Afterimage (4 page)

Annie wipes her forehead. Upstairs she can hear the voices of Eldon and Isabelle. She still feels full from her generous breakfast. The house is warm and comfortable. Perhaps it is time to read
Jane Eyre
again. Perhaps, now, there is a more appropriate phrase for Annie to choose as her own.

Eldon knocks at his wife’s bedroom door and then walks in without waiting for a reply. Isabelle is sitting by the window. She is dressed, but her hair is still down.

“Oh,” she says when she sees it is Eldon. “I thought you were the new maid.”

“She’s cleaning the stair rods.” Eldon moves into the room, not quite as far as his wife. “Do we need clean stair rods?”

“I’m sure we’d perish without them. I know I would. What do you think of the new maid?”

“She seems a nice girl.”

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” says Isabelle. “I thought I could
photograph her when I first saw her. But now I’m not sure about any of that. Models. My ideas.”

They look at one another.

“I was on the hunt for my spectacles.”

“You don’t need an excuse to enter my bedroom,” says Isabelle.

“But I found them.” Eldon waves them feebly at her. “Must have fallen asleep reading in bed last night.” He can remember when they were first married how he never wanted to leave his wife’s bed. Now, being married has somehow made him feel more alone than if he’d never married at all. The small distance between them whistles with loneliness.

“Why aren’t you in the studio?” Eldon comes back to his original thought when he’d walked down the corridor and seen his wife’s closed door.

“I’m trying to decide whether or not I’m a failure.”

“And?”

“Eldon.” Isabelle puts out a hand and he takes it. They are that near to one another. He takes the hand and it is cool and dry. “Will I ever be taken seriously?”

“Robert Hill?” he asks, remembering yesterday’s visit from their famous neighbour, who mostly seemed to come and see them when he was bored with his own work.

“They’re all Robert Hills,” says Isabelle.

Eldon sees the injustice of it as he sees everything, a map before his mind’s eye with the country of
Women
made up of the villages
Injustice, Servitude, Inequality, Humility.
“I would stop it,” he says wildly. “In my world, there will be opportunity for all.”

“But, Eldon,” says Isabelle. “There are more Robert Hills than there are your kind in this world.” She withdraws her hand from his moist palm. “That is one sad truth. Another is that most people agree with Robert Hill.”

From the window Isabelle can see down into the garden. The wind ruffles the leaves on the trees. Tess stands outside the laundry hut, talking to Wilks. Isabelle thinks that Wilks has been hiding all morning in the orchard, thought she saw him earlier, walking over the rusty cobbles of apples.

Eldon would put things to rights if he had the power to do so. Isabelle is certain of that. He has an innate sense of fairness. It is his most dependable, and perhaps most lovable, characteristic. But what he wants to change of the world will never be changed. She is also certain of this, and so his wild outbursts of indignation on her behalf cause her to feel a certain wariness towards him, a politeness, an unfamiliarity with this man who is her husband and has been for thirteen years.

Eldon can see that Isabelle’s brief need of him is over. Her pulling away makes him want to proclaim something even more remote and impossible.
I will make you famous. I will be the answer to all your hopes and wishes.
The territory that is himself grows larger, pushes back the salt tides, the broken chains of islands, flung like broken crockery onto the top shelf of the world.

Tess’s laughter drifts up from the garden below, light and hopeful as the wind it rides on. Isabelle can’t imagine that she has ever sounded as recklessly happy as that.

“I had better go and see about lunch,” she says, although this is something she never does and they both know it. She brushes past her husband on her way out of the room and they both, instinctively, flinch.

*

Annie is outside cleaning her dusters. She taps them against the wall of the house and dust rises like smoke from the feathers. It is a warm day. She stands with her back against the wall of the house, feeling the heat weeping onto her skin from the stones.

There is great activity in the glasshouse. Even from this distance Annie can see the fluttering of dark figures in the building. She cannot help herself. She walks over to the henhouse and gently slips in through the door.

Wilks, the gardener, is standing at the far end of the studio. He is dressed in what looks like a tablecloth, pinned at his throat so that it becomes a cape. On his head is a rough sort of crown fashioned from painted cardboard. On his legs, breeches. On his feet, boots. Tess is lying on her stomach on the floor in front of him, clutching on to his ankle. Her hair is loose and washes out from her head like seaweed, matted and wild. She is wrapped in a sheet.

