The Journal of Dora Damage(121)

‘So, you have a lodger,’ Din murmured one morning as he fastened some cord to the sewing-key.

‘You have seen Lady Sylvia?’ I queried.

‘Hmm-mmm,’ he affirmed. I watched, quizzically, as he laid out the shears, and checked the sharpness of the bodkin. Then, almost as if he weren’t talking, and I weren’t listening, he added quietly, ‘But she ain’t that much of a lady.’

‘Din!’ I scolded, as both warning and encouragement. ‘You wish to tell me something?’

‘Hmm. Maybe,’ he breezed.

I sat down on the chair next to him, and started to rub the bodkin against the strop. We would catch each other’s eyes, then look away, and giggle, until finally he spoke.

‘I told you they made me pose with spears, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘An’ do the Zoo-loo warrior thing, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that lady likes spears.’

‘She likes spears?’ Oh my, but I had visions of the Lustful Turk’s fleshful weaponry, and I was not sure I wanted Din to continue. ‘Your meaning?’

‘She had this idea, see, of bein’ the white lady captured by savages. She would swoon, and lie down, and pull at her dress, like this, see –’ and he tugged at the neck of his own shirt, so that I could see more of his chest, and I found myself looking away, and then back again, ‘– an’ say to me, “No, no, no, you must not kill me!” ’

‘Why, what were you doing to her?’

‘Nothin’! That was what was wrong. She would get so cross with me, an’ order me, “You stand there, above me, an’ hold that spear so, and point it at me, an’ make like you’re killin’ me!” An’ I didn’t want to do it. Felt like such a fool. But I did it. “Oh, no, no, no, the Negro is killin’ me! Help! Help!” ’

‘Oh, Din! You’re playing with me!’ He shook his head. ‘Really? What a marvellous story! Sylvia – really – she?’

‘Really, she, yes!’ Din was nodding.

‘The indignity!’ I gasped. ‘It’s outrageous! It’s – it’s thrilling, and scandalous!’

‘Ain’ it just!’

The extraordinary memory lingered around us, as Din took the bodkin from me, and tested the point. And there it was again, catching me by surprise: the urge to touch him, and be touched by him. Was this what Sylvia had felt? Did I lack dignity because of it? It certainly was all the more shameful, given that I was meant to be in mourning. But all the more intense, because I was growing to like this man a lot.

‘I could always revisit it with her today, only with a real weapon,’ he said slyly, brandishing the bodkin and gesturing at the door.

‘I fear her appetite is less for frivolity these days,’ I chastened.

Din nodded more solemnly. ‘There’s a baby in there, right?’

‘Yes. I don’t quite know what to make of it, whether she’s a silly woman, or a victim of circumstance.’

‘Or both.’

‘Possibly you are correct, Din. Isn’t it peculiar, that those so recently envied can so quickly elicit pity?’ But I was unlike Sylvia, in that his companionship meant as much to me as my desire for him, and each intensified the other.

‘And ridicule,’ Din added, with poignant resignation.

‘And ridicule, Din,’ I agreed.

We were interrupted by a knocking from the interior door.

‘Dora!’ Sylvia was calling.

‘Oh my!’ I whispered to Din. ‘Are you ready to meet her again?’

‘As I’ll ever be,’ he said, casually.

I called through the door, ‘What is it, Sylvia?’ as I began to unlock it.

‘Could you tell me the date, please?’

I swung the door open, and said, ‘It’s the ninth of February. Why?’

‘The Prysemans will be back from Scotland soon.’ I waited for her to notice Din, and wondered what her reaction would be. But she continued, dreamily, ‘What bad timing my confinement was! Just when people are returning from the hunting season! I must be back in full health by the time the season starts.’ She was looking directly at Din now, but her blank face registered no recognition. Then she turned on her heel and disappeared back into the house.

‘She has no need to fret,’ I said saltily to Din as I locked the door. ‘Surely all she does at the season is make small talk with people she doesn’t actually really like. I can take her to the market tomorrow for her to practise.’

‘You are a wicked lady,’ Din said.

‘And you a wicked man, for those stories you tell about her. But she did not recognise you, Din.’ He simply shrugged. ‘Possibly we need to jog her memory. But, to my great regret, I have no animal skins and spears to hand.’