Mary Reilly (20 page)

“How can this be?” I said. “My marm had no relations that I know of, certain none as would know me by name.”

“I cannot say,” he replied. “Only I’m telling you what the gentleman said.”

“But what was he like?” I said.

Here Mr. Haffinger brought out a long description: he was elderly, though perhaps not, but only worn down from hard work and illness, for he had a cough
that never let up so he could scarcely carry on a conversation; his hair was dark, though perhaps it was grey, he had not marked it. He believed he was clean-shaven though there may have been some whiskers. His clothes was neat but not fashionable, a workingman’s clothes, he thought, or perhaps a tradesman. He was not tall nor short, and so on until I thought I would scream at him. My head was pounding with the thought it must have been my father, though it were an outrage he should turn up at this unhappy time in the guise of a concerned relation; in fact, I could not bear to think on it. The description Mr. Haffinger gave me could have been anyone, so it could have been him, and I remembered with a shudder that he had always a cough.

No, I thought, half of London has a cough. This must surely be some cousin or uncle of Marm’s that I know nothing of. But why then would he think I would not care to see him? Mr. Haffinger dug in his coat pocket and came out with the sovereign. “Here it is,” he said. “You see, just as he gave it me.” We had reached the funeral establishment and Mr. Haffinger stood holding out the sovereign to me at the doorway.

“Sir,” I said. “You are an honest man. As I do not know this gentleman, I cannot accept his money. I beg you to keep it with my thanks.”

This pleased the poor old fool no end and he repeated that he was indeed an honest man several times as we went in the door, and he was on the point of telling the undertaker the whole story but this gentleman, all wrapped in black and full of his own importance,
cut him off to say the coach was pulled up and we was to proceed to the yard. But first we settled up the bill, which money I had brought with me, and I was given a copy with the price of everything down to the nails listed on it. Then we went out and it was a comfort to me to see that, though there was nothing fancy about it, the coach was a respectable one, the coffin a sound-looking box that did not look as if it would split open before it was in the ground, the bearers was not staggering from drink nor making a show with their pocket handkerchiefs of a grief they could not feel, and the horses was not run down but a quiet pair, well matched and not inclined to bolt through the streets as I have seen happen. We set out to the church—not a long walk, but I had time to think over this strange business of the man who came to look upon my marm, though I could make no sense on it. Mr. Haffinger walked alongside me, keeping his eye on the children who ran along beside us trying to see the coffin, as well as all the passersby who stopped at the sight of our procession to doff a hat or cease idle chatter, for the sight of the hearse do seem to sober the most frivolous folk. At the church the old vicar was waiting, and after he said a few prayers we was off to the churchyard, a dismal place where the graves is mostly not marked and five or six deep, but there is a poor chestnut tree in one corner and a newer section opened up this last year, Mr. Haffinger told me, with the new laws what allows for more space between, and here was where they brought Marm’s coffin. As the vicar was saying a few words, for he knew Marm
enough to speak well of her, I looked over the graveyard, thinking perhaps this mysterious gentleman might show his face, but I saw no one. I felt such comfort in the poor ceremony I had got up to mark Marm’s passing that I saw why people do make so much of a funeral, and I was grateful it was a clear, bright day and felt that Marm might at last have some peace, for she had none to speak of in her life.

Before we come away I gave the vicar a black silk handkerchief and the undertaker gave me a remembrance card which was engraved with a willow at one corner, I thought a pretty picture though there was no such tree anywhere near that I could see.

Mr. Haffinger walked out to the street with me, seeming awed by the spectacle, for he did not say a word but wrung his hands, so I had no doubt he’d something on his mind and I should soon hear it. At the gate I thanked him for being a friend to my marm and said I must be off as I wanted to be back at my employment by dinner.

“Before you go, miss,” he said, “there’s something I must tell you. As you say, I am an honest man and it will be on my conscience if I do not.”

I told him he must speak freely then.

“So I must,” he said, “or I shall have no rest. The gentleman what come to see your poor ma was your father.”

My heart seemed to sink in my chest at these words. “I thought as much,” was all I said.

