The Unexpected Education of Emily Dean Read online

  She couldn’t stand around in the entry hall forever and, deciding it was acceptable to go upstairs and get changed out of her tennis whites, set off across the expanse of tiled floor to the staircase.

  Upstairs she found the bedroom again, but the door was shut. She knocked and, when there was no reply, she opened it and peered in. The room was just as they had left it.

  She sat on the bed and thought about going to look for Lydia and Ruth, but it no longer felt important. The conversation with Betty had left her feeling so deflated it was an effort to do anything but wait for Lydia to find her, and she lay down on the bed. As it turned out, she did not have long to wait.

  The door flew open and Lydia burst in. She was carrying her shoes and socks, her tennis dress half unbuttoned. She dropped her shoes on the floor and was undoing the last of the buttons on her dress when she noticed Emily and gasped.

  ‘My god, Emily. What are you doing? You gave me a shock.’

  She didn’t think an answer was expected and watched dully as Lydia pulled off her dress.

  ‘Don’t just sit there watching me like the sphinx. Get changed. If we don’t hurry, we’ll be going home in the dark.’

  They travelled in silence until Rose Park was lost from sight, and they had turned onto the road to Mount Prospect. It was not complete silence as Lydia hummed every now and then. Emily could not stop thinking about what Betty had said. She wanted to think about something else.

  ‘Betty taught me how to serve.’

  Lydia smiled. ‘Really? Good on her.’

  ‘You were gone for ages.’ She hadn’t meant it to sound like a reproach. Or perhaps she had.

  ‘I was trying on clothes. Ruth has the most gorgeous dresses. From Le Louvre.’

  ‘Ah.’ She tried to make it a casual and affirming ah, while wondering how Ruth got her clothes from a museum in Paris. Perhaps with such wealth anything was possible.

  ‘Not the museum in Paris,’ Lydia continued as if she had read Emily’s mind. ‘The dress shop in Collins Street.’

  ‘I knew that.’ She was sick of not knowing things.

  ‘Ruth’s very generous,’ Lydia added.

  She had an urge to say something mean about Ruth. She did not know why or, rather, she did not want to examine the fact that she wished to puncture Lydia’s good mood. She was about to respond that it was easy for the rich to be generous, when an image of the woman in the cream-coloured car that had whisked Lydia away that day after church popped into her head. It was Ruth. How had she not recognised her before?

  ‘I saw you.’

  ‘Saw me?’

  ‘You and Ruth. After church that day. I saw you get into her car.’

  ‘You were following me?’

  ‘No. I mean, I thought you were just going for a walk.’

  ‘How dare you follow me.’

  She felt a nervous fluttering in her stomach. Lydia was on her high horse. ‘I didn’t mean to be following. Anyway, what does it matter?’

  ‘Because what I do is my business,’ Lydia shouted.

  ‘Why are you so angry?’ Emily shouted back, surprising herself.

  Lydia seemed surprised too. ‘What are you shouting for?’

  ‘Because you were.’

  ‘Well, that’s because … Oh, never mind …’ and Lydia gave the reins an angry shake, which Dapple ignored. He plodded on at the same steady pace while Lydia stared ahead, her face set. It was clearly the signal for the conversation to end. But Emily had found her voice, and she was not ready to let it go. Betty’s words were still ringing in her ears.

  ‘Betty thinks you’re having an affair with Claudio.’

  There, she had said it. Every muscle tightened in anticipation of another angry reply. She did not expect Lydia to admit it; in fact she expected a forceful denial. What did she hope to achieve? She wasn’t sure, but perhaps in Lydia’s denial she would hear an echo of the truth. She kept her eyes on the road and waited, listening to the sound of Dapple’s hooves on the gravel, the ark ark of a crow as it flew overhead.

  When nothing had been said for at least thirty seconds she glanced across. Lydia, it seemed, was ignoring her.

  ‘Because of the fight. You had your arm around him.’

