That, I suspect, is an example of what Daddy calls sentimental thinking. “Where is God, exactly?” I asked, thinking about angels flying between us and Him.
Lavinia looked shocked and stopped turning pages. “Why, up there, of course.” She pointed at the sky outside. “Don’t you listen at Sunday school?”
“But there are stars and planets up there,” I said. “I know-I’ve seen them through Daddy’s telescope.”
“You watch out, Maude Coleman,” Lavinia said, “or you’ll commit blasphemy.”
“But-”
“Don‘t!” Lavinia covered her ears. “I can’t bear to listen!”
Ivy May giggled.
I gave up. “Let’s go back to Jenny.”
This time Jenny was waiting for us at the main gate, red and breathless as if she’d just climbed the hill again, but unhurt, I was glad to see.
“Where’ve you girls been?” she cried. “I’ve been worried silly!”
We were all just starting down the hill when I asked her if she’d checked on the fabric for Mummy.
“The book!” she shrieked, and ran back into the cemetery to fetch it. I hate to think where she left it.
Jenny Whitby
I were none too pleased to be running errands for the missus, I can tell you. She knows very well how busy I am. Six in the blooming morning till nine at night-later if they’ve a supper party. One day’s holiday a year apart from Christmas and Boxing Day. And she wants me to take back books and pick up fabric-things she can very well do herself. Books I’ve no time to read myself, even if I wanted to-which I don’t.
Still, it were a lovely sunny day, and I’ll admit ‘twas nice to get out, though I don’t much like that hill up to the village. We got to the cemetery and I were going to leave the girls there and nip up to the shops and back. Then I saw him, on his own, pushing a wheelbarrow across the courtyard with a little skip in his step. He looked back at me and smiled, and I thought, Hang on a tick.
So I went in with the girls and told ‘em to do what they liked for half an hour, no more. They was wanting to find a little boy they play with, and I said to be careful and not to let him get cheeky. And to keep an eye on the little girl, Ivy May. She’s of the habit of getting left behind, it seems-though I bet she likes it that way. I made ’em all hold hands. So they run off one way, and I t‘other.
NOVEMBER 1903
Kitty Coleman
Tonight we went with the Waterhouses to a bonfire on the heath. The girls wanted to, and the men get on well enough (though Richard privately mocks Albert Waterhouse as a buffoon), and it’s left to Gertrude Waterhouse and me to smile and bear each other’s company as best we can. We stood around an enormous bonfire on Parliament Hill, clutching our sausages and roast potatoes, and marveling that we were gathered on the very hill where Guy Fawkes waited to see Parliament burn. I watched as people moved closer to or farther away from the heat of the flames, trying to find a spot where they were comfortable. But even if our faces were hot, our backs were cold-like the potatoes, charred on the outside, raw inside.
My threshold to heat is much higher than Richard’s or Maude‘s-or most people’s, for that matter. I stepped closer and closer until my cheeks flamed. When I looked around, the ring of people was far behind me-I stood alone by the edge of the fire.
Richard wasn’t even looking at the fire, but up at the clear sky. That is just like him-his love is not heat, but the cold distance of the universe. When we were first courting he would take me, with Harry as chaperon, to observation parties to look at the stars. I thought it most romantic then. Tonight, though, when I followed his gaze up to the starry sky all I felt was the blank space between those pinpricks and me, and it was like a heavy blanket waiting to drop on me. It was almost as suffocating as my fear of being buried alive.
I cannot see what he sees in the stars-he and now Maude, for he has begun taking her with him when he goes out to the heath at night with his telescope. I haven’t said anything, because there is nothing I can truly complain of, and Maude clearly thrives on his attention. But it brings me low, for I can see him fostering in her the same cold rationality that I discovered in him once we were married.
I am being ridiculous, of course. I, too, was brought up by my father to be logical, and I despise the sentimentality of the age, as embodied to perfection by the Waterhouses. But I’m secretly glad Maude and Lavinia are friends. Irritating and melodramatic as Lavinia is, she is not cold, and she counterbalances the icy hand of astronomy.
I stood by the fire, everyone around me so cheerful, and thought what an odd creature I am-even I know that. Too much space and I’m frightened, too little and I’m frightened. There is indeed no comfortable place for me-I am too near the fire or too far away.
Behind me, Gertrude Waterhouse stood with an arm around each daughter. Maude stood next to Lavinia, and they were all laughing about something-Maude a little shyly, as if she was not sure she should be sharing the laughter with them. I felt a pang for her.
At times it is painful to be with the Waterhouses. Lavinia may be bossy with her mother, but there is clearly an affection between them that I cannot muster with Maude. After a few hours with them I come away resolved to link my arm with Maude’s when we walk, as Gertrude does with Lavinia. And to be with her more-read to her, help her with her sewing, bring her into the garden with me, take her into town.
It has never been like that with her. Maude’s birth was a shock from which I have not recovered. When I came to from the ether and first held her in my arms I felt as if I were nailed to the bed, trapped by her mouth at my breast. Of course I loved her-love her-but my life as I had imagined it ended on that day. It fed a low feeling in me that resurfaces with increasing frequency.
At least I was lucky in my doctor. When he came to see me a few days after the birth I sent the nurse from the room and told him I wanted no more babies. He took pity on me and explained the timing and the signs to look for, and what I might say to my husband to keep him away during those times. It does not work for every woman, but it has for me, and Richard has never guessed-not that he is often in my bed these days. I had to pay the doctor, of course, an ironic fee-“to make certain you’ve understood my lesson” was how he put it-just the once when my body had recovered. I kept my eyes closed and it wasn’t so bad. It did occur to me that he could use it against me, blackmail me for further payments in the flesh, but he never did. For that and his biology lesson I have always been grateful. I even shed a tear when I later heard he had died. An understanding doctor can come in handy at times.
To be fair to Maude, that trapped feeling had emerged well before her birth. I first felt it one morning when Richard and I were just back from our honeymoon and newly installed in our London house. He kissed me good-bye in my new morning room-which I had chosen to be at the front of the house, overlooking the street rather than the garden, so that I could keep an eye on the world outside-and left to catch his train to work. I watched from the window as he walked away, and felt the same jealousy I had suffered when seeing my brother go off to school. When he had gone around the corner, I turned and looked at the still, quiet room, just on the edge of the city that is the center of the world, and I began to cry. I was twenty years old, and my life had settled into a long, slow course over which I had no control.
I recovered, of course. I knew very well that I was lucky in many things: to have had an education and a liberal father, to have a husband who is handsome and well enough off that we can afford a cook as well as a live-in maid, and who does not discourage me from bettering myself, even if he is unable to give me the larger world I long for. I dried my tears that morning, grateful that at least my mother-in-law had not been there to see me cry. Small mercies-I thank my God for them.