The Lodger: A Novel (23 page)

“I thought you weren’t going to come,” Veronica said.

“Of course I’m here; nothing would have stopped me. How could you even doubt it?”

Veronica sighed. “I think it’s the effect of being shut up in here. I feel as helpless as a child, prey to terrible fluctuating feelings. I was convinced you’d forgotten or discarded me.”

“I’ll never do either.”

“Thank God.”

“You look so different,” Dorothy said angrily.

“Yes,” Veronica said flatly, with an apprehensive glance toward the wardress.

Dorothy lowered her voice. “I hate seeing you like this. Are you all right?”

Veronica gave the wardress another look. “I’m fine. They treat me well enough.” But the struggle for serenity, evident in the lift of her eyebrows and the way she pressed her full lips together to stop them trembling, contradicted her reasonable words.

“What’s it like?”

“The worst thing is the drinking water.” Veronica was almost whispering. “It’s only changed once a day and it’s kept in tins, which are cleaned with soap and brick dust, but not washed out. I can’t tell you how horrible it tastes.” She shuddered. “I also hate not knowing if you’re being watched or not while you’re in your cell. There’s a peephole in the door; you’re never quite sure if there’s an eye staring through it or not. Then at any time and without warning, keys jangle, locks grind, and the door is flung open. It feels so hurried and noisy you think something out of the ordinary has happened, like a fire or a breakout. But it’s invariably routine: time to exercise, or bathe, or have an inspection. It’s just so startling and invasive every time; you never get used to it.” She paused, scratching her head under her cap. “Other than that, the days aren’t too bad. But my God, Dorothy, the nights!”

“Tell me.”

“For one thing, I can’t sleep, because the plank bed is hard and there’s no pillow and the cell is freezing. I can’t explain how utterly chilling the atmosphere of prison in the dead of night is … there’s something about it that paralyzes your will and tightens your nerves to snapping point. You feel so cut off from love and warmth and hope. It’s like being cast out from the rest of humanity.”

Through the sickness that was threatening to engulf Dorothy, she longed to reach over and pull Veronica against her and show her how untrue this was.

“The silence is dreadful,” Veronica continued, “like a thick cold shroud wrapping round you. But the sudden screams and cries that break it, tearing through the darkness, are worse … There are so many sounds and each one fills you with dread; you can’t interpret them and they are never explained afterward. Last night, there was a woman groaning and shrieking somewhere on the floor above me. It was a frightful noise, like an injured beast, scarcely human. I’ve never heard such fury and despair in all my life.” Veronica shook her head, as though trying to dispel the cries that still haunted her. “She was rattling the gate and hurling herself against it, until it trembled on its hinges. The poor creature seemed to be possessed by an awful strength and wildness; she carried on for half the night. I’ll never know if she was drunk, crazy, or just plain terrified. Nobody will answer your questions; you’re kept in total ignorance of what’s happening outside your cell.” She broke off; she was shivering.

“It sounds terrible, but at least time’s passing. You’re more than halfway through your sentence now.”

“That’s true, but the last part is going to be the hardest of all.”

“What makes you think so?”

Veronica paused dramatically and lowered her voice, so Dorothy had to strain to hear her. “I’ve decided to go on a hunger strike.”

“No!”

“Some of the other suffragettes have already started. We won’t submit to being treated like ordinary lawbreakers. We’re asserting our right to be treated as political prisoners, with the same privileges male political offenders have. We won’t touch food until the government yields our point.”

“And what if the government doesn’t yield? They haven’t given in to any of your other demands. What will it achieve? You’ve brought enough suffering on your—”

Dorothy broke off. The lacerating stomachache was back, in its full force. She bent over, hands on her belly, clamping her lip between her teeth to stop moaning. She was drowning in pain, alone. What was happening to her body? How long could she carry on ignoring it?

“What’s wrong?” Veronica asked.

“Nothing … just cramps.” Dorothy’s breath came unsteadily and her voice shook.

“You’re deathly pale.”

It was some moments before Dorothy could answer. At last, the spasm began to ease. She straightened up and tried to smile.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“You don’t look well at all.”