  Still Lydia said nothing. It was infuriating.

  ‘Everyone’s talking.’

  Lydia smiled. At last a reaction. ‘Good for them.’

  ‘But shouldn’t you tell them it’s not true.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  It was tantamount to a confession; the very thing Emily was trying to elicit from her aunt and yet had dreaded.

  ‘So it is true.’ Her voice sounded thin and too high, and she hoped that Lydia had not noticed.

  In fact, Lydia laughed. ‘I don’t know why you listen to Betty. She’s a nitwit.’ And with that, she began to sing. ‘Would you like to swing on a star, carry moonbeams home in a jar, and be better off than you are, or would you rather be a mule …’

  At the word mule, Lydia tapped her with the whip. ‘Come on, join in.’

  She did not feel like it but, with Lydia’s urging, and not wanting to reveal the true state of her feelings, she managed to sing along.

  31

  EMILY KNOCKED ON THE BLUE DOOR.

  ‘Entrez,’ William called.

  It was early afternoon. Recently she had begun to visit him during the day in order to help with his daily constitutional.

  He was sitting in the armchair as she approached, wearing a pair of shorts that came down to the knees. She had almost become used to the empty trouser leg, but now, seeing the raw end of his stump and the way the bit of leg hung limply over the edge of the seat, she felt herself inwardly recoil. She was sure he had seen. He noticed everything, and she expected him to make her pay, for he had abandoned social niceties like the smoothing over of awkward moments.

  ‘Think I might need a little drop before we go,’ he said, surprising her by letting it pass. She hurried across to the desk, glad to have something to do, and collected his glass. By the time she returned to the armchair, William was ready with the whisky bottle. He poured himself a generous shot and downed it in a single gulp. She tried not to stare at the bit of leg. It was exerting a pull.

  ‘It’s alright,’ he said drily. ‘You can look at it.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ she rushed to defend herself. He had not let her off the hook after all.

  He poured himself another glass of whisky, tossed it back and heaved himself out of the chair with the help of his crutches.

  After circumnavigating the homestead via the orchard, William suggested that they continue for another round. She agreed. So far he had not been in a talkative mood, but she was still hoping that he might raise again the question of her being a writer. It was on her mind. Progress was slow, and each time his crutches hit the hard dry ground he had begun to grunt through clenched teeth. She could see that he was pushing himself and pretended not to hear when he began to curse under his breath.

  ‘Fuck,’ he swore, lurching against her as a crutch slipped into a hole. ‘Got to get stronger if I’m going to live,’ he muttered. ‘Not that I’ve decided about that yet.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Whether I want to live.’

  She almost missed her step and gave a little hop as if it was deliberate.

  He glanced at her. ‘And don’t say it,’ he ordered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Life’s a precious gift and other Christian rubbish.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to.’ It was not a total lie – she had no intention of invoking Christianity. But more than anything she wanted to say something that would inspire him about life. The alternative was too awful to dwell on, even if her last attempt at life-giving affirmation had ended in Byron’s depressing poem and a bout of drunkenness.

  William was sweating profusely. She had begun to sweat too, feeling his every step and trying to think of what she could possibly say to give him hope. Each time he sucked in a breath,
he made a sort of whistling sound and, by the time they reached Lydia’s snake fence, his knuckles were clenched white around the handles of his crutches. She felt responsible, and that she had been negligent in her self-appointed role as nurse-companion and should not have allowed him to walk so far. But she pretended not to notice his discomfort, remembering how her mother would say, apropos of her father: Never forget, Emily, that men have their pride.

  She and William stood beside the fence, waiting for his breathing to settle. After a while, he poked a crutch at one of the snakes hanging on the fence.

  ‘Pooh, what a pong.’ They exchanged a grin. ‘Come on. Home, James,’ he said, sounding like Lydia.

