Confession (20 page)

‘You have written at the bottom ‘if I should want to be a poet…you think perhaps I do not study hard enough?’

‘Quite the contrary; I have rarely seen a student apply herself more assiduously however,’
here Monsieur Heger paused whilst seeming to consider something that worried him. ‘I wonder…’ he said not unkindly, ‘I wonder sometimes if perhaps our lessons do not serve you well – ’

‘I do not understand, Monsieur?’

‘Being so much separated from the rest of the students, spending so many hours studying by yourself. Are you not perhaps working too hard? Would it not do you good to rest more, to enjoy the company of some of the other staff in the evenings, Mademoiselle Blanche or Mademoiselle Sophie perhaps?’

For the second time that afternoon I remained silent for I did not know how to respond other than to think that a third person had entered the room; a silent, invisible presence but a presence nonetheless.

‘I understand Mademoiselle Sophie often goes for walks with Mademoiselle Haussé, you might join them? You enjoy walking – ’

‘Have I ever said I needed company, Monsieur?’

‘Without Emily you must find yourself more isolated, lonely even – ’

‘Again, have I ever said as much?’

Monsieur narrowed his eyes. ‘You have not.’

‘I had no idea that you,’ I said standing up because I was growing agitated, ‘that you took an interest in Mademoiselle Sophie’s pastimes or…’

‘It is only…’

‘I am sure both women would be touched to know that you kept watch over them – ’

‘I have angered you,’ Monsieur said stepping forward as if to touch my arm – an action that
caused me to take an awkward step backwards knocking over the inkwell which smashed to the ground.

Black liquid spilled out and spread quickly across the floorboards.

‘It has stained your dress – ’

I glanced down. Sure enough against the pale grey fabric of my skirt there appeared a large black stain together with a scattering of smaller stains like tiny black stars.

‘Is it ruined?’

I shook my head.

‘I did not mean to make you angry – ’

‘You did not make me angry Monsieur,’ I said staring straight past him through the open window to the garden beyond. Outside rain had begun to fall, the orchard was shrouded and grey. ‘Madame Heger asked you to speak to me, I presume?’

‘She is concerned for your welfare, that is all. She does not think in the same way that you do, hers is a very mild temperament – ’

‘Then god preserve me from those with a mild temperatment,’ I snapped before I could stop myself – then just as quickly, ‘Forgive me.’

‘I believe it is I who needs forgiveness – ’

‘I am not angry at Madame Heger, but how could
you
consider I would seek out the company of a Mademoiselle Blanche. Do you not know me at all?’

Monsieur’s eyes locked with mine. I stared at him then glanced down at his hands. My own fluttered nervously at my sides. Even I was not accustomed to this level of silence.

VII

‘Your dressed is stained.’

Mademoiselle Blanche’s voice was sharp. She had seen me leaving Monsieur Heger’s study – was indeed lingering in the corridor outside where only moments before I had heard her screaming at Mademoiselle Hauseé over some minor difference of opinion regarding timetables and classrooms.

‘Your dress,’ Mademoiselle Blanche said again, staring down at the black mark that seemed to grow larger each time I looked at it. She was grappling to understand what might have occurred, was trying to guess the scenario, I could see it in her eyes but here I was as much in the dark as she was herself.

For what
had
happened? While I had been standing in front of him, the shattered pieces of glass lying between us, the mood had shifted. Some infinitesimal thing had changed. In winter, when animals sense the first intimations of spring, what is it they see? Or at the end of the summer what is it that informs the swallows winter is nigh and now is the time to migrate? There are no warnings – yet something has happened. I could not look Mademoiselle Blanche in the eye. Nor later when I went upstairs to the dormitory to put on a clean dress, could I look at Marianne Wilke. She was sitting on her bed unpicking a piece of embroidery, her clumsy fingers making a mess of even this simple task.

Marianne lifted her head as I entered the room, her watery eyes and empty smile suddenly given over to a querying look. Perhaps she could tell I was flustered? Perhaps she could guess what had happened in Monsieur’s study yet did not know what she had guessed?

Carefully I took my dress off and laid it on the bed where the dark stain shone out against the grey fabric accusingly.

Downstairs in the laundry I held the fabric under a tap and pumped cold water against the
wool. Clouds of black ink billowed out. It swirled around the basin like fog.

