Day 17 - 1792 words

He has gone so very far from me, that the scent is nearly cold. He keeps me far away with his prayers and his god fearing little life. But still, in the dream world, in the spider webs of visions and the dripping darkness, still he smells of his Mother.  If he imagines that never speaking of me will make it all fade away, he is terribly, dangerously wrong. But his dreams – they have more terror in them than I can cause him. I do not join him in the endless repetition of climbing up one dank, dripping slope of mud after another, never reaching the top. There is too much horror there, for it is not his alone. There are endless thousands scrabbling in desperation, up walls shored up with piled corpses, rotten and rat infested. Why does he come here? Why are they all here? And what is that endless, terrible noise? Like a thousand cannon fired at once, in perfect unison, over the panicked cries of horses. Somewhere in the distance, there is a deep rumbling noise as some dreadnought machine grinds men into earth. How many times can you dream this, without going insane? Soon you will be longing to look through other eyes, as I do. 

On the day of his eighteenth birthday, Ernest woke with the remnants of a dream still clinging to his conscious thoughts. He pushed aside the horrors of that dark pit where he was dragged, unwillingly, often in his dreams. Because this time it had been different. Last night there was a figure – a woman – no, a young woman. She reached down and pulled him out as effortlessly as if he had been a lost doll. She was wearing white, and her long fair hair was pinned up carefully. She had a blue satin sash around her dress, and she wore no gloves. Ernest felt that in the dream he had known her for some time. She was not a young representation of his Mother, and she was nobody that he had known in his waking life. He hoped to dream of her again, in some setting less desperate. Ernest had been reading his way through books on the meaning of dreams in ancient religion, and on their use as a means of telling the future. He had also tried some techniques that were supposed to allow him to influence the subjects of his dreams. He was a little ashamed about these, as he could not help feeling the idea was too close to some kind of magic or pagan practice, but he argued that the nightmares were not helping his health. But everything from looking at pictures of kittens before he went to bed, to mentally walking around a garden he designed in his head just seemed to be distorted by the horrific landscape of his usual dreams. The garden had been torn apart by some kind of explosion, and the kittens had drowned in a crater full of filthy, oily water. So Ernest decided to just push the dreams aside in daylight, and not to dwell on any of their content. But this young woman seemed to have come from somewhere else entirely, and he was happy to continue to think about her.

