The Looking Glass House (20 page)

Chapter 31

Yesterday Mr Dodgson had come to teach them chess and had stayed an hour, Mary with them all, watch­ing, listening. To see him now was to look at him from the other end of a telescope; to hear the rhythm of his voice, in the same light tone as ever, while she sat there in utter blackness.

Most of the following night she had lain in her room, in the darkness, awake, sharpening her plan.

Between the stage of her mind and her eyelids she put up one character and then another, made them speak, get up, sit down.

She smiled as she went up the High Street.
May They Be Happy? Certainly not
.

Mr Osmond, the watch- and clockmaker, had his shop in Magdalen Street. His window was crowded with faces: long-faced grandfather clocks with hanging pendulums, chubby-faced mantel clocks, watches whose insides were visible, even a cuckoo clock in the shape of a wooden house.

Mr Dodgson had often talked about the problem of where the day began. Suppose you started from London at midday on Tuesday and travelled with the sun, reaching London again at midday on Wednesday, he had said. At the end of every hour if you asked the residents of the place you had reached the name of the day, you must at one point be told Wednesday, even though it was still 1 p. m. on Tuesday at the place you had left an hour before. The children had not understood this and neither could she. But Mr Dodgson had told them it didn’t matter, because neither did he, and that was the point.

Mary shook her head and looked down at the pavement. She walked on past Theophilus Carter, the antique dealer, who stood at the door of his shop with his top hat on the back of his head, his hooked nose, and receding chin that vanished into his collar. Past the bookshop, towards the pharmacy, with its mahogany pillars standing on either side of the door, its polished tiles and its glass jars stacked to the ceiling in antiseptic ranks. The smell of lavender and liquorice soothed her. Sanitized her intent. The horrid mess of human bodies and illness and excrement could all find its antidote here, in one of those jars.

On the first afternoon she bought a bottle of Loring’s Fat-Ten-U, imported from America. A spoonful every day, the pharmacist told her with a nod, implying that she would be plump in no time. Even so, the next afternoon she was back, having told Mrs Liddell that she needed something for her cough. She did not have a cough, but spent some time staring at cough drops and bowel exciters, finally being forced to buy a bottle of Vin Mariani, a French tonic wine intent on restoring her health. It cost her dear, but she still went back on the third day, this time pleading a headache to Mrs Liddell, until she was sure the shopkeeper was staring at her, his eyes sunken in his angular face. He must think she had a disease of such noxious­ness and embarrassment that she could not tell him what really ailed her.

After that, she crept out of the Deanery as soon as she had a break in her duties, and sat on the bench opposite the pharmacy reading
Vanity Fair
, or pretending to. Men and women, children and dogs came from nowhere and disappeared into nothing, and nobody took any notice of Mary, sitting and staring at her instalment.

At last, on the fourth afternoon, when her excuses to Mrs Liddell were wearing thin, she saw the woman she had been waiting for: Mrs Chitterworth. Her face was glassily implacable; she was entering the pharmacy, as Mary had known she must.

‘Good afternoon,’ said the pharmacist, his eyes widening as Mary came in. ‘Are you having a recurrence of your old problems?’

Mary flushed. ‘Old problems, yes. That is to say, similar problems.’ She moved purposefully towards a shelf near to Mrs Chitterworth and arranged her features into a mask of surprise.

‘Oh, Mary. I thought I recognized your voice. Your mother said you had not been well. And you look quite feverish. I am not well either. My head aches when I wake up and again in the evening. And I have a terrible itch on the arm that will not go away, day or night. I came to see if I could get a cream for it.’

Now that Mrs Chitterworth was in front of her, Mary could not think how to steer the conversation in the direction that she needed, that she had rehearsed so many times in her head. ‘I have a headache too.’

‘Have you tried this Skin Soother Herbal Relief? That one is good, I believe, for all sorts of maladies.’

She knew, Mary thought. Mrs Chitterworth could see into the pathways of her mind and find Mr Dodgson there, and then her plan for revenge would come to nothing. She was about to turn out of the store when Mrs Chitterworth said:

‘I saw Mr Wilton yesterday. He looked better than he has been recently.’

Mary nodded, trying to appear blank.

Mrs Chitterworth lowered her voice. ‘They say he has turned his sights to the milliner, Miss Preston. Which must be a reprieve to you.’

Mary did not feel reprieved. She turned away to the racks of opium pain relief. Of course Mrs Chitterworth would know about Mr Wilton. She knew everything; that was why Mary had chosen her.

‘Mary, do you need some air? I can pay for these later.’

Mary nodded and breathed out sharply. She turned to Mrs Chitterworth. ‘Some air would be very good, just what I need. Shall we go to the meadows?’

