The Vivisector (6 page)

Mumma either didn’t see you were there, or else she was admitting you to her thoughts: you were still so close to the outing you had been together.

As she came round the table to take the plate Pa had been using, she said like to herself: ‘Fancy remembering the colour of ’er eyes!’ then, out louder: ‘I think you’re right. They was blue eyes.’

She was laughing, first to herself, then for him. ‘Like yours, Hurt! Blue.’ And instead of clearing the plate from the table, she took his face in her hands, and looked close into it.

‘My eyes are grey. Sometimes they’re on the greenish side.’ But he could hardly pronounce it: she was squeezing his cheeks so tight together she was giving him a fish’s mouth.

‘Blue! Blue like Mrs Courtney’s!’ She was so glad to have discovered what she wanted to be a likeness, she couldn’t be persuaded it wasn’t the truth.

So he became ashamed of his shabby, silly mother. He became ashamed of himself for loving, yet not loving her more. Because it was Mumma he loved, not Mrs Courtney. That was different: the vision made him shiver with joy; he wished he had been in a position to touch her.

He was soon sad and hopeless with all these feelings. He was afraid Mumma, trembling with excitement and pleasure, might begin to cotton on to how he really felt inside, so he dragged his face out of her hands, and ran out to the others in the yard.

 

For the next day’s ironing, he didn’t dare expect. But when the following Monday came he had on his cap. He was ready standing at the street gate.

Lugging her bundle, Mumma was looking thoughtful and anxious. She hadn’t reckoned on him as well.

‘How—’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean you to come, Hurtle. Not every time. That wouldn’t be good for you.’

Because he was determined to win, he didn’t ask in what way it wouldn’t be good. He walked along. Here and there he skipped to lighten the silence.

‘I mean it,’ she said.

But he saw she was weak this morning. The baby was too heavy in her. So he took her hand. And they walked along.

When they arrived at Courtneys’ it was much the same as the first time, though they made less fuss of him because he was no longer a surprise. Perhaps Miss Keep looked more disgusted than before. Mrs Noble stared moodily through him, and didn’t offer him the thick spread of cherry jam.

‘Watch out, Master Clumsy!’ said Lizzie. ‘You just about murdered my favourite corn.’

As he wore out the morning around the yard he began to feel he had been wrong to come. Mr Thompson the gardener wouldn’t hardly speak. A grey wind was filling the empty clothes on the line.

He might have started a row with Mumma over a plug he didn’t mean to pull out, if the door hadn’t opened behind their backs and someone come into the laundry.

‘I’m looking for my kitten.’ It was a small, though bossy voice.

You wouldn’t have thought she hadn’t seen him before.

‘Well, Rhoda,’ said Mumma, ‘I haven’t noticed your kitten. But don’t expect he’s lost. Cats are independent things.’ She had too many children to take much interest in pets.

Nor was Rhoda particularly interested, it seemed. She was looking at you, her head trembling on her thin neck. Her hair was pink rather than red. On one side of her neck she had a large birthmark the colour of milk chocolate.

‘What is the kitten’s name, love?’

But Rhoda wasn’t interested in Mumma’s polite interest. She had buttoned up her mouth tight. Her head no longer trembled, but lolled on her frail neck. She probably hated him on sight. He could have hit Rhoda: except she might have died. She reminded him of the crook-necked pullet at home Mumma hadn’t the heart to kill.

‘This is my little boy. This is Hurtle, Rhoda,’ Mrs Duffield the laundress was only vaguely saying as she rubbed a garment back and forth over the ridges of the wash-board. ‘How about taking him outside—have a game—the two of you? But gentle, Hurt.’

Rhoda said: ‘No.’ All the pinkish curls shook.

She looked as though she mightn’t have known how to play. She was so clean. None of the snot of Winnie and Flo. So frail, she might have broken. But her thin lips were firm, and probably spiteful.

Mumma laughed, and said: ‘You’re right, dear. Boys like rough games.’

She bent to kiss the little thing, who ducked her head, and avoided with the whole of her body. Mumma could only stroke with her hand the white dress she must have laundered recently. It could have been her nails you heard catching in the material.

‘O—oohh!’ Rhoda complained aloud.

She was going outside, not, you felt, in search of her cat, but away. The cat had probably only ever been an excuse.

