Alice I Have Been: A Novel

  But I knew it was not; I knew because of his nightmares, of which none of us spoke. He’d had them only once or twice, but they were terrible; loud, anguished cries—I would run to his room, closely followed by Regi, pale and wild-haired in his nightshirt; even as we hurried to our son I reflected that when he was a child, I had never run to him in this way. Nightmares, then, were the province of Nanny.

  But as a man, an anguished, battle-scarred man, he was finally ours to care for. Alan’s eyes would be wide open, but he could not see us; he could see only the horror of war as he cried out names we did not know; names that later I looked up. Only to find them listed in the rolls of the dead.

  “There is no need to apologize,” I told him. “There is never any need. You’re our boy, you know. Our fine boy, and nothing you do or say can ever change that.”

  “Mamma.” He bent down so that I could hold him; I put my arms around his shoulders, but I couldn’t feel them. All I could feel was the rough wool of his uniform, thick and protective but not protective enough. I raised my head to kiss his cheek, fresh-shaven, smelling of wintergreen; the cheek of a man, not a boy.

  “Alan, I was wondering—do you remember keeping an owl when you were small?” I couldn’t help it; the mystery of the owl had been nagging at me ever since he’d come home.

  “An owl?”

  “Yes, an owl—you asked me if you could—”

  “You’ll miss your train if you don’t leave,” Regi called from the car. “Best get a move on.”

  “Oh! Of course, we can’t have that,” I said hastily, brushing an invisible piece of lint from his shoulder.

  “What about the owl, Mamma?”

  “Nothing—it’s nonsense. You can’t miss your train.”

  “Good-bye, Mamma.”

  “Good-bye, my boy.” Alan swooped down and kissed me; I clung to him once more, felt his warmth, his weight against my chest, and hurried into the house before this sensation could leave me. Right at the door, I turned for one more look. Alan was standing next to Regi—who was chewing the insides of his cheeks, trying so very hard to be the gruff English gentleman—and he looked so tall and pale. But he raised his arm and smiled—the earnest, sweet smile of my brave little boy. I smiled back, then shut the door behind me, before I had to watch him drive away.

  That had been in March, when the trees were still bare, the sky still gray; it was now early May. The world was in bloom again, even, one had to believe, in France.

  “Is it time for the post?” Ina asked, putting aside her knitting with an impatient sigh and reaching for her rings, which she had removed and placed on the table next to her. We were knitting balaclava helmets for the Red Cross; Ina complained that her rings snagged on the gray wool yarn.

  “Soon, I would imagine.” I looked up at the clock over the mantel. “It’s nearly two o’clock. What time did you say that reporter was arriving?”

  “Two.”

  “The trains haven’t been very reliable, of course, so she may be delayed. Really, I don’t know why I allowed you to talk me into this, Ina.”

  “Her mother is a friend of mine, and I happened to mention our association with Lewis Carroll, which of course intrigued the dear girl.”

  “Happened to mention?” I studied my sister, sitting so placidly, examining and admiring her many rings.

  “Yes, it simply came up, and why not? Now that Mamma’s gone, I think it’s high time we—I mean, of course, you—came forward and let people know that Alice is quite alive. What harm can it do now?”

  “What harm? Oh, Ina.” I could never understand my sister; of all the people in the world, she should know why I had never wanted to speak publicly of Alice, of Mr. Dodgson—of all “that business,” as Mr. Ruskin once so prosaically put it. “In the past, my—association—with Mr. Dodgson has not served me well, or do you no longer recall?”

  “You were very young, my dear. You seem to have things quite mixed up in your head—do you not remember the lovely times we had? The larks, the frolics, the adventures?”

  “If I am quite mixed up, it’s all because of you!” I shook my head and wondered at my sister, at the way she used words, mixed them up into potions that could cause your head to spin. What she said was true; what she said was always, strictly, true. Yet never was it entirely honest.

