The Place of a Skull

George Robertson, clad in a long, dun-colored dressing gown and slippers, sat in a dilapidated armchair in front of a small coal fire. His woolen cap, pulled down over his ears, combined with the high collar of his dressing gown and the actual shape of his red face to give the impression that his chin, nose an eyes were all much too close together. “Bring her over here so I can see her properly”, he commanded in a raspy bass voice. At a nod from Mrs. Robertson, Jessica went and stood next to the fire. “Can you cook and do housework?” “George…” began Mrs. Robertson in a timid voice quite unlike the one she had used upstairs. “You don’t think she’s going to sit about doing nothing all day, do you? Young woman, if you thought you were going to come here with your London airs and graces and be a lady of leisure, you’ve got another think coming.” Jessica was never far from tears, but the effect of this assault was to awaken a tinge of anger and stiffen something in her spine. “I didn’t know what to expect, Mr. Robertson, and I don’t know what you mean by ‘London airs and graces.’ Yes, I can cook and do housework.” “Don’t forget she has to go to school and do her homework”, put in Mrs. Robertson nervously. “In my day girls of her age didn’t go to school. What do they need all that book-learning for? They should go into service or get married. While you’re here, young woman, you’ll toe the line or you’ll find yourself on the next train back to London.” “George”, implored Mrs. Robertson, “don’t forget…” “All right, Jill, that’ll do!” Mr. Robertson paused, aware that his wife was referring to the prospect of generous monthly payments from Uncle James’s bank, which, unknown to Jessica, included pocket money for her. In the pause Jessica remarked, “I can’t think of anything I’d like better,” and, her anger getting the upper hand, added, “This is a horrible house and you are a horrible person. I’m sorry, Mrs. Robertson.” Jessica left the room with all the dignity she could muster, followed by the beady eyes of a startled George Robertson. Having gained the relative safety of her bedroom Jessica realized that she desperately needed to go to the bathroom and that her feelings about the chamber pot were the same as Alfred’s. There were three ways of getting there. The obvious one was out of the question since it would have meant going downstairs and walking through the living room to the back door. Another possibility was to go out of the front door, which was actually at the side of the house, and thence to the back. This would mean passing in front of the living room window, and, in any case, she doubted whether she could manage the front door without being heard. The third possibility occurred to her as she gazed distractedly out of her window. Alfred the lodger had found a way. He had not been hampered by a skirt, but Jessica, smaller, lighter and more agile, found the trip easy and a little exhilarating. The window was only just big enough and she wondered how Alfred had managed it. The roof sloped quite gently away from the window and the gutter ran from left to right until it found the drainpipe at the corner next to the garden path. Jessica crawled across the roof, maneuvered herself into position on the corner, climbed down the drainpipe, which seemed firm enough, put one foot on the edge of the steel rainwater tank and hopped lightly to the ground. Tiptoeing round the corner she found herself facing the living room window. It was getting dark and the blackout curtains had been drawn, but she heard the angry voice of Mr. Robertson and, faintly, the tremulous protests of his wife. Jessica turned into the passage leading to the lavatory, which was plain, simple and clean. It fulfilled its basic purpose with no pretence at any niceties such as provision for the washing of hands. On the way back she stopped and listened again. Mr. Robertson’s voice was louder still and, having noticed a crack in the living room blackout, Jessica crept up to the window and looked in. Mrs. Robertson was standing with her hand on the knob of the door that led to the stairs and speaking a little more vehemently. “It’s not honest, George, it’s not honest and I won’t have it.” “Oh, so that’s how it is, is it? Listen to me, my girl, I may be old and ill but I’m still master in my own house, so don’t start telling me what you will or won’t have. You heard how she talked to me. There’ll be no pocket money for her until I find out whether she can behave herself properly. Now go upstairs and bring her down.” “But George…” “Now! At once! Do you hear?” Mrs. Robertson opened the door and started up the stairs. Jessica knew that she would have to be very quick to get back through the window of her room before Mrs. Robertson arrived at the door, so she ran to the back of the house and tried to pull herself up on to the water tank. Finding that her skirt made it very hard for her to get her knee on to the edge of the water tank she loosened it at the waist, pulled it over her head and threw it onto the roof. Getting onto the tank and up the drainpipe was easy but in scrambling over the gutter she dislodged her skirt, which fell back into the water. She was about to go back down the drainpipe when she remembered that her new school skirt was in her suitcase and she could rescue the old one later. She was halfway through the window when she heard the door open. “Sitting here in the dark, Dearie? Just draw the blackout curtains so we can put the light on. Oh my God!” The final exclamation was caused by Mrs. Robertson’s having seen, in the remaining dusk, a figure silhouetted against the window and apparently climbing in. She shouted, “George” and quickly turned on the light. Jessica knew that even in the most favorable circumstances the discovery of her escapade would have landed her in serious trouble, and that her appearance wearing only a blouse and what the Robertsons would undoubtedly consider to be highly inappropriate underwear would make matters considerably worse. What she didn’t realize was that her encounters with the drainpipe had left damp sooty deposits all over her arms and legs, some of which had been transferred to her face. She started to try to explain but made little progress because Mrs. Robertson was sitting on the bed rocking herself back and forth and crying, “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…” Mr. Robertson was perhaps less of an invalid than he made out, since he appeared at the door in less than half a minute. One might have expected that his Victorian frame of mind would have led him to withdraw immediately at the sight of a girl in her panties, but he stood and stared for several seconds before turning to his wife. “Stop bawling, woman, and pack her things and send her back to where she came from.” “But George”, whimpered Mrs. Robertson. Robertson’s eyes returned to Jessica. “No, perhaps you’re right for once. I’m going to light the fire under the copper. Then you can bring her downstairs and give her a bath and we’ll see.” What he was hoping to see he didn’t make clear. As soon as Mr. Robertson had disappeared Jessica opened the suitcase given her by Susan and took out her new skirt. “What are you doing?” asked Mrs. Robertson, who was still sitting on Jessica’s bed and rocking herself in anguish, while noises of someone refueling the copper and sloshing buckets of water into it floated up from below. “I’m leaving.” “But you can’t do that. You’re supposed to stay with us and you haven’t got anywhere to go.” “I’m leaving”, repeated Jessica, unequal to the task of explaining to this well-intentioned woman why she couldn’t possibly live in her house. “He’s not as bad as all that”, said Mrs. Robertson, grasping part of the problem. Jessica closed the suitcase and started to put on the skirt. “You can’t put that on, on top of all that dirt.”