Alice I Have Been: A Novel (5 page)

I knew that some children were beaten regularly—the Little Match Girl from the story, for example. Yet never had anyone struck me, or Ina, or Edith. I could not believe Pricks would do this—so my mind told me it was ridiculous to run, for nothing would happen.

Nothing did happen; not at that moment, at any rate. Pricks glared at me with a cold, hard stare that made my stomach sink for what it might mean now and forever; with a cry, she dropped the pointer, hid her face in her hands, and ran to a corner of the room. Her voice all wobbly, she told us to please leave her alone; it must be time for lunch, and Phoebe would be wondering where we were.

Ina released my arm—had she been trying to protect me?—and seized Edith’s hand, leading her from the room. I tiptoed over to Pricks but was stopped by her outstretched hand. So I followed Ina and Edith on trembling legs, for I truly did not understand what I had done.

I expected Ina to be angry—she always took Pricks’s side in everything—but to my surprise, she actually hugged me.

“Oh, Alice,” she breathed into my ear. “Are you all right? You’re such a dear!!!”

I squirmed away; I did not like to be hugged, except by Papa and Mr. Dodgson. “What? Why is everyone acting so strangely?” My eyes filled with tears, for I knew something frightful had happened, and that somehow I was at fault, even though my only desire had been to explain things to Pricks so that life would be easier and so she wouldn’t act foolishly in front of Mr. Dodgson. I knew it was selfish, but that was what I had wanted.

“You child! You don’t know—but that’s all right. It’s perfectly all right. No one should know, not for a long time. Pricks needed to hear that. She was acting like such a fool!”

“I don’t know what?” It felt to me that I did know, far too much, and none of it made sense.

“Never mind. But thanks to you, I’m sure now. Surer than ever. Oh, Alice!” She clapped her hands, hopping about in a merry dance; her long brown curls spun behind her, and her cheeks grew rosy, giving warmth to her eyes.

“Surer of what?”

“You’re too young to understand. But I’m not! Oh, I’m not, I’m not! I’m so happy!” She took Edith’s hand and swung it to and fro; I believed she might jump up on the banister and try to fly, she looked so wild, so unladylike, and while normally I would have informed her of this, I was much too confused at present.

“Why aren’t we having lunch?” Edith asked, plopping down on the floor in a heap, her little black leather shoes sticking straight out in front of her. “Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?”

“Oh, who can eat at a time like this? But do go ahead—I’ll come with you. After all, we promised Pricks we would, poor thing. She needs us to behave, now more than ever. Her hopes are dashed, and I can’t help but feel for her.” Ina calmed down and glided toward the nursery with a ladylike sigh, her nose stuck in the air, her hands holding her skirts as if they were as long and voluminous as Mamma’s. Of course, they weren’t. Yet when I told her so, she refused to grumble or pull my hair or act in any way normal.

She merely smiled, one of her teasing, practiced little smiles. When I would not ask her why she was smiling—would not even hint that I knew she was thinking of something delicious, something she desperately wanted me to know, but would not, could not, bring herself to tell—she continued to smile all the same.

I did not want to know her secret, nor did I want her to know any of mine, particularly the one about the Perfect Day. Astonishingly, it was Mr. Dodgson who was responsible for all this, all these secrets and smiles and Pricks crumpled on the floor, her hands in her face, the pointer trembling above me, Ina’s wild laughter, the fear, the confusion. The secretive gossip overheard in parlors.

Try as I might, I could not understand how one man—one shy man with a camera, a stammer, and an endless supply of stories—

Could be responsible for so much disarray.

Chapter 3
•  •  •

Dear Miss Alice
,

The Perfect Day knocked on my window this morning. It said you were to be ready this afternoon, after your lessons, for an Adventure. Would you mind if your silly old Uncle Dodgson joined you, too? I don’t know about you, but I am rather tired of being myself. Aren’t you? Would you like to be someone else, just for today?

