The Diamond Waterfall (14 page)

As she sipped the bitters, as they dried her mouth, she could think only, Now there is no going back.

I played for high stakes—and I have lost.

“I can't,” she said, “oh but I can't.” She wanted to tell Sophie everything. She saw the leather coffer, with its massed jewelry. It seemed part of her nausea.

“No, but I am certain, yes, I am right,” said Sophie, holding her close. “And you
shall
be happy, so happy that it is so. Soon, very happy.”

Never. Never.

It would quite ruin Christmas. No doubt about it. And so much fuss being made too. The grave faces: Dr. Sowerby calling twice a day. And
two
strange nurses, one for day and one for night. The night one had spoken to Alice in
the corridor. “So you're the lucky young girl who has a baby brother! We must take great care if he's to stay with us. Mother needs care too.”

“Don't you dare call her ‘Mother,' ” she'd muttered under her breath, hurrying away.

The worst was,
no one had thought to tell her.
Not a word until September. She had guessed nothing. She was annoyed with herself since she knew after all that babies were carried inside, and once she'd heard the news she saw clearly the difference in Belle Maman's appearance. (And that was another thing—fancy being told to call her by a name which meant in French not only “stepmother” and “mother-in-law,” but “beautiful Mama” too…. How dare they?) Angry too that she had not been trusted with knowledge which concerned her so much. Knowledge which would change her whole life.

Not only am I expected to love Belle Maman, she thought, but now I must love it as well. The son and heir. And sickly. She was terrified when the wicked thought came to her, I hope he dies.

Belle Maman had looked tired and wan in the weeks before the birth. But when Alice was taken in to see her on the second day, she was sitting up in a swansdown wrap, surrounded by flowers. The baby, lost in drapes and frills of white lace and organdy. (Her cot, it had been
her
cot once.) She could think only, It should be
my
mother sitting up there, with
my
brother beside her. Then someone said, “Shouldn't you like a closer look at your little brother?” and she realized—oh, make it not true—that he
was
her brother….

Aunt Violet tried to help. When Alice told her a little of how she felt (some of it she could tell
no one),
and how she was angry with God as well as Belle Maman, Aunt Violet said God would understand: “He is All Wise, Alice.
Almighty.
And your mother, dear, in heaven, will understand.”

“But
I
don't understand …” Alice wailed.

Nan-Nan let her down badly. Greeting Alice with “What a wonderful start to 1898—back in my nursery again!” Only Fräulein, dear Fräulein, with her moon face, her hair in that absentminded crooked bun, only she could be relied on. Although probably she was thinking about her brother Augustin, who was in some fresh trouble at the university. But when Alice said, “Fräulein, repeat after me ‘We don't need a baby here … ”' she had smiled and nodded that great head, floppy on its neck even with her stiff collar.

“Ja, Ja,
we are so happy, how we are
now.
The life before …”

Christmas Day. At church the vicar, Mr. Nicolson, preached only a very short sermon. His voice trembled as he stood in the pulpit. She looked at him with awful fascination because she had heard his wife was dying. Mrs. Nicolson
hadn't been seen out for four months now. A friend brought her little boy to church.

Presents. Papa's to her: a camera. Waiting for her beneath the tree, with all the other equipment she might need, packed in a box. A new camera. Not his old one, as she had been promised. He told her the gift was Belle Maman's idea. She knew that she should be grateful, pleased, surprised, but instead she felt only angry and somehow disappointed. First she was tongue-tied, then very ungraciously she said, “Thank you.” I shall never use it, she told herself.

But later in the day, after the Christmas meal, alone in her room for an hour's rest, she unpacked it with all its effects. Papa had said that she might use the rooms in the small tower. She would set up there her very own darkroom. It will be my
own,
the photography, she thought. She began to think of whom, what, where she would photograph first. For a moment she felt almost happy.

Early in the New Year Belle Maman seemed much better, and the baby, they said, was safe now. He was to be called Henry. He held for Alice altogether a great fascination, but she steadfastly refused offers to go and see him in the nursery, and ignored him the few occasions he was on show. She wasn't sure really how long she could keep it up—since after all, he was most probably here to stay….

