The Journal of Dora Damage (11 page)
‘You have struck me, Mrs Damage.’
I did not know how to answer such a strange remark. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’
‘You have quite struck me, madam, today.’ My thoughts danced with smiting Mr Diprose’s corpulence with a boot, or a book,
or even just my poor hands. I wanted to giggle, but I dared not. I think I smirked at him. ‘I asked for a simple representation
of God’s bounty.’
‘In tropical climes,’ I added, to be polite.
‘And your husband has not taken me at my word.’
‘Oh, hasn’t he, sir?
‘No, indeed he hasn’t. He has surpassed the brief. A more complex, and, dare I say it, feminine expression of God’s bounty
I have not seen. I was told your husband was a man of lines and angles, of form and function, whose bindings spoke of the
probity and order to be found within. He is a Parliament binder, is he not?’ I nodded. ‘I do not wish to embarrass you, but
I had heard your husband had fallen on hard times. I consider myself to be something of a philanthropist in the book industry.
I took pity on the unfortunate man, knowing that he must have a dear wife and a host of children to feed. It was compassion,
Mrs Damage, which led me to give you that Bible for your husband to bind. It was not an important commission. But he has made
it so.
Vous
m’avez frappé
, I will say it again, Mrs Damage, by presenting me with something so beautiful.’
I think I flushed, and for an instance was unaware enough of myself to clap my unseemly hands together.
‘That is not to say I am altogether pleased,’ he cautioned. ‘The inset piece makes it vulnerable; it will not wear well. But
then, one has to wonder how many Bibles this Bishop already has. Let us presume he will not be taking this one in his luggage
on his next trip to Oojabooja-ville. And, Mrs Damage?’
‘Yes?’
‘The work may be lavish, but I can furnish your husband with no more than the standard fee.’
I had expected no more, but I skipped home with the few coins jingling merrily in my purse, although through my excitement
I tried to hold in my head the sums that needed paying – to Skinner and Blades; to the grocer’s and the coalman; to Felix
Stephens and the other suppliers, and for food – and the fractions of each I could get away with paying this week to keep
everybody happy for a while, and how much would be left over to buy some scraps of leather and silk to work up some more notebooks
from the remaining Dutch paper. I knew I would always be able to sell them to Diprose, but I was also planning to make up
a particularly fine book and tout it around some of the other booksellers who hadn’t been overly prejudiced or directly affected
by Damage’s recent troubles. There were a few of Peter’s old clients, too, to whom I hoped to return with the news that Damage’s
was open for business, with the same management, but new staff.
But when there was a rap at the door of the workshop the following day – a particularly sharp, unfriendly knocking – my heart
jumped into my mouth like a frightened child and I was sure we had run out of time. I did not think of the sight that would
greet the person at the door, of a woman on her own in a bookbinder’s workshop, hard at work, but simply flew to the door
and opened it, hammer in hand, before whoever it was knocked it down and knocked us up for obstructing seizure of property.
At first I did not recognise him; his gloves were faded tan with dark brown stitching, and he was holding a large, flat briefcase
that partially covered his face, but the oily sheen on his black silk hat gave him away. He lowered the briefcase to reveal
his black beard, below which was a purple neck-scarf stained with grease.
‘Mr Diprose!’
‘
Bonjour, Madame
.’ He lifted his hat to me. ‘Forgive the intrusion. I have brought your husband two new manuscripts. I trust he will be pleased.’
‘You – he – oh!’
‘May I not come in?’
‘But certainly. How rude of me. Do, please.’
It would have been permissible if the paper had been newly folded and strung up in the sewing-frame. It would just about have
been acceptable if the sewn sections had been lying on the bench being curved. We would have got away with it had Jack been
here, had I not sent him out to deliver our trade card to a stationer’s in Holborn. But to someone who knew, like Mr Diprose,
it would have been apparent, from the hammer in my hand and the jar of freshly made paste on the bench, that I was doing men’s
work. Of course, I was not breaking the law for doing this, but I knew better than to publicise the fact.
I put the hammer down quickly, and was about to gabble a concocted story about where Peter and Jack had disappeared to, when
Peter entered in disarray from the house. His hair was ruffed up like a duck’s tail, and his face was crumpled like the sheets
he had clearly just left. The bandages binding his hands were grimy and frayed, and Diprose saw them straight away. Our visitor’s
mouth and eyes had widened into three silent ‘o’s; his cheeks percolated glistening beads of sweat, like dew.
