Mr. Dodgson looked from boy to boy, shaking his head as if he was quite unable—or unwilling—to acknowledge that I could be a mother. “No, it will not register. My Alice with children of her own? How strange the world has grown! Oh—they simply won’t sit still, will they?”
“Neither did I, when I was a child.” I smiled but felt myself growing irritated as he continued to gape at my sons, shaking his head; it wasn’t as if he’d never been around children before. Why was he behaving so strangely with mine?
“No, you little girls were very well behaved, always sitting together so pleasantly, I have such fond memories of those afternoons—oh dear! The boisterous one is going to upset that table!”
Rex wasn’t even close to the table, but I grabbed him by the arm anyway; this gesture seemed to placate Mr. Dodgson. “Do tell me what you’ve been up to lately,” I said, determined to have a pleasant conversation.
“Not very much, except of course for your adventures. As I mentioned in my letter, they keep me tolerably busy, which is a blessing, for I’m so alone otherwise.”
“They’re not—they’re not really my adventures, of course. They’re yours, now. I’m simply a country wife and mother, with no time to chase after rabbits—although chasing after boys is rather the same thing!”
“You don’t chase after us—you never! You’re much too old,” Rex said with a resigned shake of his head. “Although if you did, I’d most likely let you catch me, just to be nice.”
“That’s very gentlemanly of you,” I replied, smiling wryly at Mr. Dodgson, trying to draw him into my world. But he continued to stare at my sons as if they were noisy apparitions, and when he looked at me, his eyes clouded over, his mouth slightly open, I knew he was seeing a ghost as well; the ghost of a little brown-haired girl in a crisp white dress. A little gypsy girl. A long-forgotten dream.
Stirring in my seat—he was quite mistaken, for I was rather a squirmy child, I suddenly recalled, remembering how tight and itchy all those layers of clothing had felt upon my tender skin—I was unable to meet his gaze as I once had been able to. So I looked around the room, instead. It even smelled like a haunted place: stale, musty, airless, old. Even the toys were ancient; Caryl picked up a threadbare stuffed animal and tossed it aside with a sigh; Rex shook an old china doll, and dust filled the air as her head nearly came off her unfashionable body. I had told them of all the treasures Mr. Dodgson used to keep in his room for children, but now I saw that these were no treasures. Not for modern children, anyway.
Not for little boys used to cast-iron soldiers and merry-go-rounds and fire pumpers.
Mr. Dodson suddenly snapped at Rex to put the doll down, and while this angered me—had he ever told me or my sisters to stop playing with a toy?—at least he had stopped staring at me so mournfully. As I watched him fuss and flutter about, I tried very hard to keep a pleasant smile upon my face but could not succeed. When had he become such a nervous old man? He implored Caryl to pick up the stuffed animal, and continued to fret over the passage of time. “What a sad, sad thing it is to grow old! I’ve grown too old, too old for my friends now. Too old even for you, I’m afraid—or am I? No, don’t tell me! Instead, let’s remember more pleasant times. Don’t you recall when you—”
“And how are your sisters? Well, I hope?”
“As well as can be expected, for we’ve all become such a feeble lot. Alice, my dear, do you remember how nice and neat you and your sisters used to be? Do you remember?”
I did not want to remember; that was not why I had come. Because if I were to remember, there were other things that might come to mind.
So, why had I come back to these rooms, then, if I did not wish to reminisce? If I couldn’t even read the book, why had I brought my sons to meet the author?
I could not say. I knew only, as I watched Mr. Dodgson rush to straighten a lampshade that Caryl had scarcely even touched, that it had been a mistake. I was angry at him; angry at myself, for coming here in the first place, for tempting the past.
I was not, for once, angry at my sons; they were behaving admirably, and I was proud of them. That was why I had come here, I suddenly realized: to show off my boys. To show Mr. Dodgson—and perhaps, remind myself—that my life was full, that I had moved on. But he refused to see, and worse—he was determined that I see that he had not.
“I don’t wish to detain you any longer,” I said, rising. Far from looking relieved, as I had expected, Mr. Dodgson’s face fell.
