The Journal of Dora Damage(145)

‘They left for Bristol on Wednesday.’

‘So quick?’

‘It was Din that did it. He said they couldn’t stay another day.’

‘So could he still be in Bristol?’

‘Only if he misses his ship. It was going to be tight anyway. It leaves on the morrow!’

And then he turned away from me, and poured the quart of porter, the quartern of gin, two pots of heavy brown, and a dog’s nose, which he dumped on the bar with a ‘damp yer mugs, gen’emen’, and the backs closed on me again, and hefty boots trod on my fine ones, and I hunched my shoulders together as if I were folding myself in half, and I slipped out from between them, and into the night air.

My mind still clutched on to hope, and resorted to logic. They left on Wednesday. Would they have found lifts? Or had they the money for a train? Either way, they would only arrive in Bristol today at the earliest. But it would take me another three days from now, too. I will send a telegraph, I thought. I will go to the all-night office at St Martin’s-le-Grand, or West Strand, even, if I could face it, and send a telegraph – but to where? And what would I say?

I would tell you, I thought, why I pushed you away in my fear, why I did not draw you closer, for support; why I told you I had blood on my hands, when I had only held a dry epidermis in all innocence. I am not a murderess, I would say to you, only the murderer’s unwitting assistant. I would tell you all this.

I could not, of course. But what if I had? Would he have stayed? No. He would have gone anyway, to fight for his country. Would he have let me come with him? No, not if he had had any sense. But at least I could have kissed him farewell, stood on the quay, and waved him off with my handkerchief, praying for his safety. But what of that? Would that have helped either of us any? He would always be an absence.

Danger lurked between every pool of gas-light on my way home, but I did not fear it. My only fear was that I would live to face the rage and despair that was consuming me. I felt my aloneness and insignificance, and shook with anger and pain, and, ironically, it was my pain that protected me from harm. For it was as if my affliction left marks in the air as I stumbled over Waterloo Bridge, and even those of malevolent bent saw it, and left me alone to my misery.





* * *





‘Wake up, Dora! Dora, wake!’ Sylvia was shaking me. Her hair was messy. I could see that, which meant that it was light. Which meant that I had slept in. I tried to remember why.

‘The postman has been. He brought this!’ She was brandishing a letter. ‘I did not find it at first; I was hiding from that dreadful Charles Diprose.’

‘Diprose was here?’ I said, sitting up in bed. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, disinterestedly. ‘I didn’t want him to see me here. I stayed upstairs. Listen, I want to read you this.’ I reached for my shawl, and started to think about a cup of tea. ‘It starts, Constance. That’s my second name. He used to say he appreciated its sentiment more than Sylvia, which was too pagan for him. But I digress.’ I was trying to concentrate, but it still felt so early. ‘“Know that I have little care for your desires, but should it be desirous to you, I will grant you a divorce. It is, quite literally, immaterial to me, not that your not insignificant dowry was ever why I first foolishly fell in love with you. Out of the goodness of my heart and way beyond anything expected of me by the courts, I offer you an annuity of three hundred pounds. I refer the matter now to my solicitors, Messrs Krupp and Tadyer, who will be dealing with it on my behalf given my imminent removal to Africa. Your speculations are dangerous and serve you ill; now you have no need to harbour such vain fantasies, and I trust you shall release them as our marriage too is relinquished. My wishes to you are of the very best variety. Yours &c, Jocelyn.” ’

‘No mention of his son,’ I said to her, as I reached for my dress.

‘None whatsoever,’ she replied.

‘But I doubt he would have left you an annuity if you had not had him.’

‘Do you think not?’

‘I think not.’

Sylvia sighed. ‘I used to think he was quite the Renaissance Man.’

‘Resurrection Man, more like. He holds a candle to the devil. Or is that too harsh? Let me be more precise. He is, in fairly equal proportions, a third despot, a third idiot, and a third coward.’

‘And a third insolent,’ Sylvia added.

‘Come, let’s go downstairs. I need some tea.’ I pulled on my boots, and descended, with Sylvia following me. ‘Lucinda,’ I called, as I reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘Lucinda?’ But she was not in the parlour, nor the kitchen. I looked out into the street, but she rarely played outside any more, and besides, it was too early for that.