Chapter Text
1936
That night, I dreamt I went to Manderley. Not the Manderley of today, with its field of azaleas, and its wide, sloping lawn, and its clear paths through the woods to the sea; in the dream I went to Manderley again as it was on that long ago summer afternoon. It seemed to me I stood in the sailing cove by the woods, looking now down at the beach empty of cottages or dinghies, now into the dark and tangled trees. I wore my schoolgirl’s frock and my hair was long and messy in the wind, and I was hesitant to trespass though I wanted to know what was through the woods, or perhaps, what was in the woods, what dark mysteries awaited. Then Helen was beside me, also a girl, lovely and fresh-faced, holding her hat and laughing, and she took my hand and we ducked beneath a branch together.
Now the woods are kept in check, somewhat, allowing at least for easy transgress from house to shore. But in those days there was only one gardener and he mostly tended the roses and other flowers near the house — as I learned later — and the woods were left to their own devices. In my dream, they were so thick we could not walk but had to crawl, down among the soft rotting leaves and moss and crawling insects. Helen found a caterpillar and we watched it move so slowly despite all those legs. In my dream, we never made it to the house at all, simply lay down when the branches became too tangled, like sleeping beauty in her wall of thorns. Helen lay on her back and I put my head on her chest and listened to the gallop of her heart, and kissed her pale throat and the above us, birds sang in the dark.
In reality, we did find the house that day. I emerged first, almost accidentally, from the trees onto the untended lawn, and gasped and pushed her back behind me as if to protect her. “What is it?” she asked breathlessly, going up on tip toes to look over my shoulder. “Oh, what a lovely house.”
It was lovely, and a little sad looking. The house was covered with ivy — gone now — and no one seemed to move inside or out. But it had perfect bones, simple and elegant. “That will be my house one day,” I said, utterly confident. “And these will be my woods. Our woods.”
Helen laughed, but I didn’t let her tell me that I was teasing or wrong. I pulled her back into the dark and pressed her trembling body against a tree and kissed her there, a promise. Her lips were soft, her mouth tasted of the orange squash we’d had for lunch. We’d never kissed before, on the lips. “Oh,” she said softly when I pulled back. One of her hands clutched mine tightly, as if she was frightened, but the other smoothed my hair, tucked it behind my ear, trembling touched my ear and my cheek.
“Our woods,” I said again, “I promise.” And then I kissed her again, and again, until she gasped and arched her small breasts into mine and I knew her hand was clutching at me not for fear but for some other reason altogether.
When I woke it was to the warmth of another body beside me and for a moment I hoped it was Helen after all but then I breathed in and knew it was Jack. I was in my London flat, and Jack was naked and smelled of whiskey and cigars and sweat, and I remembered him taking me out dancing the night before, and what a bore it had been, and how I’d suggested coming back to my flat because at least it would be less boring to strip him down to his bare, tanned skin and slap him about a bit. But now, in the pale winter morning light, with Helen’s scent still in my mind from the dream, Helen’s old, teenaged scent, and now the memory of orange squash — well now I did not want Jack here at all. Now Jack was an unwelcome distraction rather than a welcome one. I stared for a moment at his arm, furred and going to fat and felt almost a physical pain at the sight, and then I shoved it, and him, and climbed out of bed shouting at him to get out.
“What the hell?” He came awake with a shout too, and I laughed at what the neighbors must think of us, and threw his clothes at his head.
“Out, out, out,” I said, laughing but vicious too, knowing how his head must throb and his muscles ache from my punishment of the night before. “Before I take a horsewhip to you, as you know I will.”
He did know too, I’d done it often enough.
He was out of bed in a moment, moving fast enough that I decided I could ignore him. I threw on my dressing gown and ran a brush through my hair, trying to remember Helen’s scent but it was gone. Perhaps I could see her today. If I rang her and tried the bridge gambit, maybe she could slip away, come down to the cottage tonight, I could drive straight back to Manderley after that blasted appointment.
Jack came over, tried to put his hands about my waist — or inside my dressing gown more likely — and I threatened him with the hairbrush. “You’re such a bitch in the mornings,” he remarked, reaching around me instead for a matchbook and lighting a cigarette.
“I’m a bitch to anybody who lingers unwanted in my flat.” I accepted the cigarette anyway as he lit another. I thought about stubbing it out on his arm. That would send him running quick enough.
Half-dressed (trousers, unbuttoned shirt), Jack was quite good-looking despite his red eyes. I looked him up and down as I inhaled but felt nothing but that same pain, the usual, nagging thing. He still was mostly lean and muscles though he’d be going to fat soon enough; enough hair to seem manly but not too much to cover up his nipples or make him appear an ape. His hair was a mess, hanging down into his eyes, and he pushed it back as he stared right back at me. I knew what he saw, what he’d always seen: a pale, slender, dark-haired, dark-eyed goddess of death.
“I suppose I’d better go then,” he said finally, when it became clear I wasn’t going to budge towards him.
I didn’t even bother replying, since I’d made my position so abundantly clear, simply turned away from him and went to the window. It was, unsurprisingly, a gray morning. The Thames was dull and dirty, the city beyond not terribly different. I opened the casement to let the air in, not particularly fresh but better than the stale sex smell of the flat, and stood there looking out until Jack let himself out with a sharp click of the door. I dropped the remains of my cigarette out the window and went to the telephone to ring Helen. Even though I’d just woken they must be well done with breakfast, it was a perfectly reasonable time to call someone in the country. If she left after lunch, and I left right away, we could meet at Manderley by tea.
But I couldn’t leave right away, I remembered, even as I picked up the receiver. I dropped it again, cursing. That damned appointment. Perhaps I could cancel? But even as I thought it the pain seemed to surge and I dropped to my vanity stool. I had better go, hadn’t I? Better to know than not to know. I had always believed in facing my enemies straight on. Helen would have to wait until tomorrow after all, unless she could come to London… I glanced around the flat, strewn with clothing and lipstick-stained glasses and cigarette butts and objects of mild torture. No, not here. The cottage was so much better, for Helen. Well I could call her anyway, make plans for the next day. But no, the next day was Thursday and the first weekend guests were arriving. There wouldn’t be any night at the cottage alone with Helen, at least not until Monday. Bloody hell. There was a martini glass on the vanity that shattered very satisfactorily when I threw it at the wall. It did not change the central fact that I was not sure I could make it until Monday without seeing her. I felt black all the way through, monstrous. I would not be able to smile at my guests and see to their comfort and touch Max’s arm like a goddamn wife. I would not be able to do any of it.
I lit another cigarette, my hands almost shaking, and picked up the telephone. If it came to a disastrous house party or a single, unwelcome guest, surely Max would not begrudge me? He could have everything he wanted if I had Helen. “Why don’t you and Patrick come down for the weekend?” I heard myself say, ten minutes later. “We would so love to have you.”