The Journal of Dora Damage (41 page)

But despite Sylvia’s sentiments, I went to Mrs Catamole’s boarding house on Borough High Street, but the woman was out and
her girl did not know of her tenants’ whereabouts. I left a note for Din, but heard nothing, so Friday found me hailing the
omnibus at the Strand and returning to Whitechapel. I willed it to quicken its slow crawl through the traffic, and the moment
I got off at Whitechapel I ran through the streets, my veil obscuring my vision. It was harder this time, for then I was following
Din, and not logging landmarks and street signs. But I told myself over and over that I would not be too late. It was hard
enough, I knew, to find the right ship, with a decent-minded captain, and once he had, she might not sail for weeks. I would
not be too late.

And yet again I asked myself as I ran, bumping into passersby, who spun round to watch me with affront, whether I truly loved
the man, or whether I saw him as my way out. But I knew that every black face I saw in the crowds made my heart leap in expectation,
and I also knew, despite everything that Sylvia had said, and anything she might have made that man do to her, that the moment
I saw the real Din I would fall in love with him all over again, even though every inch of my body was already possessed by
love for him.

I skidded on the cobbles on the corner opposite the pub, for I came upon it sooner than I had expected. The door was open
at the top of the stairs. Who would be below? And what would I say to them? They would recognise me from the veil, at least.
I opened the door. It was dark within, but I found the first step and started to climb down. I held my breath; the cellar
smelt musty.

I had reached the halfway step when I knew that what I was doing was ridiculous. But it wasn’t until my foot landed on the
grainy cement on the bottom that I knew for sure. There were shapes in the darkness, but they were the forms of barrels and
kegs, boxes and crates. I quickly went back up and stood outside. Then I turned and went through the other door, into the
pub itself, and pushed the veil back over my head.

If those within had stopped their talking and turned to stare at me, I wouldn’t have been aware of it, for I steeled myself
against their gaze, found my target and marched towards him, barefaced, without hesitation. The landlord was filling a glass
for a customer; his head kept disappearing from view behind a crowd of dirty barrel-like backs.

‘G’is a cuppa lightnin’,’ someone bellowed.

‘Excuse me,’ I announced, and yanked at each back, each waist, with my gloved hands. They pulled back as if stung; some chuckled
when they saw me, some gawped. But in time the backs parted, and I reached the cherry-wood bar.

‘Where’s Din?’ I shouted at the landlord. I had seen him, of course, but he had never seen me. ‘Din. From downstairs.’

‘What you wanna know for, then?’

‘He works for me.’

‘Not any more he don’t.’

‘Have they left?’

‘Yup. Every last one.’

‘Where to?’

‘Why should I tell you?’

‘Because I’m asking you.’

‘What’s in it for me?’

‘Have they gone to America?’

‘So you know then?’

‘I came to a meeting, last November.’

He stopped pulling the pint, and placed the glass down on the bar, then he wiped his hand on a glass cloth and did not seem
to hear the orders coming from around me.

‘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.

‘Sylvia, have you seen Lucinda?’

‘Why, she opened the door to Charles. She can’t be far. I simply couldn’t face him, Dora, now that he knows we know.’

I did not need to check the door; I knew it was ajar from the coldness breezing through the house. But I felt an inner chill.
‘We know what, Sylvia?’ I asked, but I knew the answer before she replied; the woman was more foolish than I could ever have
anticipated.

‘It was the perfect answer,’ I heard her protest, as I threw my veil over my head. ‘It was my way of claiming cruelty – admittedly,
not to me, but to the poor trollop he saved from the pyre, which is an indirect form of cruelty, isn’t it? Adultery would
be self-evident to any judge, in the face of that, don’t you think?’

‘You
told
him?’ But my wrath was slowing me down. ‘No, don’t answer me!’ I seized my shawl and gloves. ‘Tell me, was he in a carriage?’

‘Yes, I think so. Oh, Dora, did I do wrong?’

Your speculations are dangerous and serve you ill.

I was running up Ivy-street in the direction of the river by the time I got to wrapping my shawl about my shoulders. The cold
wind slapped my cheeks awake, and soon I was pushing my way through the Saturday-morning market goers, tradesmen and stallholders,
until I was free to break into a run once more. The carriages, however, were moving apace, and I held out little hope of finding
the one I was after. I knew I would have to cross Waterloo Bridge, but then I did not know whether I should head for Berkeley-square,
or Holywell-street.

