March 1938
"Madam, your daily tisane."
Eliza looked up from her feverish note-taking to see Headmaster Horrocks (Bertie to his friends and colleagues) standing near her escritoire with a piping teacup in one hand. She sighed and took the concoction from her employer. Bertie was a seasoned professional in cold and flu prevention, thanks to years spent in cramped classrooms. As an administrator, he took pains to keep his staff as healthy as humanly possible during peak sickness periods – this, unfortunately, meant that all teachers were subject to daily cups of steaming herbal hodge-podge of varying degrees of palatability.
Eliza was relieved to discover, upon initial inhalation, that she had been granted a winner. "Bertie… – is that lemon?"
"Lemonade instead of water, actually," Bertie explained proudly, as Eliza took the first, heavenly sip. "Honey, and peppermint as well."
"But the lemon; how did you manage it?" She saw Bertie's pallor go from fair to scarlet, and she immediately knew the answer.
"Give my thanks to Miss Smythe."
Bertie cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets as his eyes fell to the floor. "We have been blessed with patrons ever since your friends took notice of our school; what makes you think the lemons come from Miss Smythe's family?" His blush only deepened at his own words, telling on himself in the way that only honest people tell on themselves when trying to conceal.
"How many with such a comprehensive greenhouse?" Eliza teased.
"Miss Doolittle." Ah, she had gone a bridge too far.
Miss Honoria Smythe was a school patroness; she was wealthy, eccentric, and in her early thirties. Before meeting Bertie, Eliza imagined the woman was quite content to nurture only the various plants and trees that grew in her enormous greenhouse. In addition to money and resources, Miss Smythe regularly invited the children to her home for scientific field trips. She advised the school groundskeeper on what best to plant in the school vegetable garden. It was no secret that the woman was positively smitten with Bertie – a fact that was discussed frequently in the staff lounge. Eliza had, up until this point, been rather an island when it came to the intricacies of interpersonal relationships that were not her own, and found it rather thrilling to meddle, especially when it was openly encouraged by her peers.
"Sorry, Headmaster," Eliza murmured, as she continued with her tea. "There must be magic in your brewing, sir – I haven't gotten so much as a tickle in my throat since I've begun here."
Bertie smiled with pride twinkling in his eyes, and Eliza hoped the flattery extinguished the irritation she had caused by being impertinent. Her days were such a whirlwind of commuting between home, St. Ignatius, and Sunderland Training College, that she oftentimes forgot to adjust her manner of conversing from situation to situation. Teasing one's boss, she supposed, was not as acceptable as teasing one's classmate over cakes and tea.
"I'm not a superstitious man, Miss Doolittle, but I do hope you think twice before speaking too soon on the topic of health. I remember my first year working with children, and it was not a pretty sight."
"P'raps I've got a good amount of immunity from growing up around Lisson Grove and Angel Court," Eliza replied, briefly slipping into her old way of speaking. Even as she spoke, she could feel a trace of irritation in the back of her throat, and the space behind her eyes felt heavy and stiff. She had been studiously ignoring her growing symptoms all day; passing them off as garden-variety burnout.
"A flower seller ain't a schoolteacher," Bertie explained in his rough, Northern way. "You weren't trapped in a room with four walls for hours on end with the people who bought your violets, madam."
Eliza sighed and shrugged. "I suppose my time is coming."
"I shall pray for your health."
"And I for your happiness."
"Careful."
As predicted by Henry, during their very serious discussion over Christmas, Eliza's post-holiday schedule was jam-packed with little wiggle room. Because strings had been pulled for her to obtain a teaching license expeditiously, she found herself overwhelmed with new information the likes of which she had not had to process since Henry and Colonel Pickering's great experiment, nearly a year ago. In addition, there always seemed to be something to do at the school, apart from delivering comportment and elocution lessons to each grade band: Eliza was needed as a teacher's assistant, a sometimes-nurse, a gardener, and a sympathetic ear to the children who struggled emotionally.
Bertie had been kind enough to set aside space in the chapel as an office and recombobulation area that belonged solely to Eliza. The room was of a decent size; not quite a broom cupboard, but not so large that she could entertain more than four visitors at once. It contained a small escritoire furnished by Henry, who claimed it had been moldering in his attic and served no purpose to anyone but her (he had neglected to remove a receipt from one of the drawers, which was stamped with the current year), a golden paisley settee Eliza had purchased secondhand, complete with matching armchair; two tall bookshelves stuffed with textbooks; and a cozy hearth. A lattice-framed window faced out towards the courtyard. It was not much, but it was more than enough for her.
