Day 20 - 2173 words

Effie charmed Mr and Mrs Letts, as Ernest had been sure she would. There were no obstacles placed between the young couple; in fact Effie’s parents seemed to throw the two of them together at every opportunity, and Effie’s Mama, a thin, sallow woman who collected trinket boxes, was a very indulgent chaperone. So much so, that Effie was permitted to attend parties and evening gatherings on her own, provided she was part of a mixed group.
After he had been courting Effie for ten weeks, Ernest, therefore, found himself on one side of yet another drawing room with Gabriel, Otway, Bertram and a couple of other young men, while on the other side Effie sat serenely, a queen in her court, surrounded by giggling young women whom Ernest had some difficulty telling apart, since they changed their dress and hairstyles so often to be as alike to the others as possible.
Gabriel had commandeered a bottle of champagne for himself, and was already half way down it. Ernest was still drinking a cup of tea. Gabriel was expounding on the beauty of women, and started to use Effie as an example. He was just out of her earshot, but Ernest knew he would only become louder.
‘Gabriel, be a little more discreet.’ Said Ernest, making an effort to smile. ‘Remember the young lady you are – complimenting, is walking out with me.’
‘And she’s very well suited to you. She’s a peach. Of course, she wouldn’t do for me  - not to marry…’
Ernest took a deep breath. The insult was clear enough, but he could hardly retaliate in polite company. Otway and Bertram digging each other in the ribs did not help his mood.
‘I will overlook that, Gabriel, because you are a friend, and you have drunk a little more than is decent. Again. But please turn your attention to another young lady.’
Otway raised a glass in mock salute, knocking Ernest’s tea cup to the floor. Everyone in the room turned to look at the men. ‘Will you ignore that because of friendship, or because doing the gentlemanly thing would mean you couldn’t bring your draper’s daughter to these swell affairs. You and she’d be stuck with fish and chips and the cheap seats.’
Ernest turned scarlet. He looked for support to Gabriel, but Gabriel was laughing as hard as the other men. Ernest strode across the soft carpet and stood in front of Effie, who was still sitting down, her eyes cast down, studying her gloves. He held out his hand to her. ‘Effie, my dear. I am sorry but we must leave now.’
‘No thank you, Ernest. I am quite happy to stay for a while. Lucy has room for me in her carriage at the end of the evening.’
Ernest was astonished.  He was aware of the young women giggling around them.
‘Effie – you must come with me now.’ He insisted. He wondered if she had not, after all, heard the scene across the room.
‘Ernest, dear’ began Effie, patiently. ‘I do not have to come anywhere with you, if I do not choose to do so. If you wish to leave, please do. I am perfectly content in the company of Gabriel, and our friends.’
Ernest dare not look across the room. He could hear male laughter, and he knew that if Gabriel was laughing now, Ernest would have to hit him. He could hear Otway, almost shouting.
‘Oh bravo, Effie. Spoken like a woman of the twentieth century indeed.’
Ernest made a stiff bow to Effie, and turned to face the men. He believed he was still in control of his emotions, but Gabriel knew him well enough to look alarmed. He was not laughing when Ernest faced him, at least. ‘She has it right, old fellow. You do not own a woman, these days.’
‘You can rent one, for a while.’ Leered Bertram.
Ernest punched Bertram on the chin, sending him crashing into the side table, cups spilling onto the floor. Otway stepped in to help, and Ernest took a wilder swing at him, which he sidestepped. Gabriel was left standing between his dazed lieutenants, calling after Ernest ineffectually. Ernest  ignored all the cries of alarm from the whole house and simply left the room, snatching his coat and hat from the hall stand, and going so fast down the steps that his dress shoes slipped on the polished tiles. He walked at the same speed, randomly crossing the City, and when he finally slowed up he found that he had gravitated into the East End, the streets becoming familiar, despite some redevelopment. The worst of the slums had been cleared, but the faces were the same old types, even if the brickwork was spruced up.
 The shops were closed, but the public houses were open, and the warmth and bursts of music that spilled out onto the pavement seemed much more inviting to Ernest than any fancy drawing room. Perhaps, he thought, this was where he belonged after all. Perhaps his nights with Gabriel were an aberration, and he would have more happiness here – as Otway had said, with fish and chips and a night at the music hall. But what about Effie, Ernest wondered as he mooched along, scuffing the shine off his shoes. Where did she fit in? She was another one raised above her station, with affectations of a certain type of life. Ernest wondered if he could expect any more such scenes from her in future. He had not anticipated this from his ideal woman. The shine began to come off Ernest’s vision of Effie, as certainly as the polish came off his shoes.
The fog rolled along the streets, settling in the doorways, forming shrouds over the drunks and tramps already curled up asleep. Now and then a tram pushed its way through the dense whiteness, like a ship out at sea pushing through the spray. Ernest smiled, recalling his childish terror of fog, that it might be concealing the killer known as Jack the Ripper. Now he was a grown man, and he could, if he chose, terrify the ladies scuttling home alone. Maybe that was what was needed to stop independent young women stepping out unaccompanied to libraries, concerts, lectures and fashionable parties. Maybe another killer roaming the streets unhindered would keep some of these modern madams at home, where they belonged.  Ernest had a sudden image of Effie, pinned down, screaming, her dress torn and… Ernest shook his head, ignoring the blood pounding in his ears and the bright pressure that he felt in his head.