“Oh, but do you have to go so soon?”
“I’m afraid we do.”
“But—all my child friends grow up and leave. You were the first to do so, and I despise it. Bu-but we’re different, aren’t we?” He leaned down to look at me—he was not nearly as tall as he once was, nor was I so small; our eyes were almost level. Still, I had to look up—as I had done when I was a child.
“Different?”
“We’ll always have your story. You’ll never have to grow up, then.”
“I’m afraid that’s not entirely true.” I wished he could see me, truly see me, as he had once been able to do better than anyone else—or so I had thought. Now, however, I wasn’t sure; had he ever seen me as I was? Or had he always been this blind?
“Oh, but it is. We’ll always have Wonderland.” His dark blue eyes were dreamy now, almost filmy, as he gazed down some distant path I had no desire to follow. I wanted to shake him, shake the cobwebs out of his mind, the dust from his shoulders, the clouds from his eyes. I had no patience for such a man; it was a wonder that I ever had.
For so long, all my dreams had begun and ended with him; even my dreams of Leo. I could not imagine these feeble, trembling hands—still clad in gray gloves—holding anything so precious of mine, now.
“Yes, well, that’s a nice thought, isn’t it? Wonderland? I’m glad it gives you comfort, at least. Now we really must go.” I reached out to shake his hand in farewell, although I did not want to touch him; his grip was weak, and I could feel the clamminess of his skin through the fabric of his glove. I quickly withdrew my hand, fighting a childish impulse to wipe it on the back of my skirt.
As I turned to go, I heard him ask, in a voice I remembered, a soft voice thick with longing, “Will you remember me, Alice?”
“Pardon?”
“Will you? Do you?”
“Oh, Mr. Dodgson, I—”
“Come, Mamma,” Rex said impatiently, tugging on my hand.
“Just a moment, Rex.”
“My name is Leopold! Leopold Reginald!” he shouted, stamping his foot; I stared at him, for he disliked his given name, and never before had I heard him claim it.
Mr. Dodgson gasped when he heard the name; I could not meet his gaze. My cheeks grew hot, and I felt as if my most secret thoughts were suddenly on display for all—the boys included—to see.
“Oh, Alice—I—I’ve never been able to f-f-forgive myself, all those years ago, you must understand why I—”
“Don’t,” I said, warning him. My head snapped up, and I met his gaze full-on. “Don’t try to rewrite the past. Leave it be. My life is very full now, as I wish you were able to see.” Once I had questions—so many questions! Now all I wanted was to get on with my life; we were expected back at the Deanery for a faculty tea, and we hadn’t yet been to Edith’s grave. “We must be going. Thank you very much for your hospitality.”
“You see why I’m not so fond of little boys, my Alice?”
“I am not—” I struggled to control my voice, my anger; I was not his. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Because they have to grow up to be men. Men like me,” he said with that sad, sad smile that used to tug so at my heart. Now, however, it only enraged me. He was older than I was. Why, then, did I always feel as if his happiness was my responsibility? It wasn’t fair for him to burden me with that. It had never been fair.
“No, they don’t. Not all of them,” I snapped, my voice low, for I did not want the boys to hear. “Not mine.”
/> Three small, sticky pairs of hands clutched at my skirts, eager to drag me out of the past, into fresh air, into my life. I was eager to follow them. I turned to go before he could say anything further; I never saw him again.
Charles Lutwidge Dodgson died in 1898; I could not attend his funeral, for my father was dying as well. He passed away four days later. And with their passing, I had no reason ever to return to Oxford.
“MAMMA?”
I looked up; for a moment I was startled to see a tall man with brown hair—still sporting those twin cowlicks—and a mustache. So caught up in my memories, I had expected to see the little boy with the dirty face, instead.
“Yes, Rex?”
“We thought we’d find you here.” Caryl and Alan were standing behind him. I allowed my son to reach down and help me rise; I’m afraid I did not bend quite as well as I used to.
I straightened my narrow skirt, ending just above my ankles, as was the fashion these days. I smoothed my hair, patted the brooch—Leo’s brooch—fastened at my throat, and looked at my sons. Not one of them could meet my gaze, and in that moment I knew.
