Awakening by Stevie Davies Page B

Avon for the invalid. The creatures lay on a slab, a mortuary company, their yellow eyes glazed. The fish cried out with Job: Why did you create me , O my Maker , to be the food of vermin? Their creaturely life spoke to Anna and harrowed her. All life is kin to all life. This would sound insane. ‘But Anna, the creatures were given to us for our use.’ And the smell. Even in her romping days, Anna Pentecost was never more than a light eater, a slight child. Too much to do, trees to climb, cartwheels waiting to be turned in the morning garden. ‘You’re a fairy,’ said Papa. ‘You eat the dew on the leaf. But I’m an elf, my lamb, a porridge-elf, so let me feed you this teaspoon of magic porridge made of oats soaked in rainbows.’ Yes, she opened her beak then and accepted the delicacy. And throve.
    Anna accepts a portion of fish, poached in milk, her sister hanging over her, staring at the fork as it travels to and from her mouth. Afterwards, seized with a violent headache, Anna suppresses the pain and agrees with Beatrice that Dr Quarles’ remedy has done her good after all. Yes, she was wrong to object to the quacks and to make such a fuss about being violated. Anna smiles at Beatrice none too pleasantly, a sardonic rictus which Beatrice apparently chooses to accept as the real thing.
    Anna manages to creep downstairs under her own steam and settles herself on the sofa. She considers her plan. It’s to take up her bed and walk. But not too soon, so as to avoid a trip to London with Beatrice, who’ll be meeting Christian Ritter at Regent’s Park College. He’s to lecture on slavery in America and about new horizons for the world ministry. The great Mr Spurgeon will attend.
    Yesterday a long letter arrived from Christian, which Beatrice has not shared with Anna. Beatrice’s colour is high and she spends a disproportionate amount of time trying on her best dresses and selecting hats for London.
    â€˜Oh I wish you could come with me, Annie. I dislike leaving you.’
    â€˜I’ll be perfectly comfortable. And getting stronger every day, you can see that. Mrs Elias and Mrs Montagu will keep me company.’
    â€˜I don’t like going without you, I don’t like it.’
    A little-girl look crosses the elder sister’s face. What self-respecting woman wouldn’t comprehend Beatrice’s apprehen-sion? Solitary in a railway coach, you’re prey for any rogue who chooses to insult you. Together the Pentecosts are a match for anyone.
    â€˜You’ll be well cared for,’ Anna reassures her. For what if Beatrice becomes so nervous that she cancels her trip? ‘I’ll write every day. Joss will take you to the station.’
    â€˜Yes, but it’s you I worry about.’
    â€˜Well, don’t.’
    â€˜I’ve been unkind to you, Annie. Dearest, I’m just – so sorry.’
    Anna stares. Her sister is rarely known to apologise; can only with difficulty concede that she may have been mistaken. A caress, a vase of anemones, a cake baked with cinnamon constitute her usual language of contrition. And, look, the penitent is already beginning to regret it. Beatrice has to be forgiven on her own terms.
    What she mustn’t know, for fear of reprisals, is that, no, Anna will never forgive her sister on any terms, ever. You’re a one-woman Inquisition, thinks Anna. If there’s an hysteric in the house, we know what her name is.
    That evening, when the precious books were filched, Anna watched a plume of smoke rise in the wilderness. Next day she had Joss push her there in the wheeled chair. She examined the blackened circle of grass and plucked a few charred scraps of paper from a broom bush. They are now between the pages of her journal, like pressed black flowers of mourning. In that hour Beatrice passed beyond Anna’s trust.
    She’d only skimmed the first page of Baines’s book. Well-written. A touch