The Lodger: A Novel (16 page)

Dorothy told Veronica about the bee memory, and then somehow—she wasn’t quite sure how it happened—the story of her pain-shadowed family life came pouring heedlessly out.

Veronica’s small soft hand slid into Dorothy’s while she talked. She listened in silence, her eyes welling up. The tears that trickled down her cheeks seemed to promise not only absolution, but that Dorothy would never again have to bear the bitterness of her grief and guilt alone.

*   *   *

BERTIE GAVE DOROTHY
a proof copy of the new book. She stayed up the whole night to read it, warm in her flannelette dressing gown, her eyes strained by the insufficient gaslight.

The heroine was an intelligent girl, brought up by a limited and unimaginative father to be a “young lady” in the suburbs, which were still ruled by Victorian assumptions. Stifled, she ran away to find freedom in London, where a number of landladies mistook her for a prostitute, and she struggled to find secretarial work. The only person who offered tangible help was the one she understood least: a prosperous older man, whose protuberant eyes indicated clearly to the reader his motivation in being kind to her. Eventually, her father reluctantly allowed her to study biology at a woman’s college. She fell passionately in love with her married science teacher, and didn’t even wait for his divorce before living with him. Her sensuality was portrayed as natural and welcome; their triumphant attraction more important than social convention or economic consideration.

It unmistakably mirrored Bertie’s early life with Jane. Dorothy, reading with a mixture of enjoyment and pain, thought there was something of herself in the heroine as well. Though Dorothy was a less enthusiastic lover, she found distinct echoes of her London life and her conversations with Bertie in the book. No wonder he hadn’t wanted her to see it before it was printed. He had shamelessly taken material from his own life, modified it a little—presenting himself in the best possible light—and retold it. There was something underhanded about it; a cheap trick. His readers, not realizing he had stolen his characters from life, erroneously believed him a creative artist.

She felt exposed and raw, as though a layer of skin had been peeled away. She realized that if you shared the life of a writer, it would be naive not to expect parts of that life to appear in his work. She tried to tell herself not to feel surprised or betrayed, but being defenselessly fished up and put into a book was a shock nothing had prepared her for.

*   *   *

IN THE RELATIVELY
small orbit of London journalism, there were already whispers about H. G. Wells and women. When the novel came out, the heroine’s open admission of desire for a married man created tremors of shock. Critics pounced on it and tore it apart as immoral. An article in
The Spectator
by St. Loe Strachey, its influential editor, was especially wounding. It claimed that Bertie was a danger to society:

The loathing and indignation which the book inspires in us are due to the effect it is likely to have in undermining that sense of continence and self-control in the individual which is essential in a sound and healthy State. It teaches, in effect, that there is no such thing as woman’s honour, or if there is, it is only to be a bulwark against a weak temptation … If an animal yearning or lust is only sufficiently absorbing, it is to be obeyed. Self-sacrifice is a dream and self-restraint a delusion. Such things have no place in the muddy world of Mr. Wells’s imaginings. His is a community of scuffling stoats and ferrets, unenlightened by a ray of duty or abnegation.

Bertie, showing the article to Dorothy, admitted he didn’t know whether to laugh or weep. He shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. “This outcry could wreck my career. Can’t they see that my books hold important and honest principles? Must they distort everything with their false morality? It’s obvious that women will produce sturdy children only if they are free to choose the mates they desire.”

He got to his feet and began to pace up and down the room. “I’m going to write a defence in
The Spectator
saying as much. Sexual desire should be celebrated because it leads to the right breeding partner. It’s biologically beneficial to the human race!”

*   *   *

BEFORE BERTIE HAD
a chance to finish writing his defense, the correspondence columns of
The Spectator
exploded into assault, and condemnation of Bertie’s “poisonous” book was unanimously voiced from church pulpits. Many libraries refused to keep copies.

Despite his initial defiance, Bertie fell into a depression, a sort of death of the imagination, where he found himself discouraged, misunderstood, and adrift. He looked at his life in a bleak, harsh light: it seemed a catalog of bad judgments, coarse gaffes, and dishonorable behavior.

