Ellen opened Dodgson’s door to find, not Hope exactly, but something like it: Mr Dodgson absorbed in some origami. In fact, he was concentrating so hard upon its puzzles and folds that he hardly noticed rescue was finally at hand. On his chair were already grouped the letters shaped meticulously from paper – HELPIAMLOCKE – and he was just finishing the DIN, and considering how to hang them in the window with cotton and safety pins. A captive rarely looked less agitated. In fact, he saw at once that Miss Terry was in far greater distress than himself.
‘Mrs Watts!’
‘Mr Dodgson!’
To his great alarm, she ran to him, embraced him, and sobbed big tears against his chest, which was curiously stiff and ungiving to the cheek, actually; rather like a linen press. Sensing that something was required, Dodgson did not of course embrace the tearful woman, but tapped her on the shoulder a couple of times, as though telling a wrestler to break his hold.
‘Mr Dodgson, Mr Dodgson,’ sobbed Ellen. ‘My true friend.’
She finally let him go, and sank on his chair instead.
Dodgson pointed at the chair – ‘Don’t!’ he warned – but it was too late. She had crushed the origami.
Ellen caught his hand in hers and kissed it, in a Shakespearean gesture which excited him despite himself. Good grief, normally he’d have to pay 1/6d for this. But he was not prepared for the sentiment that followed.
‘I am so honoured that Alice was written for me, Mr Dodgson!’ said Ellen. ‘It is the greatest – indeed the only kindness anyone has ever shown!’
How could he deny it now? Dodgson said nothing. He stared out of the window at the distant sea, sighed deeply, and wondered whether Mrs Watts’s mistake could at least be turned to his advantage. She seemed to be a great friend of Mr Tennyson’s, after all. And Mr Tennyson was coming to dinner.
And so they remained for some time – Ellen’s wet swollen face upturned to Dodgson’s; his own face turned away in calculation. If G. F. Watts had witnessed this tableau, he would have recognized it at once. It was, of course, ‘Trust is the Mother of Deceit’.
Twelve
Julia’s dinners were always a success, mainly because she took infinite pains to accommodate, and anticipate, the most difficult of tastes. Watts she provided with simple fare and a carafe of water (he never drank alcohol); Mr Fowler received a special vegetarian dish, requiring a lot of argument with a puzzled cook; and for Alfred she ordered a plain apple pie (a replacement, as it were, for the one she spoiled), plus two bottles of port and a good lamp nearby so that he could launch into a hooting moose-call recital of Enoch Arden whenever the whim overtook him. It would almost certainly be an Enoch Arden night tonight, she fancied. She loved it when Alfred read aloud. His presence filled the room, and even though he paused after each line to comment on its beauties and effects, the greatness of the sentiments invariably reduced her still to tears.
Of course he recited for adulation, but then Julia prided herself on giving the best adulation in England. This ensured that even at the risk of returning to Emily laden with unwanted decorating materials, Alfred would always remain her loyal friend. Julia had a particular way of telling people they were the greatest poet in the language which could really set up a chap, especially when he had tendencies of a mopish sort. And her paeans were not forced, either. Flattery was Mrs Cameron’s second nature. It had been an essential part of her infant curriculum in Calcutta, along with French, Hindustani and the Appreciation of the Sublime.
So this evening Julia joyfully buttered Lorenzo, while not neglecting her duty to Alfred and Charles and Dodgson and Watts, all of whom relied on her to make them feel big, tall and important. The procedure was a bit like spinning plates. With an initial effort, she would get all her guests spinning individually, and then – when they started to wobble or flag – they required just a practised touch at the right moment. Alfred needed the word ‘Review!’ thrown in his direction, for example; ‘Genius’ sufficed for a weakening Watts, ‘Clever’ for Dodgson; ‘Wise’ for Charles. The trickiest moment for this exemplary hostess had been introducing Alfred to Dodgson, because Alfred squinted at him and boomed confidently, ‘Hello, we’ve never met, Mr Carroll! I hope you have recovered your senses. Can’t stand madmen, make me nervous.’
But the awkward moment had passed, and now, save for the presence of the mad and dangerous Lorenzo, Dodgson was in paradise. Whenever Julia caught his eye, or called him clever, he raised a glass. Never before had he socialized with Tennyson, and tonight he was doubly privileged, because the laureate was in a mood that was certainly overbearing, but might otherwise be described as good. With Tennyson, overbearing was not optional. All Dodgson’s hopes for his little dedication were revived, like the flowers in the garden outside, emboldened by the sudden rain. ‘Tonight’s the night!’ thought Dodgson happily, and almost drank some wine by mistake.
