marry Pricks must have a very thick skin, to keep from getting stuck.’

Alice laughed. ‘I should not like to see the man Pricks would marry. He would be too ugly. But there was that man, that common man, who used to visit her with us.’

In a rush, Mary understood. In the turn of a phrase she found herself standing on the other side of the bank, alone, watching Alice and Mr Dodgson, together.

‘Yes, I know, Alice. Step away from the tray, please.’

‘I don’t know what happened to him!’

‘Your governess’s love life is nothing to do with me. I would rather you did not mention it.’

The kernel of the thing that had always been there, that Mary had always known, sprang out and grew up and covered her over. Of course it was impossible – it had always been impossible, she saw now – that Mr Dodgson had loved her.

She crammed her fist into her mouth.

‘If I were engaged to be married, I could tell her what to do, couldn’t I? I mean, even if I were very young and she very old? If you are married, you are higher up than if you are not.’

‘I suppose so. But you must submit to Pricks for another year or so, until you have finished with her. Governesses are some­thing regrettable to be endured, I am afraid.’

Mary closed her eyes. Every word she heard now would live within her always, written on her brain like it was on her phrenology chart.
Regrettable
,
endured
. Just above her temple.

‘She ought to be nicer to me.’

‘Thorns are spiky. But that is what you have
me
for. I shall be as nice to you as I can for as long as I can until you are grown quite sick of it.’

‘I know! And I am glad for it. But can you come up to the nursery for tea? I saw some strawberry jam, I think.’

‘Bread and jam, how tempting. But it is late, I still have some work to do.’

Mary started to cry, silently.

‘Strawberry jam is my favourite kind of jam. And you always have work,’ said Alice.

‘Have a thought for all the poor strawberry pickers next time you put it in your mouth. Bent over all day in the fields just to get enough strawberries for your tea.’

Mary needed to be in her bedroom, alone. She needed to not let anyone see the tears that fell down her face. She turned at last and went unseeingly into the garden. Nobody was there. Once inside, she ran upstairs, one hand over her nose and mouth, the other pulling the rest of her up the banisters.

Chapter 28

Mary slept very little that night. The following morning she rose as if in a dream. The air was still damp with night.

She opened her mouth, as the pastor had told her to in Mr Wilton’s church. But nothing came. She was a dry river. All stones and pebbles. When she was a child, her mother used to tell her that God always answered a prayer, however trivial. It was just that he usually said no.

Her gaze fell on the picture of the Deanery given her by Mr Dodgson. In another moment she had ripped it off the wall – it was not framed – and torn it off its mount. The photographic paper was flimsy and it was nothing to tear it into pieces and crush it in her hand so that nothing but shreds of blackness remained.

She looked around for a waste-paper basket, but there was none; the maid must have taken it downstairs. She had an urge to be outside; she thought she might like to let the pieces go in the river, see them drift away from her.

She threw off her nightgown, fumbled on her chemise and drawers and stepped into her first petticoat, and her hoops. Her second petticoat she tried to force down over her head, for now that she had conceived the desire for the river, she was desper­ate to be outside, but it would not smooth out. She took it off again and stepped into it the normal way, breathing heavily. Her dress she snatched from the wardrobe and hurried down over her face, its dense silk scratching at her cheek.

She opened the front door slowly; there was a hinge that strained and she did not want any of the household to see her leave. But as she looked outside, she thought she must still be dreaming. Mr Wilton was sitting on his own, on a bench, wait ­ing for her. He must have been there all night: the bench and he seemed both to be carved of stone.

Mary’s lungs registered it before she did; they lurched up into her throat. Perhaps she could make it up with him.

She stepped out into the quadrangle, a smile on her face. She stuffed the torn photograph into her pocket and began quickly to tie the ribbons of her bonnet. It was still early and only one other set of footsteps could be heard approaching. Mary’s lips were pressed together in a hum, ready to say
Mr
, Mr Wilton, but his head was turned towards the footsteps, and he rose from his bench and stepped forward.

Mary looked in the direction of Mr Wilton’s gaze, and saw Mr Dodgson coming towards them both, making his way slowly, probably on account of the glass funnels he was carrying, in a bag, gripping them by their snouts. She had seen the same in the darkroom.