As Rhoda left he saw she had more than a crooked neck: her back was humped. It gave him a queer turn to see the hump for the first time. He didn’t mention it to Mumma. And Mumma didn’t mention it. She kept on rubbing the sudsy clothes against the board, on her mouth a tight smile, which he knew had nothing to do with her thoughts.

The damp stone laundry, smelling of Lysol and yellow soap, began to horrify him. He had heard of prisons in which they tortured men in the old days. Mumma couldn’t have escaped, she had the washing, she was used to it, but he who was cowardly and young, he was still also free. So he went quickly quietly out. It wasn’t altogether cowardly, either, to leave Mumma with the washing and their nightmare thoughts. It was necessary for him to see the Courtneys’ house again. The felted door went
pff
as he passed through.

And at once he was received by his other world: of silence and beauty. He touched the shiny porcelain shells. He stood looking up through the chandelier, holding his face almost flat, for the light to trickle and collect on it. The glass fruit tinkled slightly, the whole forest swaying, because of a draught from an open window.

He was himself again.

Now he could go on towards other private memories of the house. He could hear a pen scratching in the distance as his feet slid on the mossy carpet.

‘Who is it?’ the voice called. ‘Is it you, darling?’ The pen was silent. ‘Rhoda?’ the voice rose.

He reached the doorway. Mrs Courtney was seated at her desk with a tray beside her. While writing she must have been drinking what smelled of chocolate, out of an enormous gold-rimmed cup. She began to clutch her bosom, of which she was showing rather a lot. She wasn’t properly dressed yet.

‘Who—?’ she began, angrily frowning. Then she calmed down. ‘Oh—you’re the boy—the laundress’ boy.’ Still frowning, but lazily, she asked: ‘What do they call you, dear?

He told her his name, but he saw she didn’t take it in. He was only a child: he didn’t matter.

A mild sunlight made her hair look even looser than it was. Her gown had collected, loose and creamy, round her chair. The big blue velvet bows softly drooped. Above the cup, making up its mind, hung a bee attracted to the chocolate: it made you feel drowsy.

Mrs Courtney lowered her eyes. ‘One of my sleepless nights,’ she explained. ‘I’m not usually so late. I lead a very busy life.’

If she had been caught out she wasn’t going to apologize: this was a lady getting ready to enjoy a chat.

‘Sit down,’ she ordered. ‘Or how can I feel comfortable?’

The eyes, when she raised them, were bluer than before. She cocked her head, and smiled so sweetly at him, you wouldn’t have thought she had the advantage: he might have been a man.

Then, when she felt she had looked too long, even at a child, she sank her mouth rather greedily in the cup of chocolate. She showed no signs of asking whether they could bring him some. But he didn’t need it: he was full of the scent from Mrs Courtney’s cup.

‘Aren’t you going to entertain me?’ she laughed rather high.

It would have put him off if he hadn’t fortunately noticed the photo of Rhoda on her desk. It was framed in gold, with golden branches wreathed round the picture, the branches flowering with blistered pearls.

He took the photo. ‘It’s a good likeness,’ he said in his best voice.

‘You haven’t met her, have you?’ Mrs Courtney didn’t want her chat spoilt.

‘Just now,’ he said, covering the frame with his hands so that he only saw the picture. ‘You did right to only take her head.’

‘Why?’ Mrs Courtney gasped, but it could have been because she had jogged her cup of chocolate.

‘Well, the back. You wouldn’t want to see the back. The head is the best part of her.’

‘It’s only a slight curvature,’ Rhoda’s mother spluttered. ‘It can be corrected.’

‘You can see her skin is the kind of white that goes with red hair.’ He was still holding the photographed head framed in his two hands.

‘Red? I wouldn’t call it red.’ It was once more a laughing matter. ‘I like to think of it as “strawberry”.’

He put the likeness back on the desk. Red or pink, Rhoda had the smell of red people.

‘What a quaint fellow you are! What did you say your name was?’

“Hurtle Duffield.’

‘How did you learn to speak as you do?’ Because all this while he had been speaking bookish.

‘From Mr Olliphant.’

‘Oh, that’s splendid!’ She laughed. ‘And who is Mr Olliphant? ’

‘The rector. Only he’s gone. He’s sick.’