“You’re not trying to trip him up,” says Isabelle, circling them madly. “You’re begging him for forgiveness, begging him to take you back.”

“I don’t need to be forgiven,” says Tess. Her voice sounds a bit muffled because she’s lying on her face.

“Don’t,” says Wilks irritably.

“What?” says Isabelle.

“She’s cutting off my circulation.” Wilks shakes his leg as though Tess is a pesky dog he’s trying to dislodge.

“He’s the one what should be begging for forgiveness,” says Tess.

“You’re not Tess,” says Isabelle slowly. “This is not now. You have to leave yourself behind.”

Even Annie, with her limited acquaintance of her fellow maid, knows that Tess could only ever be Tess. She would have great trouble leaving herself behind.

Wilks flaps his tablecloth cape impatiently.

“Who are they meant to be, ma’am?” Annie asks, stepping forward into the room.

Isabelle looks at Annie for a moment before answering. “Guinevere,” she says, pointing to Tess. “King Arthur.” She taps Wilks on the shoulder. “Do you know the story?”

Annie shakes her head. She has read mosdy novels, is not so familiar with the old tales.

“Guinevere and Arthur are married,” says Isabelle quickly. “Guinevere has fallen in love with Lancelot, one of her husband’s knights. They are discovered. Lancelot is banished. Guinevere is forced to beg forgiveness from her husband.”

“And is she truly sorry, ma’am?”

“No.” Isabelle thinks of Robert Hill, thinks that it is herself on the floor grabbing on to his ankle, begging to be accepted into the society of the gentlemen painters. “No, she is more sorry that she was found out and that her husband banished her love.”

Annie feels banished, cast out from the life she has known, washed up on the unfamiliar shores of this world. “Let me try,” she says. They stare at each other across the sun-streaked room.

Isabelle is surprised at Annie’s request. Certainly anyone, or indeed anything, will be better than the idiot laundry-maid. “All right,” she says.

“Thank the Lord,” says Tess. She struggles to her feet, ripping the sheet from her body in a gesture of glorious relief. “May I be excused now, ma’am?”

“Yes, yes.” Isabelle rescues the sheet and winds it around Annie. Tess leaves without a backwards glance. Wilks watches her go.

Isabelle reaches up and removes the pins from Annie’s hair. She loosens the hair from its tight nest with the same
impatient, careless motion that Annie had used to ruffle the feather dusters against the house wall. She lets one hand linger on her maid’s head for an instant. “Are you sure?” she says. “Do you understand?”

“Yes. I think so.” But the moment she says this Annie also thinks, What do I understand? She has been swayed by the story, by words like
banished
and
forgiveness.
She hasn’t had a book to read lately and that feeling of story rushes through her like a swoon.

Wilks stands up straight, flicks his tablecloth so it hangs properly from his shoulders. Annie arranges herself at his feet. The stone floor is cold and hard. When she reaches out for Wilks’s ankle it is a relief to find it warm, to feel the heat of him through his boots.

“All right, Wilks,” says Isabelle, moving back beside her camera. “Look down at Guinevere. A litde scorn, a litde pity,” she says, as though she’s reciting a cake recipe. “Some anger. Some hurt. A little love. And, Annie. You hate him but you need him to let you in, I mean, take you back. You need him to forgive you.”

Forgive me my trespasses

Annie is lonely for Jesus. She wants him back, wants him here. She reaches out with everything inside her and holds on to him for that moment before he will notice and pull away.

Then Annie remembers Isabelle, raises her head from the floor and turns it so she can see the Lady over her shoulder, all the while holding tightly to Jesus’ ankle.

Is this what you want from me?

Isabelle has never seen a gaze so sublimely sorrowful as Annie Phelan’s. It is perfect. That searching sadness just right, so too that she would be looking backwards. Of course what matters is what’s gone, not what is there. Guinevere is looking
back at her love for Lancelot, not up in humility at her husband. She has not forgotten the true nature of her heart. She looks back fully aware of what it is she had and what it is she has lost. She looks back out of love, out of witness, out of remembrance. She looks back out of faith.