Come, Ernest. Come to me. I am looking through your eyes tonight. I can sense how deeply hurt you’ve been, and here you are, like a fox slinking back to its lair. And, just like a hungry, hunted fox, you will circle your territory, looking for prey. In the kill, Ernest, you will find your true self. If you cannot see God in the disassembled, ticking mechanism of the body, perhaps you can glimpse him in a moment of ecstasy. But if you are done with God, at least for tonight – perhaps we can examine the nature of woman. I would like to do that again. It’s been so very long.

Ernest opened the door of the nearest pub and walked through the thick cloud of pipe smoke that blew out. He thought that he would be looked up and down, dressed as he was in his evening clothes, but this pub was near enough to the theatre to attract a mixed crowd, and there were some post-theatre revellers mixed in with the locals. Ernest drank one pint, and then another, and slowed down enough on his third to think more about women and their fickle nature. He thought of his Mother. Of course as a small boy he had never considered her as a woman; she was a force of nature called Mother, she was a being apart from the others who lived around her – the women who spent all day waging war on dirt, or who just stood, arms folded, against the buildings, like spiders waiting for a passing fly.  But his Mother was a woman like the rest. Like all the others. A woman whom men had looked at, considered, found either wanting or desirable. For the first time he wondered if she had been lonely, as well as scared. Would any man have taken her on, taken her home, married her, frightened and confused as she was. Or was her strength that she stayed away, alone, and kept herself from any further exploitation. For surely all she would have found was some temporary comfort as an artist’s muse and mistress, with her small son being regarded as an obstacle, maybe even a threat, by any suitor.
‘Women have to contend with so many threats.’ Said the man at the bar next to Ernest.
Ernest looked at him. He had not noticed this man come in, but he should have done. He was wearing a shiny coat and a good suit. He had a gentle voice that sounded familiar to Ernest, but he could not place it. Ernest wondered how this stranger seemed to know what he was thinking.
‘Many uneducated men think that women are weak, frail creatures in need of protection. Even now, in these modern times, they like to perceive women as helpless.’ The man leaned in close to Ernest. ‘But we are men of the world, Ernest. You and I -  we know how much strength it takes, how much purpose, how much control, to overcome a woman.’ The man raised his glass, and smiled. ‘I mean to overcome her opinion, to change her mind when she is set upon some scheme. I did not mean physically… but perhaps, the same qualities are necessary.’
‘I would never raise my hand against a woman.’
‘That you are so sure about your answer, reveals that you have already considered the question. Thought about doing so. Thought about the consequences. Which can, I agree, be offputting. There is often more noise than one thinks, and more physical…sensations, which cannot be ignored.’
Ernest lifted his hand from his glass. ‘Sir. Enough.’
The man lifted both hands in a gesture of apology and looked down at his glass.  Only then did Ernest register that the man knew his name.
‘Forgive me, sir. I have forgotten where we met first.’
‘We have never met, Ernest. Nor can we do so.’ The man smiled at his confusion. ‘But we can talk. We can converse. When you have need of my…expertise, I will be able to offer what advice I can. And when you are ready to look at the whole picture, instead of occupying your considerable intelligence looking from brushstroke to brushstroke, then I will be able to tell you what you already know. Goodnight, son.’ The man got up, wrapped his evening cape around him, and put on his top hat. Even as Ernest was rising unsteadily from his seat the man was gone, and when Ernest looked out through the nearest window he saw nothing in the street but fog.
Out in the street once more, he was bumped into by a young woman in a white dress. ‘Beg pardon sir’ she smiled. Ernest nodded to her, then looked at her more closely, and took her arm. ‘Allow me to walk you home.’
‘I was ‘oping you’d say that. I’ve got a room just round the corner. If you’re a good natured sort of young gentleman.’
‘I am. Tonight, I am exceedingly good natured. As long as you do exactly what I say.’
‘Oh it’s like that, is it. Well, I like a game now and then. So long as it is a game.’
‘A game. Yes. A game of control.’ Said Ernest.

Ernest, my dear boy. I am proud of you. You have only just turned eighteen and there you are, drinking, fighting, causing a scene in public and fornicating in the dingiest hovels of this benighted, crumbling city. I was younger than you, when I first allowed myself a moment, or two, of weakness with an accommodating female, but I remember the sensations to this day. Even here, with only cold stones for company, I can smell her soft flesh under me. She was a kitchen maid at the school. I have forgotten her name, the colour of her hair, or of her eyes. Such things are not important. They are all the same, except in the way they give and receive the pleasures of connection, except in the expression in their eyes. She knew me. She knew all that I could become. And she was scared. Oh she was so deliciously scared of me, a boy in short trousers, every time. Especially the last time. So many sharp knives in a large kitchen. And all the surfaces were easily cleaned, after I had finished my experiment. I wonder if they have found her, yet?