II.

Mrs. Evans proves to be altogether true to her word. Not only was I fitted for five new suits in varying shades of green and gray "to bring out the color of your eyes as Madam specified," but I am also given a large sum of money in order to begin paying off my mother's numerous medical debts. Never before have I clutched such a vulgar amount of paper money, let alone seen a similar sum out in the open. I'll have to accustom myself to this sort of thing if I wish to continue onward in the hope of a new lifestyle. The look and feel of money must not shock me so in subsequent instances.

I look at my reflection for the first time that day by way of a floor length mirror that had been my grandmother's as the tailor pins the pants leg in various locations, tut-tutting to himself that there is no use to it and it simply must be lengthened for me. I slick the dark curls of my hair back into place, watching my lips form a smile, though it lasts for less than a second. There is already a new look to me, I decide. My face is still pale— will always be — though far from squalid unlike most members of my class. I have not been as impoverished as they and can be grateful for it in moments like this… I will have to shave again before seeing Mrs. Evans… she would not appreciate any hint of stubble, I daresay. She would think me uncivilized.

Satisfied with his handiwork thus far, the tailor dismisses himself, promising to deliver the final set of clothes within two days time, as per Mrs. Evans' specifications. I thank him, showing him the way to the door. He bows his head to me before exiting the humble flat, a blatant display of patronization. He is very much like the rest of his class—men and women who cater to those even wealthier than they, and choose to put on such a striking amount of airs. They are repugnant bottom feeders, the lot of them, it would seem. Well, I shan't think of the matter any further. I shall play their games and echo their pseudo smiles. I can stomach it if I must.

I shut the door carefully, watching the tailor disappear around the corner of the road. In a quarter hour or less, he will have returned home—surely—to dote upon some fat pompous wife and squalling brats. I wouldn't put it past him to make me out to be some sort of huge practical joke—perhaps he wouldn't even be too far off in labeling me as such. Those sorts would make such assessments.

And perhaps he—the tailor—and his idiot wife will afford a minute or two, laughing at the mere concept of my mother locked away in her bedroom, away from any prying eyes. I picture the scene, growing tenser; the ebb and flow of malicious laughter, perhaps a spot or two of whiskey as they continue, her cheeks growing flushed and pink as she continues to consume liquor: "You didn't even sneak a look into the room?" she'll ask, "Surely, the thing should be institutionalized… at least just for her sake. They say the boy is a genius, but addled by caring for her. With a mother like that, he could turn vicious. Wouldn't you agree?"

I close my eyes in frustration, my hands balling up into fists at my side. Let them talk, I decide at length, they'll say whatever they please in life… why should it be any of my concern? This is reason at its barest elements. There is a bit of wind coming in from somewhere that feels almost repugnant upon the skin. That simply will not do, as it gets on my nerves ever much so. Perturbed, I shut the only window in the flat that overlooks the sordid streets of London. They are all I know thus far in my young life, and I cannot help but despise the sight of them, as I always have. It is a given that I should hate them to the core; they embody nothing but desolation and even more painful misgivings.

Church bells sound from the near distance; my head throbs at the sound of them.

The following Friday, a private nurse arrives at the small four-room flat I have share with my mother for the past ten years ever since our father had gambled our house away when I'd been a small lad. Mother lost the child she had been carrying shortly thereafter… it had been a most peculiar blessing. Had she raised a second child, we would have surely starved to death.

I eye the woman steadily before ushering her into the flat; she is slightly-built with an angular face and course blonde hair carefully tucked away under a plain linen cap. When she speaks, it is in a very brusque tone; a voice that is void of anything that could remotely resemble emotion. She is the detached sort.

She takes a moment to introduce herself as one Miss Pauline Ashley, before requesting to be shown into my mother's bedroom. I am slightly bemused when she makes a show of handing over a small note, written in Mrs. Evans' hand, which instructs me to visit her next week, following the Sunday service. The note also inquires as to whether or not I have quit my job at the printing press. Once Miss Pauline Ashley has been ushered into my mother's bedroom, I hastily scrawl a reply to Mrs. Evans' letter and tuck it gently into my shirt pocket, as a reminder to drop it off the next time I pass by her place of residence.

I gather from the muffled hum of Miss Ashley's voice through the door that she sees it fit to make an introduction of herself to the bedridden mistress of the home, my mother. She does not adapt a more sensitive tone of voice when within the company of patients. She explains the entirety of the situation—that Mrs. Evans had hired her out of the hospital in order to get Mrs. Evans good and strong again. This last bit is a great stretch… it's not as if my mother retains the ability to wake one day, miraculously healed. Miss Ashley finishes, promising that they'll get to be very good friends in time. I could almost laugh at the irony of it, being that my mother has not made any effort at recognizing or responding to human language for over six months. She's that keen on ceasing to live altogether, and yet her body manages to excel in this fragment— this ruse— of existence. She lays there, her eyes fluttering open every now and then as she gazes upwards into the cracks of the ghastly ceiling. I have loved my mother more than anything else in the entire world, and yet I have grown to utterly begrudge her continual presence in my life. I lament the myriad of her limitations, all the while harboring the furtive desire to see her expire peacefully; only then could I begin to amend for her unremitting faults, and truly begin to live. I despise her stubbornness; the manner in which she has somehow cut herself off form the mortal world, despite maintaining her hold over it, over me. All of it is oxymoronic.

