Woman Who Gave Birth to Rabbits - Donoghue [60]
Halfway through that letter, Frances glances up from the page to rest her aging eyes, and for a moment her gaze admits it. Acknowledges that Elizabeth is not simply ailing, not simply weak in her spirits. Truth flickers in the air between the two of them. And then Frances snaps the book shut and remarks, "How well that yellow lace becomes i" you!
Elizabeth loves her most for the lies.
Frances hopes one day to write a novel. The heroine will meet unhappiness on every page, but she will never stop being good. She has never mentioned it to Sheny; she would prefer to surprise him. Elizabeth is the only one to know of her plan.
It occurs to Elizabeth that her friend is misled by the younger woman's pale, slim face, her gentle expression, her occasional verses. An unmarried, invalid lady is too easily assumed to be all soul, all sweetness. Frances seems to think that because the good suffer in this imperfect world, those who suffer must be good. Has she never peered into the back of Elizabeth's eyes and seen the greed, the rage, the morbid longings? How well does she know her friend, for all her devotion?
Elizabeth cannot face the public breakfast, held every morning at eleven. On good days, Frances may prevail upon her to visit a pastry-cook's for a jelly or a tart. Elizabeth always tries a bite or two, then lays her spoon down unobtrusively and pushes the plate towards her friend, an inch at a time. Frances takes mouthfuls between her eager sentences.
They might try on hats at a milliner's, or visit the ladies' coffee house, where Elizabeth sips the sweet black brew till the dizziness retreats to a distance. If the day is mild and the gutters stink, they buy violets to hold to their noses. They cross the paths of the same people five times a day, with a curtsey for each, like nodding marionettes. There's Mr. Allen, noted for benevolence; Mr. Quin, once the king of the stage; Mr. Gainsborough, whose rooms are stuffed with handsome ladies and their handsomer portraits.
Red-faced servants trundle wheelchairs up and down the streets. Elizabeth avoids the eyes of the desiccated women who let themselves be rolled along. But then she makes herself give one of them a civil nod. She need not stiffen at the creak of a wheelchair; she need have no fear, for herself, of such a drawn-out old age.
Down by the river, the ladies stand and look across at the sweet wooded curves in the distance. "Someday well drive to the hills," says Frances. "When you are feeling more like yourself."
If Elizabeth can catch a breath today, she and Frances will walk up to see the Circus. Mr. Wood is always there, overseeing the buildings his father dreamed of; this will be the first street in the world to form a perfect circle. He points out where the tiers of Doric columns will rise, where the Ionic, where the Corinthian. The ladies smile with their mouths shut, so as not to yawn. Elizabeth tries to imagine being needed by the world, having such projects, reasons to stay alive.
The wind pours down North Parade and soaks right through her. The air moves past her mouth too fast for her lips to catch. She stands still, waiting for a breath to come her way, utterly insubstantial. It occurs to her that she died some weeks ago and never noticed. Perhaps she is not the only one. Perhaps the whole city is populated with ghosts, and their faces are made of powder, and their hooped skirts are empty as bells.
"Race you to the bottom of the hill," says Frances with light irony. Elizabeth starts to laugh, soundlessly. She slides her arm into the elder's and offers her whole weight. Interlocked, they set off on the infinitely slow walk down.
***
Everyone goes to the Abbey at noon. Above the great door, stone angels on ladders climb to heaven and let