Читать книгу Local Customs - Audrey Thomas - Страница 19

“WHAT WILL YOU DO WITHOUT FRIENDS to talk to?” they said.

“Oh,” I said, “I shall talk to my friends through my books.”

I was about to undertake something new — a series of essays on Sir Walter Scott’s women, beginning with Effie and Jeanie Deans in The Heart of Midlothian. Scott had said their story was based on a true tale, where a young woman was accused of infanticide.

I was also contracted to do some verse illustrations for a new album. I was a dab hand at that sort of thing. If someone handed me an etching of the Fountain of Trevi, I could produce a suitable poem, with just a touch of melancholy, in spite of never having seen the actual thing. Ditto “A Moroccan Maiden” or “A Tuareg and his Camel.”

“Clothed in his robes of brilliant blue —” et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

I got my wedding without the delights of a wedding. George had said he wanted a quiet ceremony, with no fuss and he preferred we keep our marriage a secret until just before we set sail for the Gold Coast. And so five of us huddled at the front of the church (St. Mary’s, in Bryanston Square) one morning in early June and my brother Whittington did his best to make it a solemn occasion, enunciating every word in his beautiful, deep, clergyman’s voice.

“Do you, Letitia Elizabeth,” “Do you, George Edward,” take this man, take this woman. I was a proper Quakeress in my demure gown of dove grey peau de soie, but George looked splendid in scarlet. I felt like the female bird must feel, eyeing her mate’s more extravagant plumage. The night before I had a crazy vision of William Jerdan rushing in at the last minute, crying, “This wedding must not go forward” and then recounting our shabby past. A somewhat meagre wedding-breakfast followed and I thanked Heaven for Bulwer’s present of some splendid champagne. He made a nice toast, partly in jest, to the “voyage” upon which we were embarking.

George had said he could manage a few days’ honeymoon before he went back to his meetings with the Committee. “Fine,” I replied, “I always maintained that if I were ever to marry I hoped the honeymoon trip would extend no farther than Hyde Park Corner.”

“Oh I think we can stand something a little better than that.”

“Paris?”

In the end we went to Eastbourne, to a hotel which had seen better days. No one would know us in Eastbourne. The landlady, too, was in the initial stages of genteel decay: Mrs. Daisy Harkness, a widow. George liked it — lazy walks along the shingle, tramps up the Downs and down the Downs, damp bedsheets in spite of the stone hot-water bottles. A weekend at Browns’ would have suited me better. Servants with white gloves, starched linen in the dining-room, silver chafing dishes. As I have said, it’s not that I care for breakfast — I rarely partake myself — but the idea of breakfast at a first-class London hotel: that, I like. Coming in with George, my arm tucked into his, the other breakfasters looking up — who is that handsome couple? My goodness, it’s L.E.L. There has been a rumour she was married; so that’s the handsome husband.

My travelling costume, my trousseau, all wasted on the patrons of the Seacliffe Hotel. I could have worn clothes from ten years before. Yet I more and more thought how lucky I was to have found George; it was worth all that tartan material at five shillings a yard and two pairs of good shoes utterly ruined from promenading in the parks and gardens.

We met a dreadful couple at that hotel in Eastbourne. He was some sort of retired officer from Wydah with a thin, sallow wife; he very reddish, she very yellowish; he very stout, she very thin, like Jack Spratt and his wife. They both tied for the first prize in boredom. Will George be like that, when he’s old? I thought. Even more terrifying, will I be like her?

Of course she had to warn me about the “terrible dangers” of life in Africa.

“Do you mean the snakes? The driver ants? The diseases?”

“I mean, Mrs. Maclean, the servants. You can’t trust any of ’em. They’ll slit your throat if they get worked up with palm wine or rum and think you’ve done ’em an injury. Keep everything locked up — everything. Be severe. Threaten flogging.” She leaned even closer. “Don’t ever let them touch you!

“You see, what you will shortly discover is that these creatures have no moral sense, none whatsoever. And as for their customs, their beastliness. Dis-gus-ting,” she said, enunciating every syllable.

“Do you have no happy memories?”

“Ha. Not really. Charles does, many. But it’s different for men. Women have to be always vigilant, always on guard. And should you be—” her voice dropped to a whisper “— violated in your dressing-room while your husband is on trek, do you think other black servants will come to your rescue? Not likely.”

I thanked her for her advice and excused myself. She called after me, “Flannel next to the skin!”

George stayed down for at least another hour.

“Awful old bore,” he said.

“Why, then, did you linger?”

“Oh well, he wanted to talk. I think he misses all the fun.”

“The fun?”

“Yes.”

I was already in bed, under the damp sheets and damp eiderdown.

“Come to bed, George, before I freeze to death.”

