After Such Kindness Part 19

'I still fail to see how my photographs are connected with Daisy's alleged fear of her father,' I said. 'Or perhaps you intend to slip up to heaven and accuse him of unnatural acts, too?' It was, of course, an appalling notion. Indeed, the idea was so horrific I didn't wish to think about it. I immediately thrust it back into the h.e.l.l-pit whence it had come. 'I beg your pardon,' I said. 'I take back that remark; I disown it utterly.'

'I should think so; I thought you were supposed to be his friend. But it seems that friendship means little to you, Jameson.'

'On the contrary,' I said, stung by this calumny, 'I think friendship the highest form of human connection.'

'Then why did we never see you at the vicarage when Daniel needed your help? It seems you are a fair-weather friend at best.'

It was a very palpable hit but I would not allow him his moment of victory. 'Again, you are wrong. I wished to help very much,' I said. 'Indeed, I came to the vicarage with Mr Warner as soon as Baxter's indisposition was reported. But I was forbidden from visiting the house.'

He looked at me with renewed triumph, as if he had pinned me down at last. 'Ah. So Baxter knew of your unauthorized activities with Daisy? He knew what you were doing and he took action against you to keep you away from her?'

'Nothing of the sort,' I retorted. 'It was Mrs Baxter who made the request.'

'Then Mrs Baxter knew?'

'Knew that I had taken pictures of Daisy? Yes that was open knowledge. Knew that I had taken these particular pictures these pictures that have upset you so much? No, she did not.'

'You see?' He shot up from his chair.

'What do I see?'

'You were secretive about them, because you knew that if they had come to light, people would have been appalled by them.'

'As you are now, Mr Constantine. Yes, I knew that would happen. Which is precisely why I kept the matter secret. You have proved my point.'

Constantine looked annoyed. 'Then why did Mrs Baxter disapprove of you? There must have been a reason.'

'If you must know, it was the matter of a haircut.'

'A haircut?' He laughed as well he might. 'That hardly seems likely.'

'I agree. But when the hair was on Daisy and the scissors in my possession, it seems that rationality fled through the window. One would think I had half killed the child instead of improving her appearance and taking away a source of great discomfort. But Mrs Baxter decided on that basis that I was untrustworthy. And once Daniel succ.u.mbed to his affliction well, Mrs Baxter was head of the household and made the rules.'

'How dare you speak so slightingly of her? She endured more than a woman ever should. And with unfailing dignity.' He looked ready to strike me down in her defence.

'I don't doubt it,' I said, retaining the equable manner that seemed to infuriate him so. 'But the fact remains that I was shut out of Daisy's life and could do nothing about it. Or rather, I could do something I could make good my estrangement by imagining that she was here with me, in these rooms, and that I was telling her some of the stories that she liked so much. You may possibly have heard of a little book called Daisy's Daydream. It has been something of a success.' I thought I had bested him there, but he came at me with a final thrust.

'I wonder,' he said, 'if the parents who buy that popular story book are aware of this other, more esoteric interest of yours?'

I shrugged, although my heart was beating fast. 'I make no secret of my leisure interest. I have photographed the lowest and the highest in the land, the old and the young, the humble shepherd and the celebrated poet. I am only interested in beauty, Mr Constantine. And may I remind you that to the pure, all things are pure?'

He seemed to be unable to find a reply to this, and, as we stood in an uneasy truce, Donnelly came in to tell me that the bell had gone for luncheon. 'It's steak and kidney pudding today,' he said, adding coals to the fire. 'Then cherry tart with custard.'

'Excellent,' I said. 'All my favourites.'

'Will the other gentleman be lunching, sir?'

'No,' we both said with one voice, although Constantine added, 'Thank you.'

I let him go down the staircase first. At the bottom, as we said our awkward farewells, I ventured to hope that, as his wife knew nothing of our little contretemps, I might still look forward to a visit from her the next day.

He gave no answer, and, as I watched him stride across the quadrangle and under the arch of the lodge, I did not feel optimistic. How irritating it is that women and girls are so dependent on the whims of their fathers and husbands and cannot do just as they like. If I were in charge of the world (which will never be the case as I have no ambition worth speaking of) I would make it a law that girls and women should have equal rights not just to be educated, but also to go to tea with whomsoever they choose.

