Caryl Phillips - The Lost Child

In the living room she leaned up against the window, where drops of rain were shivering to life and then transforming themselves into thin, hesitant lines as they descended the pane. Down below she saw a man crossing the new bridge over the dual carriageway, and then scuttling down the stairs on the far side by the brewery. It was him, Derek Evans. Maybe she would write to him at the Post and simply say thanks, and tell him that she’d had a good time. She already knew that calling him on the telephone would be too much for her. If somebody else picked up the phone, she’d only get flummoxed, and how was she to describe herself? Jesus, Monica, what have you done? She could see that up in the sky there were no clouds to obscure the thin pendant of moon and speckling of stars, and down on the ground no evidence of the late-afternoon storm, aside from the odd puddle that cars continued to splash through. Despite the light drizzle, the world seemed quiet, peaceful almost, and then she noticed that he’d left his empty pack of cigarettes on top of the television set, and a dog-eared business card and a ten-shilling note were tucked underneath it. She picked up the discarded box and moved it to one side. He’d left money for her, which meant that either he’d got the wrong idea about her or he really cared, but as she turned and watched him disappear down the street that ran parallel to the brewery, she didn’t know what to think.

The creaking of the door announces the late-morning arrival of her dear sister, who she knows will be bearing a discreetly lacquered tray upon which a bowl of broth will be carefully balanced. A full submission to nourishment will be demanded of her before she is left alone to linger through another feverish day. She opens her eyes and attempts to lift her head from the damp pillow, but the weight is too much. She unseals her lips and moistens them with the tip of her tongue, and then moves her mouth in an attempt to form words, but no words emerge. Through the slender window she can see the naked branches of the oak tree beating frantically in the keen morning wind. The funereal December light illuminates this macabre dance. Heavy limbs, like her own, but she never danced. I never danced. Not once, although Papa never forbade it. Five girls and not one of us a dancer. Branwell frequently danced in the streets of the village when befuddled with drink. The rascal son who danced, but not the girls.

She watches attentively as Charlotte sets down the tray on the chair next to the narrow bed. Her clothes make a tremendous noise. Silk on cotton. Cotton on silk. Once again her sister is occupying too much space in the room. Dear, dear Charlotte. Please, no more of this. But she must be considerate to her sister, for she understands that it was her own guilty preoccupation with the worlds of the Grange and the Heights that occasioned a distance to grow between them. Please, Charlotte. Forgive my selfishness. An arm begins gently to burrow beneath one shoulder and tunnel its way across her back. A free hand cradles her head, and in one unhurried motion her bones are levered up and forward. She can feel Charlotte calmly stuffing a dry pillow behind her, and then her sister releases her, and — lo and behold — she is balanced upright. Charlotte’s are affectionate brown eyes, although around their perimeter they are now decorated with the furrows of age. When her sister smiles, pages of the calendar turn. Poor Charlotte: her one true love released her, and no one was there to catch her as she fell.

Her sister places the tray in her lap and then waits, silently willing her to eat but unsure if the invalid will be able to manoeuvre the delicate spoon to her own lips. Dear Charlotte. How long ago was it? A year? Two years? Walking quietly into the Black Bull to rescue Branwell and overhearing her brother and his quarrelsome friends speaking uncharitably of “the plump one.” Her brother’s wolfish smile and mocking laughter continued even as his vulgar friends fell speechless. Poor gin-soaked Branwell, seemingly determined to ride at speed towards ruin, who later that night leaned heavily against her, merriment spilling unhinged from meaning, as she led him by the arm up a moonlit Church Lane and back in the direction of the Parsonage.

Charlotte guides the spoon into her sister’s mouth. At the foot of the bed the maid is unfolding an extra blanket to assist against the day’s raw chill. The busy woman works swiftly, aware that her presence in the room is an intrusion best kept to a minimum. The door is partially ajar, and as Charlotte redips the spoon into the broth, they both can hear Papa preparing tomorrow’s sermon in his study. She is her tall, gangling father’s child, unlike Charlotte, who takes after the mother whom neither sister can fully recall. The numbness of loss followed them out of childhood and pursued them into adulthood. Again Charlotte proffers the spoon, but she now turns away and looks at the wall. Anne will be in the kitchen either sewing or reading her Bible by the hearth, and waiting for her eldest sister to return and report on the condition of their poor Emily. And then perhaps later one of them will convey to Papa the news that there has been no restoration of health, but only after he has finished committing his sermon to memory. Only then may Papa be disturbed.

Again she turns her head and rejects the spoon and its watery contents. The maid removes the tray from her lap while Charlotte takes a lace napkin and dabs prudently at the corners of her mouth. A deft expression of caring. She can now see that the morning light is already fading and the afternoon is preparing to set in misty and cold. Beyond the swaying tree, beyond the church, are the wild moors that call to her to rise from this confinement and race purposefully into the December wind and observe the landscape in its winter colours. I must go. Let me go. But the blundering sound of the maid edging her way out of the room breaks the spell. She is now released from the moors and delivered back to a place where a shadow cavorts on the wall as the tree continues to sway.

Charlotte speaks soothingly, but with a tone of fearful imploration elegantly threading its way through her sentences. Her sister wishes to know if her constitution remains obstinately weak, or does she detect any renewal of strength? I am stricken and sinking fast. My hands tremble, and there is little feeling in my lower limbs. Would it help to make complaint and declare with resignation that I am permanently out of health? Charlotte persists. Perhaps she might welcome a visit from tenderhearted Anne? Surely only the most desperate would interpret the spectre of my pale, thin figure as being suggestive of a return to natural exuberance. Emily stares at her somewhat overdressed sister, who is now perched solicitously on the edge of the chair with a familiar gloom in her aspect. The plump one. No, that will not do, Branwell. Drunkenness is one vice, cruelty another. Her brother stopped abruptly by the tall wall, leant his head against the cold stone, and emptied his stomach down towards his boots. Please, Branwell. Papa keeps a respectable house. He stood straight and gracelessly wiped his mouth with the tail of his coat, and then moved off boldly as though resolved to prove that he was now able to walk without assistance. She followed, watchfully maintaining a dignified distance, enough to create the illusion of independence. However, she remained close enough that she might intervene with haste should her stumbling brother scuff his freshly stained boots against a protruding cobble and lose his footing.

Charlotte repeats the question. Anne? Graceful Anne, forever suffering from a troublesome cough or a malady beyond known remedies. Wise Anne. She has no memory of denying Anne access to her room. The full grip of the sickness has occasioned days and nights to swim away from her and be lost, but she would never agitate to keep dear Anne at a distance. Perhaps Charlotte has misinterpreted some half sentence mumbled in the depths of delirium and relayed this careless utterance below? She stares at Charlotte’s round, tired face and then closes her eyes and lets her brother’s name form on her lips and tumble out into the world. Her sister takes her hand and almost inaudibly reminds her that he has gone, but where she refuses to say. To Leeds or to Halifax perhaps? To London again? This unkind paucity of information is now Charlotte’s way, and a small surge of despondency begins to crest within her. Surely, after all these years, Charlotte cannot still be holding bitterness in her heart because she refused to return with her to the Continent. Or is it simpler than this? Perhaps the evidence of this emaciated object has frightened her sister and made a leaden weight of her tongue? Where is Anne? Is she basking in the warmth of a lively fire by the hearth? She feels Charlotte squeeze her hand with an unexpected urgency and then release it. And now her suddenly voiceless sister sits back in the plain wooden chair and anxiously knits her own hands together. Her sister seized her with some violence, and the perplexing memory of Charlotte’s impulsive gesture can still be felt as a warm imprint.