The Specimen Read online

  Naturally, Euphemia was always “Miss Carrick” to these people; how on earth would she manage to remain in control of the event otherwise. Her gaze travelled around the table and settled for a moment on a young man whose complexion, temporarily ruddy with excitement, was sickly. He licked his lips and his hands trembled as the introductions flowed around the company, the hush punctuated by the hesitant voice of each new client saying their name out loud. Euphemia smiled. They all looked at her and told her their names; the rest looked at the one speaking. It was all ticking along, but she kept the young man in the corner of her eye. As it came to his turn, she could see that she had been mistaken; he was not so very young after all. She looked into his eyes.

  “Ch-Charles. I’m Charles. Hello.” He looked up at the ceiling and searched in the air above their heads.

  “Welcome, Charles.” She noted him as difficult, perhaps an unbeliever, and moved on to the woman sitting next to him.

  “Good evening, I am Penelope.”

  “Welcome, Penelope. So lovely to see you again.”

  Chapter III

  Helford Passage. April 1859.

  Paths meandered down each side of the cleft in the garden crowded with old rhododendrons. Palms, which had once been ships’ ballast, now sprouted rich fronds of growth. Camellias flushed a pink frothiness into the wet green of spring alongside the magnolias’ burst of waxy petals. Stands of bamboo, once tidy and slim, were now out of control, pushing their spiked shoots throughout the grounds. Bisecting the garden, a stream fled unkempt pools for carp where none swam; along its banks the formidable gunnera leaves pushed up from their hairy crowns. Edward saw all of this in his mind because the night sky was especially overcast. The day had begun well, with a clear horizon over the sea, but the bank of cloud now obscuring the moon and making his progress difficult had come and built up its volume as it moved over the sea towards this part of the south Cornish coast. He doubted, now that he had finally met Miss Carrick in daylight, that she would be there waiting for him for a second time in the dark chill of the summerhouse. She had made him keep a promise, and already he had broken it. He had come back again hoping to redeem himself, to explain that he couldn’t have kept away in daylight, that he couldn’t possibly have let the chance to see her face pass. Her manner on the beach had encouraged him. And yet he was nervous, so much more nervous than he had ever been about anything in his life. And he was exhausted. The seven miles had tripled. Early that morning, he had set out intending to do something very different. He had walked to the boundary of the small Carrick estate, intending to call at the house and present himself. He had turned back. When he had arrived at his rooms in Falmouth, he had caught sight of himself in the mirror above the wash-stand. He’d stripped to the waist and passed a frenzied minute washing himself before putting a clean shirt on his damp body and setting out again.

  There were times on that walk as the gloaming turned to pitch when he thought he would fall over the cliff edge. And deservedly so, he told himself, deservedly so. You have behaved irrationally towards Miss Carrick and too bad for you if you fall over the cliff and never discover her feelings. Too bad for you if you never have the opportunity to declare your own feelings. He had stopped at several points to strike a light, but the pathetic flare cupped in his hands had been blown out almost instantly by the gusts coming in off the sea.

  How easy it was to allow events to overtake one’s former intentions. It was a relief to discern the shape of the red brick summerhouse coming out of the mist, the wet dark slate of the roof almost a comfort to Edward as he rounded the corner on the steep path. In the far corner, he settled into the old armchair and pulled the musty blanket on it around his shoulders. It smelled strongly of tobacco smoke and the kind of smell Edward associated with cellars.

  At five-thirty the crescendo of birdsong woke him briefly and he drifted back into the remnants of a dream. But he was cold and he woke again, the memory now of the real Miss Carrick stronger than the wisps of what he could recall of his dream. He looked at his watch and saw that it was almost six. He took another mouthful of whisky and decided that he would stay a while longer. He unfastened his breeches, pulled himself free and allowed the warmth of the whisky and the memory of Miss Carrick in the sunshine to run through his body.

