The Lodger: A Novel (9 page)

Without warning, tears came. She brushed them away furiously. Why hadn’t Bertie written? Why had he left her alone to grieve and weep; to get through the rest of her life without him?

She picked up an unanswered letter, but found she couldn’t read it through tear-blurred eyes. She dropped it back onto the pile. Nothing was as good as the elation she’d felt in his company, the sense of aliveness. She would probably never have that again. The only consolation was that she wasn’t harming Jane; Dorothy was the only one who suffered. Probably, he had decided to draw back because of Jane.

Certain moments with Bertie would live inside her forever. Nothing could take them away.
What are you thinking? You have a habit of leaving your thoughts lying in your face, you know. I want that one, the one that crossed your features a moment ago.
The two of them eternally sitting in front of the fire in his study, very close, not quite touching.

She was still talking to him in her head all the time, telling him things that had happened during the day, how she was feeling. Painting word-pictures of her life that presented it in an idealized light—how she wanted him to see her, rather than how it really was.

It was a bit like this when her mother died. Dorothy—guilty and shattered, but alive—had carried on speaking to her, the words dropping into a void.

*   *   *

WHEN DOROTHY GOT
back to the boardinghouse, she decided to go to dinner, though she knew she couldn’t afford it. She talked with great animation throughout the meal and was the last one to leave the table.

She lingered until the supper things were cleared, and sat down by the fire with a book. The room was hushed and peaceful. Carrie and Mrs. Baker took out a tumbled workbasket and began to sew at the table. Dorothy gazed into the dying fire. It seemed unbearably dismal. She tried to think about something else, but all that came to mind was the returning loneliness waiting for her upstairs.

The door opened softly. Mrs. Baker and Carrie looked up at once, but did not say anything. “Here’s Miss Richardson,” Dr. Weber said. “Evening Mrs. Baker, Carrie. Do you mind if I join you?”

“Of course not. Come in.”

Dorothy carried on reading as Dr. Weber sat down opposite her, opened a bulky journal, and began to look through it. “I’m taking the London medical exam in July,” he explained, “and I’ve a load of cramming to do before then.”

She nodded, trying to cover her surprise and also her sense that she had been thrust into a role. It was like a scene from a novel or play for Dr. Weber to bring his work into the room in order to be near her. To him, she seemed tranquil and assiduous; he felt he could study better in her presence.

As she read, she tried to assume the qualities he believed she possessed. If only what he thought he saw was true! She remembered the vaulting fever in her blood when Bertie’s mouth touched hers, and nearly laughed aloud at how shocked Dr. Weber would be if he knew.

But perhaps if he remained a constantly admiring presence in her life, she might turn into the girl he thought she was. Perhaps if she were treated with homage, she would grow into the role of womanly woman; an exemplary doctor’s wife and mother of his children. Surely it was not that difficult? It would mean involving herself in the running of his practice, managing his life seamlessly, training the servants with tact and discretion, never growing flustered or angry, creating a haven of replenishment and peace for him to come home to … She felt herself begin to exude these qualities; they altered her demeanor as she leant over her book. She could leave her messy shameful feelings for Bertie behind.

After a while, she roused herself and looked across at him, as though she had only just realized he was there. His body looked neat and hard in the well-cut Canadian suit; his skin was ruddy with health; his fair hair short and glossy, like the pelt of a young animal. He raised his head and his gaze met hers. She was touched by the look of appreciation in his eyes.

“It’s a perfect evening,” he said quietly (he pronounced it
purrfect
), pulling at a thread on his jacket sleeve. “Would you like to go for a walk?”

“It’s late…”

He consulted his wristwatch. “Nine o’clock. You call that late?”

“I’d rather sit here…”

There was silence, except for the sounds of Mrs. Baker and Carrie packing up their mending things. They left the room quietly.

“I want you to know…” he cleared his throat, “How … how very much I enjoy our little talks … As I’ve said to you before, my day isn’t a good one unless it starts with a few words with you. In fact, you’re in my mind a good deal.”

“It’s nice of you to say so. I … like talking to you, too.”