Beside him sat a subdued but brave Mrs Watts, whom Mrs Cameron noticeably omitted from her flatterings. Poor Mrs Watts was a very highly wrought young woman, he decided. His waistcoat was still unpleasantly damp from the lady’s tears. Such emotion perplexed him, and he wished to be no part of it. Yet she was a lovely girl, and so talented, and she looked so very disconsolate. So he regaled her with stories of his visits to Drury Lane, and complimented her on many performances given, in fact, by her sister. Luckily for him, she was much too confused to notice.
‘What’s this?’ he asked, kindly. Ellen was feeling deeply hurt, yet somehow that damned enormous Hope of hers was egging her on. She had worn her wedding dress to dinner, and the pretty pearls; and she blushed continually, aware of Lorenzo Fowler’s eyes upon her; aware of Watts paying her no attention whatsoever.
Yet ‘I will make him love me,’ she muttered to herself. In salt on the table, she had written the words LOW IDEAS, and was sadly pushing the grains with a fork. Dodgson saw what she had done, and made a quick calculation in his head. ‘Wild Easo,’ he whispered, pointing to the letters. ‘No, no, We Sold AI’. She smiled wanly. Good grief, the man was doing anagrams. He pushed his fingers together, thought a bit, and then thumped the table with his fork. ‘Solid Awe,’ he said, triumphant.
‘What’s that?’ said Julia, turning with a smile from her conversation with Watts. Solid awe was something she knew all about.
‘Mr Dodgson was just seeing how many words you could make from “low ideas”. Apparently another way of putting it is “Solid Awe”,’ said Ellen, fixing a look of entreaty at her husband.
Mrs Cameron noticed Dodgson was looking thoughtful, and immediately agreed aloud with her husband that Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland was quite the cleverest book they had ever read. Dodgson perked up immediately, shot an anxious look at Tennyson to see whether he heard (he didn’t; he was busy lighting his pipe), and replied with some spirit that Mrs Cameron’s photographs were the marvel of the age. And so it went on, quite merrily, all plates spinning, and Mrs Cameron asked Lorenzo Fowler whether he could enlighten the company on the subject of Phreno-Magnetism.
‘Nothing to it!’ blurted the always tactful Alfred. ‘I mesmerized dear Emily of the headache.’ Lorenzo bowed his head.
‘With the greatest respect,’ he smiled, ‘I once mesmerized a patient during the removal of a tumour. I have cured people of delusions and addictions. The vile weed tobacco, for example.’
Julia and her husband exchanged glances, but Alfred merely continued to puff energetically on his pipe, until he had encased himself in a sepia shroud.
‘What I was wondering,’ said Cameron, ‘is this. Can you magnetize people to hold a certain expression for five minutes while they have their photograph taken? A person who might otherwise laugh?’
Cameron shot a mischievous glance at Watts, who made an impatient flapping commotion with his napkin. ‘Low ideas,’ he mumbled, but only to himself.
‘I believe it may be possible,’ replied Lorenzo. ‘Mrs Cameron, I think we should make the experiment. Perhaps your lovely assistant—?’ He indicated
Mary Ann Hillier, who didn’t notice, being engrossed at that moment at the sideboard, disentangling her hair from a calves-foot jelly. Since she fell in love with young Herbert, her streak of stupidity had noticeably broadened.
More laughter, more clinking of crystal, more lamps. Mrs Cameron surveyed her table with pleasure. The odd tweak of selfishness assailed her when she considered how Alfred must never acknowledge her as the source of his happiness, but it was bearable, certainly bearable. The calves-foot jelly was found most acceptable, though not of course by Lorenzo, but he resisted the natural urge to tell the company their brains were clouded by animal fat. Instead, he drank a pint of water, talked to Mrs Cameron about photography, and cast a rather bold look at Mrs Watts, who surprisingly cast a bold look right back again.
‘And Viola, Mrs Watts! What a mag-g—nificent Viola,’ exclaimed Dodgson.
‘Thank you,’ said Ellen, turning back to her neighbour. ‘I seem to have a special affinity with Viola, I don’t know why.’