The Protestant Cemetery was empty of visitors on the day I chose to visit Martha Taylor’s grave with my friend Mary Dixon.

On the way Mary told me that she was leaving Brussels at the end of the month to go to Germany. It was a blow to me, to loose this my only friend outside the pensionat and I told her as much although I did not mention how lonely the loss of her company made me feel.

‘You could visit me?’ she said eagerly. ‘We could study German together? Visit Miss Taylor – ’

‘You are going to stay with your cousin?’

‘She has been speaking of going to live in New Zealand!’

‘I admire her,’ I said.

Mary Dixon nodded enthusiastically. She was such a sweet-natured girl, nothing she did or said could ever cause offence.

Suddenly I found my eyes filling with tears.

I looked away from her and tried to concentrate on the colours and beauty of the countryside. I wondered if in any language there existed words to describe all the different shades of green? In the hedgerows wild flowers grew in abundance. Buttercups, shirley poppies, harebells and honeysuckle. I listed them and tried to imagine how I would write their names in my copybook. The scratch of the pen against the paper. My heart beat a little faster, a curious flickering began deep in my stomach.

When we reached the graveyard Mary and I wandered between the headstones, reading them out aloud to each other:

Alicia Granger, born 1811 – died 1819, Our Little Dove –

Francis Maude Eyre, Daughter of William Eyre, born 1789 – died 1830, The Lord is My Shepherd –

Samuel Arbuthnot Boussé, Beloved father, husband & son, born 1752 – died 1820 – When we came to Martha’s grave we stopped and sat down. Her headstone was engraved with a number of small animals including the outline of a dove. Mary had insisted upon it. Even so it was a dull object in comparison to the girl whose life it symbolized.

All the gravestones were dull.

They gave the names and dates of everyone who had died, but nothing more. What of the girl we had known? What of her laugh? The manner in which she screwed up her nose when she saw something she hated? The way in which she ran with her feet turned outwards like those of a duck. Had she ever loved anyone?
Truly
loved them? Suddenly names & dates seemed insulting.

All the way back I listened to Mary as she talked. Our pace was very fast.

‘Are you in a hurry?’ Mary said sounding quite out of breath. ‘The Hegers are not expecting you back yet, are they?’

I told her no, which was not a lie. But at the mention of the word Heger, I felt my cheeks begin to burn fiercely, the curious flickering in my stomach begin to flare up again.

By the time we reached the Porte de Louvain the heat of the day combined with my own hurry to return home, made me feel feint. Nor was this feeling helped by the fact that on turning in to the rue d’Isabelle I saw Monsieur Heger walking towards me on the opposite side of the street accompanied by Monsieur Chappelle.

I did not want them to see me in this state; consequently I tried to keep to the shadows but to
no avail for suddenly I heard Paul Chappelle call my name and signal for me to join them where they stood.

‘You look like Persephone!’ he exclaimed as reluctantly I approached the two gentlemen.

‘After she has been dragged down to Hades I suppose?’

Monsieur Heger did not smile. I put my hand up to my head to try and tidy my hair while Paul Chappelle removed a leaf from my dress.

‘Very charming,’ he said. ‘You have been enjoying our countryside?’

‘I have been walking with a friend of mine, Mary Dixon. I did not realize quite how late it was – please excuse me,’ I made to return to the house but Monsieur Chappelle would have none of it.

‘I am afraid I am the bearer of bad news,’ he said, lightly resting his hand on my arm.

‘I have just been telling Constantin here, that I shall not be able to attend further English lessons. Work will not allow it, alas! I have to travel to Antwerp next week and the week after that to Paris – ’

‘But you have only taken two lessons,’ I exclaimed whilst stealing a glance at Monsieur Heger. Perhaps he could remonstrate with his friend, have him change his mind?

But Monsieur Heger did not speak. Instead he stared at my arm, or to be more precise at that part of my arm upon which rested Monsieur Chappelle’s hand.

‘Still,’ continued Paul Chappelle enthusiastically, ‘I am sure you have plenty to occupy your time. Constantin here has been singing your praises – he says you are teaching four classes every day now and that your own studies are nothing short of exceptional. He does not bestow his praises lightly, you know – ’

‘I am sure I am flattered,’ I said in acknowledgement while again sneaking a brief peek at my
teacher. This time he was staring not at my arm but at some distant point down the street. He appeared distracted, irritated even although I did not fully appreciate why until later that week.