‘Mr Diprose. May I introduce to you my husband and proprietor of Damage’s Bookbinders, Peter Damage.’
‘How do you do?’ Mr Diprose said, and put out his hand, before retracting it nervously, staring at Peter’s dressings.
‘Mr Diprose, what an honour. Pleased to meet you indeed,’ Peter said earnestly, as if to compensate for his lack of handshake.
‘Tell me,’ Diprose muttered, unable to take his eyes off Peter’s hands, ‘am I interrupting something?’
‘No, no,’ Peter said blithely. ‘We were just – nothing that can’t wait.’ He said something about the work coming through the
workshop, the state of the book market at the moment, the lamentable quality of modern paper. ‘To which I add my deep gratitude
at your gift of the fine Dutch paper. A delight, a positive delight, to bind. I trust the journals are selling well?’
‘You trust correctly,’ Diprose said slowly, preoccupied now with the globules of newly dried paste covering my hands like
hideous warts. I excused myself, seized a duster, and went into the kitchen to make some tea. I could hear them continue in
hushed, but urgent tones.
‘And you a union man too, Mr Damage. How long have you been in breach of them?’
‘There are no regulations yet, only proposals,’ Peter said meekly.
‘It is hypocrisy.’
‘It is expediency, Mr Diprose. My hands will be mended soon.’
I could not hear the next exchange, but then Mr Diprose must have walked further towards the kitchen, for his words, laced
with menace, were unmistakeable.
‘I could cause a lot of trouble for you, you know that.’
‘And will you?’ Peter replied. He threw those three words to Mr Diprose like a challenge; I was proud to see there was still
a man within him.
I wished I could have seen Diprose’s face in the pause that followed. He held all the power; possibly he was measuring whether
Peter was victim or worthy opponent. He took his time, as if the decision were momentous to him.
‘
Je suis un philanthrope
, Mr Damage. I heard a union man had fallen on hard times, and I ventured to help. I believed you to be rewarding me well,
but you have deceived me.’
‘Surely deceive is too harsh a . . .’
‘My most important client, Sir Jocelyn Knightley, has likewise been deceived. You have put me in an embarrassing situation.
I promoted you to him using the Bible, and he is now much taken with your work. He has since bought a commonplace book and
an album for his wife, with which she was delighted. She gave much praise to the embroidery, and the elegant but unassuming
way it harmonised with her salon. It was as if she had commissioned it. He already has plans to send you further work. And
now I must let him down. You have most embarrassed me.’
‘If he is that taken with my work, what matters a woman’s input? Dora is only my hands while mine do not function. She has
no head for the work.’
‘Sir Jocelyn is a scientist, Mr Damage.’ Mr Diprose sounded exasperated. ‘He needs a binder for his life’s works. His area
of speciality is ethnography. Primitive peoples, Mr Diprose. His mastery in the fields of phrenology, physiognomy, and, ah,
the baser urges of mankind, have led him to a far greater understanding of the savage nations than anyone has heretofore achieved.
He is feted in the Scientific Society. But, really, must I impress upon you the dire consequences of exposing literature of
that ilk to women?
La donna è mobile
. It will addle their brains and disturb their constitutions.’
‘I am in complete accord . . . I had not appreciated . . . My dear wife . . . But, Mr Diprose, there is no reason why we could
not continue with more Bibles, and journals, and the like?’ Peter had started to plead. It did not make pleasant listening.
‘Bland stuff?
Women’s
stuff? And when my hands are healed, I can satisfy the wishes of this eminent Lord Knightley. Please. Mr Diprose? I should
be most . . . most grateful.’
Diprose gave pause; the pleading no doubt swelled his philanthropic nature. I heard the click of his briefcase, and a rustle
of papers.
‘It troubles me to see the vine of talent and dedication withering in the stony soil of tribulation. I like to reach out to
those in desperate circumstances.’ I wondered to myself if Mr Diprose might be a bachelor, or a widower, for he would have
made a fine match with Mrs Eeles, neither of them being able to resist the whiff of desperation. ‘I have here a small prayer-book.
