Tennyson's Gift (28 page)

Ellen jumped from rock to rock like – oh Puck or Ariel, or something; while Watts poked at the ground with his stick, as though Daisy might be a shell fish burrowed there. Perhaps he was looking for dropped florins. He held up a large handkerchief and wiped a tear. This had been an emotional evening for him; it felt curiously final, as though nothing would ever be the same. Ellen had paraded his Haydon obsession for all to see! If a child was lost tonight – especially a child called Daisy – the metaphorical implications were simply too enormous to ignore.

‘We'll find her,' Julia reassured him, loudly, directly in his ear. ‘She is a very level-headed little girl normally.'

‘But people do mad things when they love, Julia. Look at me. I married Ellen. That was mad, was it not? Tonight Ellen broke my heart with her little entertainment, apparently thinking to
win my affection.
That too was quite insane.'

But Julia couldn't hear him for the waves crashing and the wind pushing the tide up the shingly beach. Besides, this was hardly the time or place for introspection. Much as she loved him, sometimes Watts was enough to try the patience of an oyster. So she left him to his bemoanings and banged on the side of a bathing machine with a big stick.

Alfred was suddenly struck by a thought. ‘The scream of a maddened beach dragged down by the wave,' he said, mainly to himself. ‘I wrote that, you know. It's very fine, very fine. I doubt anyone else could have done it.' He tried substituting different words –

– and decided he had probably got it right the first time, and that he was, despite all his other failings as a human being, a genius of a poet.

‘Julia!' he called.

She ran to his side. ‘Yes Alfred.'

She thought he had found the child.
But of course he was thinking about himself again.

‘I just wanted to remind you, Julia, that I have a very great gift.'

Julia's eyes filled with tears. Perhaps it was the wind.

‘Oh you do have a gift, Alfred,' she shouted directly in his ear. She had to stand so close, she could feel his beard touch her face. ‘A great gift. If only you could learn to appreciate it.'

Alfred was nonplussed. A man cannot bear so many home truths in one night.

‘I will return to Emily,' he boomed. And before Julia could say anything, he had gathered his cloak and gone.

It was Dodgson who first noticed the light on the boat, thirty yards out in the black water. ‘A light,' he shouted, pointing. ‘C—Can anyone swim?'

Of course they couldn't. Nor could he. But he was actually ready to strip off and dive in when Mrs Cameron held his arm.

‘It's not Daisy,' she shouted.

It was true. The boat, with its lantern swinging, which tossed against the choppy water, was not stationary and helpless, but moved quite quickly towards the beach. And if their eyes did not deceive them, it was rowed by a woman.

Who could this be? They watched in a line (and amazement) as this woman rower deftly caught the wave to ram her boat ashore, then jumped out quickly and dragged it up the beach. Rather too late, Mrs Cameron ran to help.

‘Why, hello!' shouted the woman, in a friendly fashion. They looked at her. She held her lantern closer to her face. She was a complete stranger.

‘Hello again,' she yelled, with an American accent. ‘My, this wind.'

It was as though she had dropped out of the sky. In fact it would hardly have been more remarkable if she had. Who was this extraordinary woman? She wore a large tweed cape, sodden with rain and sea-water, which she flung back carelessly as though it were the lightest shawl. If she had worn thigh-boots, and slapped them, it would hardly have looked much out of place.

‘I really didn't expect to see anybody, arriving so late,' she shouted, shaking hands with each of them, and ignoring their rude gaping. ‘Out for a walk in the storm? A fine idea. Feel the electricity in these elements. Those nincompoops at Lymington refused to sail, so I hired this boat and travelled under some steam of my own.'

‘You didn't row around the Needles?' asked Julia, aghast.

‘The tall chalk stacks? I did, yes. That was the very best part.'

She removed some thick waterproof boots and tucked them under her arm.

‘But now, what's this? Great luck. It is the Albion Hotel and my journey's goal.'

‘Excuse my rudeness,' said Julia, ‘but what are you doing here?'

‘I have come to meet my husband and daughter. What a surprise I will give them both. They think I am in Boston. How do you do? My name is Lydia Fowler.'

The others stared.

‘But tell you what,' she added, ‘seeing as we're friends already, you can call me Professor.'