As I listen to the gentle bubbling of the kettle, I try to imagine exactly what brought Constantine to me in such a furious state. His story is confused at best but I deduce from his embarra.s.sment over the 'intimate and private' matters, that his distress has as much to do with the marital relations between himself and Daisy as with the pictures themselves. I don't like to think of marital relations when it comes to Daisy, but I am sorry if she is prevented by some scruple or other from doing what is necessary in order to become a mother. She was always drawn to infants, and it did my heart good to see how she cared for Benjy in those long afternoons we spent in the vicarage garden. And, in my selfish way, I have looked forward to seeing her own infants come to the age when an old bachelor can have them to tea, and make them laugh.

I can't account, though, for this so-called sin that her husband talks about. Daisy always had a proper sense of right and wrong, but she was never preoccupied with evil. Of course, the nature of her father's insanity may have changed her. I remember how chastened she seemed when I last spoke to her, how lacking in that vitality that had so endeared her to me. But that would still not account for the 'heinous act' that Constantine says she has confessed to. After all, with whom could that act have possibly been committed? Constantine's thwarted pa.s.sion has clearly blinded him to the dictates of common sense.

All the same, I have taken his visit as a warning. I occupy a delicate position of respectability with regard to children, such that the slightest frisson of scandal will do for me. So, after luncheon yesterday, with the steak and kidney pudding in my stomach and Constantine's words ringing in my ears, I went into my studio and broke all the photographic plates that might give rise to any ambiguity. Daisy's lovely limbs went under the hammer, as did Annie Warner as the Spirit of Dawn, her sister Louisa as Venus, and the Malcolm girls as the Three Graces. I asked Donnelly to cart away all the broken gla.s.s in the coal scuttle, and I burned the paper copies in my grate. It was dreadful to destroy the beautiful images, and I hesitated over more than a few. But it is best to put them out of harm's way.

It is nearly five o'clock, now. The kettle is still simmering away, the tarts are untouched. The window is already dark, and there are splashes of sleet against the panes. My bones ache and I recognize that I am in the autumn of my life. I miss Dinah. I miss Benson, too. And most of all I miss Daisy. I look back with such joy at the golden afternoons when she and I were all in all to each other. I see so clearly her sweet face, her grey eyes, her ma.s.s of unruly hair. In my mind, she is always eleven years old. I hear her now, her delicate voice fluting into my fuzzy brain. 'Mr Jameson?' she says.

'Daisy? Can it be you?' I lift my head. I have been dozing in the half-light, and she has come to me, stepping into my sitting room like a fairy, with the lightest of steps. She is wearing a pretty white fur bonnet and is carrying a white m.u.f.f. My heart fills with gladness.

'Please, I'm not Daisy,' says the child. 'I'm Amy.'

I sit up. I see now that it's not Daisy at all. In fact, it is not the slightest bit like her. This child has golden hair and cherry-red lips, and she is about eight years old.

'Where have you sprung from?' I say, rubbing my eyes.

'I knocked, but you didn't reply,' she says.

'I was in the Land of Nod. But I have come back now and I am very pleased to see you. But you have surely not come on your own?' I look to see if there is a mama lurking in the shadows.

She shakes her head. 'My Uncle Neville lives downstairs. He brought me to the door, but wouldn't come in as he says he is a person ungrata with you.'

'Ah, is your uncle by any chance Mr Smith-Jephcott?' How could such a delightful child be related to that boorish person? But stranger things have happened.

'I don't know his surname.'

'Of course you don't. But you seem to know my name, don't you?'

She pulls out a copy of Daisy's Daydream. 'You've got two names,' she says. 'One unreal one for writing and one real one for everything else. Uncle Neville says you will write both in my book if I ask nicely.'

'And are you asking nicely?'

'Not yet. I haven't found the page.'

'Of course not. What was I thinking of?'

She puts down the m.u.f.f and opens the book at the t.i.tle page. 'Please will you put your name there?' she says, pointing at a s.p.a.ce one inch below the t.i.tle. 'Can you put my name too, and say it's for me?'

'By all means,' I say, as I get up to find my pen. 'Do you have any unreal names yourself or were they all given to you at your baptism wherein you were made a child of G.o.d?'

'They are all real,' she says solemnly. 'I have three Christian names and one surname. My Christian names are Amy Frances Elizabeth and there is an "e" in Frances as otherwise it's a boy's name. And my surname is Edgerton.'

'That's a very fine set of names,' I say. I take the book to my desk and she follows me.

She watches me carefully as I write. 'What neat writing!' she says. 'You can see every letter.'

'What is the point of writing something that cannot be read? But the test is can you read it aloud?' I say.

'Oh, yes,' she says. 'I read aloud all the time.'

'You could of course read it aquiet, but I might have to get my ear-trumpet and that would be very inconvenient.'

'I've never heard of "aquiet",' she says.

'That's because you haven't "aquiet" enough knowledge. Come now, read it to me.'