I was leaving the classroom to go upstairs to the dormitory when I met Monsieur Heger in the corridor.

He bid me good morning. ‘Our English lessons,’ he began abruptly. ‘Now that Monsieur Chappelle has left Brussels, I am afraid they cannot continue.’

I did not understand. ‘You cannot wish to stop learning, surely?’ I stuttered. ‘You are progressing so well. Or perhaps you do not enjoy our lessons? Perhaps my methods are not exacting enough? – ’

Monsieur Heger frowned. ‘Quite the contrary,’ he replied drily. ‘You are very exacting. That is not the concern.’

‘Concern?’ I said for I was still at a loss.

‘It is inappropriate that we spend time alone together in a room when you are the teacher and I, the student. When it is the other way around, that is acceptable because
I
am in charge – ’

I opened my mouth then just as quickly closed it again.

Who had prompted Monsieur Heger into taking such a drastic decision? Who had had the temerity to raise such a subject? It could not have been Madame Heger for she was still at her cousins. And Monsieur Chappelle was not the sort of man to be meddle in another man’s affairs. The answer when it came was obvious.

The next evening while reading in the classrooms Mademoiselle Blanche appeared at my elbow.

I looked up from the book I was reading.

‘Are you not teaching anyone this evening?’

I replied that no, all my classes had finished for the day.

‘Even those given in private?’ she mused emphasizing the word ‘private’.

I looked around me, then back at my tormentor.

‘Are you wishing to learn
English
, Mademoiselle?’ I whispered conspiratorially. ‘I was led to believe you spoke it so well – ’

Mademoiselle’ Blanche’s mouth twitched.

‘You should be careful,’ replied she ‘your English wit is not as amusing as you might believe. Of course you will not have heard the good news yet, will you?’

‘The good news? No,’ I said, ‘but I suspect I am about to – ’

‘Everyone is overjoyed – ’

‘Then I am very happy for everyone – ’

Mademoiselle Blanche smiled ingratiatingly. ‘Madame Heger is expecting another child,’ she said. ‘Is that not marvelous?’

Without missing a beat I replied, ‘Yes.’

I said that the children were the light & life of both the Hegers and that they made excellent parents.

Mademoiselle Blanche sniffed. ‘Quite,’ she said and then a little too quickly repeated herself, ‘Quite’.

Monsieur Heger had taught me how even the smallest of words can be laden with meaning and how even the slightest of meanings can carry great weight.

Mademoiselle Blanche repeated the word only this time her intonation was different. A note of sadness had crept into the back of her throat, an unmistakable note of melancholy mixed with envy and suddenly in
that one small word a fissure appeared, a fissure that allowed me the rarest of glimpses into her interior world. For the first time since I had met her, I felt sorry for Mademoiselle Blanche and whereas before she had frightened me, from that moment forward I looked on her only with pity.

Over the next several days the talk in the classrooms and dormitories was of little else but the new baby. All the girls seemed desperate to outdo each other in making something to give Madame Heger after the child was born. Little blankets were knitted out of the softest of wools; linen chemises were embroidered with the prettiest silks.

For my part the news of Madame’s forthcoming confinement neither alarmed nor upset me for I would not under any circumstances, permit it. One must never invite Envy into one’s house. That was one of Aunt’s favourite sayings, for if you do it will prove a troublesome guest, one that is impossible to evict.

*

‘Dear Emily

Things wag on much as usual here. Only Mdlle Blanche and Mdlle Haussé are at present on a system of war without quarter. They hate each other like two cats. Mdlle Blanche frightens Mdlle Haussé by her white passions (for they quarrel venomously). Mdlle Haussé complains that when Mdlle. Blanche is in fury,
‘elle n’a pas de lèvres.’
I find also that Mdlle. Sophie dislikes Mdlle Blanche extremely. She says she is heartless, insincere, and vindictive, which epithets, I assure you, are richly deserved. Also I find she is the regular spy of Mme Heger, to whom she reports everything. Also she invents – which I should not have thought…’