‘She is very lovely!’
‘I have been reading a book of flowers, and it appears that violets are for modesty, you know, while big red camellias are unpretending excellence.’
Dodgson wondered where the camellias had suddenly sprung from, but he knew about the language of flowers. Daisies, for example, were for innocence, which was funny enough in itself.
Ellen raised her voice a little so that Watts could hear. The modulation of vocal projection was, of course, rather her forte. ‘Oh, I mention camellias because my husband has been attempting an allegorical painting in which I choose between the two – between violet and camellia, modesty and excellence, you see – which rather suggests, don’t it, that you can’t have both.’
She surveyed this table of notable Victorian big-heads, and pursed her lips. ‘Do you think excellence precludes modesty, Mr Dodgson? Perhaps it does, you know. But you must see my husband’s picture, it is diverting. If you can spot the violets, I will give you half a crown.’
‘Shall I read from our Alice, later?’
‘I do hope so, Mr Dodgson. Give us the courtroom scene, in which little Alice realizes that the people she has been frightened of – who have terrorized her, and made her feel an inch tall – are nothing but a pack of cards.’
As she said the last phrase, she thumped the table with her knife, drawing an impatient ‘Shh’ from Watts, who was currently informing old Mr Cameron of the interesting verity that friends tie their purse with a cobweb thread.
‘Talking of Alice,’ said Dodgson, with his voice lowered and his eye on Tennyson, ‘A thought has j-j—just come to me!’
He pretended to laugh light-heartedly.
‘What is it, Mr Dodgson?’
‘Do you think Mr T-T-T—’
‘Tennyson?’
Dodgson nodded. ‘Would allow us to d-dedi-c—cate the book to his s-s—’
‘Sister?’
He shook his head, and indicated with a flat hand the height of a young Tennyson. ‘Schooldays?’
He took a slurp of water. Ellen had another inspiration. ‘Serpent’s tooth?’
He took a big breath.
‘Sons,’ he said.
Ellen frowned.
‘Do you want me to ask him?’
‘You seem to have influ-infl—’
‘Influenza? La grippe?’
‘Influence.’
Ellen didn’t know what he was talking about. But on the other hand, she had no need to throw caution to the wind. Her Caution was so naturally small it had been lost in a light gust at birth.
Outside, the elements battled, and the rain still fell, and little Daisy Bradley curled up beside the briar hedge. She couldn’t help noticing she was getting rather muddy, but on the other hand things in an adventure were supposed to be out of the ordinary; they were supposed to vex you a little bit. Had she picked the right evening to elope? Should she go home and think about eloping tomorrow? But then she remembered she had slammed the door behind her, and she didn’t have a key.
The wind was sharp with rain. In order to stop feeling frightened, she sang quietly to herself the song she had learned from Mr Dodgson, ‘Will you walk a little faster, said the whiting to the snail’, but then faltered and stopped. His words were strangely uncheering for a little girl, actually. The odd thing about Mr Dodgson’s story, she realized, was that the people in it were all so horrible to each other, on account of being mad and selfish; and in particular they kept threatening Alice, and calling her stupid, and trapping her with rules of etiquette that she couldn’t possibly know.
For the first time since she met him, she asked herself whether Mr Dodgson was really the sunny personality she had at first imagined. Did she honestly want to spend the rest of her life with him, setting up home in a bathing machine, and living on what she could catch in a shrimp net? She pulled a face, stood up, brushed her frock. She was only eight, she told herself. As Jessie Fowler had pointed out this afternoon, a girl of eight needn’t say yes to the first man who says he loves his love with a D. ‘Panic about spinster-hood when you are ten and a half,’ said the worldly Jessie. ‘But really, not before.’
Meanwhile Jessie sat bored in the kitchen of Dimbola while the Cameron boys talked about lessons and Latin and ball games, and dull, dull things without any interest to a girl of avid brain power or searching imagination. Much more interesting to the little girl were the hissed discussions between the maids as they scurried about collecting platters of obscene roasted flesh. The one with the impenetrable Isle of Wight accent kept neglecting her duties, and mooning about by the window, and the Irish one was getting cross.
‘Is it your blessed hair again?’ demanded Mary Ryan, producing some nail scissors (she had started to carry them around on purpose).
Mary Ann sniffed, and looked sad.
