The Unexpected Education of Emily Dean Page 22

  Upon issuing her edict, Grandmother looked around the table, silently calling everyone to attention. ‘I trust that there’ll be no gossiping about what has happened.’ Her gaze lingered on Della, who did not say anything and sucked her tongue over her teeth, making an unpleasant slurping sound. ‘Very good,’ Grandmother continued, choosing to take this as a sign of agreement. ‘In the morning, I shall telephone your father, Emily. He’ll know what to do.’

  Tell him to come and get me, she wanted to say, watching Grandmother push back her chair and rise stiffly as if her joints had seized up. How fragile she looked. Grandmother was still their leader, but the news about Lydia had taken its toll. Tell him I want to go home. It was on the tip of her tongue and yet the words remained unspoken. She did not know what stopped her.

  The generator had been turned off. All was quiet, but Emily couldn’t sleep. Her thoughts were flitting and jumping around like circus fleas. If only they would stop alighting on William. He would be hungry, she knew it. And angry that she had not come. Although, after what had happened he was sure to be angry with her whether she brought him supper or not. Too bad, she did not care. It was his fault. How could he be so cruel? She closed her eyes, hoping to block him out, but instead of black nothingness, she saw his crumpled body lying on the earthen floor. Perhaps he was … perhaps … no, she could not allow that thought. She tried to remember: had he groaned after falling?

  A lifetime of penance stretched before her, and she made a vow that tomorrow, no matter what, she would volunteer to weed the top bed that was filled with soursob and had to be dug out, bit by bit, each tiny bulb sifted from the soil. She would do it willingly and in silence, like the Carmelite nuns who lived behind the high stone walls she had often walked past with her mother. Poor little things, taken away never to see their parents again. Whenever they passed, her mother would always say the same thing. Emily wondered if it were possible to join.

  Unable to sleep she threw off the bedclothes and, sitting on the edge of the bed, lit the candle on the bedside table. She took Lydia’s letter from the drawer. The contents were no less extraordinary on a fourth reading. The last line loomed at her – PS Look in your wardrobe.

  Standing in front of the open wardrobe, she intended to take out Lydia’s yellow silk dress but, instead, found herself staring at the dress from the divine little shop. For some reason it was this reviled dress that she now removed from the wardrobe. Shrugging off her pyjamas, she put it on.

  A clown stared back at her from the dressing-table mirror. The pink-gingham puffy sleeves were as awful as she remembered and the lace collar framed her face like a hideous giant doily. She gave an experimental tug at the collar, then another, until at last, a piece of lace ripped free. Before long, the puffy sleeves joined the lace collar on the floor. She’d had to take the dress off and use her nail scissors with the result that the remaining inches of each sleeve were rather ragged. It was an act of wanton destruction but, instead of guilt, she felt quite elated. She had only wanted to get rid of the sleeves and collar but, looking at it now, she was seized by a desire to go further. With a snip of the scissors at bodice and hem, she grabbed hold of the material and tore the dress apart.

  Bits of pink gingham littered the bedroom floor. She wondered if she’d gone mad and didn’t care. If this was madness, there was a liberation to it. She went back to the wardrobe and, this time, took out the yellow silk dress. Had Lydia left it for her as a thank you for being the messenger and telling Grandmother? Or was it just because she was going off with Ruth, who had cupboards full of Le Louvre creations? Was it just an old cast-off, good enough for the little odd-bod? Thinking about Lydia calling her an odd-bod made her laugh. It did not seem to matter anymore. Lydia had left her the dress; there was no need to turn it into a tale of woe.

  As she struggled to do up the recalcitrant zip, something tapped against the glass of the French doors, but she did not bother to look. It was sure to be a moth, attracted by the candlelight. She smoothed the silk material over her hips, twisting a little, watching the hem flare.

  The tapping grew louder, and she turned to see a flash of torchlight. One of the French doors opened and William whispered, ‘Don’t scream. It’s only me.’ He manoeuvred himself into the room, shoving the torch in his pocket.