“He said there was bad feeling between you and that he was sorry for it. He is very bad off hisself and from the look of him will not live the winter, so he said hisself.”

“You did not tell him where I lodge?” I said.

“That I did not, miss,” he said. “He did not ask.”

“Then I beg you, Mr. Haffinger, let that be an end to it.”

“It do seem a shame, miss,” he said, “that some old quarrel should not be patched over when so much time has passed and he is now a poor, lonely old fellow at death’s door. Your poor ma had made her peace with him, why cannot you?”

“What makes you think my marm had made peace with him?” I said.

“Because he come to see her, more than once, in her illness and she did not send him away.”

This made my blood pound in my ears. Words leaped to my lips and I snapped them out at Mr. Haffinger. “If she did not send him away,” I said, “it were because she was afraid of him.”

Mr. Haffinger seemed surprised at my response. “Afraid of
him
?” he repeated, as if it was not to be thought on. “That poor harmless old gentleman? And sick himself too, near to death. No, miss, I do not think you ma was afeared of your father. It were a case of two near dying at the same moment.”

So, I thought, she never got free of him and even as she left this life he was there. With his last strength
he hunted her down and she was too weak herself to do aught but his will, as it was always between them, only now his will was that he should be forgiven.

“Mr. Haffinger,” I said, “do you feel certain my father will not live?”

He brightened at this as he thought my heart must be softening. “That he cannot, miss. He is coughing blood and he said he was in hospital, but was turned out for they said there was naught they could do for ’im.”

I looked back at the yard where the gravediggers had come out, looking as black as the earth they deal in, and was struggling to get Marm’s coffin in the hole they’d dug for her. Was it possible, I thought, my father believed what lay between us was only bad feeling? Did he truly imagine because he was dying I would want to see his face, to patch things over, as Mr. Haffinger put it? I looked at my hands which ached with these thoughts and then looked at Mr. Haffinger’s wrinkled, wide-eyed face in his ridiculous funeral getup, near teary-eyed with the fancy he was to give a poor dying man back his lost daughter, and I set my jaw tight to keep a shout of laughter coming out. I wished I might have Master with me, who would understand better than anyone my feelings and would doubtless know what best to say. When I overcome my wish to laugh and the anger what followed on that, I said, as calm as I could, “Promise me, sir, you will not tell him where I lodge.”

His hopeful face clouded with worry, but he give
me his word and so solemn like I knew he would keep it.

“Then let it rest, Mr. Haffinger,” I said, and I took his hand in mine and shook it to seal the promise, and so left him standing in the bright sunshine to puzzle on just what could turn a heart so cold as mine.

I
t has been many days since last I wrote. We have all of us been so run off our feet with work there has been no time, nor have I thought much of what I might want to tell, for at the end of the day I have gone up to bed weary to the bone and off to sleep as soon as I close my eyes.

Two times have I dreamed of my father and in both dreams he was not the cruel tyrant of my memory, but an old man, stooped and weak, a threat to no one, and in both he has tried to speak to me, but I have turned away. So I woke feeling a fine resolve, and I think perhaps right now he is dying somewhere, beaten and friendless, while I am safe in my bed.

I do not think my heart is hard but only that my reason has not gone soft, as seems to happen to so many at the thought of old age and illness, then death, which is what we mun each look forward to, whether we have lived well or badly. Sometimes when I am on the street
and I see poor old men crouched in doorways in their rags and filth, begging for a penny, I want to look deep into their bleary eyes and ask, was there a child cried for mercy and you showed her none? Then here is a penny for her memory.

For I know what a lie old age makes of a life—indeed, it is the most fearsome part—and that my father would doubtless deny—nay, would not even remember—how cruel he used me. Now he does not want to die alone, so he makes up a daughter who could care for him and calls the rift between us “bad feeling.”

My fear of him is gone and in its place anger, which fills my head so at times I can scarce find my away about. So I keep at my writing, for two reasons: one that it eases me to write what I do not say, for no one cares enough to hear it—that I do remember and, though I do not hate him I do not forgive him; and second that if I write it now, then it cannot be denied in future. Will I ever be myself so muddled that I will soften the long horror that was my childhood and tell myself perhaps it was not so bad? Let this book serve as my memory.