And she reads, in slightly halting speech: 'To Miss Amy Frances Elizabeth Edgerton, from her friend and admirer, John Jameson, November 1872.' She pauses. 'Are you really my friend and admirer?'

'No doubt about it. You won my heart in an instant with your fur hat and m.u.f.f. But are you mine? That is to say, did you like Daisy's Daydream?'

'Oh, it's my favourite book. I read a chapter every night before bed.'

'Then I expect you know it better than I do, as I've only read it the once for it's nonsense, you know. But which part do you like best?'

'Oh.' She pauses, thinking. 'I can't choose. But I like it when Daisy goes to sea with all the four-legged creatures and they use her hair as a sail, and the Fatted Calf says how much he loves the sea hair! And the dormouse wakes up and says '

' Hair, hair!' I chorus with her. We both laugh.

She is so delightful as she laughs, as her cheeks grow pink with merriment, her soft blue eyes crinkling up like little crescent moons. 'Do you live in Oxford?' I say, hoping against hope that this is the case, and that she has not been sent merely to enchant and then disappear. So many of my little friends are merely pen-friends, which is pleasant enough, but I like it best when I can be in their company.

'Yes,' she says. 'We've just moved here. We live on c.u.mnor Hill.'

'So you will be able to visit me whenever you like?' I say. 'Whenever you come to tea with your uncle, perhaps? If you are very good, I will tell you some other stories.'

'About Daisy?'

'Yes, about Daisy. She is a most interesting child, and the world quite rightly loves her. And so do I, my dear, more than I can say.' I find my eyes filling with tears. I know for certain now that Daisy has gone from my life. I'll never entertain her in my rooms again, never hand her a sandwich or make her laugh, never see that wondering look in her grey eyes as she asks a question. Never, never, never, never.

'Mr Jameson?' Amy fixes her blue eyes on me. 'Are you crying?'

'Crying? By no means. These are not real tears, you know. They are of the crocodile variety; pure glycerine and treacle, and you must take no notice. But I am thinking that maybe it is time to write about someone else.'

'Someone else?' She looks crestfallen.

'How would you like it,' I say, 'if I made up a story about a child called let us say quite spontaneously and at random Amy?'

'Me?' Amy clasps her hands excitedly. 'Oh, yes please!'

'Very well,' I say. 'And now I have another question to ask you, but it's not at all hard, because there is only one answer and that is, yes.'

She looks at me expectantly. She is as lovely as a dream in her white fur.

'Will you permit me to take your photograph?'

LONDON, 1872.

Harley Street, London.

November 1872.

My dear Charcot, I had a most interesting case brought before me this week: a young woman a very attractive young woman, with considerable education and a finely wrought sensibility who is displaying some interesting features of nervous amnesia. She has recurrent nightmares, waking dreams, and a form of hysterical paralysis which prevents her consummating her marriage. I've been looking for a case like this since I returned from Paris and I am very excited to have found Mrs C. (as I shall call her), whom I hope to treat over the coming weeks.

The way she came to my attention was interesting. Her own family doctor, who is not without some experience in these matters, had heard of my work with you, and when the lady's husband wrote asking for a.s.sistance, he referred the matter for my attention. As it happens (I think serendipity was at work here) I had an engagement the very next week to speak at a public lecture in the city where this lady resides my subject being, naturally The Supremacy of the Brain. It was an evening event, followed by a dinner, as these things tend to be, and I had put the following afternoon aside to examine the lady at my leisure. However, the moment my train arrived in the city, Dr L. (as I shall call the family doctor) was on the platform to meet me, saying that the husband had written that very morning to cancel the appointment. I was extremely disappointed, as you can imagine, especially as I had previously understood Mr C. to be quite distraught, and anxious to resolve the matter as quickly as possible. I asked Dr L. if he knew the reason for the change of heart, and he said that he did not, and he was very embarra.s.sed to have advocated so strongly on their behalf and then find them unwilling.

I suggested that perhaps the lady was anxious about a physical examination. 'Is she of a nervous disposition?' I asked. Whereupon he disclosed to me that her father had been subject to religious mania, and had been committed to an asylum where he ended his days. But he said that the young woman herself had always been of a modest and agreeable nature, with no signs of insanity. This intrigued me the more, and I was aggrieved not to be able to meet her. Dr L., however, said that he had spoken to the young man inviting his attendance at my lecture, hoping it might influence a change of heart.