‘Will you take the roast tongue, Mary Ann! We’ve not all night.’
But Mary Ann broke down.
‘It’s not Herbert you’re thinking on, is it?’ asked the Irish one. ‘Haven’t I told you he’ll be back in London by now?’
Herbert? Jessie’s grip of her chair arm tightened, but otherwise she hardly moved a muscle. Herbert was the young man from the lecture that Lorenzo liked so much. Had the servant girl fallen in love with him? Here was some interest at last. Here was something to tell Pa.
Mary Ann snivelled. ‘I be in a terbul pucker about it,’ she managed at last.
‘Look.’ And reaching into her apron pocket, she produced Herbert’s hat.
‘That’s Mr Herbert’s hat,’ said Mary Ryan.
Mary Ann sniffed some more.
‘Did you take it from him?’ asked Mary Ryan, confused. ‘Where did you find it?’
Mary Ann broke down. ‘In Mz Watts’s room!’
She sobbed unpleasantly on to the plate of roast tongue.
‘Dooan’t jaw me, Mary Ryan! I be all uptipped! But I shan’t goo without I knows!’
And Mary Ann boo-hooed and sniffed in a highly unbeautiful manner.
Mary Ryan felt somewhat uptipped too. Poor fool, she thought, to be in love with Herbert, who beneath his jerkin clearly had big breasts and womanly hips. More foolish still to be jealous in this confusing, ludicrous way.
‘Now Mary,’ she hissed, gripping the girl by the arm. Jessie strained to listen through the clash of pans. This was excellent.
‘I want you to pull yourself together, and not to think such thoughts about Mrs Watts. Aren’t I telling you there is nothing between Mrs Watts and Herbert?’
Mary Ann wailed, and Mary Ryan made a decision.
‘Never mention this to a living soul, but –’
‘What?’
Mary Ryan lowered her voice further still. ‘Mrs Watts is involved already with Mr Fowler,’ she whispered. ‘And is possibly beloved of Mr Tennyson as well.’
Mary Ann fell back in shock and nearly dropped the plate.
Mary Ryan shooshed her.
‘And don’t say Swap me bob.’
On that bombshell, they cantered back to the dining room, and the Cameron boys turned round to include Jessie in a joke about donkeys, only to find her staring like the dog in ‘The Tinder Box’ – the one with the eyes as big as windmills.
‘Jessie?’ said Henry Cameron.
‘Jessie, what’s wrong?’
But Jessie was lost in shock. She felt weightless and betrayed. Her head reverberated as if she had been boxed on both ears at once. ‘Mrs Watts already involved with Mr Fowler’? Pa? Pa? For a couple of minutes, she scarcely remembered to breathe.
But how? They had been in Freshwater less than a week!
What did ‘involved’ mean? Did it have anything to do with those mutual ropings in Uncle Orson’s pamphlet? Had Pa known this woman before this holiday? Had he brought his little innocent darling eight-year-old daughter to this dreary back end of nowhere filled with nincompoops just so that he could do lashings with Mrs Bloody Watts?
‘There’s something wrong with Jessie, Mother,’ the boys told Mrs Cameron, who had popped behind the scenes to check on the hold-up with the food.
‘Oh my dear, my dear! What can I give you? I am at my wits’ end! Your father quite refuses tongue!’
Jessie’s face was unreadable. Luckily Americans are often deaf to innuendo.
‘My dear girl, I would give anything.’
‘Are we still doing the tableaux later on?’ Jessie asked at last, with her mouth set.
‘Yes, I believe so.’
‘Well then there is one thing I’d like, Mrs Cameron. I’ve brought a bread knife, but it’s not right for what we are planning to do. Could I have a sharper one please? A really sharp one?’
Mrs Cameron hugged her, and Jessie wriggled.
‘What a curious little girl you are!’ she said.
Julia had been absent from the room three minutes. When she returned, however, she knew her lovely dinner had collapsed before she even opened the door. The hub-bub had dissipated to an awkward silence, and the maids were hurriedly removing themselves, Mary Ann with an ornate silver gravy boat attached and dangling against her chest. Julia stood at the door aghast. Turn your back on spinning plates for the merest instant, and they wobble, clatter and crash. Food lay uneaten, a glass was overturned, and Watts was staring at the ceiling with a martyred expression, indicative of one of his heads. Some fracas seemed to have broken out, but what on earth could it be?