Tennyson's Gift (26 page)

Meanwhile Jessie sat bored in the kitchen of Dimbola while the Cameron boys talked about lessons and Latin and ball games, and dull, dull things without any interest to a girl of avid brain power or searching imagination. Much more interesting to the little girl were the hissed discussions between the maids as they scurried about collecting platters of obscene roasted flesh. The one with the impenetrable Isle of Wight accent kept neglecting her duties, and mooning about by the window, and the Irish one was getting cross.

‘Is it your blessed hair again?' demanded Mary Ryan, producing some nail scissors (she had started to carry them around on purpose).

Mary Ann sniffed, and looked sad.

‘Will you take the roast tongue, Mary Ann! We've not all night.'

But Mary Ann broke down.

‘It's not Herbert you're thinking on, is it?' asked the Irish one. ‘Haven't I told you he'll be back in London by now?'

Herbert? Jessie's grip of her chair arm tightened, but otherwise she hardly moved a muscle. Herbert was the young man from the lecture that Lorenzo liked so much. Had the servant girl fallen in love with him? Here was some interest at last. Here was something to tell Pa.

Mary Ann snivelled. ‘I be in a terbul pucker about it,' she managed at last.

‘Look.' And reaching into her apron pocket, she produced Herbert's hat.

‘That's Mr Herbert's hat,' said Mary Ryan.

Mary Ann sniffed some more.

‘Did you take it from him?' asked Mary Ryan, confused. ‘Where did you find it?'

Mary Ann broke down. ‘In Mz Watts's room!'

She sobbed unpleasantly on to the plate of roast tongue.

‘Dooan't jaw me, Mary Ryan! I be all uptipped! But I shan't goo without I knows!'

And Mary Ann boo-hooed and sniffed in a highly unbeautiful manner.

Mary Ryan felt somewhat uptipped too. Poor fool, she thought, to be in love with Herbert, who beneath his jerkin clearly had big breasts and womanly hips. More foolish still to be jealous in this confusing, ludicrous way.

‘Now Mary,' she hissed, gripping the girl by the arm. Jessie strained to listen through the clash of pans. This was excellent.

‘I want you to pull yourself together, and not to think such thoughts about Mrs Watts. Aren't I telling you there is nothing between Mrs Watts and Herbert?'

Mary Ann wailed, and Mary Ryan made a decision.

‘Never mention this to a living soul, but –'

‘What?'

Mary Ryan lowered her voice further still. ‘Mrs Watts is involved already with Mr Fowler,' she whispered. ‘And is possibly beloved of Mr Tennyson as well.'

Mary Ann fell back in shock and nearly dropped the plate.

Mary Ryan shooshed her.

‘And don't say Swap me bob.'

On that bombshell, they cantered back to the dining room, and the Cameron boys turned round to include Jessie in a joke about donkeys, only to find her staring like the dog in ‘The Tinder Box' – the one with the eyes as big as windmills.

‘Jessie?' said Henry Cameron.

‘Jessie, what's wrong?'

But Jessie was lost in shock. She felt weightless and betrayed. Her head reverberated as if she had been boxed on both ears at once. ‘Mrs Watts already involved with Mr Fowler'? Pa? Pa? For a couple of minutes, she scarcely remembered to breathe.

But how? They had been in Freshwater less than a week!

What did ‘involved' mean? Did it have anything to do with those mutual ropings in Uncle Orson's pamphlet? Had Pa known this woman before this holiday? Had he brought his little innocent darling eight-year-old daughter to this dreary back end of nowhere filled with nincompoops just so that he could do lashings with Mrs Bloody Watts?

‘There's something wrong with Jessie, Mother,' the boys told Mrs Cameron, who had popped behind the scenes to check on the hold-up with the food.

‘Oh my dear, my dear! What can I give you? I am at my wits' end! Your father quite refuses tongue!'

Jessie's face was unreadable. Luckily Americans are often deaf to innuendo.

‘My dear girl, I would give anything.'

‘Are we still doing the tableaux later on?' Jessie asked at last, with her mouth set.

‘Yes, I believe so.'

‘Well then there is one thing I'd like, Mrs Cameron. I've brought a bread knife, but it's not right for what we are planning to do. Could I have a sharper one please? A really sharp one?'

Mrs Cameron hugged her, and Jessie wriggled.

‘What a curious little girl you are!' she said.

Julia had been absent from the room three minutes. When she returned, however, she knew her lovely dinner had collapsed before she even opened the door. The hub-bub had dissipated to an awkward silence, and the maids were hurriedly removing themselves, Mary Ann with an ornate silver gravy boat attached and dangling against her chest. Julia stood at the door aghast. Turn your back on spinning plates for the merest instant, and they wobble, clatter and crash. Food lay uneaten, a glass was overturned, and Watts was staring at the ceiling with a martyred expression, indicative of one of his heads. Some fracas seemed to have broken out, but what on earth could it be?

‘Do you see this impudence, Julia?' Tennyson barked, waving his arms.

Julia rushed to his side. ‘What impudence, my dear Alfred? Show me and I will dispel it. This is a great day for you, Alfred, and I will not have it spoiled.'

‘The young man here –' he pointed at Dodgson, whom he could only vaguely make out – ‘Gets your friend's little wife to ask me –' He spluttered. He couldn't go on.

‘I merely asked him on behalf of Mr Dodgson,' spoke up Ellen, ‘whether
Alice
might be dedicated to Hallam and Lionel, who are Mr Dodgson's special friends.'

Julia now understood why her dinner party was in ruins. How could anyone be so
stupid?

