Cocooned beneath the warm bedclothes, I woke with a gasp to the roll of thunder. The hour was ungodly. So late in fact that I did not bother to check the time. Short of breath, clammy and shuddering, I reached for the bottle of water at my bedside and in the darkness twisted the lid. I thought with unkindness that I really should be polishing off the bottle of vodka that also stands sentry at my bedside.
Choking on the viscous liquid that poured down my throat, I reflected a moment. The dream from which I had just been torn was not my own; and I knew that I would not be able to return to the Land of Nod until I recorded it.
Begrudgingly, I peeled back the covers and stepped towards the door. Flicking on the light, I returned to bed via the bookshelf and the desk, where I collected the notebook where I record my dreams and a pen. Turning the page, I started afresh on the verso of an aborted missive written to her I don’t remember when.
-----------------------------------
Lötzen, East Prussia, 1804
I watch myself cutting a lonesome figure across this frozen desert. I am a mere dun speck against a vista of snow that stretches endlessly and shin-deep, broken only by a small copse of pine trees.
I stop a moment on the shoulder of the road to again brace myself against the cold. Turning to gaze behind me, the trail of my footprints leads back to an off-kilter carriage forcibly halted in the muddy wheel ruts. It is now barely visible against the rising blizzard. From the folds of my coat, I produce a hip flask. The taste of raisins fills my mouth as my insides warm. Tokay, nice! I shake the flask. The accompanying slosh informs me that despairingly little of the wine remains.
Fortified now against the cold, I continue my journey. There is a small village in sight, a couple of miles in the distance. I pray that it is my destination. A glance skyward and I see that it was after noon. Before long the sun will have descended beyond that line in the west. My second prayer is for a safe and timely arrival. With the first step back onto the road, my battered travelling boots smash the icy crust of a puddle.
An indeterminable time later – though still in daylight – I cross the stone bridge over the ice-clogged rivulet and promptly collapse with exhaustion. In my wake, the village huntsman crosses the bridge. He lugs a freshly slaughtered doe on his back. He bellows “EAST BRIDGE!” and instantly a team of six women scurry about, pall bearers for my inert corpse.
-----------------------------------
Later that night
I am sat in a rocking chair, propped up with pillows and blankets and wearing a fresh change of clothes that were not my own. The fire set in its place blazes and crackles. A dumpy girl clad in servant’s garb, her blonde hair escaping her cap enters; a laden plate between her hands. She smiles demurely between setting the meal on the table. As she left me to eat in peace, I smiled my thanks.
I tear the hunk of bread on the plate into the simple braise of beef and a few vegetables that I consume ravenously. The blonde returns a few minutes later to clear the table.
“Is there anything else, sir?”
“Not tonight thank you. Have my belongings arrived?”
“Ah – yes sir. The huntsman collected them this evening. They are upstairs, in your room.” She paused. “The wheelwright’s apprentice asked me to tell you that your carriage will be repaired tonight – even if they work through the night. You can be on your way mid-morning.”
“Tell them there is no hurry. I have business here.” I stood from the table. “Could you tell me how to find the residence of Madam <insert name here>?”
“The blue house with the balcony overlooking the common in North Square.”
-----------------------------------
The rickety gate squealed on its hinges as I pushed it out of the way. It is bitterly, bitterly, cold even in the weak silvery sun and the ground is caked in snow. The path leading to the green front door is a mash of mud and snow. The brass knocker is frozen, so I pound heavily against the door with the heel of my clenched fist. I have an offsider, a squat man in his late fifties, perhaps early sixties. As I turn to him, he smiles mincingly, twisting his moustache in a manner reminiscent of Dali. After a few short moments, the door unbolts and opens with a heave.
The grim-faced crone that answers the door reminds me (in an odd way) of my great-aunt’s partner. With a servile expression, she ushers me us into the hall. There is a staircase slightly off to the right and doorways into obscured rooms to its left and right. Evidently there is a passageway that runs to other parts of the house.
The maid (I know, I am being generous) leads us directly upstairs. With a gesture as she rounds the newel, she halts us on the landing before she proceeds to the closed door. With a sharp triple rap, she spoke with a grating East End accent.
“Your Ladyship, it’s Dolly. The magistrate is here to talk to you about Sir.”
Silence endured. Pressing her ear to the door, the maid evidently heard something that neither of us could at this distance. Stealing her way back to the landing, she pointed at me in silence, her hardened and slightly sour expression telling me “only you may go in.” As she passes, she takes the snow-flecked pelt cap from my hands, as my offsider peels away my coat.