“I’m fine. Really.”

“Tell me what you’ve been doing since I last saw you,” Veronica pleaded, almost desperately. “What’s happening at the house? Are you missing me? What are you thinking right now?”

They began to talk about the latest comings and goings of boarders, clinging to the ordinary everyday details of the life of Mrs. Baker’s house, which seemed, at that moment, infinitely precious.

Another prisoner was making her way down the corridor; she walked listlessly, with a wardress beside her. The inmate’s skin was yellow, as though she had jaundice, and her eyes, set in deep hollows, were vacant. She looked like she had lost her way, given up, retreated to a place deep inside herself. Seeing Dorothy distracted, Veronica followed her gaze. The prisoners exchanged the slightest of nods.

“We sat next to each other in the Black Maria on the way here,” Veronica explained. “Her husband’s an invalid, and she isn’t in good health herself. She earns a pittance taking in washing. It’s nowhere near enough to feed her children so, in desperation, she stole a couple of loaves of bread for them. When she was caught, she received neither understanding nor mercy; she was simply thrown in here. Listening to her story, I realized all the things I’ve heard and read about are true. Now at least I know who I’m fighting for. There are countless others in equally bad situations. Women who are in dire need of a political voice, and are so ground under and broken, they don’t even know they need one. It’s because of them that we can’t afford to wait. Having the vote isn’t just a right; it’s a burning necessity.”

The wardress had come into the room while Veronica was speaking. “Time’s up,” she said flatly, adding to Dorothy, “You’re to wait here till you’re fetched.”

Veronica’s lips trembled; the next moment, tears were spilling silently down her cheeks. Without a word, the wardress put her hands on Veronica’s shoulders and yanked her roughly to her feet, leading her out of the room as though she was an animal. Veronica submitted meekly to this unnecessary treatment, but Dorothy found it unbearably degrading; she burned with helpless anger and revolt.

“I’ll see you soon,” she said uselessly, to Veronica’s departing back.

*   *   *

DOROTHY MADE HER
way home, ill and anguished. The grim central tower of Holloway receded with every step, but the prison smell still hung about her clothes, persistent and sickening. The thought of Veronica on hunger strike was torment; Dorothy had heard that other suffragettes were forcibly fed when they refused to eat, and she feared for Veronica’s safety. As she walked, their conversation played and replayed in her head.

I want to know what you’ve been doing since I last saw you … Are you missing me? What are you thinking? I want the thought that crossed your face a moment ago—that one.

Dorothy felt tired and slightly dizzy; she could hear the breath rasping in her throat. Momentarily, she was disoriented. Did the voices in her head belong to her and Veronica, or were they hers and Bertie’s? She shook her head to dispel them, and they disintegrated, leaving a thousand echoes.
What was that thought?… I want that one … that thought …
Sweat was trickling under her armpits and between her breasts.

She willed the voices to leave her. She was dead tired, feeble with fatigue. She only wanted to be left alone, to recover in peace.

The sky was aflame with pink, spread out behind gilded clouds that hid the wilting sun. London was transformed into a glittering celestial city; the buildings were rose-colored, their grey roofs glowing gold. The light seemed almost viscous as it deepened and spread over the buildings.

It was hard to reconcile the magnificence before her with the horror of Holloway. London was a place of terror and beauty, squalor and splendor. But the contrasts were more than she could bear; they jarred on her, almost painfully.

Bertie was right when he said it was London that got you in the end.

She reached the boardinghouse with relief. As she climbed the flight of winding stairs that led to the top floor, the forgotten wealth of her solitary attic began to steal round her once more. Her time with Veronica, so joyous and so full of pain, began to feel strangely far away.

Her door opened with its usual rising squeak. She walked over to the window and looked at the tree-filled square and the housefronts opposite; their windows dark, or suffused with mellow golden light. She lit her lamp and the room came alive with a thousand flickering shadows. It was aloof and mysterious, just as if she was seeing it anew.

She sat down on her narrow single bed. She seemed to have used up every drop of feeling and, for the first time since Veronica made her astonishing declaration of love on the mirror, Dorothy was at peace.

