The Journal of Dora Damage by Belinda Starling

with a bright brass bell, on which I rang. It was quickly answered by a young man who enquired after my business.
    ‘I should like to talk to Mr Charles Diprose, please,’ I said sweetly.
    ‘On what matter?’ he asked, with a wobble of his head and a swagger not unlike mirth in his voice. Like Jack, he was a red-head,
     but his was that insipid washed-out orange colour one finds at the tips of a newly picked carrot, not the rich woody-coppery
     tones on Jack’s bony skull, and his curled lips and the freckles stippling his skin were of the same pallid hue as his hair.
    I was not prepared for interrogation at this stage. I had steeled myself for the actual encounter with Mr Diprose, and had
     not expected to fall before even offering my hand. I stuttered and stammered the words Damages – bookbinders – husband – business
     – Mr Diprose – at which the grinning assistant pulled back the bolts, delighting in my discomfort.
    ‘He is out, but he will return presently. You may wait.’ He ushered me in to the stuffy room, where two men were being served.
     I hesitated at the sight of them, but the assistant gestured to a chair in the corner on which I seated myself. The men raised
     their hats to me, exchanged a glance with each other, then returned to the books on the counter.
    ‘But these are . . .’ the man paused to look back at me, as he chose his words carefully, ‘ artistic anatomy books.’ I squinted and was able to make out the gold-tooling on the spines: John Rubens Smith’s A Key to the Art of Drawing the Human Figure , and Pieter Camper’s Works on the Connexion Between the Science of Anatomy and the Arts of Drawing, Painting, and Statuary . We had previously bound copies of both in the workshop when money was tight and expediency temporarily superior to principles,
     though of course Peter had never let me peruse them; I knew they were unseemly.
    ‘The Camper is a fine edition,’ the shop-keeper argued. ‘A reprint of the 1794 English translation from the Dutch.’
    ‘But I require medical anatomy.’
    ‘Ah, medical anatomy, of course. I have several copies of Quain’s, and a splendid edition of the Gray’s, quite the modern thing. Or if
     Aristotle and his chef-d’oeuvre would be more to your liking . . .’
    ‘Young man . . . Have you no sense of . . . I have never . . . ! Good day!’
    And thus the two men turned to leave, raising their hats to me again, as another gentleman appeared hurriedly from within
     the shop behind the brown curtain. He was a paunchy, round-shouldered man with a purple face and black beard. Both his skin
     and hair were shiny, and his silk hat greasy; even his sombre black frock coat seemed damp. I would have said he was trying
     to be a gentleman, and knew enough of them to have influence on him.
    ‘Who were they, and why did they leave?’ he said, in clipped, hushed tones as he removed his hat.
    ‘Proper ones,’ mouthed the assistant.
    Just then, the purple and black man caught sight of me. He half-turned to the assistant, while continuing to look at me, as
     if trying to ascertain my station and purpose there, and what response of his would be appropriate.
    ‘This is Mrs – Mrs – ah . . . Damson? Damsel?’ said the assistant.
    ‘Mrs Damage,’ I said.
    ‘Mrs Damage?’ the gentleman repeated, more warmly, but still with reservation. ‘Mrs Peter Damage?’ I nodded. ‘Mrs Damage,’
     he said again. ‘Charles Diprose.’ He took my hand, and kissed it. If I had been a lady, and wearing gloves, I would still
     have been able to feel through the kid that his hands were clammy. The kiss left a trail on my skin like a snail. He gestured
     to his assistant to bolt the door.
    ‘I have not had the pleasure of meeting your husband, but I know of his work, and his contribution to the unions. Il se porte bien ?’
    He must have assumed my delay in replying was due to my not understanding French, rather than my uncertainty as to how to
     answer, so he asked,