With some trepidation, I approached the door. I announced myself formally and fully in a gentle voice; louder than a whisper, but only marginally so. I did not wait for any response. Even through my leather glove the iron doorknob was cold. With a flash of impatience I remember resenting that it was taking an age to turn in my hand.
The room was near-blackened. No natural light penetrated the drawn curtains as countless candles dotted the vast room, bathing it in a dim orange light. Barely able to make the outlines of the furniture, I thought for a moment that the room was vacant, until I saw a shadow twitch in front of the mirror.
And there she was sat serenely at her dressing table, about 10 feet from the door and slightly to the left, without sound or motion. Neither of us spoke and in the enduring silence I watched her intently, knowing all the while that she was doing in the same.
-----------------------------------
Despite being concealed entirely beneath full Georgian period mourning dress, I was rendered speechless. The corseted dress, boots, shroud, silver diadem and gloves of black lace had camouflaged her, but now that my eyes had adjusted to the barely adequate light I could see quite clearly.
I have memories of seeing photographs of a royal funeral early last century and of Queen Mary (or somebody, don’t quote me) in almost identical garb.
I made to speak, but refrained after telepathically hearing the words “I know who you are” spoken hastily. They were almost bitter, as if she had expected me and I had been frustratingly tardy. Casting an eye over the dressing table, I noted just how immaculately and expertly it had been set out with all of her womanly requirements. Again I attempted to see her veiled face reflected in the greasy mirror, but alas.
I could feel the shield that she willed into existence ebbing. I uttered her name and the veneer of ice that had encased her, far deeper and colder than a decade of concurrent winters beyond these walls, cracked. Her shoulders slumped in the same instant that my heart lurched with a sudden, terrible vindication: my presence was a great relief to her.
I could not see the smile that broke across her face in the dim light, but instinctively I knew it was defensive. I recognised it and its falsity at once because I am the same. Get through the day on the smell of an oily rag, the same one that you doused in bravado four days ago. Smile and hope that the rest of the world just allows you to go about your business without hindrance or inquiry.
My gaze broke, and as it returned to her she whimpered and I saw the black lace kerchief pull away from her face after it had dabbed her eyes. Deliberately, I crossed the room to her. The naked floorboards groaned as my boot-shod feet echoed. I stood behind her for several moments. She recoiled slightly, as if she had seen my reflection dissolve into the corporeal being of somebody else. Suddenly relieved that it was only an illusion, she settled as my gloved hands braced her shoulders.
Her bare left hand rose to my right and knitted imperfectly into it. And for the first time I saw ...
Choking on the viscous liquid that poured down my throat, I reflected a moment. The dream from which I had just been torn was not my own; and I knew that I would not be able to return to the Land of Nod until I recorded it.
Begrudgingly, I peeled back the covers and stepped towards the door. Flicking on the light, I returned to bed via the bookshelf and the desk, where I collected the notebook where I record my dreams and a pen. Turning the page, I started afresh on the verso of an aborted missive written to her I don’t remember when.
-----------------------------------
Lötzen, East Prussia, 1804
I watch myself cutting a lonesome figure across this frozen desert. I am a mere dun speck against a vista of snow that stretches endlessly and shin-deep, broken only by a small copse of pine trees.
I stop a moment on the shoulder of the road to again brace myself against the cold. Turning to gaze behind me, the trail of my footprints leads back to an off-kilter carriage forcibly halted in the muddy wheel ruts. It is now barely visible against the rising blizzard. From the folds of my coat, I produce a hip flask. The taste of raisins fills my mouth as my insides warm. Tokay, nice! I shake the flask. The accompanying slosh informs me that despairingly little of the wine remains.
Fortified now against the cold, I continue my journey. There is a small village in sight, a couple of miles in the distance. I pray that it is my destination. A glance skyward and I see that it was after noon. Before long the sun will have descended beyond that line in the west. My second prayer is for a safe and timely arrival. With the first step back onto the road, my battered travelling boots smash the icy crust of a puddle.
An indeterminable time later – though still in daylight – I cross the stone bridge over the ice-clogged rivulet and promptly collapse with exhaustion. In my wake, the village huntsman crosses the bridge. He lugs a freshly slaughtered doe on his back. He bellows “EAST BRIDGE!” and instantly a team of six women scurry about, pall bearers for my inert corpse.
-----------------------------------
Later that night
I am sat in a rocking chair, propped up with pillows and blankets and wearing a fresh change of clothes that were not my own. The fire set in its place blazes and crackles. A dumpy girl clad in servant’s garb, her blonde hair escaping her cap enters; a laden plate between her hands. She smiles demurely between setting the meal on the table. As she left me to eat in peace, I smiled my thanks.