  By the time Gwen had been down to the beach and back up again, the mist had not lifted. The garden remained wet and veiled. The tips of her fingers inside her gloves felt a little numb. She could have a small fire in the summerhouse. It would likely be laid, and waiting for a match. She turned off the main path and made her way under the trees. The door had been left wide open. She could see that it had not been Murray opening the door. A man she did not at first recognise sat next to the unlit fire in the chair which Murray usually occupied to unknot string when it rained. For a second, she wondered if Murray had sent some younger chap in his place, but this man was not a gardener. Gwen’s heart thudded. At first sight it seemed as if Mr Scales was asleep. His head tipped back in the chair, his eyes were shut and his mouth hung open. And she could see from the slight twitch in his arm that he was caught in a dream. His breaths though were not those of someone in a restful sleep: they were rapid and laboured. Gwen hovered in the doorway, unsure of whether she should make a noise to wake him, or leave him to sleep.

  Down at his feet on the floor of the summerhouse was his old knapsack of heavy canvas with leather straps; the only worn-out thing apart from Mr Scales himself. Gwen wondered briefly if Mr Scales had been there all night. A sharp whiff of stale sweat hung in the room, even though the door stood open. As she was about to leave, Mr Scales stirred in his seat—but he did not open his eyes or close his mouth. Nothing about him changed but for his left arm, which began again to twitch. Perhaps he was suffering a ft, like the ones which had eventually killed her mother. In which case she ought to do something.

  He didn’t appear to be unconscious though. She stepped quietly inside the room, her view slightly obscured by the blanket draped over the arm of the chair. As the whole of him came into view, she saw that his breeches, the same ones he had been wearing when she had shared his beer, were open and pulled down around his thighs.

  The drag of her heavy skirts was like the wash of a strong tide against her legs. By the time she reached the house, her back was studded in sweat, and her gloved hands were very hot and moist. She stood in the hall, listening to the ticking and grinding of the clock which struck the quarter hour. It was still only six-fifteen. Her gaze came to rest on the coat-stand. A large, old overcoat was hanging there, and on the tiles, next to the skirting, a pair of old boots she hadn’t worn for a while. She was still standing there thinking about the last time she’d worn the boots when Euphemia bounced down the stairs at six-thirty.

  “Oh, are you back from your wandering so soon? I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Gwen flexed her fingers. “The mist hasn’t lifted yet. I’ll go out again later.”

  “Are you going to have breakfast?”

  “No, I’m going upstairs for a while.”

  Gwen relaxed behind the closed door of her bedroom. Slowly, she began to undress. She traipsed over the carpet towards the adjoining bathroom. She stood shivering in her chemise beside the large white tub and turned on the tap. She watched the level of cold water rise, concentrating on its growing depth whilst trying to imagine what it was that Mr Scales had been doing to himself. She tugged the bell-pull to let the maid know that she needed a bucket of hot water, turned off the tap and sat on the edge of the tub to wait.

  Susan did not look to see which little bell was pinging away on its spring. She’d watched Gwen coming up the path to the house. She liked to think she could anticipate what either Gwen or Euphemia might want next, and it was a bath for Miss Gwen. She’d come hurtling up the path at just gone six that morning, tugging her outdoor things off, all puce in the face from the effort.

  Susan calmly put a damp cloth over her bread dough then took up the padded mitt and lifte
d the kettle. She poured the steaming water into a bucket, refilled the kettle and set it back on the stove before taking the hot water up the back stairs.

  Susan had not told her mother about the bathroom at Carrick House. She knew that the idea of long mirrors in a room just for washing yourself would make her mother think unfairly of the Miss Carricks and the late Mistress.

  Not long after the funeral, when Mr Carrick had gone back to America, and the girls were staying with the Fernlys, Susan had taken a bath in the long white tub with the mirrors glinting at her from all sides. Susan had set the copper boiling and then emptied it quickly into buckets so that she might have a proper good hot soak, like the Mistress used to.

  Breathing in the emptiness of the place with just the ticking of the tall clock for company gave her a jittery feeling under her ribcage. If Mistress Carrick had died in the house Susan would not have agreed to go back there on her own. Susan thought about her sometimes. About her being grey and cold out on Rosemullion Head and no one knowing; the liver-coloured bruise as they’d turned her over. They said a fox had pissed on her, but Susan didn’t want to believe that was true.

  Gwen sat on the edge of the bath tub, the skin on her arms like a plucked songbird and her face pinched. Susan put the bucket of hot water down and went to close the window.