He blew out the lamp and whispered, “Dear Letty, I shall be gentle.”

(I had contemplated making a small cut on my wrist and collecting the blood in a tiny vial, so that there would be “proof” of my chastity. I gave up the plan because I didn’t think George was the sort to notice such things.)

There were a few strokings, a few thrusts, a few little whimpers from me, and then we were truly One.

Just before he turned over and fell asleep, he said, “What was the wife going on about?”

“About how much fun it was going to be. In Africa.”

We went back up to London after three days and stayed with friends until we left for the ship. Our marriage had been found out, probably through Bulwer, who could never keep a secret, and I did get some of the attention and presents a bride is entitled to. I hardly saw George; he didn’t even take time off for Queen Victoria’s Coronation procession, but I watched it with great interest, surrounded by friends. We were looking down from a second-storey balcony, to avoid the throngs that lined the streets, so of course we couldn’t see her face as the carriage passed, but I couldn’t help but wonder what her life would be like, every moment of her day regulated according to tradition. Every movement observed; every utterance noted. I didn’t envy her, our first reigning queen since Queen Anne. What is that old proverb? “A favourite has few friends.” In my own, much smaller way, I had discovered how true this was. Detractors, scandal mongers — they buzzed around me like wasps. Indeed, there was a nasty scandal sheet called exactly that, The Wasp.

Would Victoria succeed or fail? She was very young, eighteen, nineteen? And would need good advisers. Even so, how many of those courtiers who bowed to her and fawned over her today, would secretly wish her ill? How well Shakespeare understood all that: “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown!”

If I had not married George, I would no doubt have lived to what they call a “ripe old age.” But in what circumstances? My popularity was already waning, my commissions for scrapbook verses drying up, and prose becoming more and more popular. I could write prose, but only of a certain sort. Mr. Dickens’s star would shine brighter and brighter, for he had the ability to combine dead mothers and mistaken identity with a picture of life in England in all its harshness for any but the wealthy. I could “do” faithful old nurses but I couldn’t really portray the life of the streets, couldn’t really re-create London the way he could. I didn’t know enough and perhaps I didn’t feel enough. My mother used to accuse me of being cold and self-centred, with no sympathy for my poor afflicted sister. Perhaps it was true; I didn’t have time for sympathy. I needed to write and write and write. If I didn’t write I should die.

And so, what would I have been like in a few years down the road? Would I be able to find another set of adoring old maids like the Misses Lance when I was an old maid myself? I had visions of scrag ends of beef, cooking for myself, saving candle ends, turning the sheets to make them last, doing my own washing and mending, my fingers rough and unsightly. Of course, if George had died first and I returned to England as a widow, with some sort of pension, that would be different.

And finally — death. A small notice in the Times. “Oh,” says somebody at a dinner party, “I read today that L.E.L. has died. You know, the poetess. Quite the rage in her day.”

Her neighbour at table shakes his head. “The name means nothing to me, I’m afraid. This grouse is excellent.” Perhaps it is better, in the long run, to experience sudden death? My story, at least, will live on. Those who walk through the Castle courtyard a hundred years from now will pause at our two graves, side by side, will be told the story.

“But there is still a mystery surrounding her death.”

We sailed on the fifth of July, in the brig Maclean, travelling down by train as far as we could go, and then on by coach. I had never been on a train before and loved it, in spite of the noise and rocking to and fro, in spite of the grime.

“We must build railroads in Africa!” I said to George. “Such fun.”

Whittington was a member of the farewell party; he had insisted on it, although George, for some reason best known to himself, was barely civil to him. George’s brother Hugh was with us as well, but as we missed the first train and he did not, we did not join up with him until Portsmouth. Hugh was a surgeon in the Indian Army and home on leave, much more polished in manner than George; quite charming. If I had seen him first perhaps I would have been going out to India instead of darkest Africa. But I didn’t.

He had not arrived back in England in time for our wedding or he certainly would have stood up for George. As it was, he docked and then went immediately to Urquhart to pay his respects to his family, sending round a note that he would meet with us before we sailed. You might think it strange that I did not invite my mother. Shouldn’t a bride have her mother by her on her “great day”? I told Whittington not to discuss the wedding with her until it was over and he agreed. She would have found fault with everything — my dress made me look sallow, all the secrecy boded ill — “Your husband must have something to hide” — the breakfast was “a poor sort of affair.” Things like that. Any praise would be reserved for her son. Having written to assure her that her stipend would continue to be paid through my bank, I felt I had done enough. I have such happy memories of my father — swinging on the gate as I awaited his return from town.