“I’m glad. I’d be happy to feel I was in your thoughts, even sometimes. It’s a lovely place to be…”

If you think my thoughts are lovely, you don’t know me very well, Dorothy felt like saying to him. My thoughts are full of anger and torment, putrid with unholy longing.

Their eyes met, and Dr. Weber gave her his white even smile. She felt enfolded by his smile: it welcomed her and drew her in, holding her up like a trailing plant supported by a fence … secretly wanting to guide and shape her. She dropped her gaze. There was a pause.

Dr. Weber abruptly began speaking about the historical interest of the neighborhood. He had been to look at the Old Curiosity Shop on his way home from work. He described the precarious overhanging upper storey, the uneven creaky floorboards, the sloping roof, and wooden beams.

“That shop wasn’t the one that inspired Dickens,” Dorothy said. “It’s been demolished; it’s only the site. But there’s a better local story I heard from one of my dentists.”

She told him about the passage in Little Gower Place, and how body snatchers would take freshly buried corpses through it, under the cover of darkness, from St. Pancras churchyard to the hospital.

“Well I never! I’m surprised your dentists think it right to bother your pretty head with tales of the dead being disturbed.”

He would have preferred no response from her; only an air of radiant listening. There was no true meeting of minds; he didn’t really see her as Bertie saw her … being in his company was isolation far deadlier than staying single. No matter how much time they spent together, they would always be strangers. What was worse, he would not even realize. He would be satisfied with very little—serene attentive demeanor, banal conversation, and a limited sphere of activity. Perhaps he was the sort of man who wouldn’t be fully happy with a woman unless he could patronize her and secretly despise her a little.

He was telling her that she shouldn’t be troubled by the ugly things in life; she should be protected from them. But she hardly heard him; she was torn between a desire to lean against his respectability and a desire to shun it, in exactly equal measures.

Her mind began to race ahead of itself. Dr. Weber was a good man and far from stupid; he seemed to be growing truly fond of her. Marrying him would mean living the kind of existence her parents had led, before their troubles began. It might be her only chance for a gracious leisured life; no more worries or fatigue. But she couldn’t get married just to stop being tired. And being with him would mean daily contact with sheltered women; busy well-dressed automatons, whose only horizons were family and home, and who were fearful and rejecting of all that lay beyond. It would mean enduring the company of self-satisfied condescending men, who were present a fraction of the time, but were more often away on their own business, which gave them an unwarranted superiority and the power that came with having money. She could never be part of that world; she simply couldn’t conform to its terms. The cost of security was too high … she would rather die than smother, even on a pedestal with incense always burning.

Dorothy was starting to feel dizzy. In spite of the open window, the air was hot and oppressive. It hampered her breathing and made her feel like she had indigestion.

I’m as much a man as a woman. That’s what gives me this awful clarity of vision, she thought despairingly. I am an oddity standing halfway between the sexes, looking at both sides … Most men will come to hate me—because I can’t pretend for long.

She was torn by contrary forces that would never allow her to drop anchor and settle. Then her life would be full of conflict; driven this way and that, a ceaseless swinging to and fro. No wonder people thought she was inexplicable.

Dr. Weber was looking at her expectantly; he evidently wanted a reply. She gazed back at him in dismay; she had no idea what he’d been saying. Dorothy felt she must get into the open and walk for a long way, unbound. She rose abruptly and announced she had to go out. The look of hurt surprise on Dr. Weber’s face shamed her.

She let herself out the front door, and was immediately pierced by the beauty of London at night. There was a new moon rising, peering out between clouds, its frail radiance mingling with the misty darkness along the quiet roads, the haloes of lamplight at intervals on the pavement

At last, she was anonymous and free in London. Who could want anything more from life…? She would return to her peaceful center, with only herself to please; no one else wanting to mold her into something she couldn’t be … If she walked far enough and fast enough, she might manage to shed herself. She would no longer be a woman, tormented by longings and dissatisfactions … she would be a Londoner.