  They began the journey back to the workshop. Halfway there, she saw Claudio walking towards them, carrying a pick and shovel over his shoulder. As they passed each other, he faltered, as if he was about to stop. All she could think of was that he had betrayed her with Lydia. But could it really be called a betrayal if he’d never been interested in her? If he had only ever loved Lydia? Still. He had betrayed her. They both had.

  ‘To hell with you,’ she thought with sudden savagery and went past with her head held high.

  But William must have seen something in Claudio’s face. ‘What’s the matter with him?’ he asked. ‘He’s not giving you any trouble, Miss P?’

  She shook her head, feeling traitorous blood rush into her cheeks.

  ‘You’re blushing.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You are. Face as red as a penny bunger.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s not me.’

  ‘Not you what?’

  ‘You know. Lydia. And Claudio.’

  There, it was said. She waited for him to respond, feeling the weight of her words. Lydia hated gossips – busybodies knowing her business and blabbing it about. Thinking of Lydia made her feel guilty and at the same time self-righteous. Why shouldn’t she say it? She wanted to say it, to blurt out the words that had been tormenting her. ‘They’re in love.’

  William grinned. She couldn’t help feeling offended.

  ‘It’s not funny.’ Her voice sounded prim. ‘It’s nothing to laugh about. He’s a prisoner of war.’ She was beginning to sound like Grandmother or, worse, Eunice. Her mouth felt tight and disapproving.

  ‘How do you know they’re in love?’ William asked, emphasising the words in an exaggerated way.

  She had already said too much. But now that the secret was out, she did not want to stop. They had reached the workshop, and she pushed the door open, letting William enter first. Something was compelling her to speak.

  ‘Because I’ve seen them.’

  In her mind’s eye, Claudio and Lydia were standing under the pear tree. This time they did not step out of view. This time, they moved towards each other into an embrace and a lingering kiss.

  ‘Kissing,’ she added.

  William had reached his desk and she waited for his response, daring him to contradict her. She was hoping he would say something – ask a question or offer an opinion – for without it, how could she say anything more? And yet she wanted to say more. She felt reckless and, when he did not speak, the words flew out of her mouth like moths from an opened drawer.

  ‘They’re actually lovers, you know.’

  The words hung in the air like smoke signals before William, standing at the desk with his back to her, blew them away with a hoot of laughter. How dare he laugh? The situation was serious. She had to convince him. Betty had said everyone was talking, everyone knew.

  ‘If you don’t believe me, ask …’ She got no further for William turned towards her, leaning on a crutch, holding some sheets of writing paper from which he began to read aloud.

  ‘I suppose you are wondering what Claudio looks like. Everyone thinks that Italians are short and swarthy …’ He paused and shuffled the pages. ‘Let’s skip ahead. Here.’

  He began to read again with exaggerated expressiveness. ‘His teeth are as white as ivory and his smile is merry and yet tinged with melancholy as he is far from home and longs for his family. His hair is dark and curly, rather like Lord Byron’s.’ He laughed. ‘So I’m not the only one to remind you of George Gordon.’

  She could not respond, stuck in an appalled frozen silence. Then in a teasing tone that she knew would haunt her forever, he read on.

  ‘If you could only see his proud dark eyes, and feel the warm touch of his nut-brown skin. His lips are like ripe fruit, and the scent of crushed strawberries wafts on his breath.’

  The wafting scent of crushed strawberries! What insanity had possessed her? She gasped for air and tried to shout ‘stop’ but just like the dream she’d had the first day at Mount Prospect when she’d fallen asleep at the end of the driveway, all she could manage was a feeble squeak.

  William shuffled the pages again. ‘Let me see. Ah, yes …’

  She leaped at him, grabbing at the letter, but he held it up, just out of reach, waving the sheaf of papers above his head, while balancing with one crutch.