Up on his horse, such a chestnut beauty, he looked down at me from a great height. Later, when I read about Centaurs, that image came to mind, my father on his horse, looking down at me. I loved the way he said, “Well, Letty, how’s my girl today?” then dismounted and handed me the reins. I loved the way he smelled — of horse, of tobacco, but also of London, the place I longed to be. Frankly, I was glad when he couldn’t keep up the farm; I hated the country even then, and wanted to kiss the cobbles when we returned to civilization.

The next morning George did not come down until nearly noon, so I had a chance to write a few more farewells while Whittington and Hugh took a long walk about the town. I tried to imagine what on earth they would find to talk about, but perhaps they spent the time extolling the virtues of their respective siblings. They seemed quite congenial, at any rate, when they returned.

We ate a cold luncheon and very soon after we were told it was time to go down, the tender was waiting. As we stepped on board the Maclean the guns fired a salute that quite startled me and set my ears ringing. All the sailors were lined up to greet Governor Maclean and his wife. And when we went below and I saw the tidy cabin that was put at my disposal, with every possible little luxury provided — soft towels, French soap, a small looking-glass, a table for my travelling writing-desk, a chair, even a vase of fresh flowers, such a charming gesture. I smiled at George. “You have a touch of the romantic after all.”

He laughed. “I must confess it was Hugh’s idea. I think he has had more to do with ladies than I have.” He waved his arm. “It’s all right then, is it? You’ll be comfortable?”

I nodded and we trooped back up on deck, where, to my surprise, I was introduced to a rather stout woman named Mrs. Bailey. She was the chief steward’s wife and was to be my companion for my first few months at the Castle. Her cabin was next to mine and should I want anything I was to knock three times on the wall. George had a small cabin to himself, next to the captain’s, as he said he would be spending most of his time on deck or with the officers.

Our trunks and boxes had all been sent down early, so once the cabin baggage had been deposited, we had to say goodbye to our brothers; the captain was anxious to catch the tide. As Whittington stood in the tender, looking up, I threw him down my purse. “There,” I called, “look after this for me; I shan’t need it where I’m going.”

Away they went and then away we went. I stood on deck waving a white handkerchief until I could have been no more than a dot to them. I had been across the Channel to Paris, so I was not unfamiliar with the sight of England receding behind me, but this was different, this was adventure of a very high order.

“Africa,” I whispered to myself. “Africa.” I felt as though all the events of my life had been leading up to this moment.

George came to fetch me for tea.

“I am so happy,” I said to him, linking my arm in his. “I am so very, very happy.”

“Come below now, Letty,” he said. “Later on, you will put on your heavy cloak and we’ll look at the stars together. Nowhere are they more beautiful than when seen from the deck of a ship.”

We did that, and then the next day the ship began to roll and my love for the sea disappeared, and with it my determination, as a child, to “marry a pirate and sail the seas.” Not only was I dreadfully seasick, the helpful Mrs. Bailey was even worse — no help at all. The sea became so violent that all the furniture was lashed together, the bed to the table, the table to the chair, and the only way I kept from rolling out of my bunk was by placing bolsters on each side of me. I could eat nothing and could drink only small sips of watered wine. There were days when I felt my old self would turn itself inside-out, like a glove. It is really impossible to describe seasickness unless you have experienced such violent upheavals yourself. George looked in from time to time to make sure I wasn’t dead, sent broth, or whatever he thought I might fancy.

“What I fancy is being thrown overboard.”

“Poor Letty.” And off he went, the picture of robust health. I hated him.

After we stopped at Madeira and took on arrowroot and citrus fruits, I began to feel a little better, but I was very weak and the nausea never completely left me. I did go up on deck a few times, after the Bay of Biscay, but I thought to myself that all the various horrors of Cape Coast must be truly horrific indeed, if they could top weeks at sea in the brig Maclean.

One night, when the sea was relatively calm and I had managed to keep down some ginger beer and a biscuit, George asked if I would enjoy a short stroll on deck. I felt I should make the effort, for his sake, if not for mine, and so I wrapped myself in a shawl (no need for heavy clothing now) and after a few turns stood at the rail with him. We were not too far off Sierra Leone, where George had been secretary to the governor at one time.

“Nothing is so reassuring, after crossing such a broad expanse of water, as the sight of land. It won’t be too long now before those winking lights will be the lights of home.”

“Do you think of it as home, George, the Gold Coast?”

“Ach, Scotland will always have a hold on my heart, but it’s important to put that behind me when I’m out here. Men who don’t, men who can’t accept it or adjust to it, can sicken and even die.”

I waited for him to say something romantic like, “Home is wherever you are, from now on,” but of course he wasn’t that sort of person.

Unwilling to quit the beautiful moonlight, which made everything seem as bright and clear as day, we just stood there, listening to the jingle-jangle of the rigging above us, each wrapped in our own thoughts, until I looked down.