  She watched him poke at the door with his crutch, pushing it shut. Her heart was fluttering like a trapped bird. Speak, she told herself. Apologise. But no words issued forth, and he was silent too, leaning on his crutches, staring at her in an intense way, and when a smile formed on his lips she felt a sense of dread about what was to come.

  He gave a low appreciative whistle. ‘You’ve turned into a beauty, Miss P.’

  Without any warning, she burst into tears. Sobs forced their way up from deep within her and, although she wanted to stop, she could not. At least, not for some time. Throughout it all, William waited.

  When the storm had passed, he bent down, picked up a piece of the gingham dress from the floor and handed it to her. ‘Nose.’

  She blew her nose on the puffy sleeve.

  ‘I came to say sorry,’ he began.

  ‘No,’ she interrupted, ‘I’m the one who –’

  ‘I’m a brute and I hurt you, and if you can’t forgive me I don’t blame you. But I want you to know that you can write. That’s the important thing. Even more important than beauty. Although one shouldn’t underestimate beauty.’

  She shook her head. What was he talking about? Through bleary eyes she saw him pull something from his pocket. The letter! How could he?

  ‘Listen. Don’t say a word,’ William said, cutting her off before she could object, and he began to read the part where she had described the fight between Claudio and Vincenzo outside the Catholic church. It went on for quite a few pages and, to her surprise, she got swept up in the action, almost forgetting that she was the author. When he had finished, William folded the letter up once more.

  ‘See,’ he said, ‘you’re a real writer.’

  Again she shook her head. ‘It’s not even true – I didn’t do anything. Lydia helped him, not me.’

  ‘It’s called fiction,’ he replied. ‘Sometimes writers have to steal what they need. You made it your own and whether it happened to you or not isn’t the point. I won’t lie to you: some of what you wrote was tripe. That romantic nonsense about the poor fellow’s eyes and skin and so on. But it doesn’t matter because you’re going to get better and better. You just have to keep at it.’

  There was a silence, and she could not look at him.

  ‘Come on, Miss P. Forgive me.’

  She raised her head and saw that he was smiling.

  ‘Writers have to be courageous, you know. And ruthless too.’ He held out the letter and she took it. ‘I’m bloody starving,’ he said. ‘Some thoughtless brat forgot to bring down my dinner.’ He laughed as he hopped across the room and opened the door. She listened to the squeak of his crutches and the sound of his ‘dot and carry one’ along the hallway, and it made her think of the evening he’d arrived and the shock of his missing limb, and how this was the first time he’d walked through the house since the day he had returned.

  34

  MORNING LIGHT STREAMED INTO THE white room. Cockatoos screeched as they flew over the house, waking her from a dream in which William had entered her bedroom in the middle of the night and she’d been wearing the hideous dress that she had mutilated with a pair of nail scissors. That was not all. William had told her that she was a real writer and had read out something from the Dorothy letter to prove it – not teasing this time – and the memory of his words of praise returned to her, lifting her up in a blissful bubble.

  But then she remembered that her friendship with William was shattered; the bubble of bliss burst and she sat up. On the floor she saw pieces of the reviled gingham dress. She turned to the bedside table where a letter lay – many more pages than Lydia’s note. She reached across and grabbed it. The handwriting confirmed that it w
as indeed the letter to Dorothy.

  So William really had come to see her in the middle of the night and, according to him, she was a real writer. It was official. She let out a whoop. And hadn’t he mentioned something about beauty? That she was turning into a beauty? She scrambled from bed, fizzing and bursting with an effervescent energy.

  In the kitchen, Della and Florrie were already busy bottling tomatoes. It was an all-day job.

  ‘Well, look what the cat dragged in,’ Della said. ‘What brings you here so bright and early? I suppose you want something to eat.’

  ‘There’s a lamb chop and bacon in the warming oven,’ Florrie said and hurried across to the table with it before Emily could say that she wasn’t hungry. Even if she was, the idea of eating a lamb chop for breakfast was almost as unappetising as kidneys or crumbed brains. And, in any case, her state of excitement was such that eating was impossible. She wanted to see William; she had to speak to him or, rather, she wanted him to speak to her, to say again the things he had said last night.

