Except the Dying

“No, thank you, Owen. This is sufficient.”

Suddenly she stopped what she was doing and picked up one of the framed photographs from the mantel.

“Owen, look. How could I not have noticed before?”

She brought the photograph over to the sofa. “Can you see the resemblance?”

Puzzled, he studied the picture and shook his head. “Don’t know what you’re getting at, Mother.”

“Theresa and Marianne. You must see it.”

He shrugged. “Sorry, dear, I don’t.”

“It’s not so much a resemblance of features as expression. See, the openness about the eyes. The mouth. Marianne always looked as if she were about to burst into laughter. Theresa had that look sometimes.”

“If you say so. ’Fraid I can’t quite see it myself.”

Donalda replaced the picture on the mantel. “Marianne was not much older than Theresa. Far too young to die, both of them.”

She hadn’t really looked at the picture for a long time, and she saw it now with fresh eyes. The photograph was a small carte de visite, more popular years ago than now. They had gone down to London, to the best studio in Belgravia. Her father was able to indulge in such things in those days. Both girls had worn their most fashionable dresses, shot silk taffeta with a high collar and ruched bodice, the new tight-fitting sleeves. They had only put their hair up that month, she remembered. Marianne had led the way as she always did, bossing her, determining what she would wear, even rubbing the merest hint of rouge on her cheeks.

Donalda touched the glass of the picture frame. A lock of dark hair was curled around the bottom of the photograph. Who would have known that before the summer was over, Marianne would be dead, the victim of a stupid accident? All their endless, earnest talks about dying an honourable old age, “full of pride at our noble deeds,” as Marianne had put it, had come to naught.

“What are you thinking, Mother?”

“That the dreams of youth so rarely materialize.”

“Dear me, that is gloomy.”

“I feel that way today.”

“That’s understandable. Ever since I can remember you’ve told me stories about yourself and your friend.” He hesitated. “Perhaps that’s why you’re so distressed now. About Therese. It’s sort of like losing her twice.”

Donalda glanced up at him. “I hadn’t thought of it quite like that.”

She sat down in the armchair opposite and stared into the fire, watching while the flames danced and jumped around the coal. And told her son the story again because she needed to.

The particular day was one of the glorious August afternoons that happen only in England. The blue sky was dotted with puffs of white cloud and the air was golden with sunlight. Marianne had wanted to go to the ramshackle hut that perched on the riverbank. They had played there since they were children and she had taken to calling it their summer house. “How utterly pretentious,” said Donalda scornfully. She didn’t like the spiders or the musty gloom inside. She wanted to sit in the shady gazebo and read together. However, as usual, Marianne had overridden her objections. “It will be cool in there. It’s an adventure, Addie. Don’t be a slug.” Finally, Donalda agreed on condition they play “Jane Eyre,” from their favourite book. They’d played this game before and Marianne always wanted to be the mad Mrs. Rochester. The first time, she cried and wailed so convincingly that Wilson, the gardener, had rushed down to the hut to see what was the matter. Donalda preferred the part of Jane but they always squabbled about her interpretation. “She is afraid, timid,” said Marianne. “You must wring your hands like so. Perhaps even faint. Then Mr. Rochester sweeps you up in his arms and carries you away.” Donalda demurred, “She is made of tougher mettle than that,” and insisted on addressing the crazed Bertha in a loud, commanding voice. “Stop that at once.” Marianne scolded her in exasperation. “No, Addie, not like that. You sound exactly like Miss Thompson. You are not speaking to a naughty pupil, you are facing a woman in the grip of violent insanity.”

But Donalda would only modify her tone slightly, and they played out the scene over and over, adding more and more embellishments until they fell to the ground sated with drama and imagination.

On this afternoon Marianne ran ahead and took up her position at the glassless window of the hut. Donalda followed more sedately along the towpath through the willow trees that bent to touch the gently moving water. Even on hot days the air inside the green tunnel was cool and damp, smelling of the river. She smiled when she saw her friend, dark hair dishevelled and tumbling down from its pins, face alight with fun, beckoning to her with a theatrical gesture. “Let me in,” she cried, “let me in.” Suddenly, she yelped and withdrew her hand. A rusty nail had torn the skin at the cuticle of her thumb. Donalda hurried over to examine the wound. There was a tiny blob of blood. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Not nearly as bad as my knee when I fell last week.” She donated her new linen handkerchief to bind the scratch. “I hope the bloodstain comes out.”