Isabelle can’t take her eyes off Annie for fear that look will drain out of her. “Don’t move,” she says, and rushes quickly to the table with the prepared glass plate and the bottle of collodion. “Don’t move,” she mutters to herself, over and over again, as she pours the collodion onto the plate and tilts the excess back into the bottle, as she waits a moment for the plate to become sticky and then plunges it into the silver-nitrate bath.

Annie has not moved. Her gaze is as direct and mournful as when Isabelle left her to attend to the plate. Isabelle inserts the wooden holder into the camera. “Don’t move,” she says, one final time, and lifts the cover off the lens.

Annie’s neck hurts and her eyes are starting to ache from staring so intently at Isabelle.

Let me in, thinks Isabelle, for Annie, for herself, and the Robert Hills of the world.

O Lord, thinks Annie. Don’t leave me. I cannot bear for you to go.

The light carves them out of air. The folds of King Arthur’s cape, the darkness of his hair. Light cuts around them, holds them as silhouettes. The long shape of Annie on the stone floor of the studio, pitched forward, looking back.

Isabelle leads Annie down the narrow stone steps into the old coal cellar, which is far from the house, out near the middle
of the garden. A new, larger cellar has been recently attached onto the kitchen. Isabelle carries the wet glass plate in its holder with one hand, grasps Annie’s sleeve with the other.

“My darkroom,” she says, pushing forward with her feet until she feels the metal basin of developer. She bends down, dragging Annie with her.

The cellar still smells of coal, the dusky bloom of it flowering in the bricks, in the air.

Isabelle and Annie kneel by the tub while Isabelle pours developer into it and then immerses the glass plate. It is as big as a book, and she has to be careful that she has covered all of it. She counts the developing time off under her breath. She has brought Annie with her because she can’t let her go yet, can’t let her move beyond this moment, this photograph.

Annie can smell the coal. She can hear the quick sounds of Isabelle breathing beside her, and over that the slide of liquid pouring over the negative plate. Crouched in the dark in this small hole of a room they are like animals, hiding. She feels both panicky and calm.

Isabelle fumbles around in the dark, bumping her hands through the developer basin until she finds the treated glass plate.

“Done,” she says, and hauls Annie to her feet, back up the stairs and outside.

After Isabelle has clipped the photographic paper into the developing frame and laid the whole contraption down on a flagstone in the sun, she sits on a bench at the side of the path and motions for Annie to join her.

“But, ma’am,” says Annie. “I still have work to do.” It is getting late and she is now behind in her duties for the day.

Isabelle waves her hand. “There’ll always be time for cleaning,” she says.

Whose time? thinks Annie. The Lady is much too cavalier on the subject of cleanliness. How would she feel if her chamber pot wasn’t emptied every morning, or her bed sheets changed? But Annie doesn’t protest again. It feels nice to sit in the sun on the bench in the middle of the day. It feels slighdy wicked, in fact.

Isabelle can barely keep still, keeps hopping up to check the exposure, unclamping the frame, and peeling back a corner of the photograph.

“Almost,” she keeps saying. “Almost.” She seems very much like Mr. Rochester in her impatience.

When you just sit somewhere and don’t move, the whole world comes to you. Annie sees things she has never noticed before. Birds and insects circle in the trees above her. Flowers tilt their heavy heads towards the soft-grass ground. The smells of the summer are wide. She looks up at the sun strained through a mass of cloud. How is it then that she sometimes misses Mrs. Gilbey and Portman Square? Is it only because it has been familiar to her? Is that all it is about? The small basement kitchen. The fifty stairs from there to the top of the house. The small darkness of her room, not unlike the coal cellar that she’d crouched in with the Lady Isabelle. The Lady’s breathing in the dark next to her, a hoarse, hollow sound.

Isabelle is up off the bench again, peeling back the corner of the photograph with one of her blackened hands. “Look,” she says. “It’s starting to appear.”

Annie slips off the bench and goes over to Isabelle.

Isabelle peels some more of the photo back. It is exactly right, that look in Annie’s eyes. It has survived the process of the photograph. It is strong and unwavering and griefstricken. It is the vision Isabelle had, made flesh. It is a work of art, her art. It is a miracle.