Yours
,
Charles Lutwidge Dodgson
(22 letters, still, to your 21)

H
OWEVER DID HE KNOW? THAT TODAY
WAS
THE PERFECT
day for me to escape, unnoticed, and have an adventure? Also, that I was rather tired of being myself, clumsy, lazy, thoughtless Alice (to name just a few of the words that Pricks, Mamma, and Ina had used to describe me in the last few weeks)?

I paused only a second to marvel at his insight. Then I set about trying to plot my escape, which would not be difficult, as today was the day we were going to get the new baby and everyone was much exercised. Mamma was up in her bedroom; she had not come down at all, not for more than a day. Phoebe was running to and from the nursery and the bedroom, carrying piles of freshly laundered towels and linens and bundles and bundles of candles even though the sun was bright; I’d never seen so many, not even in church.

Dr. Acland was in the hall outside Mamma’s room with Papa; they were talking in low tones, occasionally laughing, and not looking very useful at all. Dr. Acland had brought with him several women, who were in Mamma’s room. I imagined they were all having some sort of tea party while they waited.

Pricks and Ina were in a frightful state. Pricks declared a holiday from lessons today, as she felt we would make too much noise; the schoolroom was directly above Mamma’s bedroom. She and Ina were supposed to be assisting Phoebe in getting the nursery ready, although I could not see that they were much help at all. Ina insisted upon placing fresh flowers all around—which Phoebe insisted upon removing, muttering that they smelled of outdoors and most likely were full of insects—while Pricks sat in the rocking chair, gliding back and forth with a dreamy smile on her face. She was back to her silly ways, now that Mr. Dodgson had resumed his visits.

Still, by the way she looked at me—always with a little intake of breath, as if simply seeing me reminded her of her own worst fears—I understood that she had not forgotten that afternoon, when I told her all I knew. I had no real comprehension of what had transpired, yet I did know that it would linger, always, between Pricks and me, and that I would never try to help her again.

With all that was going on—really, I wondered at the demanding nature of babies; this one hadn’t even arrived, and the household was topsy-turvy!—I had no difficulty stealing down to the front door (remembering to bring a compass, a handkerchief, and four chocolate-covered biscuits, tucked in my skirt pocket, because I didn’t know what Mr. Dodgson had in mind, and I was resolved to be prepared) to wait.

Only one person noticed. The Mary Ann from the kitchen—Mamma called all maids Mary Ann; she said it was easier that way—came running past, carrying a hot kettle of water, the handle wrapped tightly in a kitchen towel. She stopped when she saw me, and some water sloshed out from under the lid, splashing her already damp apron. She frowned, her face as red and perspiring as all maids’ faces generally were; her damp hair frizzed out from under her plain white cap.

“Oh, my heavens! What are you doing here, lamb? Won’t Miss Prickett be wondering where you are?”

“She sent me out on an errand,” I replied, surprised at how easily I told the lie, and wondering why I chose to in the first place. What did I have to hide? Nothing; something. “I’m to run to the stationer’s to get some notepaper for the baby. The baby needs notepaper.”

“Fine, fine,” Mary Ann said absently. “Don’t get dirty.” She hurried upstairs, trying not to spill water on the carpet.

I sighed. Why did everyone—even maids—feel the need to tell me this on a daily basis?

I decided I ought to slip out now, in case Mary Ann ran into Pricks and told her my plans. Carefully I opened the door—it did have a tendency to squeak, like most doors, but today it decided to behave—and stepped out into the sunshine, shutting the door behind me. I surveyed the Quad; it was full of students, as the term had just begun. I wondered if I’d see the Prince of Wales. He’d just come down to Oxford, and it had been very exciting. Even as fat as she was, Mamma had insisted on holding the first reception; I had been allowed to stay up and meet him. He was very jolly, and shook my hand, and signed my autograph book, and told me my curtsy was very pretty, indeed, and that he had a brother my age named Leopold, who was a capital little fellow, and that I’d probably like him very much.

Then I was whisked off to the nursery, as usual.