It is in the same type as the Bible, and again, first in Latin, then hand-scribed, but it is to be folded smaller: it is,
as you will see, vigesimo-quarto, instead of sextodecimo. It must form part of the same set.’ There was another rustle of
papers, and the sound of an envelope being ripped open, followed by a chinking of coins. ‘An advance for the commission,’
he said. ‘It was to be two manuscripts, unfortunately, but the second is of the sensitive nature I have previously described,
and I deem it inappropriate to leave with you.’ He counted out some coins, then poured the rest into his coat pocket.
‘And you – you won’t breathe a word of this to the union, will you?’ Peter begged, as Mr Diprose got up to leave.
‘So, you are asking me to keep your secret. Good day, Mr Damage. And
bon chance
.’
Peter tumbled into the kitchen, sucked of strength, and lay on the cold floorboards. I went into the workshop, counted the
coins, and ran to the pharmacy.
Old Boniface he loved good cheer,
And took his glass of Burton,
And when the nights grew sultry hot
He slept without a shirt on.
'Y
ou are most fortunate to be married to a modern man like myself,’ Peter announced between bouts of vomiting. The ipecacuanha
was taking effect, and his guts were retaliating. ‘Most members of the weaker sex are never permitted to be seen beyond the
confines of their houses. If they have to go to market, they go straight there, then return home directly. If they do not
have to go to market, the tradesmen come to their doors.’ But he was wrong. A woman’s life could never truly lack visibility,
no matter how low or high her rank: women who went to market were exhibits; women who never went to market were exhibited
at balls and parties instead. Still, I nodded politely, and held his hair back from his head as he suffered a particularly
violent retch that would have come from his very bowels, had they not recently been purged with calomel. ‘You are blessed
indeed to have a husband with my nature,’ he said again, spitting strings of bitter gastric juices from his mouth. I agreed
with him.
The emetic exhausted him quickly, and he took to his bed, with strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed. But I
was anxious without his guiding eyes. The prayer-book might have been smaller than the Bible, but the expanses of red morocco
that required regulation diaper tooling taunted me, despite my relative success with the Bible. I feared I would make a mistake
on the first row of pineapples, or the last, which could not feasibly take a vellum insert. Jack was still teasing me about
Moive Bibble, which did nothing for my confidence, and I knew Lucinda was suffering from my absence. She was more than capable
of amusing herself, of course, but a child needs her mother in ways far greater than a workshop needs its binder, a house
its cleaner, or even a husband his wife. Not to mention that the river ran in both directions: I was suffering from Lucinda’s
absence no less.
I fretted over the binding all day as I went about my chores; I did not trust myself to start work without Peter. But the
following day he refused to assist me again, so I determined to settle on a design that played to my strengths and the materials
available to me. It was to be a half-binding of red morocco, using the remaining soft yellow silk for the front and back,
embroidered in the same colours as the watercolour on the front of the Bible. Then I planned to paint a biblical scene on
a piece of Dutch paper, which I would use as a doublure. I was bending the brief so far that it was likely to snap, but I
had to trust that by remaining true to its spirit, the books would still qualify as ‘matching’.
However, I needed not have worried all those long days. When I finally returned to Holywell-street and presented it to Mr
Diprose, he looked over it with disinterest, his forefinger curled in the furrow between nose and upper lip, and his thumb
stroking his beard.
‘Fine, fine. Hmm.’ He spun his chair round away from his desk, and thought some more. ‘
Bon
. I think we should go now.’
‘Go, Mr Diprose? Where?’
‘I informed my client, Sir Jocelyn Knightley, about the unfortunate matter of your sex, and much to my horror, it does not
seem to perturb him in the slightest. On the contrary. He seems to take delight in the fact. He wishes to continue relations
with Damage’s. It goes entirely against my better judgement. Your timing is felicitous. We can see him this morning.’ He clipped
his vowels and spat his consonants; it was as if the vowels were dangerous, open spaces, which needed to be reined in and
ordered by fixed, predictable consonants, which dictated the confines of the vowel.
He pulled on his coat and hat and led me outside. We walked quickly to the Strand, where he raised his arm and hailed a hansom.
He let me ascend, then followed me in, although he was ungainly and creaked, as he would have found bending difficult. I dare
say we would have been quicker walking, at the pace the cab lumbered along in the slow-moving Westminster traffic. As we headed
westward, the horses and carriages thinned, but the pace of those on the pavements was slower: swells and high-bred ladies
strolled in the streets towards the daffodils of Green Park; dubious dandies and demi-reps laughed in the spring sunshine;
the perfume of fashion and the gleam of grooming abounded around us.