“So. You’re enlisting, then, are you not? Caryl and Rex?”
“Yes, Mamma.” Alan, the leader, spoke for them all, even though his future in uniform was not in question.
“I thought as much. I assumed that was what you were sneaking off to the billiard room to discuss. Really, the impertinence of you men! As if I were too delicate for the conversation?”
“I’d never think you were too delicate for anything, Mamma,” Caryl was quick to say.
“Nor would any of us. It was Father—he wanted to talk some things over, and he didn’t want you to have to worry yourself,” Rex explained.
I surveyed my sons, all standing tall and sturdy; in that moment I wished Mr. Dodgson could see for himself what fine men they were, how brave. Alan was more assured—for he had the military experience, after all; Rex more eager, for he was the most adventurous; Caryl more unconcerned, as if it was simply another jolly party or prank cooked up by one of his friends.
They were not asking my permission to go; they were far too British for that. Yet they did appear to be seeking my blessing, and I knew I had to bestow it in the only way that would allow them to do what they had to do without regret. I would not burden my sons, as I had been burdened myself.
“Worry?” Frowning, I shook my head, as if they had been caught in a minor infraction, such as raiding the biscuit tin. “That was sweet, if misguided, of your father. I’m perfectly capable of talking about all this—I suppose you were going over wills and such? Entirely sensible; it’s something we should all do now and then. I would hope you’d do it even if there wasn’t any war. I should go over my own, now that I think of it. Well, do you have any idea what regiment you’ll join, Caryl, Rex? Not the Rifles?”
“No,” Alan said hastily, as Caryl opened his mouth to speak. “I’ve learned a few things in my career, and I do not believe it’s wise for brothers to be in the same regiment. It gets rather—complicated, if you will. A bit risky, too.”
“Naturally—that’s very wise of you. Well, then?” I faced Rex. I was so rigid my jaw ached, but I would not fall apart; I would not act as if I was asking for anything more important than if they wanted kippers for breakfast, or kidneys.
“I think I might give the Irish Guards a whirl,” he said casually, as if he was talking about a dance.
“Very good. Caryl?”
“I rather fancy the Scots Guards,” Caryl replied, in earnest imitation of his brother’s easier, breezier attitude.
“Yes, I think that’s a good choice.” I nodded approvingly; Caryl needed that more than his brothers did. “Quite a busy day, then, hasn’t it been? And tomorrow’s the flower show. If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll retire, as there’s so very much to do. You’ll all be up early to help?”
“Of course, Mamma.” Alan smiled very indulgently, as if he knew how desperately I needed to get to my room just then—and he broke my heart. When did he become such a wise, understanding man? It was not right; he should not have to comfort me.
“Lovely. I’ll see you all in the morning, then.” I walked quickly past, afraid to touch any of my sons; afraid that if I did, I would not be able to let go. I managed to leave the library, walk down the hall, attain the stairs, speak to one of the Mary Anns about breakfast—I decided on kidneys—and climb the long, wide staircase without touching the banisters, even as with every step I climbed, my eyes filled with more tears. Finally I reached my bedroom—I heard Regi across the hall in his, with his door open, calling out my name, but I could not come to him just then—and closed my door, reaching my bed before the first tears fell; I sat silently, feeling the tears upon my cheeks but not really thinking, not seeing anything—
Until I looked down at my lap, surprised. For in my hand was the copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland; I had been holding it all this time.
“Oh!” I clutched it to my chest, holding it tight, as if I could keep it safe in this way—knowing that I could not do the same for my own sons. Why hadn’t I read it to him? I thought wildly, remembering that moment in the library so long ago. What had I been afraid of? What did I even know of fear, then?
Now war had come. The little boy was a soldier now. And it was too late for us both.
I opened the book and turned to the first chapter. Blinking, I studied the page through swimming eyes; I focused and focused until the words finally were clear enough for me to read them.
“Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank,” I read aloud. When my voice caught in my throat, I stopped, took a breath, blinked again, and continued. “And of having nothing to do; once or twice she peeped into the book her sister was reading.…”
I shut the book again. I waited until my eyes were dry.