  ‘Claudio, Claudio, wherefore art thou, Claudio.’ His laughter dinned in her ears and a blazing humiliation rose up from which she knew she would never recover. Something happened to her then. She grabbed the crutch, yanking it from under his arm and, before he could steady himself, shoved him with the end of it as hard as she could. He twisted, pages flew through the air as he fell to the ground with a heavy thud, his body contorted at an awkward angle. He lay still. She was still too, stuck to the spot like Lot’s wife. It was only the crutch falling from her hands that released her from immobility. She turned away and ran for the door.

  Outside, she did not stop and raced up the path, through the back orchard to the south verandah. She was about to pull open the French doors to the white room when something or someone moved inside the room. In her agitated state, she didn’t know if it was real or imagined, but the possibility of confronting another human being was too awful. She had to be alone, and swerved away, rounding the corner to the billiard-room door. Once inside she scuttled past the billiard table and along the passage until she reached the bathroom.

  She locked the door and slid down onto the floor. Her breathing was all wrong, full of gasps and exhalations and odd gulping noises that she couldn’t control. She lay on the cool tiles until she was able to catch her breath, and slowly sat up. What should she do? The bathroom, with its lockable door, was her only sanctuary.

  Steam hung in the air and the bathroom walls dripped with moisture. She lathered soap onto the washer and scrubbed until her skin turned red and tingled painfully. If only she could get rid of everything. She rinsed the washer out under the tap and rubbed it roughly over her face before sliding down until her head was under water and her hair floated out like Ophelia’s. With her eyes closed she tried to empty her mind of all thought, but the same sequence recurred over and over, like a piece of film stuck in the projector. She saw herself striking William with the crutch; saw him fall on the floor where he lay in a dishevelled heap. And then it began again, stuck in the same loop.

  ‘Emily?’ she heard Lydia calling. ‘Are you in there?’

  She pushed her feet hard against the end of the bath and surged up, causing a wave of water to slosh over the edge. The water continued to ripple as she gripped the sides of the bath.

  ‘Emily?’

  The doorknob was turning.

  ‘I’m in the bath.’

  ‘What are you doing in the bath at this hour? I want to talk to you.’

  She watched the doorknob turning.

  Lydia banged on the door. ‘Open up. I need you.’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘It’s important. Please.’ There was a hint of pleading in Lydia’s voice but that was soon replaced by an irritated command. ‘Let me in!’

  She stared at the door, willing Lydia to go away. She closed her eyes against the banging and rattling. Seconds ticked by and the water grew cool. Then the banging stopped. When the water had turned completely cold, she pulled out th
e plug and watched it swirl and gurgle away. There was no sound from outside the door. She was sure that Lydia had gone.

  32

  THE AFTERNOON SLIPPED INTO THE early evening without her noticing. After returning from the bathroom and changing into fresh clothes, she sat on the bed for ages. What was she going to do? Would William tell Lydia what she’d revealed to him? Would he – had he already – shown her the contents of the Dorothy letter? Much worse was William’s revelation that her letter to Dorothy, far from exemplifying her promise as a writer, showed her to be quite without talent. The memory of his mocking laughter made her feel ill with shame. And then, the way she’d knocked him down and left him lying on the floor of the workshop. If only she could leave now, and never return. But how was that possible?

  A sudden explosion of noise brought her distracted thoughts to a temporary and startled halt. Two long rings and one short one: the sounds echoed along the hallway from the extension bell outside the billiard room. Two long and one short. It was a telephone call for Mount Prospect. Of course – that’s what she had to do. Telephone Father and tell him to come at once. It was an emergency.

  She flew from the room, racing down the hallway. What kind of emergency? It didn’t matter, she would think of something. She rounded the first corner, turning right, then left, then right again until she arrived at the entry hall, skidding to a stop beside Grandmother, just as she was replacing the receiver onto the cradle.

  ‘Goodness,’ Grandmother said. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she gasped. ‘Was that –?’

  ‘Harry. He’s on leave and coming to visit.’ Grandmother gave a delighted clap. ‘Why on earth hasn’t Lydia let us know? What a secretive little minx she can be. Goodness, she’ll be thrilled. He’s arriving a day early.’