In the evening Ernest was admitted to the Kerford’s London residence, and found himself fussed over a great deal by the household all wishing him a happy birthday. Lady Kerford told him how fine he looked in his evening dress, and the Major presented him with a pair of enamelled cufflinks. Ernest found that he was blushing like a small boy once again, a condition that Gabriel noticed and made fun of, even as he was propelling Ernest into the drawing room to meet the other guests. The room was full of smart young men, fashionably dressed and lounging about on the furniture. They were trying to impress the young ladies present; girls who would choose to be labelled as liberated, but whom Mrs Letts would describe as ‘fast.’ They looked Ernest up and down and then turned away, leaving him stood awkwardly by the fireplace, clutching a glass of champagne which he did not dare to sip in case he spluttered.  Gabriel was busy moving from group to group, accepting birthday wishes, presents and drinks with his usual charm. Ernest was soon wondering if he could endure the entire evening and be ignored all the way through dinner, or if he could possibly excuse himself with a headache without causing a fuss.  He looked out of the window to see if the rain had held off, and he could save some money and walk home, when he caught a glimpse of something white – someone moving through the dark garden room.  As the figure drew nearer to a lamp Ernest saw it was a young woman in a white dress, with a blue satin sash. He made his way to her, as a moth to a lamp.
At Ernest’s hesitant ‘Good evening, Miss.’ She turned round, with an expression almost of alarm. But then she smiled at him and said ‘Good Evening, Sir.’
Ernest introduced himself. She did likewise, saying that he was to call her Effie, as all her friends did. She gave a little giggle at this, and Ernest had the delightful feeling that she was trying to appear ‘fast’ while not knowing exactly how to be so.
‘I’ve seen you in a dream.’ Said Ernest, without thinking.
Effie drew back a little. ‘Well. That’s a bit fresh.’ she told him.
Ernest liked her primness. ‘I suppose it sounds that way, but it was a very pure dream. You were an angel, pulling me up from a dark place.’
Effie blushed. ‘Oh you artistic boys. You’re all the same, Gabriel’s friends. Do you know young Otway Benson asked me to model for him – said I’d be the Virgin Mary, no less.
Ernest swallowed. ‘I wouldn’t do that, if I were you. I’m not an artist at all, but I’ve known some. They can be a little – free.’
Effie sniffed. ‘That’s what Ma – I mean Mama – said an all.’
‘Always listen to your Mother’ said Ernest, seriously. ‘She will never lead you astray.’
‘She’d like you, I think.’ Said Effie, taking a step closer.
Ernest wished he could remember every word that she said, and keep fast to every second that they spent together, because they were sure to be separated by the obligations of company. Then he had a thought, and excused himself for a moment to find Gabriel.
Gabriel held out another champagne flute to Ernest, who took it and then put it down somewhere behind him. ‘Gabriel – about the seating plan for dinner.’
‘Nothing to do with me old chap. Mama’s domain. Why?’ Gabriel leaned in ‘Which lovely girly requires your undivided attention all night?’
Ernest glared at him ‘I’ve been talking to Effie Bradshaw. She’s here unaccompanied, as am I, and I thought…’
Gabriel laughed. ‘Mater’s quicker to the draw than you, old friend. She’s put you and Effie as close as two peas in a pod.’ Gabriel put a loose arm around Ernest’s shoulders. ‘I would woo the lovely Effie as quick as a costermonger wins his sweetheart – Otway and Bertram have a got a corker of a bet going as to who’s going to bed her first.’
Ernest felt a flush of rage run through him, and if either Otway or Bertram had been in front of him, rather than Gabriel, he was sure he would have knocked them to the floor.
‘She’s not that sort of girl. She’s not an artist’s muse or an actress or – or any of that type. She’s lovely.’
‘Hoh there! Steady on now.’ Said Gabriel, fussing Ernest’s hair. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve proposed already?’
Ernest sat down, the rage suddenly transformed into despair. ‘No. Of course not. How could I ever think of it? What can I offer a girl like Effie?’
‘Apart from your kind, sweet nature and steady job with good prospects, you mean?’
‘But my family. Or rather, the lack of it. Girls like to know the background to a man, to meet his Mother, all that.’
‘Ernest, Ernest. Have all those books taught you nothing? Go and read some more of those breathless romances by lady novelists. They all say, and it must be true, that  if your girl loves you, you will be all she needs.’ Gabriel looked solemnly at his friend after this homily, then smiled and dug him in the ribs ‘Besides don’t let the manners and the warpaint fool you – Effie is a draper’s daughter with a few months at a finishing school in the Alps. So you’re not so very far apart.’

But by the end of dinner, Ernest had put Effie on a pedestal of devotion that was so high he had transformed her into an angel walking the unclean earth.  He saw Effie into the hansom cab, and then knew that the last thing he could do was sleep. Suddenly, at the evening’s close, Ernest felt in the right frame of mind to enjoy a party. Gabriel linked arms with him, and they walked along the empty pavement, some of the other men following close behind.  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Ernest.
‘Have you heard the expression ‘the night is young.’ ‘ said Gabriel ‘Well, we are going where the night goes to become very much older.’
After only a few minutes of meandering  along the edges of the Bloomsbury squares, Gabriel stopped in front of a large house set back from what must be, thought Ernest, Tottenham Court Road. ‘This doesn’t look like a public house.’ He said, trying to pull his friend away.
‘Indeed it isn’t. It’s much more select establishment than that.’ Said Gabriel, as Otway rang the bell.
The door was opened by a woman in a bright yellow dress with black gloves and a black feather boa. ‘Gabriel my own little angel! Happy Birthday sweetheart.’ She gushed.
Ernest hung back to allow the rest of the men into the house, not sure that he wanted to follow, but the woman noticed his reticence and held out her hand. ‘Come on sweetie we don’t bite. Not unless you wants us to.’ She winked at him.