The second week in January, the vicar's wife, Mrs. Nicolson, died. Alice overheard Nan-Nan and Mrs. Piatt, the housekeeper, talking. “Quite horrible, a growth like that—and lingering so, it was a merciful release. They say she was no more than a skeleton. And then at the end … the little lad was there, they let him, I'd not have allowed …” Alice remembered again the tall figure in the pulpit, with the trembling voice. She shut her eyes and tried not to think….

Later that same month the Hawksworth baby was christened in the Norman church. He was to be called John. Belle Maman was one of the godmothers (she and the American Mrs. Hawksworth had become great friends) and Alice was invited also to the ceremony and the family party afterward. After the ornateness of The Towers, the simple lines of the Hall always seemed to her a little ordinary, but nice. Mrs. Hawksworth was very kind. She asked Alice about
her
baby:

“Those two boys are going to have
such
a good time—isn't it just so lucky, their being born almost together?” She asked too about Alice's photography. “I hear you've gotten so good at it, your parents want
you
to photograph the christening.”

Well, that was true. For very soon after, Papa asked. Again, it was Belle Maman's idea. It is only flattery, Alice told herself, toadying up to me, like that. She is an actress, and not sincere. It would not be at all surprising if, on
the day, they were to produce an official photographer as well, saying they never meant it.

“All right,” she told Papa. “I will take them.”

He asked her then where her smile had gone. She told him, hearing her voice sharp, cold, “It flew out of the window when Mama died.”

On the day of the christening, they played fair. There was no official photographer, and before tea they were all assembled on the front steps, and she was allowed her moment. She made the most of it. She bossed them all. Aunt Hetty, down from Cumberland, and fearsome old Aunt Minnie…. She wished Uncle Thomas could have been there. Uncle Lionel she ignored and hoped he would ignore her. Belle Maman looked white and drawn beneath her pink velvet and chiffon hat, in her arms the baby in christening robes and shawl.

She wasn't very skilled with the camera yet. And nervous. Too much to think of at once.

“One more,” she insisted, “I have to have one more!” She put her hand up. “Papa, tell Belle Maman that if she looks at the baby like that, I shall get only her
hat
in the picture.”

But then it was over, and the tea party began. She went from person to person, taking care to avoid Uncle Lionel. He seemed to be absorbed in conversation with Belle Maman. She grew a little bored, restless.

She was sitting in a corner of the drawing room, nearest the door, when she saw a Miss Hutton coming toward her. She had by the hand the vicar's son.

“Alice, dear, just the
very
person. See who I have here…. Gilbert,” she said, “say good afternoon to Alice.”

He stood there, in black jacket, black knickerbockers. His brown, nearly auburn hair clung to his scalp as if with misery, sad eyes stared out of a freckled face, his hands were clenched tight.

“Well …” Alice began.
(Well
she thought, we cannot surely be meant to
play
together? He is only ten, and I am thirteen.)

Miss Hutton smelled of mothballs and good works. She was the daughter of an old and scholarly man (whom Alice thought to be about ninety-five) and lived on the outskirts of Flaxthorpe. She handled Gilbert with a firm, no-nonsense grasp. Letting go of him now, she turned to Mrs. Kent, wife of the master of foxhounds:

“What a joyous occasion this is, is it not? And the Hawksworths too, all in the same year.” She lowered her voice, half glancing at Gilbert, “I am doing all I can, here, of course. Poor dear Mr. Nicolson …”

The boy continued to stand in front of Alice, where he had been placed. She could not think of anything even remotely polite to say. She had been
intending to go in five minutes, when she had drunk her cup of weak tea. Up to the darkroom to begin
at once
the pictures she had taken this afternoon.

She saw that he was looking at her. “Did you eat some of the christening cake?” she asked. “Have you been given some?”

He shook his head. “No, thank you.” His voice was so low she could scarcely catch the words. “I had enough, thank you.” His tone was very polite.