It was strange to sit in the meadows with Mrs Chitterworth, not too far from where she had once sat with Mr Dodgson, in geog­raphy at least. It was quiet; a wind scuttled the leaves from the trees and whipped a strand of Mary’s hair into her eyes.

Mrs Chitterworth looked eagerly at Mary. She wanted Mary to give her something, it was clear, a piece of confession, in the guise of Mrs Chitterworth’s helping. And so it was easy to do.

‘I am glad Mr Wilton has moved on. I would not want to be the cause of any unhappiness. He is a good man and will find a good wife. On that topic, I have learned something that may surprise you,’ Mary continued smoothly.

This was not what Mrs Chitterworth had been expecting, but she leaned in.

‘Of another engagement. A secret engagement.’

Mrs Chitterworth leaned in further, her mouth falling open in a O of pleasure. Mary could see a moist glistening inside her cheeks.

‘Between Mr Dodgson and Alice,’ said Mary.

The O broadened to a capital. ‘Mr Dodgson and
Alice
? But I thought Mr Dodgson was visiting the Deanery so much because he is paying court to you! And that is why you refused Mr Wilton.’

Mary shook her head, as if it was unimportant. ‘No, no, nothing like that. I never suspected the same. No, no.’ She stared at the metal bench; she could feel the nubs of it sticking into the backs of her legs.

‘
Alice?’
said Mrs Chitterworth again. ‘But she is only, what is she, twelve years old?’

‘Eleven.’

‘Do they intend to wait until she is eighteen? I suppose they must. And what does Mrs Liddell say?’

‘It is a secret engagement. Only I know, and I came upon it by chance.’

‘What chance?’ Mrs Chitterworth was flushed, her hands in their gloves agitated on her lap; her whole body, with its rounded shoulders, formed a question mark.

‘I heard it by chance, I should say.’

‘Heard it?’

‘I was outside the door; they did not know I was there.’

The scene that Mary was about to describe to Mrs Chitterworth had replayed itself as she lay in her room that night.

Alice and Mr Dodgson were playing chess, she said.

Alice was making remarks about the Queen’s face and the grumpy King and the dear little Knight, about to take off at a gallop. And Mr Dodgson was showing Alice how the Knight moved.

‘Do you think the Queen will pay us another visit? The real one, I mean, now that Prince Edward is married,’ Alice said.

‘I shouldn’t think it is unlikely.’

‘Oh, I wish it could be a royal wedding every day!’

‘But I almost forgot. I have brought you a drawing.’ Mary saw Mr Dodgson pull out the drawing again, and Alice’s pout. She did not approve of marital unhappiness, especially in a prince and princess.

‘Mr Dodgson is being unkind. Aren’t you, Mr Dodgson?’

‘If they ask, they must expect a reply.’

‘But they didn’t ask. And I dare say they would not expect that reply.’

Mrs Chitterworth sat very still on the bench, her gloved hands gripping the bars.

Mary paused.

‘And then? And then?’ said Mrs Chitterworth.

‘Mr Dodgson, as far as I remember, said that he wasn’t serious, that their marriage was a fine thing, and the fact that he spent the celebration of it with her even finer. Then Alice said that she should like to wear a dress, all in white, with pearls at the collar, just like Princess Alexandra, and suggested that they play a game where she pretended to be the Princess.’

‘Let us begin at the marriage,’ said Alice.

‘I don’t think we ought to play a game that is set in a church, Alice dearest, even in jest. We can begin at getting engaged, if you like.’

‘Oh yes, Mr Dodgson. I should so like to be engaged to be married.’

Mary went downstairs, the voices of Alice and Mr Dodgson still very clear in the corridor.

All this, as she remembered it, was true, and all of it she told to Mrs Chitterworth, as the wind chilled her cheeks and blew against her ears.

And then, instead of going to her room, as the real Mary had done, Mary told Mrs Chitterworth that she had returned to the nursery to fetch her gloves. She told her this easily; she almost believed it herself, because in the night this fictional Mary had grown her own life, just as Alice did in her story.

As she had been approaching the door (she told Mrs Chitterworth), Mary had heard Mr Dodgson say:

‘My dearest Alice, will you marry me?’

Mary, as she told it, had stopped then and peered in through the crack in the door, only to see Mr Dodgson down on one knee. She thought they were still playing the game, but there was something about Mr Dodgson, she said, that arrested her.

Alice said: ‘
Yes!
There is no one in the world whom I would like to marry more.’

‘I am the happiest man in the world.’

Mr Dodgson got up, Mary said, his eyes flashing. Alice got up too and put her hands on his shoulders.

‘I love you, Mr Dodgson!’