  She could not stay sitting at the kitchen table and flitted across to the stove to put the kettle on the hob before returning to the table, removing the plate with the chop and taking it to the kitchen bench. The kettle was taking ages, and she moved it around on the hob as if hoping to make it boil more quickly. She didn’t see Della behind her and bumped into the cook, who was unimpressed.

  ‘Shoo, out the way. You’re a blinking flibbertigibbet this morning,’ Della said, giving her a shove. ‘Go and sit down and let Florrie make the tea.’

  Knowing that it was foolish to disobey Della in her domain, she returned to the kitchen table. Florrie poured her a cup of tea, and she had begun to drink it when the telephone bell rang – someone was making a call. Grandmother must be telephoning her father, she was sure of it, and she jumped up.

  Just as quickly Della pushed her down into the chair. ‘You’ll find out soon enough. No need to go getting under someone else’s feet.’

  She tried to rise again – it was urgent, she had to tell her father to come – but Della had a hand firmly on her shoulder. It felt like an age before Grandmother entered the kitchen.

  ‘There you are. I’ve just been speaking to your father. He’s arriving later today.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Yes. Just an overnight stay.’

  ‘Am I going home?’

  ‘Yes.’ Grandmother looked disappointed. ‘What a rush it all is. No doubt it’s because of your mother.’

  ‘How’s Mummy?’ The childish word slipped out, but she didn’t care.

  ‘On the mend.’

  ‘What about Lydia?’ Della interrupted.

  Grandmother’s mouth tightened. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t interrupt, Della. However, as you’ve asked: he thinks it best to let Lydia work things out herself. He’s mistaken of course, but I can only wait until he’s here in person. Really, sometimes I think the war has made everyone a little mad.’

  Emily did not wait to hear anything more and rushed past her grandmother. The knowledge that she was soon to go home had brought forth a wave of longing for her parents and she wanted to begin packing immediately.

  It took no time at all to stuff her clothes, willy-nilly, into the suitcase. When it was done, she sat on the bed and waited. How could she fill in the time until Father arrived? Even if he had left immediately after the telephone call with Grandmother, there were hours to go. Her thoughts returned to William.

  The workshop door was open and, standing in the doorway, she watched William tying a leather strap around a bundle of rolled-up bedding. He noticed her.

  ‘Miss P, come in.’

  She reached the desk and had to navigate around a wheel-barrow filled with books. A little further on clothes spilled from an open trunk.

  ‘What are you doing? Are you leaving?’ She felt a quiver of alarm, forgetting for a second that she was leaving too.

  ‘Rejoining the human race. Or what passes for it at Mount Prospect.’

  ‘You’re moving back to the house?’ she asked, just to be certain. He nodded. ‘Lydia’s gone, did you know?’ She had forgotten to tell him last night and now blurted it out.

  ‘So I heard.’

  ‘With Ruth. They’re lesbians.’

  ‘Yes.’ William grinned, and she wondered if he’d known all along.

  ‘I was sure she and Claudio –’

  ‘Perhaps they were,’ he said, before she could finish.

  ‘In love?’

  He laughed. ‘Hardly. But Lydia’s a flirt. I wouldn’t put a dalliance past her. And the Italian’s a man, isn’t he? A hot-blooded Mediterranean. How long is it since he’s held a woman in his arms?’

  She tried not to flinch at the thought of Claudio with Lydia in his arms, but William was not deceived.

  ‘No need to look so stricken, Miss P. I know you’ve got a crush on him, but it’s not the end of the world. There will be others.’

  She could not imagine that there would be others. Nor did she want others. But she wanted William to think well of her and attempted to rearrange her face into a less-stricken look. She’d been sure Lydia and Claudio were in love; a dalliance was shocking in a completely different way.

  ‘What about giving me a hand,’ William said, interrupting her train of thought. ‘There’s quite a bit to move.’