‘So what happened, Daisy?'

Lionel sat with Daisy in a large armchair. Sophia had brought some drinks, and Daisy had changed from her wet clothes. In her little bag was found a very nice floor-length cotton nightie, so she now wore that, and flicked her hair back over her shoulders.

‘I was mad,' she said.

‘To fancy Mr Dodo? I'll say.'

‘It was just that he said he loved me.'

‘Hmm. But Daisy, he says that to all the girls.'

Daisy shrugged.

‘I expect so.'

‘Come on, Daisy, I know so. Someone told Hallam that Alice Liddell's mother stopped letting him write to her.' ‘Who's Alice Liddell?'

‘Don't you know anything? She's the girl he wrote
Alice's Adventures
for.'

Daisy whimpered. She couldn't help it. Nobody told her there was a real Alice. Mr Dodgson had kept that very quiet.

‘Oh,' she said.

‘What's wrong?'

‘Nothing.'

She pretended she didn't care, but it was a bit of a shock. Alice Liddell, eh? Alice Liddell. She blinked a lot, but did not cry.

‘The Liddells sometimes holiday in Freshwater,' Lionel explained.

‘You mean he even sees her here?'

‘And at Oxford, of course.'

She shook her head. Mr Dodgson's character got worse and worse.

‘Does he love her?'

‘Daisy, forget it. He's thirty-two and she's twelve.'

Daisy twiddled with a bit of her hair. It was all a bit much to take in.

‘Let's change the subject,' urged Lionel.

She nodded, and tried to think about something else.

‘What does she look like?'

‘Daisy!'

‘I know, I know. I'm sorry.'

‘Won't anyone be looking for you, Daisy?'

‘I shouldn't think so. I left very quietly.'

‘Oh good.'

Back at Dimbola, Jessie languished in her father's arms, while the maids looked grim and mopped the blood off the dining room floor.

‘What have I done?' Lorenzo moaned. His darling child! His prodigy! He caressed her ghastly ringlets with his big hands, and hugged her closely to him, careful not to touch her bandaged arm. For yes, Jessie had really cut herself with the sharp knife from the kitchen, and it was a madder act than anything a black-blooded Tennyson had ever done, despite the imperatives of heredity.

‘What have I done?' he repeated. ‘Jessie, just tell me, what did I do?'

She opened an eye. ‘You lashed up your senses with Mrs Watts, didn't you Pa?' It was the thought in her head, but she did not speak it aloud. She was enjoying the attention far too much to jeopardize the mood. So she snuggled nearer and let out a faraway moan.

‘I will send for Ada,' he declared. But as he said it, his heart broke and he began to sob over the actually not-at-all lifeless body of his little girl.

‘Jessie, you are everything to me. Don't take yourself away.'

‘Oh really, Lorry,' said Lydia, standing at the door. ‘Can't you see the child is acting?'

Lorenzo looked around. ‘What?'

His wife? Lydia? Leaning on oars in Mrs Cameron's drawing room?

Jessie sprang into life. ‘Mama!' she yelled, and sat up straight.

‘What?' said Lorenzo again, releasing his hold. Was Jessie all right? Or was Lydia a phantasm?

‘Oops,' said Jessie, looking up at him. ‘Sorry, Pa.'

‘Jessie,' called Lydia. ‘My own brat prodigy.'

‘Mama! Or should I say Professor!'

Finding Lydia was certainly a bonus, but as far as Dodgson was concerned, it didn't quite compensate for losing Daisy. Alone, therefore, he set off into the darkness. For someone with a logical mind, it was tragic the way he had lost all power of consecutive thought this evening. He sat down for a moment on a little post, and tried to pull himself together. Perhaps he could deduce Daisy's whereabouts by means of his intellectual training. So he had a go at it, out there in the dark, setting his mighty syllogistic brain to work in a practical cause, using all the available data. Through force of habit, however, the propositions came out something like this:

Even a cursory perusal told him there was not much to be deduced here, so he tried to focus more narrowly on the matter in hand.

Dodgson put back his head and screamed. Then he chose the logical course again, and argued thus.

The word ‘ergo' had certainly been invented for such moments.