“Despair is always close to me,” he confided to Dorothy. “In my worst hours, it’s as close as a black tidal wave bearing down on an unsuspecting beach walker. Right now, I’m almost swallowed up by it.”

They were silent for a long time, sitting side by side on the faded sofa in Russell Square. It was a crisp, clear day. There was a subtle change in the light streaming through the large bay windows: it was losing the melted butter quality of summer and becoming whiter, harder. A melancholy unease settled over Dorothy, fine and sad as dust. She took Bertie’s hand. It lay inert in hers, unresponsive to her touch.

The shabbiness of the room had at first been charming; redeemed by high ceilings, a fine carved marble mantelpiece and elegantly molded cornicing. Now, the peeling wallpaper, the dim-globed chandelier, and the faint but unmistakable smell of mildew seemed only squalid. Dorothy longed to be outside, walking the streets of her beloved London. But Bertie refused to go out. He wouldn’t eat. For the first time since Dorothy had known him, he didn’t want to make love.

“My life’s a mess” he said, in a low voice. “My work is a failure; I’m not producing the caliber of book I want … I’m cruel to the people I love best.”

Dorothy shivered. “That’s not true.”

“I’m cruel to Jane. She tries to hide her loneliness and depression, but I know perfectly well how she feels.” He turned to look at Dorothy. “I’m not being fair to you either. You ought to have a husband and a houseful of apple-cheeked children. You’d have splendid children … I’m torn between you and Jane. I don’t give either of you what you need or deserve.”

For a moment, Dorothy imagined herself married to a respectable man and free of Bertie. Free of passion, free to rest … “I’m quite sure I shall never get married,” she said softly.

She got to her feet and drifted helplessly to the large window, which was edged with grimy lace curtains. She stood silently looking at the square. The dusty leaves of the trees were beginning to turn; there was a light scattering of crispy leaves on the ground. Dorothy found herself longing for the serenity of autumn, for the softness of morning mists and leaves in varying hues of gold and brown, for damp dull grass and the smell of smoke from a bonfire … She yearned for the first astringent breath of cold in the air, diluting the sensuality of late summer, soothing her troubled heart.

Bertie’s despair frightened her. In the stale air of the room, it felt heavy and palpable. It closed in on her, making her nauseous. She no longer had the resilience to manage; she was tired and spent. She found herself almost wishing that Jane was present. With her tart humor and admirable tact, Jane would know how to handle him.

“I disgust myself,” he went on. “I’m vain and feeble; my ambitions are no more than extravagant, futile pretensions. I’ve lost my grip on life.”

Dorothy reluctantly turned away from the window to face him. “Why don’t you start writing a new book?” she suggested. “In the past, you’ve been able to get the better of these unhappy feelings by working.”

“I’m too drained to write. I have nothing to sustain me, no incentive to action. I am so fed up with everything, I can hardly bear it.”

The room was close with gas. He stood up and began to pace around it; he was incapable of sitting still.

As the long evening wore on, his restlessness drove him into a near panic. He couldn’t eat the dinner Dorothy had prepared, and he couldn’t sleep. He was like a prisoner in the small space.

In the early hours, he started to talk about a trip abroad. “It’s my damned fugitive impulse. I thought that meeting you had conquered it, but it seems nothing and no one can. It’s an inescapable part of me, I fear.”

“Perhaps you need a holiday.”

“You’re right, I’d like to get away from England. Time’s running to waste. Life is passing me by and I’m not writing the books I should be. I’m afraid I’ll never get the things I want to say properly said.”

“You have an unequaled gift for expression.”

“Bless you, Dora, for believing in me. But this time, it’s not enough to stop me falling. I have to get away and rethink my life. I feel suffocated, trapped in a morass of dulled response. I must have the distraction of new places and experiences, or I shall wither away.”

Dorothy got out of bed.

“What is it?” he asked impatiently.

She was searching for something in the cupboard. She brought out a large enamel bowl, her hands were trembling. She placed it hurriedly on the floor, knelt over it and began to retch.

Twelve

Bertie wanted his opinions to reach as many people as possible, and he was chronically short of funds: as well as maintaining his home with Jane, he supported his parents and supplied Isabel with a small income. As a result, he accepted too much newspaper and magazine work.