  “What you do not understand, my dear Alice, is that people are not interested in Mr. Dodgson and Alice Liddell—they’re interested in Lewis Carroll and Alice in Wonderland,” she continued, putting her rings on her plump fingers, one by one.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because of the times we live in, dear. Everyone longs for the simplicity of childhood, don’t they?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “So, any association with Alice in Wonderland, now, will only be a happy one, don’t you see?”

  “No, I’m not at all sure I see.” That the book was cherished and beloved by millions, I knew. Of course I knew—I was not ignorant of its success, and perhaps I even felt a glow of pride at my part in it, finally. Particularly now that Mr. Dodgson was dead—as were Pricks, Mr. Ruskin, my mother; so many demons buried, while I, and the book, remained. Maybe Ina was correct. Maybe it would be only a happy association from now on.

  Still, there were questions unanswered, questions that nagged at me more and more lately with all the time on my hands, and Ina was the only one left to ask. Yet I did not trust her memories any more than I trusted my own.

  “Do you remember that day on the train?” My index finger was red and tender from the tip of my needle; I wrapped the yarn around my work—I had gotten only as far as the wide pattern on the neck—and placed it in my knitting basket.

  “I’m not sure. Which day? As you know, we took the train often.” Ina’s gray eyes narrowed.

  “The day we took the train home with Mr. Dodgson, instead of boating back with Mamma and Papa and those dreadful students.”

  “No, not really. Although I do recall that sometimes Mr. Dodgson was very bold in his actions, if that’s what you’re remembering. Very bold.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “No, that is not the man I remember—not a man of action, not at all. He spoke—he lived—in dreams.”

  “Alice, you were young. You did not understand—” She was interrupted by the entrance of one of the Mary Anns, bringing in the post on a silver tray. Abruptly, any questions concerning the past were completely obliterated by the hope of word from one of the boys. I had to restrain myself from running over and snatching the tray from the slow girl.

  With a tight smile, my hands clenched in my lap, I waited until she placed it upon the table next to me and bobbed—again, no proper curtsy!—before I grabbed the small pile of envelopes, searching for a tattered and dirty postcard, even a preprinted one, postmarked from France.

  “Nothing today.” I sagged in my chair. “No, nothing today,” I repeated, looking up, knowing that Regi was standing in the doorway, hope in his eyes.

  “Didn’t think there would be,” he said gruffly, as he said every day after the hope drained away. “Was wondering if that bill for my club came through, that’s all.”

  “I’m sure there’ll be something tomorrow,” I tried to assure him—as I did every day. He nodded, I smiled at him, and he shuffled off toward the library in his baggy tweed suit, rumpled and tobacco-stained; he had such little regard for clothing lately. He used to be so very dashing, but now he would have worn the same suit every day, had I not protested.

  He spent every afternoon in the library these days, brooding over maps of the front cut out from the newspapers when he wasn’t going over accounts, or cleaning his guns, or polishing his cricket trophies. He rarely ventured out of the house, not even to haunt his old cricket club as he used to.

  “He’s so sad,” Ina said softly.

  I stiffened; I did not appreciate the tone of her voice, for there was pity in it. “He’s simply concerned, as am I.”

  “I think men take these t
hings much harder than women. Remember Papa, how much he cried when those little babies died?”

  “Yes. Mamma didn’t, though. Not a tear.”

  “No, well—Papa cried for the boys. Mamma cried for Edith.”

  I glanced at my sister, surprised; she hadn’t forgotten quite as much as she said she had. “Papa didn’t cry very much for Edith, that’s true. Not at all like he did for the baby boys. How odd.”

  “How typical. Boys always are valued more. Lucky you—you should have married royalty, since all you’ve done is have sons—oh, I mean, rather—I’m sorry, Alice.” For once, I believed my sister; she bit her lip, frowned, and could not look at me.

  I didn’t reply. How often had I thought the same thing! How often had I looked at the boys and wished—oh, God help me, I did wish it!—that they were Leo’s boys, not Regi’s? For all my activity, my determination to keep my life full and busy, I had not been able to prevent those thoughts from occurring, particularly when the boys were younger. It was wicked, wicked of me. I told myself, so many times, that one could not predict the outcome; had I married Leo, my life would have been so very different. My boys were the product of Regi and me, and I loved them, despite all my doubts when I first married Regi and started in on producing a family. I did, truly, love them all.

