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Authors: Vanessa Tait
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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eyes.
‘Mothers.’ Mary turned away. She thought of her own. ‘Yes. May I help you with your equipment?’
‘Oh no. But there is one thing you could do for me – the Aclands,’ said Mr Dodgson. ‘I would be very grateful if you could warn their governess in advance so that we can all arrive on time. Punctuality is a good start to the day.’
‘That is what I always tell the children,’ said Mary.
The more she saw of Mr Dodgson, the more she realized there were many things on which they agreed.
Chapter 6
When Mr Wilton’s note came, mary read it twice over and folded it carefully away beside her bag of lavender in the top of her drawer. The note was short; it proposed a visit together to Mr Ruskin’s Science Museum. He did not mind taking the children, he said, and although Mary had somehow forgotten to include the children in her imaginings of the day, they could not be helped, as it was not her afternoon off.
She started her preparations early, just after lunch, brushing out her hair and making one thick plait with it, which she wound over the top of her head so that it resembled the first layer of a hat. But somehow she had got it in the wrong place and her bonnet over the top was too sharply angled. So she tried again, and again, but it would not come right. By this time the children had been ready for half an hour, and had torn their own bonnets off. So she had to go out unhappy, and with aching wrists.
Mr Wilton was waiting for them outside the door of the Deanery. She had not remembered the sagging of his jawline, the collapsing flesh at his chin criss-crossed with lines that suggested the future direction of his face. His flesh looked almost womanly in spite of his stubble; Mary shut her eyes – the feel of it pierced her. When she opened them, she saw only his smile, wide with no trace of anything behind it.
‘Hullo!’ he said in his deep voice. Mary hurried over to him, the children behind her, and they set off.
The children were in a wild mood. On the way to the museum they ran on ahead down the pavement, even Ina, her heavy-booted feet stamping at the edges of puddles. Edith seemed to want to nearly throw herself under the wheel of every passing carriage. Mary could not concentrate on Mr Wilton’s conversation at all.
‘. . . that it comes from as far afield as Africa and is really as fine an example as you will find anywhere of such a thing.’ Mr Wilton stopped and looked at her expectantly.
‘What does?’
‘The ivory, as I said.’
‘Alice – get back here AT ONCE!’
‘Do you like dresses very much, Mr Wilton?’ said Alice, still ten feet away.
‘Alice!’ said Mary.
‘But I was only asking! I should think it very interesting to work at a haberdasher’s.’
Mary looked hard at the child. But she only wore an expression of curiosity, her neat little head cocked to one side.
‘Not dresses so much as what goes on them. Buttons and braid and such. Very interesting.’
‘Go off now,’ said Mary, with a squirm of shame, even though she had only just told Alice to come back.
By the time they reached the museum, all of Mary’s careful preparations for Mr Wilton’s visit had been lost. The cooling and refreshing effects of the Rowlands’ Kalydor lotion she had patted on her cheeks had been outdone by the anxiety of keeping the girls in sight; the two patches of scent she had dabbed under her chin had been overcome by the smells of the street: horse manure, distantly roasting meat.
Inside the tall domed building, Mr Wilton’s voice continued in its implacable way, talking on about fabrics and flannels, twill and tweed, bouncing from the stone floor on to the displays of animal skeletons and up into the ceiling. Mary imagined his words clustering up there and growing ever more populous until they joined together and fell back down as rain.
The children had stopped in front of the remains of Buckland’s Giant Lizard, standing up on its hind legs. Ina
‘Mothers.’ Mary turned away. She thought of her own. ‘Yes. May I help you with your equipment?’
‘Oh no. But there is one thing you could do for me – the Aclands,’ said Mr Dodgson. ‘I would be very grateful if you could warn their governess in advance so that we can all arrive on time. Punctuality is a good start to the day.’
‘That is what I always tell the children,’ said Mary.
The more she saw of Mr Dodgson, the more she realized there were many things on which they agreed.
Chapter 6
When Mr Wilton’s note came, mary read it twice over and folded it carefully away beside her bag of lavender in the top of her drawer. The note was short; it proposed a visit together to Mr Ruskin’s Science Museum. He did not mind taking the children, he said, and although Mary had somehow forgotten to include the children in her imaginings of the day, they could not be helped, as it was not her afternoon off.
She started her preparations early, just after lunch, brushing out her hair and making one thick plait with it, which she wound over the top of her head so that it resembled the first layer of a hat. But somehow she had got it in the wrong place and her bonnet over the top was too sharply angled. So she tried again, and again, but it would not come right. By this time the children had been ready for half an hour, and had torn their own bonnets off. So she had to go out unhappy, and with aching wrists.
Mr Wilton was waiting for them outside the door of the Deanery. She had not remembered the sagging of his jawline, the collapsing flesh at his chin criss-crossed with lines that suggested the future direction of his face. His flesh looked almost womanly in spite of his stubble; Mary shut her eyes – the feel of it pierced her. When she opened them, she saw only his smile, wide with no trace of anything behind it.
‘Hullo!’ he said in his deep voice. Mary hurried over to him, the children behind her, and they set off.
The children were in a wild mood. On the way to the museum they ran on ahead down the pavement, even Ina, her heavy-booted feet stamping at the edges of puddles. Edith seemed to want to nearly throw herself under the wheel of every passing carriage. Mary could not concentrate on Mr Wilton’s conversation at all.
‘. . . that it comes from as far afield as Africa and is really as fine an example as you will find anywhere of such a thing.’ Mr Wilton stopped and looked at her expectantly.
‘What does?’
‘The ivory, as I said.’
‘Alice – get back here AT ONCE!’
‘Do you like dresses very much, Mr Wilton?’ said Alice, still ten feet away.
‘Alice!’ said Mary.
‘But I was only asking! I should think it very interesting to work at a haberdasher’s.’
Mary looked hard at the child. But she only wore an expression of curiosity, her neat little head cocked to one side.
‘Not dresses so much as what goes on them. Buttons and braid and such. Very interesting.’
‘Go off now,’ said Mary, with a squirm of shame, even though she had only just told Alice to come back.
By the time they reached the museum, all of Mary’s careful preparations for Mr Wilton’s visit had been lost. The cooling and refreshing effects of the Rowlands’ Kalydor lotion she had patted on her cheeks had been outdone by the anxiety of keeping the girls in sight; the two patches of scent she had dabbed under her chin had been overcome by the smells of the street: horse manure, distantly roasting meat.
Inside the tall domed building, Mr Wilton’s voice continued in its implacable way, talking on about fabrics and flannels, twill and tweed, bouncing from the stone floor on to the displays of animal skeletons and up into the ceiling. Mary imagined his words clustering up there and growing ever more populous until they joined together and fell back down as rain.
The children had stopped in front of the remains of Buckland’s Giant Lizard, standing up on its hind legs. Ina
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