The strain was immense. Neither his personal life nor his work had a stable core. Both his articles and his novels were deteriorating in quality, as he began rehashing old arguments in them. This was unsurprising considering the amount of work he took on, and his unsettled lifestyle, shuttling between two women. He moved restlessly from his house to Russell Square and back again, torn between the contrary imperatives of conscience and desire. A spell of unusually cold and rainy weather brought on another chest infection, and it took him a long time to recover. He was run down and often heart-rendingly overworked and exhausted. It was destroying his writing, and it made him short-tempered with everyone around him.

One evening, he appeared at Mrs. Baker’s boardinghouse with a small suitcase. Dorothy and Veronica were having tea in Dorothy’s room.

“I see I’m interrupting,” Bertie said peevishly. He stood by the door, passing the case from one hand to the other.

“Why didn’t you warn me you were coming?” Dorothy answered ungraciously. “I could have met you somewhere else; it’s too risky coming here. Mrs. Baker must have been horrified.”

“I can leave now, if you’d prefer.”

“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. You had better come in. Bertie Wells, meet Veronica Leslie Jones.”

Veronica held out her hand, poised and elegant; she was not in the least perturbed by the unannounced arrival of a Great Man. Bertie put the suitcase down and moved across the room to take her hand in both of his. “So this is your Veronica,” he said. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, my dear.”

Veronica answered with pleasant little phrases about how glad she was to meet him. She was at once vivacious and engaging, in the way of someone doing their best to cover up a faux pas. Or perhaps, by hoisting a discreet flag above it, she was pointing to where it stood.

While Bertie settled himself in the most comfortable chair, Dorothy went downstairs to fetch more milk for their tea. By the time she returned, she saw he was restored to buoyant sociability.

“I agree with you!” Veronica was saying. She was sitting on a stool at his feet; she appeared to have capitulated delightedly to his charm.

Bertie’s eyes, which for the moment were entirely blue, roved around the room, taking in every detail. In the soft light, it looked less threadbare than usual, and Dorothy hoped its appeal wasn’t lost on him. His eyes came back to rest on Veronica’s face.

“So many young women,” he said reflectively, “marching in a long ardent line, bringing London to its knees. Wonderful.”

So they were talking about the suffrage. Dorothy wondered how much Veronica had told him about her passion for the campaign. Had she described going to suffrage meetings, being won over to militancy by Mrs. Despard, whose refined Victorian exterior, all muslin and old lace, concealed a will of steel? Perhaps she had told him her father was so enraged by her becoming a suffragette that he had cut off her allowance. She’d been forced to work as Mrs. Baker’s skivvy from six in the morning to late at night, until her doting older brother stepped in and rescued her once more. She now existed, in the faded grandeur of her room, on almost nothing but bread and tea. It was a brave step for an indulged girl, who had never wanted for anything, and the experience was improving her; she had begun to drop some of her affectations.

“They won’t all be young,” Dorothy broke in. “There’ll be middle-aged women and even grandmothers, like Mrs. Despard, marching and singing and waving flags together.”

Bertie started to say something, but Dorothy cut across him. “Tell him about Mrs. Despard, Veronica.”

Veronica described Mrs. Despard with reverent admiration, making them see her smooth white hair, frail spare figure and stately bearing, and the peculiar impression she conveyed of being more spirit than body. It was this spirit that drove her, in old age, to smash through the conventions of a lifetime and fight—violently if necessary—for the right to vote.

“I suppose the essence of suffragism was in me before I met Mrs. Despard,” Veronica said thoughtfully. “She only crystallized ideas and feelings I’d had for as long as I could remember.”

“Such as?”

Veronica paused, turning clear eyes on Bertie before answering: “When I was young, I used to stand at my bedroom window, watching my brothers playing in the grounds of our house. I was desperately jealous of their freedom. I burned to be like them; to romp and climb trees, unfettered by the constant deadening pressure to be ladylike. They were allowed to take hold of life in a way I couldn’t. ‘She should have been born a lad,’ my father used to say, watching me sadly.