  Still, sometimes I had wondered about the children Leo and I would have had. I had wondered if they would have been like him or like me. I had wondered if they would be slight, with soft blond hair, those gentle blue eyes.

  I could not have loved my sons more, that I knew. What I would never know is if my capacity to love might have been greater had I married my true heart’s desire.

  “Oh dear, I do wish that reporter would hurry up!” I rose and paced in front of the fireplace; I needed to do something, stretch my muscles, tax my heart in some way. Idleness was my enemy these days; I required physical activity to chase these wicked, unproductive thoughts from my mind. Abruptly, I turned around and headed out through the open French windows. “I’m going outdoors. Do come with me.”

  “What?” Ina sputtered, pushing herself off the sofa. “What are you doing, Alice?”

  I picked up a pair of garden shears that I kept on the terrace. “I’m cutting ivy.”

  “You’re—what? Why, the gardener will do that!” Ina had followed me outside but immediately sat down upon a wicker settee, as if those few steps had taxed her entirely.

  “Yes, but one can never keep up with it. I despise ivy, don’t you?” Walking to the low garden wall, I attacked the clinging vines with gusto, leaving them on the ground so the gardener could clear them up. With a sly smile, I looked at my sister, who clutched her arms and was shivering, very obviously, in the warm air. “It’s rather invasive, I find. It shows up and never really leaves.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said with a sniff, settling down among the striped cushions. “We have plenty of gardeners in Scotland, and of course in London one doesn’t have to worry about nature.”

  “I can’t help but think this is all a mistake,” I said, pausing to take a breath; my arms already ached from the effort, but I embraced the sensation, for it meant I was alive, I was useful—I was in charge, not entirely at the mercy of events. I inhaled deeply, closing my eyes, feeling the wind ruffle my hair; it was good to be outside, among things that were growing, reaching toward the sky. I should get Regi out here, I thought. It would do him good—perhaps he could plant a small vegetable garden.

  “What is a mistake? The ivy?” Ina asked.

  “No, no—speaking with this newspaper person! As if I was one of those horrible suffragettes! Mamma would spin in her grave!”

  “Mamma would be appalled at a great many things we have to do today,” Ina said complacently. “It’s a blessing she died when she did.”

  “True. However—”

  “Mrs. Hargreaves, your visitor has arrived.” The footman was in the doorway, ushering a smart young woman out to the terrace. She was clad in the latest style: a green wool suit, the jacket long and belted, the skirt much shorter—nearly six inches off the ground!—and rather wider than the one I was wearing; it swung out at the hem. She wore a snug hat with a brim and carried a leather notebook.

  “Mrs. Skene, how lovely to see you again—Mamma sends her love.”

  “Dora, my dear, you look quite grown-up!” Ina rose and accepted the kiss the young woman gave her in greeting. I set the clippers down and remained where I was. Let her come to me.

  “Mrs. Hargreaves, what an honor!” She rushed forward, extending her hand in that careless, breezy way typical of the younger generation. She did not even wait for Ina to introduce us.

  “Yes, I’m very happy to make your acquaintance, Miss—?”

  “Dora. Dora Kimball.”

  “Yes, Miss Kimball. Do sit down.” I indicated a chair and took my seat next to Ina, our skirts overlapping just as they had done when we were small.

  “The real Alice in Wonderland! I believe you’re going to be quite the sensation. The country can rediscover a national treasure! I’m not sure many people today are even aware the stories were based on a real little girl.”

  “Young lady, many people certainly were!” I knew I sounded ridiculous, an indignant old martinet, but I found her ignorance insulting. I was Alice Liddell, daughter of Dean Liddell; the Alice Liddell. Yet—it was a shock, to realize it—I had been Alice Hargreaves for much longer than I had been Alice Liddell, and it was only what I had wanted, after all.