She rearranged Rhoda’s likeness. ‘You’re lucky to have been taken up by a clergyman. Even if he’s left you in the lurch.’

She was becoming very serious, locking her hands together in front of her on the desk. As she learned forward her lovely eyes began to bulge.

‘The ethical side of life is so important,’ she told him. ‘Even when I am run off my feet—my husband says I undertake too much—I only have to remind myself of that. Nothing will make me neglect the charities I have taken up. Lonely seamen, for instance. And girls who—who have fallen by the wayside.’

‘Why have they fallen by the wayside?’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘the city is full of vice, and human nature is weak. But we can’t merely accept, Hurtle. We must help others help themselves.’

He understood better now, but didn’t know you could do anything about human nature: of the people he knew, one half called the other half hopeless.

Mrs Courtney was carrying on. ‘Then there’s the question of cruelty to animals. It’s
heart
-rending,’ she moaned and rubbed at a spot of chocolate she had spilt below her creamy bosom, ‘what I’ve seen with my own eyes. I’m at present organizing a ball to raise funds for the Society. Harry—my husband—tells me I’m mad to become involved with another committee. But how can one avoid it? When one’s conscience becomes involved.’

Her rings were shining fiercely in the sunlight, while the blue eyes had begun to blur.

‘My husband is away in the country—at one of our properties, ’ she went on. ‘He has to visit them regularly to see what the managers are up to. I decided early—on our honeymoon, in fact—I couldn’t live in the country. I mean, I couldn’t endure the idleness, when there is so much in life to tackle. Harry says I get nowhere for attempting too much.’ She looked at a little jewelled watch hanging from her by a gold chain. ‘But he’s cynical. I adore him. I’m so nervous while he’s away on these long visits.’

She was looking older, for a lady anyway. Real ladies on the whole looked younger.

‘How I’ve been running on! Tell me about your brothers and sisters,’ she ordered, to try to cheer herself up.

‘They’re just kids. Oh, one of them’s a bit simple. That’s Will. We sleep in the same bed.’ He suspected he had forgotten to use Mr Olliphant’s voice.

‘How delicious!’ she said. ‘I mean, it’s sad. But you’re a most handsome fellow.’ She came up close and began ruffling his hair: he felt dizzy from the smell of her dress, and her too, underneath. ‘Harry will love you,’ she said. ‘He loves a manly, forthright boy.’

But he didn’t think he wanted to be loved by Mr Courtney. Pa didn’t love: he only put up with you.

And Mrs Courtney had begun again to feel nervous. Her dress moved away with her. She began dabbing her lips with her handkerchief rolled into a ball. She went and pulled the bell.

When the parlourmaid came, she said in an altered, mistressy voice: ‘Find Miss Rhoda, Edith. She hasn’t been near me this morning. I’m afraid she may be over-exerting herself.’

After Edith had gone, Mrs Courtney explained to him, again as though he was a grown-up man, or just because she had to pull out the plug: ‘Nurse is a kind old thing, but not a good influence. She should bring me the child before I get up. Poor Rhoda! On top of everything else, she’s highly strung. She has a
cat.
Which Nurse allows her to take to bed. It could give her asthma. Or something.’

In her excitement she had taken his head and was holding it to her side. ‘How your mother must love you,’ she said.

He was so shocked he pulled away. She didn’t seem to notice.

‘Didn’t you ever have another? Besides this Rhoda,’ he mumbled.

‘Oh, yes—
no!
Impossible!’

She stood knotting her rings against her flowing gown. She looked for the first time awkward: her mouth was pulled into an ugly shape; her hair was old. But he could remember what he had seen and felt.

Quite suddenly Rhoda had come in. She tended to move sideways. Of course the poor thing had her affliction to hide. He looked at her with disgust.

Rhoda turned her head away.

‘Have you forgotten all about your mother, darling?’ Mrs Courtney inquired with rash courage.

Rhoda didn’t answer. She touched a flower on the carpet with her toe. Mrs Courtney held her breath watching Rhoda make the flower real.

The mother broke the spell. ‘Did you do your board exercises? Did you? I know it’s unpleasant, but it’s for your own good. Did Nurse see that you lay on the board?’

Rhoda made some watery sounds. Her head trembled on her frail neck.

‘You see,’ Mrs Courtney told the air, ‘it’s time we engaged the governess.’