  “Thank you, Susan. I was very hot, but it is cool enough in here now.”

  “Would you like an extra bucket of water, ma’am—I mean, miss?”

  “That’s all right, Susan. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”

  Susan expected this answer, and knew it had nothing to do with what she had left to do. “Let me help you off with that chimmy, miss. You’re all fingers and no thumbs.”

  Gwen let Susan help her out of her underwear. Susan said, “You’ve let yourself get too cold this morning.” She lifted the bucket and poured the steaming water into the bath. Gwen climbed in, totally unselfconscious of her naked body. Gwen’s breasts were firm and rounded; they did not swing or fall with her movements. Susan turned to go, picking up the empty bucket.

  “Stay awhile, Susan, will you? Perhaps you could talk to me. I feel I should like to talk to someone.”

  Susan put the bucket on the floor again and clasped her hands in front of her. She could not avoid her reflection so stared at her feet.

  “Move those things from the chair and sit down, if you like.”

  Sitting down meant that Susan had to face Gwen washing herself. “I won’t stay more than a minute, miss. I’ve got bread rising.”

  “I won’t keep you, Susan. I wanted to ask you something.” Gwen soaped her leg with her foot propped up on the edge of the tub. Susan looked away as she caught a glimpse of pubic hair. “I wanted to ask you, because I know you have brothers and you are older than Effie and I. The thing I want to ask you—” She stopped washing and looked directly at Susan. “You mightn’t know the answer, of course.”

  Susan stared at the soapy foot and then at her own hands. “You’d better ask the question, miss, or I’ll not be able to answer one way or the other.”

  “Whilst I was out this morning, I came across something. Someone. I’m sure now that what he was doing was meant to be private. But, having seen it, I want to know whether you think it might have been rather unhinged.”

  “Are you telling me you saw a madman this morning, miss?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “What was he up to?”

  Gwen lathered her other leg. “I’m not sure I can describe it properly. He was in the summerhouse. I thought Murray might have sent someone. I thought he was asleep at first.”

  “A tramp?”

  “No, I’m sure he wasn’t a tramp. In fact, certainly not a tramp. Susan, is it usual for a man to do . . . things . . . to himself?”

  “Did this man do something to you, miss?”

  “No. He didn’t even see me. And when I saw, when I realised which . . . part . . . of himself was in his hand, I came back.”

  Susan bit her lip. “Maybe you should keep that summerhouse locked up.”

  “What was he doing, Susan. What did I see?”

  Susan breathed in deeply, and let her breath out slowly. “Some would say what you saw was an awful, horrible thing, miss. But I’m sure it’s no sin telling you I reckon it’s a normal enough thing for a man to do sometimes, if he’s not got a wife.” She glanced at Gwen.

  “But what was he doing?”

  Susan looked down at her hands in her lap and told her.

  “Whatever for?” Gwen began to wash the rest of her body.

  “For the relief of it, I believe.” Suddenly Susan envied Gwen’s ignorance. It seemed peculiar to her that someone could read Latin, and not know about that.

  “It looked quite brutal,” said Gwen. “He looked uncomfortable or even that he might have been in pain. Do you think it hurts, to do that?” She was lying down in the bath now and splashing water over her flat stomach.

  She’s still like a child, thought Susan. Anyone else might think what she’s just asked would be some sort of trick, some sort of tease. But she’s asking me like a child, Susan thought. Who else might she ask anyway? It isn’t the sort of stuff you could talk about politely.

  Gwen said, “I’m glad I’m not a man, Susan. Aren’t you?”

  “Well, you couldn’t change it, miss, even if you wished it.”

