The Journal of Dora Damage(24)

‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘No.’

‘What brain fever afflicts you, child? What troubles you so, that you dare to degrade my house so? Today you have visited a man, with no other escort than your own conscience. My reputation, I presume, you cast to the pigs.’

‘Must you ask? Peter, you are sick. Peter, we have no money. Peter, we are cold and hungry, and the bailiffs will be knocking in six days. Six days. We have a box of fine paper and an African Bible. Shall we burn them for heat, or shall we make something out of them?’

He chose not to hear me. He seemed to be addressing the print of The Annunciation on the wall beyond me. ‘You delicate creature,’ he said, with a feeble smile. ‘You – you are too good for manual labour, too precious for the arts. Let us pity those poor women who are forced to make their own way in the world and earn their own keep, when they should be husbanding the wages of their menfolk.’ His eyes were starting to glaze. ‘Let us praise your dependent existence, and work to your strengths, that of embellishing the house and cheering the heart of your husband. Think of our loss of character.’ Here the light came back into his eyes, and he turned to sear them onto me. ‘Think of how they’ll talk of us! “There’s the man who wasn’t enough of a man to keep his woman.” “There’s the woman who wears the trousers beneath those skirts.” Think of it, Dora. It would be worse than hanging, or, or transportation, even! Think of it, Dora! Have you anything to say to that?’

And so he gave me the perfect opportunity to hang him with his own argument.

‘Indeed, Peter. What if I, truly, went out to make my own way in the world at large? Here you are right, for they would point, and say, there goes the shame of Peter Damage, as I walk to the factory or the market or my mistress’s mansion. Him who’s in prison for debt. Him who lost his house and let his wife and child go to the poor. But this way, Peter, won’t it be best? You are sick. I am offering you a solution that saves your face. We can bring Jack back into the fold. He’s indentured to us; he’s breaking the law now by not being here. And you will tell us – you will tell us always – what we are and are not to do. I will not be your brain, but I will be your hands, your arms, your muscles too, for the Lord knows I have them. I have sat in bookbinder’s workshops all my life listening to every instruction first my father and now you breathe upon your mechanics, and I have heard them all. And if you don’t help me, why, Jack and I shall muddle through this ourselves! How hard can it be?’

I could not tell how he was receiving me. He seemed to be holding his breath. His face was red, but through anger or shame I did not know, and I feared what might issue forth from his pursed lips and his clenched fists. But I had to continue.

‘So, are you happy for books to leave this establishment with your name on them, but in which you have had no part, and let them flutter amongst the Strand and Westminster showing everyone your prowess? With you or without you, I am binding books. From tomorrow morning, Damage’s Book- binders is open for business. So, Peter, let us keep this within these four walls. Let us keep the name of Damage strong. Let us allay our public shame. And use me to do that. Try me. Try me, for we have no other choice. Try me, and if we fail, we fail.’ My, I realised, here I was becoming a veritable Lady Macbeth. ‘But screw your courage –’ Did I dare continue? Peter would never recognise the quotation, and I had no other words of my own to use ‘– to the sticking-place and we’ll not fail.’

But like Lady Macbeth, was I leading my lord into an evil trap? Was I unsexing myself, or worse, him? I looked over at him and was surprised to feel only scorn. He had already unsexed himself. He was impotent. And we had nothing to lose.

‘Well, I never did see such a manner,’ he said, on a vicious exhalation, ‘from the likes of a wife.’ He pulled on his coat and scarf, and placed his hat on his head. He tried to squeeze his hands into his gloves, but the pain was too great and he gave up, casting them onto the floor with a disdainful look, and stuffed his hands instead into his pockets. I watched him go over to the front door.

I had failed. I wondered to which devil he was going, to which money-lender, den of crooks, whorehouse, or even drinking-house, in his rage. At least he had not struck me. The thought crossed my mind that the door would slam behind him and that I would never see him again.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked croakily, and raised my hand as if in farewell.

He turned to me surlily, one eye-brow cocked. ‘To the river, my silly wife,’ he said, ‘to find out which gutter Jack’s lying in.’