The relief she was experiencing at Veronica’s absence was a shock, both guilty and pleasurable. Stretching her arms over her head, she soaked up the stillness and the feeling of enclosure. An evening of freedom unfolded before her …

Her deepest, most intimate self, which had been choked off by everything that had happened, was beginning to revive and expand. The realization that it had not died, that it was still buoyant and untouched, brought a warm moment of joy. Able once more to simply be, she sat quite still, listening to the familiar rumble of traffic from Euston Road, relishing the feeling that came from being alone and at ease. She was filled with her old sense of the marvelousness of life; how extraordinary it was that anything at all existed.

St. Pancras clock chimed the half hour, and she wondered if she was strong enough to write. But she felt bilious; there was still a slight dragging ache in the pit of her stomach. She lay down on the bed and drew her knees up, waiting for it to pass.

Seventeen

Dorothy woke from a dream filled with anguish and tears.

She lay in the dark, unable to escape the feeling that something was dreadfully wrong. A mild pain was beginning in the pit of her stomach; a dull throbbing, similar to the sensation which accompanied her monthlies.

There was a trickle between her legs, sticky and warm. She got out of bed hurriedly, which made her so dizzy that she had to lean against the wall to steady herself.

Deep inside her, she felt something falling away.

When she’d recovered sufficiently to light the gas, she saw bright red blood, mixed with darker pieces of gelatinous tissue. Her mouth opened in a soundless cry. Blood was pouring out of her body, and the clots that came with it were huge—one or two the size of a crab apple. Its metallic smell hit her, her knees gave way, and she sank to the floor in shock.

After some minutes, she had the presence of mind to go to the small lavatory. She sat on the toilet bowl, waiting fearfully as her body expelled the tiny speck of life that had failed to adhere to it. And it seemed to her that the blood was tears shed by her womb, deeper than heart’s blood.

The pain grew stronger; powerful contractions that arrived closer and closer together. The iron claw was back, crushing her womb; she was doubled up and crying out in agony. When she was sufficiently lucid for thought, she was grateful for the thick walls of the house, sheltering the other boarders from the noise she was making.

Her pain had its own rhythm. Behind her closed eyelids, it assumed colors as well: fiery red, burnt orange, dull brown and black. It was the screech of a metal point being scraped down a blackboard, a toothed saw on stone. It was a pressure so relentless, it crushed her into a ball tinier than a pebble. She could tell when it was at its height because she heard a little trickle of blood falling into the lavatory at the peak of each contraction. Then the wave would recede, and a new crescendo would begin its buildup again. Everything had disintegrated, past and future and present; she was nothing but this terrible pain that inhabited and possessed her.

The heavy stillness of the house pressed down on her; she was shaking violently. There was no one she could call at this hour. Probably she needed medical attention; what if she bled to death? She heard her breath rasping in her throat; she began to feel hot, sweaty, and faint. She tried to put her head between her legs, though it was not enough. Black spots danced before her eyes and the walls of her skull caved in. As she fell to the ground, she was sucked into black nothingness.

When she awoke, she had no idea how long she’d been out. It was still dark outside. There was a sharp pain in her hip; she must have bruised it falling. She was lying on the floor with her face pressed against the cool boards. The contractions were beginning to ease, the bleeding was slowing down.

After a while, she was able to get up. She washed her face and hands at the shabby open sink cupboard, and drank some water from a battered enamel cup. She fetched a sanitary towel from its packet and crawled back to her bloodstained bed.

The room was cold and stuffy. She was deathly cold and clammy; she couldn’t stop shivering. She heaped all the covers over herself but it was no use; her body felt like it had been submerged in icy water.

She started to cry. She cried until her throat ached, an abandoned animal-like wailing that shocked her, for it sounded like it was coming from someone else. She cried for her pain and her fear; she cried for the thing that had died inside her without ever properly existing; she cried for the loss of magic and mystery between her and Bertie. She cried for Veronica and for Jane; she cried for her mother. She cried because she wanted to.