‘Did you say your name was Dodgson?' boomed the laureate, peering. ‘You're not the damn photographer fellow too?'

Dodgson gripped the back of his chair. ‘I have n—never given cause for s—such treatment,' he objected, hotly.

‘And I have never given cause for this hounding and baiting and confounded cockney cheek!' shouted the bard, bashing the table as he stood up. ‘I am surprised you would allow such disgraceful fellows into your intimate circle, Julia. I am surprised, and I am disappointed.'

Julia started to cry. The lovely review! What about the lovely review?

‘Now I am going home,' he continued. ‘I had hoped this would be a pleasant evening among friends at which I could make an announcement. When I came here tonight I wanted you all to share my well-earned happiness, since none of you will ever earn happiness half as good for yourselves. In fact I was willing to read
for four hours
if necessary. But I find that circumstances have changed all that. So let me just say this. The review I received today confirmed what I and my real friends already knew, that
Enoch Arden
is the work which will make my fortune. I have therefore decided to thank you all for your kindness – especially Julia – and tell you that I intend to leave Farringford when my lease expires in two months. There is nothing to keep me here. I shall never set foot on this island again. Good night.'

He swept from the room, and all eyes turned to Dodgson, who stood up.

‘I must say,' he began, but was interrupted by the sound of Julia weeping on her husband's chest.

‘Mr Dodgson, don't you have some eloping to do, or something?' asked Lorenzo, pointedly. Dodgson, affronted now beyond endurance, left the room.

Julia glared at Ellen.

‘I don't see what
I've
done,' said Ellen. ‘Shall I follow Mr Tennyson? He seems quite fond of me usually.'

‘No!' shouted Julia, so vehemently that her guests jumped. ‘No, I will,' she added in a more normal voice. ‘May I, Charles?'

‘If it makes you happy,' said her lord, as always.

‘You do your tableaux without me,' she said, gathering her skirts. And she ran off to plead with the man she loved best in the world.

Ellen and Lorenzo looked at one another, and were just unfortunately swapping loaded glances when Jessie entered, to find out whether the show was ready.

‘What the blazes happened here?' she asked, flatly. Even when mourning for her tragic young life, she couldn't help noticing that half her audience had split before curtain-up. The ones who remained were an unlikely crowd, too.

‘You don't want to know,' said Lorenzo. ‘But come and meet everybody.' Jessie curtsied to them all in turn, and gave each a steady look, especially the shaky Mrs Watts. ‘You look as bad as I feel,' she said generally, which was impudent but accurate.

‘Shouldn't we do this another night?' said Watts. The strain of the evening ought to be over now, surely. He had the distinctive look of a man who, though he has never had a stiff drink, yet suddenly feels the need of a stiff drink and tragically doesn't know that a stiff drink is the thing he needs.

But Ellen was not to be denied her chance. Perhaps she did have low ideas, but surely he would forgive her – if not absolutely adore her – for using them in the cause of love. So she took all the lamps and candles and arranged them at the foot of the curtain, and then made a short speech.

‘In this first tableau, I represent Inspiration. I think my husband will guess who the other figure is.'

Cameron nudged Watts; Watts shrugged back. He wished his wife would be sensible. He wished they could just go to bed. But then Lorenzo drew back the curtain, and what was behind it? It was – oh horrible! – the head of Haydon. ‘No, no!' whispered Watts. ‘Isn't this good, George?' said Ellen. Haydon's head was set on a clothed dummy, made of rags, with its right arm cunningly raised to hold a paintbrush. The clothes were the ones usually worn by Herbert. Ellen had dressed the plaster head in a wig, and coloured its features with theatrical make-up. It was Haydon to the life! An apparition! Watts nearly choked. In the distance he heard a knocking and clamouring at the front door, but he was transfixed by the horror of this vision. ‘Haydon!' he gasped.

Cameron (the only other person left at the table) watched Watts's face. Little Ellen had certainly captured her husband's attention, he thought. What a clever girl. And then he drifted off into a pleasant doze.

Ellen stood just behind the curtain, holding a handkerchief as though waving farewell. The curtain closed, and she stepped forward.

‘That was, of course, Inspiration Deserts Benjamin Robert Haydon,' she explained. ‘You see, George, it was nothing to do with you at all. He just dried up.'

‘Why are you doing this?' Watts croaked.

Ellen, whose jangling emotions were now heightened by the thrill of the stage, made a solemn answer.

‘Because I love you,' she said. ‘And now –'

Watts called out to her from the darkness, ‘Ellen, I forbid you –'

But then the curtain opened again on Haydon, and this time his companion was not Inspiration, but the precocious American child wrapped in a union flag, holding a flashing blade to Haydon's throat, and snarling.

The curtain closed again. ‘That was General Tom Thumb, Famous American Midget, Kills Benjamin Robert Haydon.'

‘Ellen, please! This is most unseemly! The man is dead!'

But the curtain swung open for the last time, and Jessie, smiling grimly, held the detached head in her hands, from which bright red blood appeared to be trickling.

Ellen applauded, but she was the only one. Watts had his hand before his eyes.

‘Westminster!' he whimpered.

‘That's the end,' Ellen explained to Watts. She turned to the child. ‘Jessie, you clever girl, how ever did you manage the blood? It's so lifelike.'

But Jessie was wobbling a bit. Which was not surprising when she had just cut herself rather deeply on purpose.

She pushed Ellen away.

‘Pa,' yelled Jessie. ‘Get this woman away from me or I'll cut her too.'