‘Tell me about Sir Jocelyn,’ I said to Mr Diprose.
‘Is one anxious that one will reveal oneself to be something of a
parvenue
in the face of one who is the
dernier cri
, the
ne plus ultra
, of the elegantly patrician world one is now entering?’ He chuckled at his facetiousness.
‘I have no pretensions even to being a
parvenue
, Mr Diprose. I was not aware that I had recently arrived somewhere of note.’
‘Oh but you have, my dear, now that you are in the employ of Sir Jocelyn Knightley.’
‘I thought we were working for you.’
‘I am little more than a hawker,’ he said with a wryness that implied that he considered himself nothing of the sort. ‘A proc
u
rer, if you will.’ He pouted his lips on the second syllable. ‘And I have proc
u
red you for Sir Jocelyn, against my better judgement, I hasten to add. You will continue to work for me and through me, but
he is our client, and it is him to whom we both report.’
‘You are unhappy with this arrangement?’
He sighed and shrugged his shoulders.
‘It remains to be seen. There will be plenty of commissions coming your way: rare books, curiosities, literary
arcana
. You are most fortunate. We shall do well.’ But his tone betrayed that he was not altogether delighted with this happy turn
of events. ‘We shall see.
Vigilate et orate
. We shall watch and pray.’
‘What shall we see?’
‘I wish I shared Sir Jocelyn’s confidence in his plan. You are, after all, a woman. Where there is trouble,
cherchez la
femme
. . .’
The hansom took us to the west side of Berkeley-square, and pulled up outside a grand white building. We had to ascend seven
broad steps, wider than my kitchen; two ball-shaped miniature trees in square planters stood sentry on either side of the
door. Diprose rang the bell, and immediately, a tall, grey-haired butler answered the door.
‘Good morning, Goodchild,’ Diprose said.
‘Good morning, Mr Diprose,’ Goodchild replied with the slight nod of the head which, I was to learn, he reserved for those
who were not of the upper set, but were nevertheless due certain recognition. His voice was low and soft; it was the tone
one would use in a reading room conferring on a book, not standing on a door-step in one of the finest squares of the metropolis.
‘May I introduce Mrs Peter Damage.’
‘How do you do, Mrs Damage. But Lady Knightley is not receiving today. Would you care to leave your card?’
‘No, Goodchild. Would you be so kind as to tell Sir Jocelyn that the bookbinder is here, and that we have the leisure to wait?’
Goodchild stepped aside to let us in. Behind where he had stood was a waist-high Negro boy, alarmingly life-like but blessedly
inert, holding a white wire birdcage up with one hand; on the other perched three exotic yellow birds. His loincloth drooped
precariously down towards his right knee, but his decency was preserved, as well it might have been, for there was no hitching
up to be had of bronze and glass. I wondered if Diprose had stared, like me, on their first encounter, or whether he had always
thrown his coat on him as he did now.
A piano was playing somewhere as we climbed the soft, carpeted stairs, and I presumed it was being played by the hands of
Lady Knightley. They would be smooth, milky hands, not like mine. We padded quietly behind Goodchild up to the top of the
stairs; there was a large panelled door directly in front of us, on which he knocked.
‘Come in,’ came the voice. Goodchild held the door open for us.
It was how I had pictured a gentlemen’s club: stale, dusty and smoky. A man stood up from a large burgundy-covered desk in
the far corner of the room, and strode towards us with handsome grace. He was tall and languid, like those elegant men who
danced quadrilles at Cremorne on the covers of my sheet-music. He had fine long fingers, and long feet in polished brown shoes.
He took my overworked hand in his, much to my shame, and despite myself I found myself looking up at him. A shock of honey-streaked
brown hair flopped over his forehead, and I imagined Lady Knightley’s delicate fingers sweeping it back over his head. His
eyes were a lustrous brown, like a bear’s, and exuded a sense of fiery righteousness. In flagrant defiance of fashion, his
bronzed countenance boasted close aquaintance with the sun, and his face, I was relieved to see, was a kind one. But there
I was, looking too long; I dropped my gaze.
‘Mrs Damage,’ he said, kissing my hand. His voice was languid too; it oozed downwards and filled the room, even though it
wasn’t loud. It was deep and liquid, and I found it soothing, like liquorice, if a bit sickly. I pulled my hand back from
him, for I was losing myself.
