Page 2 of Unlikable

She stinks, only I can’t compare the reek coming from her to any familiar smell. I had never seen, let alone smelled, a dead person before. The smell is a mixture of rotten fish and a room whose windows and doors have been shut tight for years. Musty. Yes, musty and rotten. That is what death smells like.

My aunt Colette does not look particularly pretty either. Her right mouth corner has sunk and lingers in a disapproving pout. The deep wrinkles in her forehead seem to have been chopped into it with a crude axe. Once, Colette Huxley had been full of life. She laughed most of the day, whistling the most beautiful tunes in the process, much to my father’s annoyance, who found it annoying and not regal.

I take a step closer to the coffin. Not for the smell, but to study my aunt a little more closely. She no longer looks like herself at all. She looks stiff. Actually, she looks more like my father now because he always looks like that. Stiff.

I look at him, my father. He stands sniffling a little in an ironed handkerchief. His eyes are watery, and tears run down his light-grey beard, only to disappear into it.

“I’m really not going to miss her,” he says between sniffles, his voice hoarse, as if he had been shouting all day. “She was a disgrace to the family.”

“Is that so, Father?” I put a hand on his shoulder and pick my nose, which makes me gag. I avert my gaze quickly so I don’t have to stare at my aunt’s lifeless body. Instead, I suddenly find the wall very interesting. The mahogany shines like it has just been polished, and I wonder how many wipes are brushed over it in a day. How many staff members alone polish the walls of my aunt’s room.

“But she was your mother’s sister,” my father continues, just when I think he has no voice left. “Your mother was so fond of her.”

An unwanted lump forms in my throat upon hearing the word “mother”, making me feel as if I have swallowed sand. Slowly, I slip my hand from my father’s shoulder and take a step away from the coffin, suddenly fighting back tears. Father doesn’t talk about Mother, not ever. Whenever I try to talk about her, he avoids the subject as if her name alone is poison to his ears and often calls for my governess, Mrs Harris, only to order her to take me to my room.

Thank God Mrs Harris retired three months ago and left for Ireland to visit her family. That woman gave me the creeps.

My father misses my mother terribly. Sometimes I catch him staring at her portrait, which looms above the fireplace in the dining room, like some kind of trophy. As if Mother was a prize he once conquered but slipped between his fingers.

Diseases are terrible, especially when death is waiting for you at the end of that disease.

“Father,” my older brother, Everett, begins cautiously. He stands on the other side of the coffin, and he has shown no sign of emotion all this time.

I give my brother a warning look with my eyes. Don’t ask more about Mother , I try to tell him with that look. Father will become furious at having mentioned Mother and will realise he has brought up the forbidden subject.

“Shall we go for a walk before dinner is served?” Everett asks. “Just to get some…fresh air.” At the last two words, he looks apologetically at my aunt, who probably would have looked at him with raised eyebrows if she were alive, after which she would have burst into laughter.

My father sniffs his handkerchief one last time and folds it neatly before tucking it into his jacket. He composes himself, only his red eyes betraying that he has just cried. “Right, that was that.” He clears his throat. “Let’s go.” His hand on my lower back is a sign that we are about to leave the room, something that brings me immense relief. I don’t think I would have lasted much longer, being in the same room as my mother’s elder sister’s corpse. In the worst-case scenario, I would have vomited under the open coffin, and that is not at all ladylike.

Everett walks to the door leading to the long hall and holds it open for us. In the hall, he walks ahead of us, a metre or two, as if he can’t wait to escape the house. It feels so deserted here without my aunt’s presence.

It is a warm autumn day, and I can feel the sun burning on my skin as we enter the garden. The garden is not as big as that of our house in Canterbury, but you can wander around in it for a good hour. The maze behind Huxley House is off-limits. The hedges are an unpruned mess.

“It’s a mess here,” my father remarks disapprovingly, staring at the garden that used to look so pretty. There are branches and leaves everywhere. Weeds stick out high above the cobblestones.

Everett joins Father as I continue to walk behind them. My mind wanders to the times when Everett and I used to run through the gardens here as small children. We used to play hide-and-seek in the maze, along with my aunt’s only son, who sadly died of influenza at a young age. I never knew my uncle. He died during a battle in the Anglo-Ashanti war when I was still in my mother’s womb. My aunt never hinted if it saddened her, but she always told me that my uncle was a good man, with his heart in the right place.

