Maureen JENNINGS - Under the Dragon’s Tail

There were no candles lit in the hall sconces, but the morning light had crept in sufficiently for her to make her way to the nursery tucked away on the third floor. Hoping the latest maid, Betsy, was not yet awake, Maud hurried up the stairs and entered Sarah’s room. The child was sleeping but as Maud came over to the bed, she turned restlessly, kicking away her quilt. The room was warm and close and Maud frowned. She had asked Betsy always to keep the window open, winter or summer, but the girl said too many flies came in and at night she closed it. Maud gently pulled the quilt all the way off and placed her hand on Sarah’s forehead, smoothing away the fine hair that was sticking to her cheek. She yearned to stroke the soft skin, trace the delicate arch of the dark brows, but she was afraid her touch would burn.

She had been married for nine years when she first met Henry Pedlow, Walter’s nephew. He was living in Vancouver and came to Toronto en route to taking a position with a pharmaceutical firm in India. Walter was away at the time, on the circuit, but dutifully she invited Henry to stay at the house.

Before two days had elapsed she was passionately in love with him.

He was dark-haired, rather plump, with soft brown eyes that gazed on her in admiration, not seeming to notice the purple naevus, the swollen and pulled lip. He made her laugh, noticed every new gown, and seemed content to be in her company all day long. The night before he was due to depart, she had virtually asked him to be her lover. “You can stay,” she had said, stumbling over her words, ashamed that she was so awkward because of course he was already staying, sleeping in the room next to hers. But he understood and had responded with warmth, kissing her deformed mouth, which no one else in her life had ever done.

When he left the following morning she remained in her room for a week, refusing food, not wanting to move from the place of memory. It was only Walter’s return that made her stir. She had no wish to offer explanations for her behaviour. They hadn’t even known he was back in Toronto. There had been no telegram or letter, just a knock at the door less than a month ago. Fortunately, Walter was at his club and Sarah was doing lessons in the nursery. Maud was alone, reading in her sitting room when Burns announced him. The shock had rendered her motionless and it was only when she realized the butler was eyeing her curiously that she regained some control and was able to greet him. He too was very contained, apologizing for not giving her notice. She barely heard his excuses, as if her ears had got stopped up with cotton. He continued to prattle on about the voyage over from India, the disagreeable climate there, the savagery of the natives. Maud said almost nothing, staring at him. Initially she was unable to find the semblance of the young man he had been. He seemed wizened, too old for his years, as if his flesh were losing a battle against the dominance of the Pedlow frame. He had grown a full moustache and his hair was longer than it should have been, but neither gave the impression of vitality. It was only when she saw his slender hands that were so agonizingly familiar to her that she truly remembered, that her body remembered, and the impulse to kiss again the soft, full lips was so strong she had to stand and walk to the window.

Suddenly the door to the adjoining room opened and Betsy came in.

“Oh I beg pardon, madam, I…is there anything wrong?”

Maud stepped back and whispered angrily, “The child is too hot, give her a cool sponge-down as soon as she wakes.”

The maid knew better than to protest. It was not the first time Maud had come into the nursery at the oddest hours, and Betsy was well aware she was one of a long line of servants who had proved unsuitable to take care of the little girl.

Maud hesitated, not wanting to wake Sarah at this early hour but wanting her to be up, hungry for her welcoming smile. But the maid was watching her and she left the nursery, her need squeezing at her chest.

The church bells were ringing through the city, peal after peal until only the deaf or the incorrigibly slothful could lie abed. Episcopalian were more prevalent, closely followed by the Methodist chimes and trailed by the Roman Catholic. Sinners from all denominations stirred as they were called to prayer.

William Murdoch had been up for over an hour doing his exercises. On Sundays he didn’t ride, but before Mass he stripped to his singlet and drawers, pushed back the drugget on the floor of his sitting room, and did knee bends and push-ups until his muscles screamed for a respite.

Hands behind his head, he did four more squats, grunting with the effort. “Seventy-seven, seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty.” With a gasp he collapsed on the floor. Done.

From the next room he heard Enid singing a Welsh tune that was rousing and vigorous, like a gospel hymn. He paused for a minute to listen to her but the thought of how different their beliefs actually were depressed him and he jumped up. He had ten minutes more of exercise to do before he had to wash and change into his Sunday clothes. Mrs. Jones was now singing a rather plaintive tune in English about being in the hands of Jesus. Murdoch started to run vigorously on the spot until the noise of his own breathing drowned out the song.

The leaves of the willow tree danced in the breeze, and the movement of light and shadow across her face woke Lily. She shivered. The cave where she had slept was dank, and the night had been uncomfortably cold. She didn’t have enough room to stretch her legs out straight and they felt cramped and stiff. She sat up as well as she could and eased herself cautiously to the opening of her hiding place in the riverbank. She had no way of knowing if people were close by and she moved carefully until she peeked through the curtain of willow branches. The sun had disappeared behind clouds but there was enough warmth to feel good on her cold face and hands. There was nobody on the opposite bank and on this side of the river there was no path at all so she didn’t fear anybody coming that way. She, herself, entered the hide-away by edging sideways close to the riverbank. She’d found the hiding place last summer when, after another beating by Dolly, she’d run off. An old willow tree had fallen into the river, and where the roots pulled out of the ground there was a hollow. The branches hid it from view and when she had crawled into the cool gloom, like a she-fox coming home, she felt safe.

She bent down and splashed water over her face and neck. Hunger had kept her awake at first, but this morning that had gone and she felt nothing except thirst. She cupped her hand and lapped the river water. For two days she had sat by the opening, crouched within the leaves, watchful. The birds were her warning, whether they suddenly took flight or continued their usual coming and going around her. Yesterday she had felt bolder and ventured out looking for wild berries. She tried not to think, but suddenly the memory would lump into her mind. Not just of the big policeman in his helmet whom she’d seen coming up the path of her mother’s house but the other men in uniform from before. Their faces red and angry, shaking their fists at her when she wouldn’t walk down the cold corridor to her cell. She tried frantically to make them understand, she wasn’t being bad, wasn’t defiant, but her sounds only seemed to anger them the more. Her mother had made it clear with gestures and a crude drawing that Lily was going to be hanged. That the gallows was in that room at the end of the corridor. But before she died, Lily would be tortured, hot pokers would be thrust in her eyes and she’d be put on a rack and stretched until all her bones were broken. Her mother had shown her a drawing in an old book. “Just like this,” she thumped the page with her finger.