  In addition to reclaiming his old bedroom, William needed a study where he could write and, with Florrie’s help, the three of them cleared bric-a-brac from a spare room. The hours passed quickly as Emily loaded and reloaded the wheelbarrow, carting books to the new study, where she stacked them in piles on the floor. The bookcases had yet to be brought up from the workshop; Uncle Cec and Claudio were too busy with farm work.

  She put down yet another armload and straightened up, stretching tired muscles. In the middle of the new study, William was sitting on a chair, tying string around a parcel wrapped in newspaper.

  ‘There’s a pocketknife on the floor.’ He pointed. ‘Pass it here.’

  She picked her way around tottering piles of books and found the pocketknife.

  ‘What’s in the parcel?’ she asked, handing him the knife.

  He cut the string and put the parcel on the floor, kicking it under the chair with his heel. ‘What about a nip, Miss P?’ he said, ignoring her question.

  ‘Why do you call me that?’ she asked, feeling thwarted on the matter of the mysterious parcel and needing to assert her right to ask something.

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘I just wondered.’

  ‘You know the myth of Persephone?’

  She looked sheepish and thought about lying. But, like Lydia, she was sick of lies and deception. ‘Not really.’

  Appalled at her ignorance, William made her search through the book piles until she found a volume on Greek mythology.

  ‘That ought to give you the answer,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, there’s a bottle of The Grouse over by the door.’

  She took him the whisky and a glass, before sitting on the floor with the book of Greek myths. There was only one chair, and William had claimed it.

  Persephone, she soon discovered, was the daughter of Demeter, and had been abducted by Hades and taken to his underworld kingdom of the dead to be his wife. But Demeter was grief-stricken at losing her daughter and mourned so much that all the crops failed. Something had to be done to bring Persephone back before everyone died of starvation.

  ‘Where are you up to?’ William interrupted impatiently.

  ‘The Earth is on the verge of catastrophe,’ she replied.

  ‘Perhaps I’d better tell you the rest. That version is rather long-winded.’ She agreed, for there were quite a few pages to go, and she was eager to learn the reason for her acquired pseudonym.

  William explained that to avoid the catastrophe of mass starvation, Zeus sent Hermes to rescue Persephone. Hermes agreed on the proviso that she had not eaten anything in her time with Hades. On learning that she had in fact eaten si
x pomegranate seeds, Zeus had to find a solution. He decreed that Persephone could be united with Demeter for half the year so that the crops and harvests could flourish, and then for six months, the same number as the seeds she’d eaten, she had to return to Hades in the underworld.

  ‘It was a way of understanding how the seasons came into being,’ he said, pouring himself another glass of whisky. ‘In the autumn and winter, Demeter grieves and nothing grows. Then in the spring and summer, when Persephone returns to the upper world, life returns to the earth, the crops all grow and the harvest is good.’

  He tossed back the glass of whisky. ‘So, there you have it. That’s the myth of Persephone.’

  She nodded, trying to disguise the fact that she still didn’t understand. How could she ask him without seeming a complete idiot? She was continuing to ponder it when he spoke again.

  ‘You see, Miss P, I was in the underworld, the kingdom of the dead, and you turned up like a breath of spring.’ A shadow passed across his face and then he smiled. ‘I thought you wouldn’t come back, but you did.’

  The idea that she had appeared to him that way gave her a pleasurable sort of pain in her chest. Like love, she thought, but there was no time to explore such a startling idea before the tooting of a familiar car horn interrupted them.

  She flew out through the front door, skidding to a stop in front of her father. He dropped his overnight bag and embraced her.

  35

  IT WAS THE LAST MORNING of her visit. She had been awake for ages, listening to the familiar sounds around her. They no longer made her feel melancholy. It felt like years ago since Uncle Cec had collected her from the station and now, at last, she was returning home. She threw off the bedclothes and got dressed. It was time to leave.

  The family had gathered for a goodbye breakfast in the dining room and her arrival in Lydia’s yellow silk dress caused a small sensation.