‘I love you too, Alice.’

And then, said Mary, Mr Dodgson had wrapped both his arms round Alice and buried his face in her hair. They had stood like this for an age. Mary stood with a beating heart, hoping not to be heard.

And then Alice had turned her face up to his, her arms still round Mr Dodgson’s neck. Very slowly (Mary had thought she might explode with holding her breath), Mr Dodgson bent his head down and kissed her.

‘Kissed?’ Mrs Chitterworth’s eyes were wide. ‘Where?’

Mary had often seen Mr Dodgson kiss Alice, on her eyes, her hair, her cheeks.

‘Her lips,’ she said.

‘They are engaged then,’ breathed Mrs Chitterworth. ‘And Mrs Liddell’s hopes are dashed!’

‘There are letters that show his intent. Not outright, but they show his feelings,’ Mary said casually. ‘I have seen them.’

‘Letters! How careless. I will tell no one, of course,’ said Mrs Chitterworth.

‘Of course,’ said Mary. She put her hands by her sides and pushed herself up. ‘It has been good to see you. I feel quite revived! It is a secret. I only told you, well, because you are a friend.’ She smiled.

‘Oh, no one!’ said Mrs Chitterworth. ‘I am the servant of discretion.’ She yanked on her bonnet and pursed her lips, as if to emphasize that nothing would pass through them.

If it was a secret, Mrs Chitterworth could not reveal her sources, Mary thought. There would be no way to trace the rumour back to her.

Chapter 32

It took three days. Three days for the infor­mation that Mary had poured into Mrs Chitterworth’s ears to flow all the way round Oxford, and back in through the Deanery’s front door.

Mary was sitting in the schoolroom, staring through the window at the grey sky pressing down, when she heard footsteps hurrying up the stairs. Mr and Mrs Liddell were arguing: she in a fury and he, lower, restraining.

As they came closer she could hear Mrs Liddell say: ‘It is an outrage! Does he think he is good enough for her? And why would he not come to me first?’

‘Lorina, caution. It is just another rumour.’

‘And when I think of all the kindness I have shown Dodgson, to be repaid like this! I cannot believe it.’

‘Then don’t believe it until you know it to be true. We must all live together here.’ Mr Liddell had a hand on his wife’s arm, trying to pull her back. His hair was unbrushed; he looked as if he had been surprised at his desk. He was not slowing her down.

Mary went out into the corridor.

‘Mama?’ said Ina.

Mrs Liddell went towards Alice’s room. Mary stood at her door.

‘Is Mr Dodgson here?’ Mrs Liddell asked Alice.

‘No, Mama, he has just left. He said he would take me out riding tomorrow; may I go with him?’

‘No, Alice, I am afraid you may not.’

‘Oh, please may I go? You know I love to ride and he has promised to take me the prettiest way.’

‘Your mother means that it is the Long Vacation in a couple of days and there is plenty to do before we leave for Penmorfa.’

Mrs Liddell turned to stare at her husband. Her hair had come loose where she had passed her hand unseeingly through it; strands of it fell down over the collar of her blouse with its high neck and amber clasp.

‘What shall I tell Mr Dodgson?’ said Alice.

‘You shall not tell him anything, Alice. I shall tell him you are too busy.’

‘But I am not too busy. You ought not to lie.’

‘And you ought not to keep things from your mother.’

‘Keep things, what things?’ Alice looked at her mother and sat back down on the bed.

Mary stepped in closer. You moved the first piece along the chessboard and then the second, and the third followed suit.

‘You cannot go about with Mr Dodgson whilst the rest of the house is in turmoil. You know very well how much there is to be done. Really, Alice, you are too demanding! I ought to have kept a stricter eye on you.’

‘What have I done? What is wrong?’ Alice saw something in her mother’s face that made her lower lip start to shake.

Mary put her hand to her own face, to cover her mouth, going in a different direction.

‘You have done nothing wrong,’ said the Dean. ‘Come, Lorina, let us go back downstairs.’

‘Where are the letters?’

‘What letters?’

‘The letters that Mr Dodgson sent you.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘She does know! She looks at them all the time.’ Ina stepped forward.

Alice looked very small, sitting on the bed.

‘Where are they?’

‘They are in her doll’s house,’ said Ina. ‘The one you gave her for her birthday.’

Mrs Liddell crossed the room. She was too big for it, and the feeling increased when she knelt down next to the doll’s house and wrenched off the front.

She untied the letters and began to read, her lips forming the words. With each one finished she let it fall on the floor or passed it silently to her husband. Her face was a deep red.

Alice was crying now, silently too. ‘What have I done?’ she said. ‘I don’t understand. Why are you reading my letters?’