There was a familiar figure standing on the corner. She checked herself; she was used to seeing men who looked like Bertie. In fact, she couldn’t stop searching for him on the street, scouring the features of others for a resemblance. Whenever she saw a short, sandy-haired man, she would hurry helplessly toward him, only to pull back in crushing disappointment and embarrassment when she realized her mistake.

He turned toward her and the light from a streetlamp fell on his face.

Her heart was singing. It was Bertie.

Eight

The fire in his study cast its soft light over the prone forms of Bertie and Dorothy. Her head was on his chest, his arms protectively around her. His body smelt of honey.

There was silence, except for the dry hiss and spit of the flames. Dorothy gazed into the landscape of fissures and molten expanses at their center, feeling the warmth on her face. A log tumbled, sending a shower of amber sparks skyward, like a cluster of fireflies. They floated down gently, expiring one by one before they reached the ground.

She found her mind full of pictures and thoughts: Bertie coming after her with renewed urgency; the way her stomach had fallen away at the sight of him standing there on the pavement. She had run into his arms, pressing herself against him like an abandoned creature, not caring who saw them.

She had fallen; she was living in sin; betraying Jane … The hunger she felt for Bertie was all-consuming; it obliterated everything else, even her guilt. And he wanted her as badly … She was sure that if she weren’t in his arms, it was only a matter of time before someone else would be. At least they both cared for Jane and wanted to protect her.

Bertie was uncannily alert to her slightest feeling. “I know how much I owe Jane,” he said suddenly. “I acknowledge it and I resent it, too, because I know deep down that we’re mismatched, and our marriage is in many ways a sham … I can’t remember how or when the early romantic love I felt for her died. I still love her, though, in a different way, but I feel confused and resentful about the tie that binds us …

“I’m torn by conflicting feelings. On the one hand, nothing matters more than my work and not hurting Jane. And yet you have become the vital center of my life … I am caught between everything Jane and my work mean, and my uncontrollable desire to be in your arms…”

Dorothy stopped his words by boldly gluing her lips to his, and all else was forgotten in the heat of their bodies.

After a while, she drew back; this intimacy was too potent. She craved it, yet it made her feel overwhelmed, almost panic-stricken. Perhaps she needed time to get accustomed to their new situation.

Bertie sighed, propped himself up on one elbow, looked down on her tenderly. He brushed an escaped lock of hair away from her face.

“Lately, I’ve been in such a fatigued, restless, depressed state,” he said, in a low voice that was full of emotion. “My life seemed a decayed old thing of jealousy and disillusion, and second-rate writing, and constant socializing with people I didn’t want to see. I was numb and dulled. Then you came to stay, with your wild-rose coloring and your fresh mind … you’ve swept the staleness from my heart and brain.”

She smiled up at him, suffused with warmth. His words seemed to close a door on all the wretchedness that had gone before; they carried her forward into a new transforming life.

“You’ve changed my mood, given me freshness and energy, a blast of intellectual curiosity and strength,” he went on. “I can try to make Jane happier … I can write powerful and meaningful things because of the way I feel about you. It’s as though you’ve made me anew.” He brushed his lips lightly against hers. “You’re what I’ve been searching for all my life. Perfect beauty and sensuality combined with perfect mental companionship.”

Some time later, Bertie said “I wish there was a safer way of being together. It’s too risky here…”

“London?”

He nodded.

“We can’t go to my room,” Dorothy told him. “My landlady would throw me out instantly.”

“I know. We must be careful, I can’t afford a scandal. I’ll take a room somewhere, discreetly.” He held her close and whispered, “I want to be as close to you as it’s possible to get.”

*   *   *

BEING IN LOVE
lit the world. Her fatigue had vanished; she was brimming with vitality from head to foot. She felt capable of taking on any challenge. She was in control of her destiny; time was on her side. Every opportunity was open to her.

At work, she handled patients and dentists with an easy charm that had eluded her until now. She rose to every challenge, tackling letters and accounts with a swiftness and accuracy that surprised her. She thought up small improvements that made the practice run more efficiently. She dashed off letters to friends in her spare time, the words spilling effortlessly from her pen.