Lately, Eliza had taken to falling asleep in her little office; sometimes on the settee, other times in the middle of writing. She had once stumbled home in the near-dark, several minutes late for dinner, with the date, written in her increasingly proficient hand, stamped onto her forehead. Henry, who had been visiting, inquired teasingly if she had been taking extra measures to tackle a memory problem. Mrs. Higgins, visibly distraught by Eliza's tardiness and disheveled appearance, made a request that Eliza please telephone when her days ran long.
Eliza had been telephoning Mrs. Higgins a great deal, especially on days when she nodded off to the sight of the sun casting long shadows on the courtyard and woke to pitch black beyond her window; those were the evenings where Eliza would make a little sleeping space of the settee, and rest until first light when it was safer to go home and freshen up for another long day of studies and work. Those days did not go over well with Mrs. Higgins, who complained loudly to Henry during Sunday dinner after Eliza's first overnight; he showed up to her office that following Monday and installed no less than two locks to the inside of the door.
"I am perfectly aware of your ability to take care of yourself, as you've informed me of this many, many times, Eliza -" he stated after she protested the measures as silly. "-but taking proper precautions is not a sign of weakness. I cannot prevent you from taking naps, but I can ensure no one troubles you while doing so." He added that it would put absolutely nobody out if she accepted his mother's offer to send a car to fetch her, a suggestion she chose to ignore entirely.
By the time Eliza finished taking notes on her latest assigned reading, she could feel the strangeness behind her eyes blossom into a full-blown headache. She surmised that she had been squinting over her work for a few hours, which probably accounted for the ache in her head that was spreading across her body like wildfire and the exhaustion that tightened about her entire soul. She scoffed, as though her body were a particularly annoying visitor, and not the space her brain and organs inhabited.
"You calm down now," she told herself. "I ain't done me journaling yet."
Eliza unlatched a hidden compartment on her escritoire and retrieved the notebook Henry had given her for Christmas. Logging her thoughts had been a bit of a struggle at first; but as she gained confidence in academic writing grew (Henry gave her lessons every Sunday around midday), she found it easier to filter through her thoughts and jot them down in a way that allowed her to revisit and reflect, as she was doing presently:
1 January 1938
First entry. Not sure what to write. New Years' Eve was very nice. Wore a violet party dress. Ate lamb with roast vegetables. Lillian & family leaving today to return to Dorset. They will go from there to America in February to live. Mrs. H was very emotional.
5 January 1938
Must get better at doing this regular-like. Term start up at St. I, as well as teaching school. Getting good at using the Tube, map reading, etc… not sure why was afraid of it before. Making chums right away at Sunderland. Expect they think I'm from another planet, as barely know what they are going on about half of the time. They are a good sort, though. Edith B. seems to be the leader of the pack.
5 January 1938
Two days in a row, hurrah. Edith, Lulu, Mary, and Lottie are very interesting girls and great fun. Took me for a few cocktails and music. They all started talking about boyfriends. They called Henry my 'Pre-ancé' after I explained my situation. Laughed when I said yes, I have been kissed, but not properly since Christmas. I do not wish to write about what they've done, as I cannot think about it without blushing. Mary seemed sympathetic and confessed I was in good company with her, as she had not done anything but hold hands. Learned how to Lindy Hop but not gloriously.
6 January 1938
Edith suggested I gain life experience through more reading. Suggested I ask as many people as I can about which books are essential to them. I do need to read more, and I suppose the people I know ought to have good taste. Will do at once and report back.
Eliza thumbed through a few pages, observing a gradual decrease in ink stains, and scratched out words. The letter formations became more sweeping, and elegant; the words less packed together, and able to breathe.
10 February 1938
Miss Smythe is a hero. Recall that I was struggling with the chalk drying out my hands in this chill – Miss S brought me a salve she created in her greenhouse, and had instantaneous relief. She would not accept my offer to pay, but I did tell Edith, Martha, and Julia from school, and now they are dying to purchase. Miss S also recommended a novel to add to my list. North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell. Edith said Ms. S only recommended it because she likes to pretend she and the Headmaster are the main characters on account of Bertie being from that area. I suppose I will see for myself. My book list is quite long now.
Here it is:
North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell (Ms. S)
Ulysses by James Joyce (Edith and the girls. I think this is the title but they would not stop giggling and were hard to understand. Greek mythology, probably.)