Therefore, after I had given my talk (conveying much I had learned from your eminent self), and was enjoying a little hospitality with some of the university's more prominent scientific men, I was not completely surprised when I was approached by a young clergyman who introduced himself as Mr C., the very husband in question. He was most apologetic, and hoped it would be possible to reinstate our original appointment. He said his wife's circ.u.mstances had previously changed (although the nature of the problem remained the same), but he had listened to my lecture and felt I might be of a.s.sistance. I accepted with alacrity and arranged to see the couple the very next day.

I now precis the results of my findings: It would seem that Mr and Mrs C. have been married for some ten weeks. Prior to that, they had enjoyed each other's company over a number of years since Mrs C. was a child, in fact (she is six years younger than her husband). Once engaged, they had looked forward as any couple might to the nuptial event. They were well-matched in intelligence and social station, and their families (such as they were Mr C. being an orphan, and Mrs C. having no effective father) were in favour of the betrothal. However, it would seem that the young man, being a clergyman of high morals and little experience, had not made even the most modest of s.e.xual advances during their engagement. I believe, in fact, that the couple had hardly kissed. So, on the wedding night, both parties were largely ignorant of what was required of them. (Of course, my dear Charcot, we know that this is no uncommon occurrence among the respectable middle cla.s.ses, especially, I may say, in England but generally nature takes its course, a man gains confidence, and within a year we are celebrating a happy event.) However, it seems that ignorance alone was not the cause of the unhappiness in this case. Mr C. had read Acton and believed his bride would enjoy little pleasure from the act, but he was appalled to find that she would not engage in it at all. Her body became rigid (we have seen similar cases of paralysis in Paris, of course) and she became hysterical at the prospect of his advance. I questioned Mr C. closely and he is convinced that there was more than maidenly modesty on the part of his bride. Being a man of a sensitive nature, however, he did not press matters, but soothed his wife's distress (which continued for up to an hour) and departed to the dressing-room where, if he consoled himself as best he could, I am not the man to blame him.

I also established that this was not a case of v.a.g.i.n.al spasm; Mr C. admitting that he had not even touched his wife's body, let alone attempted penetration. He said that it seemed to be the sight of him in his nightshirt which caused the outbreak of hysteria, and that the young woman went so far as to shelter under the bed in her attempts to evade his advance. I think from that evidence it is safe to say that the problem lies not in the young man's performance, but the young woman's irrational fear.

Now I come to the nub, and it is most interesting. As I have already mentioned, Mrs C.'s father (Mr B.) had suffered a nervous collapse a number of years before, followed by severe religious mania which eventually necessitated his committal to an asylum. He was a clergyman himself, I should say, and a brilliant one, although given perhaps to an excess of pa.s.sion in both his religious and domestic life. (In fact, Mr C. was a devotee of Mr B.'s particular style of preaching and commitment to the poor of the parish. He had attached himself to him during his first term at the university, and was eager to follow in his footsteps.) The circ.u.mstances of the collapse of Mr B. are somewhat shrouded in mystery, but it seems that his natural monomania became distilled into an obsession with water and nakedness, both of which were seen by him as representing the Love of G.o.d. At the time, he alienated himself from his entire family, all except for Mrs C., then a child of eleven. It seems that she often spent time with her father during this period, but she has very poor recollection of it now, except that it was by turns pleasurable and frightening.

There is one curious aspect to this case, which I have not yet mentioned, and that is that Mrs C., as a child, was befriended by a gentleman of some repute, who interested himself in her situation and took her about with him when the family were preoccupied with other matters. At one stage, the husband feared that this gentleman (who is so well-known that I will not even refer to him by his initials) had in some way violated his wife. I could hardly credit this, as she was a child, and the enormity of the crime would be beyond belief. Mr C. contends that it was based on an alleged 'confession' that Mrs C. had made to him. However, it transpires that this confession is not to be trusted. The gentleman in question is above reproach and, in any case, when confronted by Mr C., he swore most solemnly on the Bible that no such act had taken place. Interestingly, when I questioned Mrs C. myself, she denied that she ever made such an allegation, and insisted that it was her husband who had misunderstood her meaning. I suspect, therefore, that Mrs C., in spite of her charm, is an unreliable witness as we have found many of our Hysterics to be and I have no doubt that her fears with regard to the s.e.xual act will prove to have stemmed from similarly disordered thoughts.

It is clear to me that the source of her condition is her father's unfortunate habit, while mad, of revealing himself in an undressed state (attested to by Mr C. himself). This exposed the young Mrs C. to views of the male body that may have frightened her. It is easy to see that such an experience would have rendered Mr B. a fearful figure in the eyes of a young child, and that the repet.i.tion of such a scene on her wedding night, with her husband in a state of undress, might have brought back all these unpleasant recollections.

