Alice I Have Been: A Novel (6 page)

At last we achieved the corner farthest from the Deanery, well hidden by trees showing off their autumn colors; this was where Mr. Dodgson had set up his equipment. There was his black leather chemical case, and a gauzy awning on poles, shading the corner where two walls met—he used this awning to filter the sun whenever he photographed us outside—and also his dark canvas tent, so cunningly small. It was just my height, so naturally Mr. Dodgson had to stoop very low in order to use it, which never failed to make me laugh.

“Where is my gypsy dress?”

“Behind the tent. But first, let’s set you up and take a photograph of you just as you are.”

“Just as me?” I couldn’t conceal my disappointment; I did get so weary of being me.

“Just as you, but that’s a wonderful thing. Just Alice.” Mr. Dodgson smiled, and I felt somewhat better.

“I do despise my hair so.” I didn’t stifle my sigh as I shook my head, feeling the ends of my hair brush the back of my neck. I so longed to feel the weight of hair hanging down my back.

Mr. Dodgson laughed.

“Don’t you know? Your hair is part of what makes you special! I could photograph every little girl in Oxford, and they’d all have the same kind of hair—long curls with bows. You stand out, of all of them. That’s why I want to photograph you—only you could be my gypsy girl.”

“Oh!” I hadn’t thought of it that way, and the notion tickled my insides until I smiled. I beamed at him as he busied himself with the tripod and camera. However did he do it? How did he make me feel so special? I wondered if he had anyone in his life to do the same for him; I knew that he probably didn’t. He did seem so very lonely at times.

“Your—your hair is very nice, too. And I like your gloves.” I didn’t, though. They were always either black or gray, as strange and off-putting as he himself often appeared to others. He did not appear that way to me, however, and so I vowed, from that moment, to tell him so as often as possible.

Every person, no matter how old, no matter how odd, needed someone like that in their lives, I thought.

Mr. Dodgson paused; his eyes widened, and his color deepened. I believed I saw his hands tremble. “Tha-thank you, Alice,” was all he said. Then he busied himself with his camera, and while I was nearly shivering as I stood motionless, watching, he worked so energetically that eventually he removed his hat, his black coat, and placed them carefully upon a stone bench. He pushed his white shirtsleeves up as well, but never did he remove his gray gloves.

“Now, stand in the corner, please.”

“Like this?” I posed, my hands by my sides, experience having taught me it was easier to hold still that way.

“Yes, but turn to your left—not that much! Just a little. Turn your head back toward me. Can you hold that?”

Steadying myself on my feet, I pressed my hands down upon my skirt. My neck already felt stiff, but I would not tell him. “Yes, I think so.”

“Well done! Now relax a moment, but don’t move. I’ll just go prepare the plate.” He dashed beneath the tent, although part of him—his rear part—stuck out. I didn’t dare laugh.

Instead, I glanced back toward the Deanery to see if there was movement in any of the windows. The tree branches obscured most of the windows from view, which was a relief; if I couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see me. So I relaxed and allowed myself to wonder what the gypsy-girl dress looked like. I did hope that it had smudges on it, and that it might be torn.

“Now, back to your pose!” Mr. Dodgson emerged from the tent, the plate holder in his hand. Pushing it into the back of the camera, he waited for me to take a big breath. Then he removed the round lens cover and began to count. “One, three, two, four, six, five, eight, seven, ten, nine—” and I felt it was very unfair of him to be so silly when I had to keep still, concentrating on the lens, that round, unblinking eye. Finally he got to forty-five, and he placed the cover back over the lens; I let out my breath in a big laugh. He ran to embrace me—“There’s a good girl!”—then hurried back to the camera, pulling out the lens holder and rushing it to the tent.

“May I bathe it?” I asked, shaking my arms and legs, twisting my neck. I did so enjoy washing the plate in its tray, waiting for the picture to emerge.

“Not this time, I’ve already started. Next one, I promise.”

“Where’s my dress? Shall I change?”

“Just on the other side of the tent. Go ahead, but try not to jostle it, please.”

“I won’t!”

I walked carefully around the tent and found a piece of worn, faded fabric draped across one corner. It took me a moment to realize this was the dress; there wasn’t very much to it, not at all like my regular frocks with their flounces and layers—why, the sleeves of the frock I was wearing had three layers to them!