I stare at my brother and my father. From the back, they look a lot alike. They have the same walk and the same stately pose. Only my brother has my mother’s face. He has sharp cheekbones you could cut a finger on, thin lips and the same nose as her, straight and ending in a curve. The same nose I have. Everett always wears his half-long blond hair in a low ponytail, a satin ribbon tied around it. My hair, on the other hand, is mahogany brown and so long that Cecile, my lady’s maid, sometimes needs half an hour to brush out the tangles.

I hear my father and Everett mumbling a conversation, but I don’t listen, not really. Their voices fade into the background as I try to imagine what my mother would have looked like now. She was only twenty-five when she died, which is only eight years older than I am now. I inherited her hands and her eye colour: blue-green.

Do I look like her when she was the same age as me?

“It’s getting a bit too hot for me,” my father’s voice suddenly sounds, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Let’s go back inside. Dinner should be ready by now.”

Everett and I don’t argue. We obey, as we always do. We are Philip and Mary Prime’s children. We behave accordingly.

· · ·

It is eerily quiet in my aunt’s huge dining room. Everett and Father sit opposite each other with eight metres of tabletop between them. I sit in the middle and poke a little with my fork in the marinated meat, which has almost the same smell as my aunt’s corpse.

“Your food is cooling down,” Father says without averting his gaze from his own plate. “Is it not to your liking?”

I look up and meet the eyes of the valet standing still at the window. He looks anxious, afraid that I indeed don’t like the food and will ask for a new plate. It is tempting to say it doesn’t taste good, just to see him rush to the kitchen in a panic, but I don’t. My hunger simply disappeared when I saw my aunt lying in that box like that.

“It’s fine,” I reply, and I put a roasted potato in my mouth, only to chew it away with difficulty. The valet breathes a sigh of relief.

Unlike me, Everett has already finished his plate, barely keeping from licking the crumbs off. With a cough, he places his cutlery neatly together and dabs his mouth with a napkin. “What time does Mr Clifton arrive, Father?”

“Tomorrow morning. So we still have plenty of time to get ready to leave. Though I expect the servants will have packed our bags when we arrive. There is not a moment to lose. The sooner they can start the renovation, the better.”

Father wants to renovate the house. There are many leaks, although I haven’t come across one yet. Also, the roof needs some work, and the walls have to be repainted. At least, that’s what the inspector told my father. According to him, the much-needed work needs to be done, otherwise the house would be too dangerous to even live in. Father agreed, after which he wrote a letter to his old friend from university about what he is planning and asking if we could spend the autumn with him so that our house can be renovated properly. I don’t know the dear man, and I don’t like the idea of sleeping in a bed other than my own this autumn.

“Then let’s finish up here quickly and go back home,” Everett suggests, staring at the cufflink dangling from his sleeve. “We can’t afford to be home late after all, making Mr Clifton wait for us.”

“Exactly,” Father agrees. “The priest will be here any minute, and then we can wrap this up.” He sounds so matter-of-fact, as if he is talking about shares rather than his late sister-in-law. It is typical of my father. He doesn’t do showing emotions, and if it does happen, he quickly recovers and pretends nothing ever happened or he covers up the painful emotions with a joke.

I put my cutlery on my half-full plate and smile at my brother, who then rolls his eyes at me. As if to say we should take Father’s mood change with a grain of salt.

The priest arrives after dinner, right on time. We let him do his work and thank the man for his blessing. My aunt’s body is buried in the small chapel at the back of the garden, and I wonder if the new residents will be respectful enough to let the body rest there.

The carriage is brought forward to take us to the station. The autumn sun is beginning to sink, creating a golden twilight. I smell the familiar horse scent as our carriage comes to a halt in front of us. My brother helps me into the carriage and takes a seat next to Father, leaving me the bench opposite. I have to shift in my seat a couple of times before I am somewhat comfortable. Despite not having eaten much, my corset seems to have tightened. I search for my hand fan, which I had left in the carriage, and sigh with relief as my fingers encircle the thing. With a “zip”, I unfold it and start gently waving it up and down. I relax a little as I feel the lukewarm air on my face.