Mr. Dodgson told me he’d asked if he could photograph him, but the Prince said no. I understood how posing for pictures could be tiring, but the Prince did not know Mr. Dodgson. He turned it all into a game, first posing us and then sitting down and telling us stories, sometimes drawing pictures; just at the point when we’d become absorbed in the stories, he’d run to prepare the plate, put it into the camera and tell us to hold very still, and remove the lens cover. He always counted out loud, sometimes as high as forty-five, but sometimes he did it backward, and other times he did it from the middle—starting at twenty-two and going back and forth until he said, “Forty-five, one—finished!” Finally, we could relax, and then he would continue the story.

He made it such a lark; not a bore, not at all. After the photograph was taken, we’d be rewarded by helping him develop the glass plate, and the combination of odors—of acid, chemical smells, and then the faint scent of cloves that always surrounded Mr. Dodgson, combined with the lingering smoke from the fire in his rooms—could make my head spin. Sometimes I imagined I got rather drunk on them. I didn’t exactly know what drunk meant, only that often the characters in Mr. Dickens’s stories got that way, and when they did, they acted peculiarly and talked strangely and made Papa laugh.

I did not see the Prince out today. Only the usual mass of students, some alone, others in groups, some walking backward to continue conversations—all of them very intense about something. Even so, there were always a few fellows who were lazing about the fountain or swinging cricket bats, although this was generally frowned upon in the Quad.

At that moment, I was the only girl in sight. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence, so it didn’t trouble me. My presence did not appear to trouble them, either; I felt as safe there, surrounded by dozens of adult males, none of whom gave me even a second glance except perhaps to smile my way, as I did in the nursery surrounded by females. That the two—men and women—were different, of course, I was aware. Never did I feel, however, that one was more or less dangerous than the other.

“Miss Alice!” Mr. Dodgson was standing in front of me; I hadn’t noticed his approach. He raised his black silk hat. “How is your mother?”

“Having a tea party, I suppose,” I replied. “She and the ladies Dr. Acland brought with him. The baby should be here directly.”

“Oh.” Mr. Dodgson looked at me, a peculiar expression on his face, as if he was deciding whether or not to laugh. After a minute he simply nodded.

“Pricks and Ina are busy in the nursery, so they told me to go without them,” I lied; once more, I wondered why I did so. My thoughts simply would not behave this afternoon!

“I supposed they might be busy today,” Mr. Dodgson said. Surprised, I glanced up at him; was that why this was the Perfect Day—because he knew Pricks and Ina couldn’t accompany us? (Edith I had left in the nursery, playing happily with her dolls.)

“What is it? What’s the surprise?” I couldn’t stop myself from jumping up and down; I’d waited so long—months, even! Months during which Mr. Dodgson had gone on holiday, although we hadn’t, not this year; usually we summered in Wales, where Papa was going to build us a house. This year, Mamma was too tired to travel; she said the train was too bouncy. So I’d passed the summer at home in Oxford; such a quiet, lazy place during the holidays. Unlike during the school terms, when there was always a constant, catching buzz in the very air.

Even as I was prancing about, I was dismayed to see that in one hand Mr. Dodgson was carrying his camera, folded neatly in its wooden box; with the other, he held his tripod over his shoulder.

“That’s the surprise?” My heart sank as I stopped in my tracks. Another photograph? That was what the Perfect Day had meant?

“Y-yes and no. Yes, I’d like to take your photograph, please. But this is going to be different. How would you like to walk on the grass in your bare feet?”

“Without my shoes?” I looked up at him, unable to believe what I’d heard. Walking—perhaps even running—on grass, simply feeling it against my bare skin, no fussy, confining layers of clothing or stiff shoes between me and the earth? It was one of my fondest desires, and I’d never, ever told Mr. Dodgson. Somehow he’d known anyway; his blue eyes, one slightly higher than the other, gazing down at me intently as if I were the answer to a question he could not bring himself to ask, told me so. He’d known, he
knew
, so very much about me.