Holding this sliver of cloth—for that was what it seemed to me—my heart began to race. I was very certain that Mamma would not like me to wear this, especially not in front of a gentleman, even Mr. Dodgson. My nightgown had much more fabric to it.

“Shall I—shall I leave my petticoats on, anyway?” I couldn’t control my voice; it warbled like a nightingale. A bug tickled the back of my neck, and I swatted at it. It felt peculiar back here, hidden in this corner by the tent, clutching a strange girl’s dress; it didn’t feel as if I was in my own garden at all. I might as well have been in deepest Africa, a notion that normally would have excited me. At that moment, however, it scarcely registered.

“Oh, no. Would a gypsy girl have petticoats?” Mr. Dodgson’s voice was muffled; I heard the swish of liquid in a container, inhaled the sharp smell of acid.

“I suppose not. What about my chemise?” Imagining myself clad only in this thin layer of cotton, I actually shivered.

“I don’t—your chemise? I’m not sure—at any rate, I don’t think a gypsy girl would have many clothes on except her dress, do you? So just the dress, please.”

“Oh.” I took the dress, held it up to me, then dropped it to the ground. Clutching my own skirt, I fingered the stiff, familiar lace like a good-luck charm. Then I realized something very important.

I realized I had never before undressed myself.

Phoebe performed that task, or one of the Mary Anns. All my buttons were in the back; every night I obediently turned around and waited for someone to unbutton all of them, help me step out of the billowing fabric, unfasten all my petticoats—again, all of which fastened at my back. Every night someone did.

Yet I couldn’t let Mr. Dodgson down. So I resolved to do it myself; I reached behind my shoulder, feeling for the top button; I felt and felt but never did find it, although my shoulder began to ache and little drops of perspiration dribbled down my back. I relaxed, took a deep breath, and tried once more.

Finally I felt the top button, cold and hard, and managed to push it through its hole. But there were so many buttons still to go! My eyes filled with tears, for I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t want to bother Mr. Dodgson. Oh, what did little gypsy girls do when
they
had to get undressed? Suddenly that thin layer of clothing made sense; at least they weren’t so dependent upon adults. I hadn’t realized how helpless I myself was, really—no better than the new baby—until this moment.

Blinking my eyes—I resolved not to cry, as I knew my nose would get red and ruin the photograph—I tried once more. Reaching down the middle of my back, I groped and groped for a button, until I thought I heard the telltale rip of fabric splitting. I dropped my arm, panicked. How would I explain a torn dress to Mamma?

“Here, allow me to help,” a kind, soft voice said. I didn’t turn around; I squeezed my eyes shut, letting out my breath in a ragged, soggy burst; not quite tears, though. Then I felt hands—Mr. Dodgson’s hands—upon my back. First one button. Then the next. He carefully—awkwardly—undid all my buttons from the top down, and as the bodice of my dress fell away, I felt the cool breeze tickle my shoulders, working its way down to my waist. Mixed with that breeze was warm, steady breath, and the combination made me shiver.

“Are you cold?” He sounded worried.

“N-no,” I lied.

“You’ll be in the sun soon enough.”

“I know.”

My dress was unbuttoned; I started to wriggle out of it but somehow became tangled up in the hem. Mr. Dodgson steadied me, his hands upon my shoulders; his hands felt both warm and cold at the same time. They felt different; they felt—

Bare. He had removed his gloves.

My mouth was dry, for some reason. I wished I had some lemonade. Or tea.

“Here, let’s get you out of the rest,” Mr. Dodgson said, his voice still very soft and patient. His hands, though, were not. They trembled, and twisting around I saw, as he unfastened my top petticoat, that they were stained, black on the fingertips; I hoped they wouldn’t stain my petticoats as well.

“Is that why you always wear gloves?” I tried to ignore whatever it was that was worrying me; it was too vague, at any rate, to name. I did want to know the answer to my question, though, even as I realized, too late, that it might not be polite to ask.

“N-no, not really. It’s from the chemicals,” he explained, turning me around so that I faced him. And now that I could see him, see his kind, sad face with the soft cheeks, long eyelashes, as long as any girl’s, I forgot the worry that had sat, uneasily, in the pit of my stomach. I was eager to help; we got my petticoats off in a flash, and it didn’t appear to me that he had left his dirty fingerprints upon them. I pulled my chemise over my head.

He did look away then, passing his hand over his eyes as if he had a headache. Quickly, I tugged the gypsy dress down over my shoulders; its folds were thin and worn, soft as a caress against my skin.