  After that, Gwen had avoided going to the garden so early in the morning, waiting long enough to be sure that she would not come upon him again in that way. She was uneasy with her intimate knowledge of Mr Scales’ personal habits. It seemed impossible to reconcile the sight of him, the deep mauve of his—she didn’t have a name for it, a word for it and this also made her perturbed. Of course, she knew the biological term for that appendage, that necessary organ to the male, from the beetle to the horse to the man in her summerhouse. But the purely biological was not enough, did not explain the emotion she now felt. The smell of him had worked its way into her dreams and tonight she had woken drenched in sweat, a noise from her own throat bringing her awake. And the rippling of that sensation. Yes, it was there, still there, but ebbing away as she lay in her sweaty sheets, coming awake. She brought her hand up to her face, listening intently to the quiet of the house, to the distant chiming of the clock in the hall, telling her that it was about to strike the hour. Gwen counted the twelve chimes and threw back her sheets. She had gone to bed just before ten and to be so wide awake at midnight disturbed her; she knew that she would find it difficult to go back to sleep and that she would have a bad temper in the morning. It put her on edge to be tired in the day when she wanted to be busy but found herself stupid and clumsy. Gwen got up and went to her bathroom to wash her hands and wipe her neck with a cold sponge. She did not take a light with her, feeling her way instead with her feet and her hands outstretched. Back in her bedroom again, she went to the window and pulled back the curtains. She raised the lower section of the window quietly, the sash cord working smoothly as she put her weight to the task and felt the cold draught against her thighs and stomach. She crouched on the floor, her face level with the open air, and listened to the night. The familiarity of the garden was made alien. She listened, cupping her hands behind her ears, to the very distant sound of the waves breaking on the beach and the play of wind in the trees. Below her she heard the crunch of careful footsteps on the gravel path as either Euphemia or Susan made her way to the privy. Gwen left the window open but pulled the curtains back together again.

  Chapter IV

  Edward Scales had sent Gwen a letter, and it was in her pocket, but she hadn’t opened it yet. The thrill of seeing his handwriting for the first time had made her nauseous with excitement. Euphemia had again slept in very late and her usual habit of being first to sift through the morning post had been abandoned.

  Taking the letter from the table in the hall, Gwen had felt an intense lurch, then a tightness in her shoulders threaded its way through her torso,
down to her thighs, and back up again to the back of her skull. But she hadn’t wanted to hear his voice in the hall where she stood resisting the urge to rip the letter open. She had met him first on the beach at the foot of her garden, and that seemed the most appropriate place to read his letter.

  On the beach Gwen lay down on her stomach. She didn’t linger to examine the seal as she broke the wax in half and pulled out the stiff laid paper. She felt her body thrumming to the rhythm of her pulse against the pebbled ground, heard the crash of the waves behind her, saw the bright sunlight on the paper, registered the unsteadiness of her hands as she straightened the single sheet, bending its crease back on itself; all of this crammed her senses as she began to read his letter. His handwriting was singularly awful. A great deal of care had gone into the addressing of the envelope, but the letter itself was a different matter.

  “My Dear Miss Carrick . . .” Gwen studied the stroke of his pen, the urgency of the formations, the haste, the going over of certain letters where the ink had run dry, the fine spatters from the nib. On the corner of the paper there was a smudge of fingerprint.

  The contents of the letter were very formal; he promised that he would send a copy of the Burns poem as soon as possible and that he admired the watercolour painting very much. He also told her that he was writing from his address in London, and that he would be travelling back to Cornwall within the month. He hoped that she was in good health and hoped that it was not too much to hope that he would have the pleasure of meeting her again. There was something touching in his repetition of the word ‘hope’ and the fact that he had been in such a hurry to write to her he had forgotten to write his London address. His feverish scrawl affected her more than she had expected. To know that while she’d been anticipating his return to her beach, he had in fact all the while been in London, made her grab a large stone and place it on the letter, haul herself from her position and walk to the water’s edge. She let the waves come to her feet and run over her toes several times before she stepped back out of their reach. Within the month, he had said. He had left her no option but to wait for his return and whilst she did very much want to see him again, she felt trapped by her emotions, by her personal geography. Her world was this place, this brackish river from the shore of which she could stare out to sea. Her beach was officially part of the Helford river, but its waters were that of the wider ocean. He could come and go as he pleased. He could choose his place. She returned to where the letter lay and folded it back into the envelope. She walked up and down the beach from one end to the other until she could not face taking another step. In her exhaustion she sat down on the pebbles again and let herself weep. Nothing came but dry sobbing. Her lungs and ribs ached, and she swayed back and forth as if in a state of intense grief, yet there was nothing but lightness inside her.