In discussion with Mr C., I have agreed to treat Mrs C. until her antipathy to the marital act is overcome. I am confident that if Mrs C. (with my help) exerts the power of the Brain in a positive fashion to subdue the weakness of the Body, she will tame all her irrational fears. I have arranged to put her in a hypnotic trance next week so I may imbed in her the healthful thoughts that will lead, I hope, to a diminution of her symptoms and a happy conclusion of this case. She is understandably nervous, fearful of what she might disclose while under hypnosis, and apprehensive that what (she feels) lurks in her deepest mind may come unbidden to the surface. She even thinks it may shock me. I had to explain to her that as a specialist in the manifestations of brain disorders, all kinds of situations are every day put before me: rage and jealousy, fear and hatred, excess of will and weakness of will, extreme agitation and extreme melancholia and so on ad infinitum. The genteel fears of a lady of the English middle cla.s.ses, I said, are unlikely to surprise me. But she is persistently anxious. All she wishes, she says, is to be a good wife to her husband, to love him fully and have children. In short, she wishes to be no different from any other woman. However, she made me promise that I would not, under any circ.u.mstance, tell her husband anything that she discloses. And although I think it is generally a husband's right to know the details of his wife's condition, I have, in order to gain her compliance, agreed to keep silent.

What is interesting is that Mrs C. retains an adamant belief that she has in some way misbehaved herself with her father. She is most sincere in this and can recount vivid dreams about lions and walruses and crocodiles all of whom make attempts on her virtue. The choice of animal is interesting and peculiar, but of course it is nonsense. I am only surprised that such a gentle-minded female has the capacity to conceive of such things out of her own head (perhaps, dear Charcot, you will not be surprised, knowing as you do the strange convolutions of the human mind), but I understand she has read widely on all manner of subjects, and her reading, when young, was unsupervised. I venture to suggest that, being an imaginative child, she found herself drawn into the fearful worlds of demons and monsters, hermaphrodites and anthropomorphs, and in her unformed mind has conflated what is real with what is false. I suggest that this should be a warning to all parents to keep their daughters away from questionable reading matter, including, I may say, some of the more extreme kind of so-called 'fairy stories'.

I rea.s.sured Mrs C., of course, saying I would make her forget everything wicked she had ever thought about her father. 'Such thoughts, however lucid they appear to you, are not the purveyors of truth,' I told her. 'They are deceptive vehicles, full of art and fancy, and not to be trusted. Without them, you will be a new person and a fit companion to your husband.'

I am confident that I will be successful, and I will keep you apprised of my progress, which I hope eventually to present (in similar anonymous form) to the important medical societies. I fear, of course, that my ideas will be too advanced for those who are still convinced that a little letting of blood will answer all distemper. It would serve me best if I could collect more similar case studies to convince them that this kind of brain-generated paralysis is not uncommon, but I fear that, owing to the delicacy of the subject, I am unlikely to find many other patients willing to put themselves into my hands. Therefore, Mrs C. is very special to me, and I intend to make the best use of her that I can. She might even enjoy, as Patient C., a modic.u.m of celebrity in the annals of medical science.

To that end, I remain, Your most sincere pupil and friend, Edward Franklin.

AFTERWORD.

I was initially wary about writing another novel set in the nineteenth century, and featuring yet another famous writer. But the idea of exploring the relationship between 'Lewis Carroll' and Alice Liddell was tempting for a number of reasons. Carroll (or rather, the real-life Charles Dodgson) has suffered a generally bad press on account of his fondness for small girls, a predilection of which we are highly suspicious in our post-Freudian age. Having worked in Child Protection myself, and being aware of the distorted thought processes of most abusers, I was interested in how a man such as Dodgson, in spite of behaviour that would now be considered as the most blatant kind of 'grooming', maintained an apparently unstained reputation while he lived. I did not, however, want to focus only on Dodgson. Many writers of the epoch (for example, Ruskin and d.i.c.kens) seem to have held idealized (and sometimes highly confused) views on the desirability of 'child-women' and even the apparently well-balanced Rev. Francis Kilvert is not above giving voice to feelings about little girls that we would regard as very questionable today. In fact, nineteenth-century writers for children, particularly male clergymen such as Charles Kingsley, seem to have been given to exorcising their own religious and s.e.xual demons through the apparently innocent stories they devised. Thus, After Such Kindness is not just the Alice Liddell and Charles Dodgson tale in disguise; it is an exploration of a number of themes that interest me; and my made-up story of Daisy Baxter has ramifications that never, as far as I know, affected either the real-life Alice or those around her.