“Without your shoes, just like a wild gypsy. Would you like to be a gypsy today, Alice?”

“That’s what you meant in your note, about being someone else?”

“Of course.”

“Oh, it sounds tremendous! Shall I take my shoes off now?” I desired so very much to please him; he looked at me wistfully, as if he was already imagining the gypsy me. Smiling, he set the camera down, bent slightly, in that stiff way of his, and stroked my cheek. His gloved hand was soft as the blanket I had placed, just this morning, in the new baby’s bed.

“Not now.” He jerked his hand away from me and looked over his shoulder, as if he feared someone was watching. “Let’s go to the far corner of the garden. I’ve already brought my tent and case there—the light’s perfect.” I was no longer in his thoughts; now he was concerned with the photograph—would the light be favorable, the wind too strong, the chemicals spoiled, and the glass plates cracked? So many things could go wrong, I knew. I grew very anxious, thinking of them all.

“Do you think it will turn out right?” I proceeded to follow him through the arch that led round to the back of the house, to our private garden. Tripping on an uneven stone in the walk, I scuffed the toe of my shoe; my heart sank—already, I was dirty.

“Most likely. Who knows? It will be exciting to find out, won’t it?”

I nodded. Of course it would. That was the jolly part about being photographed; one never really knew how it would turn out. There was always that moment in the chemical bath when the image first appeared on the glass plate, like a ghost swimming up from the past, and you didn’t know if the image would be clear and sharp or remain a blur forever. My stomach always was in pleasurable knots at that moment. It was like opening a present, every time.

“Oh, but wait!” I stopped.

“What is it, Alice?” Mr. Dodgson turned around, so patient with me.

“Whatever shall I wear? I don’t have any gypsy clothes!”

“Ah, but I have. An old gypsy herself lent them to me.”

“Really?” I did so want to believe him; believe that an old gypsy woman, with rings and bells and scarves draped all over, had knocked on the door to his rooms and given him a little girl gypsy’s dress.

Yet there was always that watchful part of me that asked, Have you ever chanced upon a gypsy woman in the Quad? On the High Street? In the Meadow? And how would she know where Mr. Dodgson lived? Why would she give him a dress?

Sometimes I despised that part of me.

“Truly she did, Alice. Don’t you believe me?”

I sighed. I did so
want
to.

“You’re an old soul, Alice. Did you know that? Most children your age would leap at the notion of a gypsy woman. But not you. You’re too wise.”

I didn’t know what to say to him; he looked at me so dreamily, so hopefully. I knew that if I said a word, I’d disappoint him. So I merely smiled, allowing myself to be happy for this moment, this Perfect Day, and relaxed my watchfulness for now.

Opening the weathered gate to the garden, I shrank back from walking directly across it. I kept to the outer stone wall instead, even though it was much farther that way. Mr. Dodgson didn’t ask why. Yet he knew. He knew I didn’t want anyone inside the Deanery to see. I imagined—I
hoped
—that everyone was too busy to notice us. Still, Mamma would be very angry if she saw me as a gypsy girl in my bare feet. Perhaps even angry enough to drop the baby, and I certainly didn’t want to be responsible for that. However, I was more concerned about Ina and Pricks. If either of them saw me alone with Mr. Dodgson—my stomach fluttered uneasily at the notion. They hadn’t been invited, and the longer they remained ignorant of this, the better for everyone, myself in particular.

“There are your rooms,” said I, when we were halfway around the wall, far enough away from the Deanery—the windows looked like little half-closed eyes along the back of the house—that I felt safe. I pointed up toward the library, directly across the garden from the Deanery. “Did you see us playing croquet yesterday?” I knew he sometimes looked down at us while we played in the garden, but never before had I mentioned it.

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t,” was all he said, and I felt as if this was a subject we should discuss no further, although I was puzzled as to the reason.

It was chilly in the shadows of the garden, as it was October; I hugged myself to keep warm and wondered how cold I’d be in my bare feet. I determined that I would not let Mr. Dodgson see that it worried me.