Illness has poisoned her brain. At one point, I had considered sending her away to Bedlam and never giving her welfare a second thought. It seemed the only option at the time as the medical bills and tuition fees began to pile up before me at an accelerating, nauseating pace. I doubt she would have known any better being confined to Bedlam as opposed to the flat, but I simply was not up to the task of signing the necessary papers. I envisioned the scene; my hand trembling as I gripped the quill, my brow damp with perspiration. It simply would not do. Furthermore, the place carried a certain disreputable air to it… the horror stories one heard about the patients and overcrowded rooms. They were treated like animals, from what I had gathered thitherto. Nonetheless, I'd have done so, had my compassion towards her not reared its unsightly head. Even as a youth, she had instilled within me ambition, had brought about my desperation to see myself thrive in the world— to one day undermine society by means of merit and merit alone.

Without her sickly presence in my life, I would have never given the pursuit of a Cambridge education a thought, let alone made it reality for myself. I'd have been content to settle into one of the "great" factories of London— one of those most ghastly of eyesores constantly churning dark smoke into the empty skies— feats of engineering that had forever changed the face of England; whether or not for the better was an entirely new (and presently unanswerable) question.

I shouldn't concern myself with any of it now. Nearing my eighteenth year, I would become the repellent Mrs. Evans' ward as a means to protect my own future, daring to forget any possible repercussions of her involvement in the affairs of some impoverished common bastardly youth. It was probable that once the news caught on, other members of her class would absolutely eulogize her kindness towards me… perhaps that was one of the raisons d'êtres of her curiosity with me. I recalled her words; there was something expected of me to return the favor, but she had been so very vague. I bit my bottom lip in attentiveness… I would not dwell on it. When she decided to inform me of the specifications, I would be ready for them. I would have to do whatever was asked of me without question… after all, I owed her the world.

Now, I could allow myself to dream of grander things for myself again— of studying abroad; of Germany, France and Russia. Mrs. Evans would surely arrange for the nurse to take up with Mother full-time in lieu of my absences. I would see all of Europe within five years henceforth, and no one would be able to put a stop to me from there. And, perhaps, Mother would slip away from life before then if we could be so lucky. Watching her cling on to her half-life was far more unnerving than overseeing a funeral. Funerals are quick, solemn things— painless, even. Mother's long drawn-out existence was something hideous to watch and it made my skin crawl with constant foreboding dread. I only entered the bedroom to look in on her when it was absolutely necessary. She was ready to die— had been ever since her vile husband foolishly abandoned the home they'd so lovingly built up together. How fleeting the happier days had been when I was young and naïve towards the ambitions of men. I knew of my father and his misdeeds, but never fully understood him until he left us for good.

It's no use dwelling in the past; it's the folly of men to do so. When I return to university, I shall have to remain at the top of my class if I expect myself to meet half of the objectives I've set.

After spending nearly an hour revising my Latin studies, my mother's bedroom door opens and Miss Ashley reenters the sitting-room. "She's asleep now— seems to mumble nonsense words under her breath every now and again though. The poor soul… she must be so troubled," she closes the door behind her and I notice that she is clutching a worn Bible tightly at her side. She must be a very pious thing to carry it so; in my eyes, that makes her a great fool. "I'll fix us all some supper," she continues in an annoying manner as she walks past me and into the modest kitchen. She eyes the empty cupboards wearily and I note that her nostrils flare as if deeply offended at the sight of the stove which is caked with soot from years of misusage. "No matter then," she finishes melodramatically, setting her Bible down on a stool almost tenderly, "Mrs. Evans has entrusted me with a sum of money to go into town and make some purchases for the household, if need be."

"That was very thoughtful of her," I reply carefully as she throws a shawl around her shoulders and tucks a stray lock of hair back under the cap. The shawl is an old bit of cloth, completely tattered and retaining a slight green hue.

"Oh, yes, she's a grand old thing," Miss Ashley replies repressing a snort of displeasure. Her tone suddenly masks resentment. "In that case, I shall go to market for you… have you Miss Evan's reply?"

"Yes," I reply uncertainly, "I had hoped to deliver it to her myself sometime later this week if it's not too much trouble."

Miss Ashley's eyes narrow as if I've somehow insulted her terribly, "Not at all, not at all. Mrs. Evans would, however, prefer a much prompter response. I may drop it off at her house before shopping," she holds out a callused hand expectantly, "You should greatly heed any wish of Mrs. Evans… she is now your benefactress after all."

I am taken aback by her forwardness, "I— how would you—?"

"She says you're intelligent, lad. Intelligent, and yet so very inexperienced in this world, I daresay. Spending your days dreaming up the things you read about in those scholarly texts of yours. You'll soon find that Mrs. Evans is hardly a private woman. In fact, she's as far from it as possible. And why should she have any reason to conceal aspects of herself from London society?"

"I did not mean any disrespect towards her," I clarify.

"I'll have the note then, shall I?" she asks after a pause.

I nod, handing it over to her.

"Lovely," she tucks it into the pocket of her apron before heading towards the door again, "I should try to be back before sunset… and I'll make sure your mother is more than comfortable afterwards."

"Yes, of course."

She steps over the threshold of the house and leaves without a backwards glance towards me. I am glad to be rid of her frivolous company, for the time being at any rate. There's something about her that almost spooks me but I can't quite put my finger on it. She seems to harbor resentment towards Mrs. Evans. That is certain— her own employer, no less. There is much more to this entire matter than has yet been disclosed to me.

I cannot possibly worry myself sick with the conflicting range of emotions and erratic thoughts I am subjecting myself to. There is always tomorrow to do so… I'll have to give in my notice at the printing press in order to please Mrs. Evans and that may not go over very well with my superiors there. Hopefully it won't be too horrid to deal with… I wouldn't want to tell them everything that has been going on since Miss Evans invited me into her house for tea that auspicious afternoon. It dripped with scandal… unless they chose to take an alternate route and think of me as a laughingstock. I'll try to sleep before the inevitable comes with morning and I have to face them. When I wake, only then, shall I further mull things over.

And perchance, Miss Pauline Ashley knows a bit more than she would feel at ease for letting on.