Mr Dodgson had not seen Mary or Mr Wilton yet, though he must be coming to the Deanery.

As Mary pressed herself back into the doorway, Mr Wilton went forward. Mr Dodgson was fiddling with his funnels, but he looked up to see Mr Wilton, quite close now.
I beg your pardon
, he said. Mary thought: they don’t know each other, and she thought: they will pass each other by.

But Mr Wilton did not step out of the way. He looked into Mr Dodgson’s face. His eyebrows tightened and a deep furrow appeared between them.

Mary bit her bottom lip, the taste of metal leaking into her mouth.

Mr Dodgson tried to walk on towards the Deanery, but Mr Wilton was blocking his path. Mr Dodgson brought both hands up to his chest, his package dangling in front of him like an awkward pendant. He started to step round Mr Wilton. But Mr Wilton would not let him go.

The hard crying of a child broke out behind her. Mary heard it as if it were connected to the scene unfolding in front.

Mr Dodgson stared at Mr Wilton with surprise.

‘Excuse me, may I pass?’

‘Mr Dodgson.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Dodgson. He stopped and stood with his chin pressed towards his neck, very stiff. His face was perplexed.

The child wailed. Mr Wilton’s cheeks were dark red. Mary could see the flesh on them shaking. He grabbed for Mr Dodgson. Mr Dodgson reared back, but not quickly enough, for the other had surprise on his side. Mr Wilton snatched at his chest and seized the package of glass funnels.

Mr Dodgson was too shocked to speak. He seemed to want to, but his jaw moved up and down wordlessly, like a pump with no water in it.

Mr Wilton swung his free hand back. He is going to hit him, Mary thought. Right there in the middle of Christ Church. Mr Dodgson would fall straight down on to the ground and never get up. It was impossible that he should be bloody and dishevelled and involved in a brawl and be able to get back up again into the world.

Mr Dodgson smiled in astonishment, as if he thought the same.

The tendons on Mr Wilton’s neck stood out. Without stepping back, he swung his other hand, the one holding the package, and hurled it at the ground next to their feet. It exploded out of the paper bag into fragments, which lay glistening around them: on their shoes, on the hems of their trousers.

Mr Dodgson looked down in amazement at what remained of his funnels. He bent down and tried to brush off the hem of his trousers, with the side of his hand.

And then, as he straightened up, he looked across to the Deanery, in the way that people do when they sense they are being watched, and straight into Mary’s face.

He nodded at her; embarrassment was the first thing on his face. She tried to smile in return, and nod, as if all this still remained in the realms of the ordinary. But something in her own face, in the way she had frozen herself in the doorway with her hand twisted behind her, caused Mr Dodgson to look at her again.

Mary felt herself pinned to the door; she felt his gaze strike her. They stared at each other, locked together, Mary aware of her face hanging down below her eyes and the blood draining from it.

Only now did Mr Wilton skirt round him, his feet crunching on glass, and walk away.

Mr Dodgson came towards her. In one hand he still held a fragment of the brown paper that had contained the glass funnels. ‘What are you, what are you doing?’

‘I just .  .  . I just came outside.’

‘Did you .  .  . did you
know
that man?’

‘No! Well, I may have seen him, at the store. At Elliston and Cavell.’

‘Elliston and Cavell?’

‘Yes. He is employed there.’

‘Employed? What is he doing
here
?’

‘I don’t know!’

Mr Dodgson squinted into her face. ‘You
did
know him. And he knew me!’ He shuddered, visibly. A kind of horror overtook his face. ‘I think it better, Miss Prickett,’ he said, the glass still glittering on his shoulders, ‘that we take no further notice of each other in public.’

‘No further notice,’ said Mary. ‘No.’

Mr Dodgson’s head was reared back on his neck as far as it could be, but Mary thought she saw something like shame pass over his features too.

And then the same blank look fell over his face, the one that she had seen after the incident with Alice.

‘As I said. No more notice.’

He turned from her, back to the shattered glass. And then he swerved away again, as if he did not know where he was going.