Georgia Hill - While I Was Waiting

Aunt Leonora’s mouth thinned at Richard’s use of boarding-school slang.

I smiled at him. His enthusiasm was, as always, appealing. Perhaps he wasn’t being so awful after all. I joined them at the table and sensed Father’s warmth at my interest.

Edward arrived the next day, just in time for afternoon tea. Tall and adult, with stubble on his cheek and smelling of the outside world. Beside him Richard looked like the little boy he was desperate to grow out of being. Tea in the drawing room reminded me of the tea parties when I first arrived. We hadn’t had many recently; little point with the boys away most of the time. Much was the same, except that it was even shabbier and the fire a paltry affair. He and Father were getting on famously, another reason to put Richard’s nose out of joint and the aunts beamed with pride at the splendid young man they had raised. Aunt Leonora was especially ecstatic at his return, for he was always her favourite. He didn’t cause the trouble that Richard and I did. He was holding court, with Richard on one side of the couch and Father on the other. The admiring females, including Nanny, gazed on.

‘So, Edward, tell me what you are reading and what is your college again?’ said Father, beaming at a fellow scholar.

‘Natural Sciences, sir, at Trinity.’ replied Edward, with his usual politeness.

My father’s eyes lit up. ‘Splendid, oh how splendid! I must tell you of the moth I have discovered – as big as a saucer and twice as ugly. You must see it. Come, I have brought it with me. Come,’ he said more impatiently, ‘let us find it. I have it in my room.’

The two men left in a flurry of scientific excitement and I felt a sneaking sympathy for Richard, who was left out. He huffed and threw himself back on the couch.

‘Sit up, Richard,’ murmured Aunt Leonora automatically.

‘But I’m bored. Can I have another piece of seed cake?’ Richard’s lower lip jutted in a sulk.

‘It is “may I” and no, you mayn’t, you have had two pieces already,’ responded Leonora, frowning and about to launch into one of her tirades.

‘Why don’t you take Hetty to the library, Richard?’ As ever, Aunt Hester stepped in as peacemaker. ‘We have it open for your Uncle Henry and Edward. Take her to look at the history books. I don’t believe she has seen them.’

This was not strictly true. One of the things Richard and I had always enjoyed was exploring the house, delighting in the many closed-up rooms, playing hide and seek amongst the dust sheets. The library had been a regular haunt and we had discovered many hidden gems: maps of Asia, stories of far-off and long-ago Greece.

I looked across at him; he was sitting up, his blue eyes gleaming. I knew that look. It meant trouble was afoot.

‘What a super idea Aunt Hester, please may we be excused?’ That settled it, such elaborate politeness from Richard could mean only one thing; he was up to something.

The door to the library opened with difficulty, stiff with lack of use. I loved this room; it was one of my favourites. Bookcases lined the walls, double height so that library steps were needed to reach the more remote volumes. Chairs and a chaise longue crowded around the space but were arranged in a careless manner, hinting at the room’s long abandonment. Today, however, the dustsheets were gone. Dorcas, who glorified in the title of housekeeper, when really she was the solitary upstairs maid, had obviously been busy polishing the mahogany bookcases. The woodwork gleamed and the aroma of lavender hung in the air, testament to her hard work. Richard, with an enigmatic look at me, pushed the library steps over to the furthest-most bookcase, climbed up and fiddled with the lock on the top glass door.

‘Richard, you mustn’t. We’re not supposed to look at those books. It is forbidden.’ But I said it half-heartedly and followed him, avidly curious as to what lay behind the protective glass. I stood at the bottom of the steps, looking up. He opened the door and, looking behind us to check for adults, passed down to me a large leather-bound volume. I struggled over to the table with it.

Richard hopped down and pushed in front of me. Saying nothing, he proceeded to open the book at pages obviously well known to him. I stared over his shoulder until I saw what he was laughing at. Then I caught my breath.

The images seemed to me, at that time, grotesque. They were engravings of human forms entwined in unspeakable acts. The men and women seemed intent on doing violence to one another. The men, with bared teeth, fastened on throats thrown back. Hands were clutching parts of the anatomy I did not – had not – known exist.

Richard saw my reaction of horrified fascination and sniggered. ‘This one is the best.’ He pointed to a picture of a man mounting a woman in the way I had seen the bull do to a cow at the Parkers’ farm, until Nanny had pulled me away. She had responded to questions with tight-lipped silence.

‘What do you think?’ Richard asked, watching my face intently. ‘If you marry Ed, that is what he will do to you on your wedding night.’

I backed away, shaking my head violently, clutching my heaving stomach. No man was ever to do to me what I had seen in those disgusting pictures. But even then, part of me was acknowledging the truth of what was being shown to me. Forgotten images were remembered: Elsie the kitchen maid and Robert the under-gardener looking red-faced and untidy when I walked in on them in the empty stables, Edward being teased over Flora Parker until he blushed crimson and hurried from the room, Nanny hushing my questions about the bull.

Information was sliding greasily into place and locking together to make a truth.

‘No …’ I looked at Richard.

He grinned back, ‘Oh, yes. And then your stomach will grow and grow and one day a baby will come out. The chaps at school told me.’ He spoke conversationally and completely without malice.

My eyes filled with tears and I felt sandwiches and cake threatening to return.

‘I say, Hetty, old girl. I didn’t mean to upset you.’ He made a move towards me, concern on his face.

I turned and ran from the library, the scent of lavender polish sticking in my throat.

‘Wait Hetty! Hetty I’m sorry! I just thought it would be a wheeze.’

I found myself in the summer house, the old refuge. It was intensely cold and I could see my breath making clouds in the frigid air. I wrapped my arms around myself and began to rock to and fro.

What was the connection between what had been happening to me and those pictures? At some deep level the links were forcing themselves to be made; there had to be a connection. Was that what it meant to be a woman? If so, I wanted no more of this adulthood. I yearned to be a child. I yearned for my long-lost mother. Tears began to drip down my face and I hid it in my pinafore.

After a time, and when my tears had dried, I heard a sound outside. The sound of footsteps. I froze, willing them to go away.

‘Henrietta – Hetty – are you in there?’

It was Edward. Of all people, I could face him the least.

I stayed still, my face hidden in my skirts, like an animal gone to ground.

‘Hetty, there you are! Richard said you had been taken ill.’ A relieved-sounding Edward came into the summer house. ‘We’ve all been looking for you. Come back to the house, you’ll catch your death of cold out here.’ He sat down on the crumbling bench beside me. ‘Hetty, are you unwell?’

I remained silent, but my shoulders began to heave again. I felt a tentative hand on my arm and shrank away.

I heard Edward sigh. ‘Look, if you won’t come back into the house, shall I fetch the aunts, or your father? Only,’ he paused and then went miserably on, ‘Richard said something about a book? Some pictures? He said they frightened you? If it is what I think it is, I think it better the aunts don’t know.’