I searched for Mr Diprose for help, but he had settled himself in a worn leather armchair with a glass of whisky in his hand.
There was another chair facing him, on the other side of the fire, and in between was an exotic, low leather couch draped
in a fine red Persian rug and embroidered cushions. I wondered if I was meant to sit there. But no one asked me to sit down.
Still I kept searching, for what I did not know. Sir Jocelyn moved to my side, bent his knees so that his head was at the
same level as mine, and followed my gaze, as if he wanted to see what I was seeing.
The room was brown, very brown. The furniture was all rich mahogany, dark oak and chocolate leather, with wine-coloured brocades;
the walls were the colour of tea. But despite this gloom, there were glimmers of wonders, and I could not help my eyes from
flitting from this to that with alarming promiscuity.
I was afraid of what I saw, and it was fear, more than anything, that rooted me to the spot. For the animals that seemed so
elegantly unusual in Lucinda’s picture books, or at a distance in the circus, were terrifying to me in proximity. Their skins,
heads and tusks leered out or up at me from the walls and floors, and even though I knew they were dead, it was as if they
might suddenly take to breathing again once they sensed my presence and smelt my fear, and would devour me on the spot.
In between the heads hung the paraphernalia of the hunter and adventurer: plenty of instruments – sextants, I imagined, and
telescopes, compasses, microscopes and all sorts of meters – and between their dials and the heads on the walls hung a variety
of firearms, some tribal spears, beaded headdresses, and shields.
I was on safer ground when my gaze fell on the stretch of bookcases filled with endless volumes, beautifully bound in finely
lettered, gold-tooled leather of all colours; the wall behind his large leather-topped desk held several glass-fronted cabinets,
some filled with books, others with medical implements or exploration equipment. I peered over my shoulder at the bookcase
closer to hand, where several volumes by Richard Burton were grouped together:
First Footsteps in East
Africa
,
Personal Narrative of a Pilgrimage to El-Medinah and
Meccah
,
Complete System of Bayonet Exercise
. Next to them was Livingstone’s
Missionary Travels
. So Knightley did not catalogue alphabetically. Maybe this was his ‘Africa’ section.
And indeed, next were the anatomy books, which fairly made my pulse race, so fine a collection had he. Peter would have swooned
to see such masterpieces sharing the same shelf. There were two books of Galen: one was a crisp, modern
Oeuvres Anatomiques
, the other an ancient, crumbling
De
anatomicis
. There was Bourgery’s great, four-part
Atlas of
Anatomy
, Cheselden’s
The Anatomy of the Human Body
, Quain’s and Gray’s. But the most precious, esteemed book in the whole collection I knew to be the large black and gold folio,
entitled
De humani corporis fabrica libri septum
, by Andreas Vesalius, the founder of the science of anatomy. On the Fabric of the Human Body.
‘You have an eye for the Vesalius, madam?’ Sir Jocelyn said.
‘Yes, sir,’ I answered. ‘I have not seen one before. Actually, I have not seen any anatomies,’ I hastened to add, ‘but I have
heard of the most famous.’
‘And deservedly so. The man was brave enough to risk imprisonment by stealing a corpse from the gallows itself, in order to
dispute Galen, and prove that Barbary apes are not anatomical equals to humans.’
I looked aslant at him, for I was not sure how he was expecting me to react; it was not usual practice for intelligent men
to talk to women such as me in such a way. And it was then that I spied the most disturbing item in the room, out of that
cursed female corner of my eye. It fascinated and repulsed me, and I could not work out what I was looking at, and eventually
I found myself looking at it head-on. I felt Sir Jocelyn leave my side, and creep over towards Diprose, but still I could
not change the direction of my gaze. It was like a grotesque sculpture of a human torso, like the marble classical sculptures
of old, with truncated arms and legs (which, incidentally, I never knew was deliberate or not; whether the sculptors had deliberately
chosen to focus on the torso, or if the head, arms and legs had been knocked off over the centuries). But this one was different.
The surface had been painted to resemble flesh, but in places the meat was missing. It had one beautiful, perfect breast,
with a shockingly real nipple, but where the other one should have been was an orange, pitted cavity. Every separate hair
on my own flesh stirred in horror, as I realised that what I was beholding permitted a vision of the interior of the body.