Les Liaisons dangereuses (Edith and the girls)
Butterfield 8 by John O'Hara (E and the girls, again)
Jamaica Inn by Daphne Du Maurier (Mrs. Pearce)
The Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe (Mrs. Pearce)
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte (Mrs. Pearce)
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte (Mrs. Pearce - must be a very talented family)
Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray (Colonel Pickering)
Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman (Colonel Pickering)
Our Mutual Friend by Charles Dickens (Colonel Pickering)
David Copperfield by Charles Dickens (Also the Colonel)
Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence (Lillian)
Brave New World by Aldous Huxley (Some Boy in the Library Who Would not Stop Talking)
The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway (Same Boy)
Persuasion by Jane Austen (Mrs. H)
Emma by Jane Austen (Mrs. H.)
Les Miserables by Victor Hugo (Clara Hill)
Titus Andronicus by William Shakespeare (Clara Hill)
The Time Machine by HG Wells (Clara Hill)
The Count of Monte Cristo (Dad, surprisingly)
Snarl of the Beast by Carroll John Daly (Grace, and I am just as astonished as you are, diary)
The Waste Land and Other Poems by T.S. Eliot (Henry, who said 'Pay extra attention to the Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock if you like, 'Liza.')
Paradise Lost by John Milton (Henry)
Endymion by John Keats (Henry)
As I said, it's getting very extensive, but I think it's manageable.
Eliza revisited her list with a fond smile, even as some words began to blur and distort. She recalled showing Henry the list shortly after its compilation, and asking if he had any of the books, apart from the ones he had suggested. She had been slightly puzzled at his deep blush and the sputtering sound he made as he looked over the titles. He gave a nervous chuckle before stating:
"I have few of these, actually. Some are…-" he trailed off and swept his eyes to the ceiling, and then the floor before continuing, "-not in my tastes. Quite a few. Mother should be able to provide the ones I don't have, but the pulpier ones can be obtained at any bookseller."
"I assume you at least have Ulysses," Eliza stated as she pointed at the title.
He appeared stricken at the suggestion, "Why ever would you assume something like that, Eliza?"
"It's Greek, isn't it? You adore mythology."
Henry ran a nervous hand through his thick, blonde hair as he looked at every nook and cranny in his library, but studiously avoided Eliza's probing eyes. He shoved his hands in his pocket, and settled his gaze on the floor, before puffing out his cheeks and exhaling with a nervous laugh.
"It's- It's not Greek. James Joyce is an Irishman."
"Oh, so you don't have it because you dislike the Irish? My mother was from Sligo, you know." She had felt a storm cloud pass over her previously gentle mood. Henry looked up at her, upon hearing the irritation in her voice, and his eyes widened.
"No, Eliza – God no – I don't hate the Irish. I don't think about them much at all, to tell the truth – No, it's not that."
"Well, why don't you have the book, then?" Eliza pressed.
"It's – well – Eliza, like some of the books on this list that I also don't possess, it's a bit… dirty."
Eliza snatched the list from Henry's grasp and scrutinized it with a frown. "Which ones?"
Henry stood behind her and helpfully pointed out the more questionable titles. "That's not to say you shouldn't read them!" he assured her. "You may read whatever you like, so long as it gives you pleasure. I wouldn't dream of hindering your education in any way; I can't say I'd recommend Hemingway, though – you should probably avoid the chap that made that suggestion."
In truth, Eliza had not been able to put much of a dent in her list since compiling it but hoped the Easter holiday would provide a little extra time. She sniffled as she continued to pore over previous journal entries, before stopping at a blank page. Her hand was shaking as she recorded the events of her day, and she was mindful of a deep chill forming in her marrow, despite the blazing hearth.
When Eliza sat back to re-read her latest entry, she was startled to find there was nothing on the page. She blinked several times and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands before peering down at the page once more. Nothing.
Eliza stood with some difficulty, and – thinking of Mrs. Higgins and her deep fear of anything infectious – decided it would be best to stay the night in her office and pray for a healthier tomorrow. She left her room and headed to the main office of the church, where a telephone had been recently installed.
The church was completely empty, and she supposed Bertie must have headed home some time ago. Eliza, not usually afraid of the dark, stumbled about the office with a wild feeling of dread twisting her guts. To her amazement, no switchboard operator greeted her when she picked up the receiver – she had been automatically patched to Mrs. Higgins. She was not entirely sure why Mrs. Higgins was answering the phone, or why the woman was speaking Albanian. Eliza mumbled her apologies, explaining the situation before dropping the phone back on the switchhook.
Strange that she should be on the settee in her office so quickly when she could not remember walking back down the stairs. Eliza rose and went to the door to her office so she could ensure the locks were in place. They were. She returned to the settee and pulled her heavy quilt from the back of it; wrapping it about her like a cape; she kicked off her pumps and went into a fetal position – lamenting the limitations of her body as she shivered in front of the fire. Darkness overtook her within a few minutes; despite the dry cough wracking through her, and she was completely insensible to the sound of shattering glass, several hours later.