I tear the hunk of bread on the plate into the simple braise of beef and a few vegetables that I consume ravenously. The blonde returns a few minutes later to clear the table.
“Is there anything else, sir?”
“Not tonight thank you. Have my belongings arrived?”
“Ah – yes sir. The huntsman collected them this evening. They are upstairs, in your room.” She paused. “The wheelwright’s apprentice asked me to tell you that your carriage will be repaired tonight – even if they work through the night. You can be on your way mid-morning.”
“Tell them there is no hurry. I have business here.” I stood from the table. “Could you tell me how to find the residence of Madam <insert name here>?”
“The blue house with the balcony overlooking the common in North Square.”
-----------------------------------
The rickety gate squealed on its hinges as I pushed it out of the way. It is bitterly, bitterly, cold even in the weak silvery sun and the ground is caked in snow. The path leading to the green front door is a mash of mud and snow. The brass knocker is frozen, so I pound heavily against the door with the heel of my clenched fist. I have an offsider, a squat man in his late fifties, perhaps early sixties. As I turn to him, he smiles mincingly, twisting his moustache in a manner reminiscent of Dali. After a few short moments, the door unbolts and opens with a heave.
The grim-faced crone that answers the door reminds me (in an odd way) of my great-aunt’s partner. With a servile expression, she ushers me us into the hall. There is a staircase slightly off to the right and doorways into obscured rooms to its left and right. Evidently there is a passageway that runs to other parts of the house.
The maid (I know, I am being generous) leads us directly upstairs. With a gesture as she rounds the newel, she halts us on the landing before she proceeds to the closed door. With a sharp triple rap, she spoke with a grating East End accent.
“Your Ladyship, it’s Dolly. The magistrate is here to talk to you about Sir.”
Silence endured. Pressing her ear to the door, the maid evidently heard something that neither of us could at this distance. Stealing her way back to the landing, she pointed at me in silence, her hardened and slightly sour expression telling me “only you may go in.” As she passes, she takes the snow-flecked pelt cap from my hands, as my offsider peels away my coat.
With some trepidation, I approached the door. I announced myself formally and fully in a gentle voice; louder than a whisper, but only marginally so. I did not wait for any response. Even through my leather glove the iron doorknob was cold. With a flash of impatience I remember resenting that it was taking an age to turn in my hand.
The room was near-blackened. No natural light penetrated the drawn curtains as countless candles dotted the vast room, bathing it in a dim orange light. Barely able to make the outlines of the furniture, I thought for a moment that the room was vacant, until I saw a shadow twitch in front of the mirror.
And there she was sat serenely at her dressing table, about 10 feet from the door and slightly to the left, without sound or motion. Neither of us spoke and in the enduring silence I watched her intently, knowing all the while that she was doing in the same.
-----------------------------------
Despite being concealed entirely beneath full Georgian period mourning dress, I was rendered speechless. The corseted dress, boots, shroud, silver diadem and gloves of black lace had camouflaged her, but now that my eyes had adjusted to the barely adequate light I could see quite clearly.
I have memories of seeing photographs of a royal funeral early last century and of Queen Mary (or somebody, don’t quote me) in almost identical garb.
I made to speak, but refrained after telepathically hearing the words “I know who you are” spoken hastily. They were almost bitter, as if she had expected me and I had been frustratingly tardy. Casting an eye over the dressing table, I noted just how immaculately and expertly it had been set out with all of her womanly requirements. Again I attempted to see her veiled face reflected in the greasy mirror, but alas.
I could feel the shield that she willed into existence ebbing. I uttered her name and the veneer of ice that had encased her, far deeper and colder than a decade of concurrent winters beyond these walls, cracked. Her shoulders slumped in the same instant that my heart lurched with a sudden, terrible vindication: my presence was a great relief to her.
I could not see the smile that broke across her face in the dim light, but instinctively I knew it was defensive. I recognised it and its falsity at once because I am the same. Get through the day on the smell of an oily rag, the same one that you doused in bravado four days ago. Smile and hope that the rest of the world just allows you to go about your business without hindrance or inquiry.
My gaze broke, and as it returned to her she whimpered and I saw the black lace kerchief pull away from her face after it had dabbed her eyes. Deliberately, I crossed the room to her. The naked floorboards groaned as my boot-shod feet echoed. I stood behind her for several moments. She recoiled slightly, as if she had seen my reflection dissolve into the corporeal being of somebody else. Suddenly relieved that it was only an illusion, she settled as my gloved hands braced her shoulders.
Her bare left hand rose to my right and knitted imperfectly into it. And for the first time I saw ...