‘I did not know he sent you so many,’ said Mrs Liddell.

‘Lorina, you ought not to read the child’s letters,’ said Mr Liddell. ‘Come downstairs and we shall talk about it.’

‘Henry, I shall come in a minute. Listen to this one: “Oh, this pride, this pride!” Mrs Liddell’s voice was surprised and resent­ful. “How it spoils a child who would otherwise be quite endurable! And pride of birth is the worst of all. Besides, I don’t believe the Liddell family is as old as you say: it’s all nonsense that idea of yours, that you can trace your ancestors back to the ark, I do not believe it for one moment – unless perhaps you are descended from a monkey. Besides, I am descended from Noah, so you needn’t turn your nose up (and chin and eyes and hair) so
very
high! ”’

‘Well, you know how the man is, Lorina. It is a joke,’ said Mr Liddell. He stood angled towards the door as if he meant to step out of it at any second, his mouth miserable with embar­rassment and awkwardness.

Mrs Liddell held on to the last letter, the one about the plums, with both hands. She shook her head violently.

Now Mary would see; she had been waiting for it.

But instead Mrs Liddell grew very still. She folded the last letter up into squares.

‘Ina, could you get the rest please? I am taking them downstairs.’

‘Why, Mama, what is wrong?’ Alice’s eyes seemed to take up all of her face.

‘I should not like anyone to find these; they may fall into the wrong hands.’

‘Wrong hands?’

‘They are too affectionate.’

‘But why should they not be affectionate?’

‘You will understand, Alice, when you are a grown-up.’

Mrs Liddell took up all the notes and letters, the product of seven years of friendship, and turned to the door. Then she turned back to her middle daughter. ‘Did Mr Dodgson
say
any­thing to you?’

‘What do you mean?’

Mrs Liddell stared at her. ‘I mean: do you have an
arrangement
?’

‘What kind of arrangement?’

Mrs Liddell said nothing.

‘We are supposed to be meeting tomorrow, for riding,’ said Alice at last.

‘Does he take you on his knee?’ said Mrs Liddell.

‘Yes, you have seen him do it!’

‘Mr Dodgson’s manner is
too affectionate
. He has made this family the subject of gossip, not for the first time.’ She turned to Mary. ‘I thought he was supposed to be courting you!’

Mary smiled painfully. ‘Me?’

‘Of course, I knew there was no truth in
that
rumour.’

Mary felt the blush start at her breast and burn upwards past her neck, her cheeks, and into her hairline.

‘This rumour is much worse.’ Mrs Liddell shut her eyes, her mouth a thin line. When she spoke, she barely moved her lips. ‘Alice, was there any talk of marriage?’

‘Marriage? Yes. We always talk of marriage. He says he will be my prince.’

Mrs Liddell opened her eyes wide again, turned and pushed past Mary through the door.

Alice was confused. ‘The Prince and Princess’s marriage, Mama. The Illuminations! What did you mean?’

Alice followed after her mother but could not get up to her; she was moving so fast and her dress took up all the width of the corridor. The Dean, Mary and Ina followed behind.

‘You are a child. You cannot be expected to know.’

Mrs Liddell got downstairs and pushed through the doors into the servants’ quarters and the kitchen. Mrs Cook was preparing dinner, rasping away at a large cow’s tongue that arched over the sideboard. The windows were opaque with steam.

‘Mrs Liddell. Has there been a change to the menu?’

‘No change, Mrs Cook. I need a box of matches?’

Mrs Cook stopped and took in the mother, the children, the governess, the bell jar of weight that surrounded them all. She did not ask what the matches were for, but fetched the greasy box and placed it in Mrs Liddell’s outstretched palm.

In the drawing room, Mrs Liddell crouched down over the waste-paper basket, her bustled skirts pooling out behind her on the floor, and lit a match to the first of the letters. It flared up immediately, the flame burning her hand so that she was forced to drop it flaming into the basket.

‘You will set the whole house alight,’ said Mr Liddell.

Tears fell from Alice’s eyes and pooled at the velvet round her collar.

‘They are my letters,’ she said.

‘Not any more.’

‘Why not? I don’t understand! Tell me why?’

Mrs Liddell lit the next letter, and the next, until the basket, which was made of wicker, began to smoke. ‘At least the Long Vacation is soon,’ she said grimly. ‘We shall be away from here for three months.’

The Dean hurried from the room and returned with a pail of water, which he slopped into the basket, a stain spreading unevenly beneath. He grabbed his wife’s wrist and pulled her away. Then Mrs Liddell contented herself with ripping every letter into tiny pieces, and throwing them into the fireplace, watched by the silent members of her family.