  Why, then, did I feel such outrage upon learning that people had truly forgotten?

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Miss Kimball said. Her face paled beneath her caked-on powder, and that’s when I observed that she was quite young, scarcely twenty. How did a girl that age become a feature writer for a respectable newspaper? I supposed it was because all our men were off to war; what an unusual world we were living in these days.

  “Mrs. Hargreaves’s sons are at the front; she’s rather worried, as you can imagine,” Ina hastily explained.

  “Ina!” I had a desire—its origin decades long in the making—to pull my sister’s hair. (If only she had enough left; dear Ina was getting rather downy-headed.) “That’s none of Miss Kimball’s concern. Now, do go ahead. I’m not used to this, but I will try to answer your questions truthfully. Go on.”

  “Right. Well, that is—so you were great friends with Mr. Carroll, when you were small?”

  “We knew him as Mr. Dodgson—you do realize Lewis Carroll was simply a pen name?” I gazed at the young woman doubtfully; she blushed and nodded. “But yes, we were friends, when my sisters Ina and Edith and I were girls.”

  “Oh—so you grew up in Oxford?”

  “Oh, yes!” Ina interrupted before I could, once again, express my disgust at Miss Kimball’s ignorance. Ina folded her plump hands prettily upon her nonexistent lap, and simpered. “Yes, dear Papa was the Dean of Christ Church, you know! We grew up in the Deanery, which was just across the garden from Mr. Dodgson’s rooms. He was quite fond of us all—I know he held a special place in his heart for me—and took us out rowing, and on other excursions, all the time.”

  “Yet it was me for whom he wrote the story, after all,” I reminded her, with just a trace of a smile. Ina glared at me and pursed her lips.

  “Oh. Well, this is all very interesting!” Miss Kimball was scribbling furiously in her notebook. “And it was on one of those outings when he told you the story of Alice?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Are you at all like the girl in the book, then?” The young woman smiled at me, her face glowing with perspiration; I thought wool rather a poor choice for May.

  “I—well, that is—” I was shocked by the question, how soon it had been asked; cursing myself for not having anticipated it, and vowing to box Ina’s ears the moment this young lady left, which wouldn’t be soon enough. “I’ve never really considered it,” I lied.

  “You haven’t?”

  “No.
”

  “But surely, when you read the story, you must have seen yourself in it—”

  “I was the sister, you know—the sister on the bank. You may write that down,” Ina said, glancing over at Miss Kimball’s idle hand.

  “Oh, yes, of course.” With a guilty start, Miss Kimball did so.

  How could I tell her that I—seemingly alone of all the literate world—had never read the entire book? How could I tell her that I had no idea whether I was truly Alice—or Alice was truly me? For as long as I had lived with her—on the other side of the looking glass, staring back at me every day—I’d never dared to ask her how much, or how little, we were alike.

  Yet—some facts, some sums, I knew very well. I had been ten when Mr. Dodgson told me the story; the other Alice, though, was seven, the same age I had been when Mr. Dodgson had taken the photograph of me as the beggar girl. My name had been immortalized as Alice, but hadn’t my soul, my heart—just awakening to its power—lived on in the wild girl in a torn dress, bare feet, a triumphant gleam in her eyes? Was that not our truest collaboration? How many times did he ask, in his letters, if I remembered how it felt to roll about on the ground while he watched?

  And in both the story and the photograph I lived on—always as that child of seven, who was not a child, after all.

  Once Ina had warned that I would grow too old for Mr. Dodgson, but I refused to believe her. “May we be happy,” he had said that day, and I had thought he meant—

  “Mrs. Hargreaves?”

  “I’m sorry.” I shook my head, remembering where I was, who I was, now. “You were saying?”

  But Miss Kimball was not speaking, after all. It was Mary Ann; she was standing in front of me, face ghastly white, tears oozing from her eyes. Just as I opened my mouth to inquire if she was ill, I saw her outstretched hand—and the telegram in it.