“It’s so torn!” It was; it hung over my shoulder in strips; most of my arm was bare. It was also quite short, scarcely covering my knees.

“Let’s fix it,” Mr. Dodgson said, starting to pull at the fabric with his clumsy, stained fingers. Suddenly, however, he dropped his hands, stood up, and told me, quite sharply, to rumple it myself. Then he went back round the front of the tent, to the camera.

I followed, tugging on the dress, but something did not feel quite right. Should I tear the dress further? Rub dirt in it? I didn’t feel as unkempt as I had hoped; I still felt like myself. Like Alice.

“Oh, my shoes!” I realized. I sat down upon the grass, for once not mindful of stains; the ground was cool and damp against the back of my thighs, as the dress did not offer much protection. I removed my stockings and shoes, tossing them away in a heap. Then I jumped up, and I felt the dirt, the tickling grass, the hard little pebbles digging into the bottoms of my tender feet, and I wiggled my toes.

“It’s wonderful!” I looked up at Mr. Dodgson. He was leaning on his camera, gazing at me, one of his sad, serious smiles on his lips. I felt my skin—my naked, vulnerable skin—warm under his gaze. “How do I look?”

“Like a gypsy girl. Like a wild little beggar girl. Go on—run about, run all you want, roll if you want. I know you want to!”

“Oh, I do, I do!” And I did; I jumped about, kicking at branches on the ground—they slapped at my toes, stinging a little; holding on to the trunk, I ran around a tree, rubbing against it, feeling it rough against my arms, tearing at my dress. I ran and ran, round and round, delighting in the freedom—I could lift my legs as high as I wished, for there were no petticoats holding them down; I could run as fast as I desired, too, because my dress was not tight against my waist. I could breathe freely, deeply.

Finally, I rolled. I rolled in the grass, like a wild creature. I rolled, every leaf, every twig sticking to my dress, my hair, and when I stood up I was so dizzy I fell right back down again. I did not care. Best of all, no one was there to tell me, “Alice, don’t get dirty.” “Alice, don’t tear your dress.” “Alice, don’t lose your gloves.”

Only Mr. Dodgson was there, watching me, always watching me, looking quite as if he wished he could roll on the ground with me, but that was too silly to contemplate. He smiled, and asked nothing of me other than that I enjoy this moment. And that he be allowed to share it with me.

“Do I look wild enough?” I shouted, digging up a handful of dirt and crumbling it between my fingers.

“Quite. Almost too wild—we’ll have to get those leaves out of your hair.”

“Oh!” I jumped up again, and started shaking my head. I was grateful, for once, that it was short and simple. I could scarcely imagine how difficult it would be to comb leaves and twigs out of Edith’s mass of hair; it would take days, even using one of the stableboy’s hay forks as a comb.

“You missed one.” Mr. Dodgson pulled me close, bending down, brushing at my wispy hair. His hand—his dry, bare hand—lingered at my temple, and I closed my eyes and leaned into it. I was out of breath and content to rest in the palm of his hand. I believe he was content, too, for when I opened my eyes he was smiling, and while it was dreamy, it wasn’t sad. His eyes, deep blue, brighter than usual, turned up at the edges for once. We stayed that way; somehow our breaths started to match until a bird flew overhead, throwing a shadow across us.

“The light will be going soon,” Mr. Dodgson said then, looking up at the sky. “Are you ready, gypsy girl?”

“Yes, kind gentleman. The gypsy girl will pose for you now.”

“Excellent. Why don’t you stand in the corner, then—up on that ledge, see? Can you balance on it?”

“Yes.” I did so, although the ledge was cold and a bit slippery, and I had to curl my toes around it.

“Now. Why don’t you hold your hands out, in front of you—both of them?”

“Like this?” I turned my palms up and out, just like the poor urchins I’d seen in the streets, the last time we’d been up to London. There had been so many of them, so pale and thin and dirty, but Mamma had said we weren’t to feel sorry for them. They knew their place.

I could not understand her meaning. Perhaps they knew their place, but they obviously weren’t very content with it. Why else did some of them beg to be taken home with us?

“Yes, that’s good. Can you hold that?”

I nodded.

“I’ll just prepare the plate.” He disappeared inside the tent once more; I stifled a yawn. Rolling on the ground was awfully tiring; so, too, was posing.