She said, “Fm not hungry either. I don't eat very much. I don't believe in it. If you eat,” she said, “you can't fly.”

He looked up suddenly; interest flashed across his face. She could not think why she had said it. Although it was of course the truth.

He frowned. “I don't partic”—and he stumbled over the word—“particular
lely
want to be a bird.”

She said then, matter-of-factly, “Let's leave all this food and—people. Come with me.”

Where to go? She could not take him to Nan-Nan, who would soon be, if she weren't already, fussing, supervising the nurserymaids, the care of the baby…. Fräulein was not in her room but down at the party.

“Come with me.” She went out into the hall, not looking to see if he followed her.

“He's called Henry,” she said idly as they walked along, “after my grandfather, and also I think after my father's elder brother, who died in a railway accident. But we are to call him Hal.” (“See if I care,” she said to herself, “see if I care.”)

“Did you notice me taking photographs?” she asked. “You were not there, I think. We could go up to my special photograph room. You may see then how I set about developing.”

They went up the stairs to the darkroom. She rattled the keys importantly. He may come in this once, she said to herself. It is a special occasion. Then as she opened the door, she regretted her offer.

“Well, here it is.” But he only stood there politely.
Too
politely.

“Come over here,” she said. “These are tin dishes for washing the plates —I've coated them with bath enamel myself.” He gazed wonderingly, she hoped admiringly.

“All the real work has to be done in the dark, of course,” she said importantly.

Once or twice he asked her a question but it was with great effort, in a small closed-up voice, as if his throat were sewn too tight. At one stage, he said suddenly, very politely:

“Thank you. It's all—very interesting.”

“Do you want to go?” She thought that perhaps he had had enough by now. And she—she would rather be alone.

“No. I mean, yes. No, I …” His voice faltered. Then broke. He caught his breath. She saw that he was shaking. Almost in tears.

She could think of nothing to say. Nothing to do, either. After a few seconds:

“Is it about …” She hesitated. The word was sacred to her too. “Is it about—your mother?”

He nodded. The tears spilled over. And then he was weeping in earnest. She did not know what to do. She was at once elated and frightened.
She
must deal with this.

He stood quite still, shoulders shaking, tears coursing along the freckles. There was no sound except for his sobbing. He should not,
must
not, cry alone for a mother.

“I heard—that she died.”

Still he wept. She laid down the printing frame that she held. She stretched out her arms, and drew him toward her. (Almost, she thought afterward, as if it were done
for
her.) Her arms enclosed him just as she would wish to be clasped and comforted.

They were the same height, almost exactly. As she pulled his head against hers, she felt his tears dampen her cheek. His body was bony against her.

She wasn't sure when
she
began to cry, but it seemed staunchless. A great well of tears. They rocked, sobbed, rocked in each other's arms.

It was he who stopped first, suddenly drawing himself up, searching in the pockets of his jacket for a handkerchief. While he blew his nose, she said, surprised by the steadiness of her voice:

“If there's nothing else you want to see, we must go back, I think. They will wonder where we are.”

He didn't speak on the walk back. As they neared the hall and drawing room, she said lightly, “If you are interested—in photography—then I could invite you again. To see how it is done.”

“Yes,” he said, his voice still flat. “Yes—please, Miss Firth.”

“Oh, but I am
Alice.
And you're Gilbert—”

“Gib,” he said, and smiled suddenly. “I'm Gib.”

Before her supper that evening she had to go upstairs and see Belle Maman, to say good night. Belle Maman had gone to bed early and sat up, not in swansdown this time, but lemon chiffon ruffles and a cascade of lace. The room was a bowery of hothouse flowers. Nowadays she didn't have the baby with her ever. He slept in the night nursery that had once been Alice's.

“I wanted to thank you—for everything, Alice. You did very well. It was altogether a lovely day, was it not?”

She felt light-headed, as if she walked on air. Almost lighthearted. She
would like to smile, perhaps even at Belle Maman, to say, “I think I have made a friend today.”