The Woman In The Mirror. Rebecca James

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      Later that day, while the children are taking their supper, I hear a motor car approach the house and then the sound of a slamming door.

      ‘Are we expecting anyone, Mrs Yarrow?’

      ‘Only the captain’s doctor.’

      I go to greet him. The man on the doorstep is a little older than me, with a mop of brown hair and a neat moustache. He carries a doctor’s bag and there is a wire-haired pointer at his heels. ‘You must be Alice Miller,’ he says, amiably.

      ‘How do you do.’

      The man nods his cap, removes it. ‘Henry Marsh, the captain’s physician.’

      ‘So I understand. Won’t you come in.’

      In the hall, Henry Marsh takes off his coat. The dog trails after him, a splash of white on the tip of his tail. He makes a comment about the animal being his trusted assistant, and how Captain de Grey has no objections to his attendance. I smile and stroke the dog, fussing round his ears and his gruff, wizened face. The doctor watches me kindly, inquisitively.

      ‘How are you settling in?’

      ‘Very well, thank you.’

      ‘Is the man of the house up and about today?’

      ‘I haven’t seen him – but that doesn’t mean he’s not.’

      Henry smiles back. ‘It’s a big place, Winterbourne, isn’t it?’

      ‘Certainly.’

      ‘It takes some getting used to?’

      ‘I’m used to it already. The children have helped me with that.’

      Henry’s smile doesn’t move or change, but his eyes no longer concur. ‘I’m sure,’ he says. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must see to my patient.’

      ‘Of course.’

      An hour later, the doctor is back in the hall, the dog keeping close to his heels.

      ‘Is everything well, Doctor?’ I ask.

      He appears somewhat troubled; I offer him a drink. ‘No, thank you,’ he says. ‘I’d best be on my way. I’ve another appointment in Polcreath.’

      I see him move to go, then, on impulse, I place a hand on the door.

      ‘Doctor,’ I begin, checking swiftly behind me that we are alone, ‘forgive my impertinence, but I wonder if the captain is quite well. You will of course be the person to ask about this – and of course you will tell me if it is not my concern. But his leg appears to be causing him great pain and I worry that he refuses to admit it.’

      The doctor steps back. In the same moment, without warning, the wire-haired pointer makes a sudden dash for the bowels of the house, scooting off in a flash of fur to the lower stairs. ‘Hell and damnation!’ Henry cries. ‘Tipper, get back here!’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he turns to me, ‘he occasionally does this. Normally I can get him out before he does. It must be rats down there; he’s picking up a scent.’

      ‘Let’s follow,’ I say, thinking it rather good luck. We walk. He talks.

      ‘Jonathan is that breed of man who doesn’t readily admit weakness,’ the doctor says carefully, his instinct towards friendliness wishing to answer my question but his professionalism keeping him within reasonable bounds. It interests me that he refers to the captain by his name – it makes my employer seem less remote, more like an ordinary person, no one to be afraid of. ‘He comes from that sort of family,’ Henry says, ‘old English, stiff upper lip, that sort of thing. When he went off to war, there was no question of his surviving. The de Greys were – are – an institution in Polcreath; the idea of one of them falling victim to as trifling a matter as war was unthinkable. The captain wasn’t just to live: he was to triumph.’

      We embark down the stairs. ‘Tipper!’ he calls. ‘Damn dog. Sorry for my language. He’s old; I shouldn’t bring him on my rounds any more.’

      ‘Are the captain’s injuries very bad?’

      The doctor considers his reply. ‘They are as they appear,’ he says at length, as he helps me down the steps. It’s cold and dank, this lower part of Winterbourne shut off from the rest of the house so that it feels as if we are trespassing. ‘When his Hawker Hurricane went down over France, it was a miracle he was dragged out alive. Some might say a few burns and a dicky knee were a small price to pay.’

      ‘Is there potential for improvement?’

      ‘With the knee, certainly, but with injuries like this, a big part of the patient’s recovery is caught up in his outlook. Frustration doesn’t come close to describing it, particularly for a man in Jonathan’s position. He sees his war wounds as failings, where others might see them as strengths, badges of honour, however you like to describe it. Jonathan is a brave man, no doubt about it. But he isn’t the most open to accepting a doctor’s help. If he didn’t have to see me at all, I’m sure he’d be glad.’

      We emerge into a fusty corridor, sooty with dust and cobwebs.

      ‘This must be the old servants’ quarters,’ I say out loud, and Henry nods, remembering I don’t yet know the house. From the way he stalks ahead, peering behind doors after his dog, it’s clear he’s been down here several times, probably for the same reason. I look up and see the bell box Mrs Yarrow was talking about, the one the evacuees used to play havoc with. It’s a handsome thing, its gold edges tarnished but the dozens of names beneath the chimes are visible: DINING ROOM, STUDY, LIBRARY, MASTER BEDROOM… I imagine the servants rushing along this corridor in another decade, bright with bustle. Now, it’s as quiet as a graveyard.

      ‘Tipper!’ Henry is shouting. ‘Get back here, you useless mutt!’

      The doctor encourages me to turn back; he’ll be up with the dog soon enough. But I’m looking at that bell box, picturing the maids rushing up to the captain’s bedside. I’m picturing the woman in bed beside him.

      ‘Did his wife die while he was away?’ The darkness makes me bold. Here we cannot be heard, cannot be seen. Here, I can say what I like.

      Henry shakes his head. ‘The captain’s crash happened in ’41. He was no good to the effort after that and came straight back to Winterbourne. She’d struggled while he was absent, of course, coping with two babies on her own. But it wasn’t until the following year that she died.’ There, he stops. He knows we have stumbled off limits.

      ‘I don’t mean to speak out of turn,’ I say, hoping to assure him of my loyalty. ‘It’s just I feel such affiliation with Edmund and Constance, and in turn with Winterbourne, and in turn with the captain. I care for them all.’

      ‘I understand. But the death of Laura de Grey isn’t a matter for discussion, here or anywhere in Polcreath. I should never have entertained it.’

      Her name coats me like heat. It’s the first time I have heard it. Laura.

      I have an almost overwhelming desire to say it aloud, but I don’t. Her husband would have left to fight right after their СКАЧАТЬ