I’ll read it to them later, I told myself. When they come home. I’ll read it to them when they’re all home safe and gathered around the dinner table, teasing me, irritating their father. After dinner I’ll insist that they join me in the library and I’ll read it to them, and I won’t mind that it’s foolish, absurd, for a mother to read to her grown sons. They won’t mind, either; they’ll understand. Somehow, they’ll understand.
I nodded to myself, at the faded book in my hand with my own name on the cover, and I repeated the words, softly, almost like a prayer—
I’ll read it to them when they come home.
Chapter 15
• • •
IT’S SUCH A COMFORT TO BE AWAY FROM LONDON JUST NOW. They say there could be air raids at any time. Those vile zeppelins! I think they’re horrid.”
Ina wrinkled her pert nose, pursed her small, sour mouth as of old; but she was not a little girl any longer, and her simpering manners verged on the comical. For Ina was white-haired now: still plump, but a softer plump than before, and very few wrinkles, which is one of the benefits of the fuller body in advancing years. The dear girl was also a bit jowly, and her chin now looked to have melted into her neck.
I was stringier with age; while my figure remained slim, my hair was more dark than gray, my wrinkles were more evident, and my bones more prominent. My eyes were still as wide and watchful, still framed by the fringe of my hair, but I had need for spectacles now. Particularly when doing close work, such as knitting, as I was at the moment.
Ina and I were in the drawing room of Cuffnells; it was an early May morning, so the hearth was cold. Outside the French windows—open to the soft, fragrant spring air—the flowering trees were in full bloom; great pinkish white petals on the tulip trees, the brilliant pink blossoms on the cherry trees, the softer white clusters of the crab apples. Even on an overcast day such as today, the blooms brightened the landscape, standing in vivid relief against the more sedate green of the oaks and maples and pines.
Inside the drawing room, even without a fire, the décor was cheerful; I had had enough of the oppressive Victorian upholstery and wa
llpaper and carpets of my youth. In this room—which was more mine than Regi’s—I had chosen lighter carpets of buff pink, chintz in bright blue and pink and white for the furniture, and had had the paneling whitewashed. Vases of apple blossoms dotted the many small tables, filled with photographs and small paintings, mostly watercolors.
“We are happy to have you, of course,” I told Ina, not quite truthfully; Regi had made quite a fuss when she wrote asking to come.
“I cannot stand that woman,” he stated flatly. Ina was the only person I knew who could incite such a warmth of feeling in him. “Let her go to Scotland and stay with her coward of a son.”
“Moncrieff is doing war work, Regi, even if he’s not at the front,” I reminded him weakly; it was difficult to be sympathetic to those working here at home, when all of our sons were still in the midst of the fighting.
Alan had already been wounded, only a month or so after war was declared, in October. He had been invalided home, and while I was so thankful to have him that I slept those first few nights in a chair outside his room in case he needed me, after the first couple of weeks it became evident that he was not happy to be here. He had already changed; he was thinner, with a haunted look in his eyes as if he saw ghosts at every turn. He was also impatient, almost fretful; he spoke constantly of his men, worried about them, and desired to know more than he was capable of knowing from the vague dispatches in the newspapers. I will not say it was a relief to see him go back; on the contrary, I felt a piece of my heart tear itself apart and go with him. I actually had to place my hand upon my chest, as if to keep the rest of it intact.
As much as I yearned to keep him safe and sound under our roof, however, I knew I could not. I realized he would not be happy, would not be sound, as long as he was away from the front. He actually looked more like himself—or rather, like the earnest little boy he once had been—for the first time right before he left.
As we stood on the front drive, the car warming up while the driver loaded his kit into the trunk—he would be driven to Lynd-hurst station, then journey on to the front—Alan hung his head bashfully. “Mamma, I do apologize for my frightful behavior. I know it hasn’t been easy on either of you, all of this, but you see, I have to be back with my men. They’re such fine fellows, and it is rather difficult out there.” He said it so nonchalantly—“rather difficult.” As if it was merely a lopsided game of cricket.