Luck would have it that the traffic had slowed to a halt at the approach to the turnstile by the bridge, and I was able to
peer into each one as I passed, all the while scanning up ahead of me for one that I might recognise. And then I saw a dirty
brown hansom that I had seen before, and there was her pale face pressed up against the glass. The cab was parked at a slight
angle to the line of cabs waiting to cross the bridge, as if it were not quite in the queue. It seemed to be waiting for me.
Her mouth opened when she saw me, and I waved to her, and she lifted her hand. I was nearly there, nearly with her.

It was nature that led to me to throw myself into the carriage and seize her in my arms; reason might have persuaded me to
stay outside, and negotiate her return to me. But I was inside before I knew it, and holding her, and she me, and she cried
into me. And before I had a chance to look around me, we lurched off our feet and had to sit down, next to the other occupant
of the cab, for the driver was not paying his fare to cross the turnstile, but had turned the cab round and we were now heading
eastwards at quite a lick, towards the Borough, and we were prisoners, I realised at last, of Mr Diprose.

‘Where are you taking us?’ I demanded of him.

He simply held up his hand to silence me. ‘
Chaque chose
en son temps.
’

‘No. you will tell me now! You have kidnapped my child; you must tell me what you mean by it. Lucinda, tell me what the man
said to you.’

‘He said we were going on an adventure,’ she whispered from around my waist.

‘And we are, Lucinda, we are,’ Mr Diprose said. ‘Now, conserve your spirits, for we have a long journey ahead of us.’ And
with that, he folded his arms, leant his head against the wall, and closed his eyes.

I tried the doors, but they had been locked from the outside. I banged on the roof.

‘Let us out, boy!’ I shouted. ‘Let us out! Stop and let us out!’ But I received no reply. ‘We do not wish to be here! Stop!’
I yelled again. Then I shook Mr Diprose awake, and shouted at him, ‘Stop the carriage, you blackguard! Tell me where you are
taking us.’

He picked my hands off him with disdain and turned his head further away from me. I peeked out of the curtains, but I did
not recognise any of the streets or landmarks. We were certainly in the poorer districts of London still, south of the river,
and, I presumed, still heading east. I did not remember crossing the river. I patted Lucinda’s hands, and told her silly stories,
and she even laughed once, but I was sorely vexed inside.

At some point, as we were nearing out destination, Diprose awoke.

‘Now if you would be so kind as to enlighten us, Mr Diprose . . .’ I ventured.

But still he remained silent, and soon the cab pulled to a halt, and we stumbled out onto the pavement. The scene that greeted
us was beyond anything I had seen before, even up by the river, or beside the tanneries. I knew not where we were, but I could
tell straight away it was a neglected place of tears and no pity. Every building was broken; wood and bricks clung forlornly
on to crumbling beams; rags and planks patched every window which had never known glass. Strange scents hung in the air –
fried fish, mixed with a spicy sweetness, and rotting waste – and faces yellow as the gas-lamps shuffled dejectedly along
the uneven streets.

The door upon which Mr Diprose was knocking was distinctive from the surrounding drabness, in that it was streaked with a
vivid blue paint, and a square of cloth depicting a red, scaled dragon entwined with an orange fish was nailed to the centre.

‘If this is an opium den, Mr Diprose, we shall not enter!’ I said as resolutely as I could muster. I had heard of these places.

‘Hush, woman,’ he said, for the door was opening, and a very small Oriental woman, little taller than Lucinda, was smiling
at us from behind spectacles. She pressed her palms together and bowed deeply, then led us up a precarious flight of stairs
to the upper tenement.

The room was filled with a sweet smoke, but I could see through the haze that it was surprisingly clean and neat, like the
woman herself. She gestured to a low bed, piled with cushions. I wondered where the aroma was coming from. It was not unpleasant.
Despite myself, I sat down on the bed. That smell. So strange. I tried to pull Lucinda towards me, but Diprose sat hastily
in her place next to me, and I watched as the woman held out her arms to Lucinda, and the child went to her.