A
nother week has passed. Master has had a stream of visitors, coming at all hours, sometimes expected and sometimes not, so Cook says she has put
out more food in five days than in the whole month previous.

The weather turns cooler every day, it seems to me, though we have had two days’ sun for a few hours in the afternoon when Cook and I took time to work in our garden, putting in all manner of bulbs which Mr. Bradshaw got from his aunt who lives in the country. I never knew before how these go in the ground before it freezes and stay there all the winter long—storing up food, Cook says, until they know somehow it is safe to come up, though some, as crocuses and snowdrops, come very early and often show their bright colours through a frost. Many of our flowers will not winter, Cook says, and so mun come out, though the herbs is mostly more hardy and may stay. We turned the back section under, adding lime, a full afternoon’s work, which I was glad to have. Indeed I cannot get enough of working and make up projects if there is nothing to hand, so Cook says I am like a squirrel hurrying about, storing up things and getting everything in order, for winter is fast upon us.

I do feel pressed, but it is not winter that is closing in upon me. True, the days is shorter and there is less light and it is cold, so it comes as no surprise that I spend my time cleaning lamps and hauling up coal—still, I feel always it is not enough. I had a fancy last night as I was trimming the drawing-room lamps that I would take every lamp in the house and light them in one room and then, if I stood among them, I might see properly.

This evening Master is out to a meeting and then a dinner having to do with his project for a Latin school for workingmen, which he has got underway with Mr. Littleton, who, he says, has to be bullied every step of the way. Master has not set foot in his laboratory for weeks, but is occupied completely in his good works, so when he is not having gentlemen in or going out to them, he is writing letters. His good spirits and energy keep us all in a like mood, so even Mr. Poole, who likes nothing better than to greet gentlemen at the door and then tell us their family tree or all their connections in the government, is in a tolerable frame of mind. We have heard nothing of Mr. Edward Hyde—Master does not speak of him, nor has the police caught up with him, so he must have escaped the country, as Mr. Bradshaw said he might, which I pray is what happened so that we will see him no more.

M
any days has passed. Last night Master had a small dinner party, Mr. Utterson, Mr. Littleton and Dr. Lanyon, who went to school with Master, so Mr. Poole says, but has not visited here in some years. Master sent word to Cook to put on something “really fine,” even though the party was small, which seemed to please her as she says it is sometimes a pleasure to do things with style, so she did six courses—a soup
with chopped spinach, soles in brown gravy, pigeons stewed, saddle of mutton, potatoes, salad, and soufflé. The kitchen was in as much of a ruction as if we’d had ten to dine and poor Annie groaned every time Cook took down another pot, for she has spent more time scrubbing these last weeks than sleeping, which don’t suit her, and I’ve no doubt she wishes Master would go back to his solitary ways and his late night plate of cold mutton. The rest of us was enjoying the activity, especially Mr. Poole, who had a long confab with Master over the wine and brought the bottles out one at a time, dusting them off and going over the labels with Mr. Bradshaw as if he was showing off the crown jewels. There was seven bottles, also champagne and port, which I thought should set the gentlemen up to a very late hour, so I got in a good lot of coal to the dining room, drawing room and front hall, as it is a chilly night out, though clear, and wine do thin the blood. I had the fires going before they arrived, so the rooms was comfortable and they spent more than an hour in the drawing room before they went in to dine. I had on my best black woollen skirt and gabardine blouse, what I got for my mourning, a clean apron and a new cap, my mourning bands, and I felt very smart, for the new skirt is narrower in the fashion, so it is easier to move about without a fuss. I was to go up with Mr. Poole to hand round the soup, which made me anxious, as I do not like to wait at table, for all the gentlemen see of me is my hands and they are rough-looking no matter how I might scrub them. Cook seemed to know my feelings,
for as I stood smoothing my apron she said, “You look fine, Mary. The new cap suits you.” So I took up the tray and followed Mr. Poole and Mr. Bradshaw, who had the tureen, up the stairs, feeling I was going onto a stage and did not know my part.