“Is everything all right, Eleonora?” Everett asks with a crooked smile. “Is your dinner coming up?”

“I think it’s because of all the emotions,” I say quickly as I begin to suspect what’s about to happen. I can already feel the first cramp in my lower abdomen. I clamp my jaws together and blow quietly. To distract myself a little, I slide aside the curtain in front of the window to peer outside.

“Maybe you should take off your gloves; it’s already so hot,” Everett urges.

I give him a look that says he had better shut up.

“What time do you have it on your watch, Everett?” Father asks dryly, ignoring the conversation between me and Everett, thank God.

Everett takes out his gold pocket watch and flips it open. The way he does so looks very manly. “Quarter past seven, Father. It’ll take us fifteen minutes, give or take. The train leaves at eight.”

A new cramp forms in my lower abdomen, and I have to bite my cheeks to keep from moaning out in pain. I fan myself a little faster. Another three-quarters of an hour before the train leaves, then another half hour by train and then another ten minutes by carriage back to our estate. God, help me. Why do I have to have my monthly bleeding at precisely this time? It’s two days too early.

“Eleonora?” My father’s voice sounds distant. “Are you okay?”

I nod, still staring out the window.

“Women,” he mutters, and then he starts a conversation with Everett about renovating our house. Eventually, a heated discussion ensues between the two. Everett disagrees with Father’s calculations of the renovation, and Father insists that Everett should study more instead of visiting brothels. I have had to hear this discussion so many times, and no sensible conclusion ever comes out of it.

My aunt’s death seems to have been long forgotten.

I am therefore not surprised that eventually they both grow quiet and we silently continue our ride to the station. The only sound comes from the horses’ hooves.

When the carriage comes to a stop and the door is opened, I don’t know how quickly to climb out of the thing. Everett still offers me his hand, but I slap it away and lift my skirts to avoid tripping. No one should touch me at this point, or I’ll burst into screams, I’m sure. The cramps are almost unstoppable.

Our luggage is removed from the carriage and transferred into the hold of the train. The somewhat strong autumn wind blows steam from the locomotive into the crowd, where people say goodbye or greet each other again.

Everett grabs my gloved hand, and I dare not reject him this time; eyes are on us. We are obviously well-to-do with our expensive-looking attire. I have to conduct myself that way too if I want to uphold my honour.

A conductor checks our boarding passes and makes a cut with his little machine, after which we board the train. Father walks ahead of us to first class. Our compartment number is at the end of the hall, and we have to squeeze ourselves past eager travellers to get there. When Father opens the door to our compartment, I plop down on the dark-brown velvet sofa and Everett closes the door. I let out a groan of relief and pain at the same time.

Everett looks at me with raised eyebrows. He sits next to my father, and once again I have the sofa to myself. “Sister dear, are you really sure that…”

“Excuse me a moment,” I squeak back. I pull out my fan and start flapping again.

Everett and Father exchange a look. I don’t care. Let them think strange things. They are lucky they were born male. Not only do men have far more advantages in this unfair life, they just don’t understand a woman’s monthly cramps. We never talk about that; it’s taboo.

I remember very well the first time I bled down there. I was lying in bed, and I thought I was dying. No one had ever told me this would happen. I was given clean dust sheets by my servant, who told me what to do with them. Okay, I could still accept that. If all women experience this in their lives, then I was proud to be part of it. However, what shocked me the most was when my servant told me that this would recur monthly.

I was twelve at the time, and I cried for a fortnight. Until the moment my father slapped me in the face and shouted that it was enough. I was a woman from then on, and that was how I was supposed to behave.

There was no other solution but to just accept it. Still…at times like that, I missed my mother terribly. Still do.

Outside, the conductor blows his whistle, and then the last whistle of the locomotive echoes across the platform. A wave of calm falls over me.

All right, Eleonora, stay calm. You have nowhere to go now. You don’t have to get out for now. Try to make the best of it.

Then some fool outside the train suddenly starts shouting and making noise. Annoyed, I look through the window, only to see the conductor arguing with a young man. The young man appears to be drunk; it is outrageous and extremely inappropriate.

“What is happening?” Father asks, but from his spot at the window he cannot see what is going on outside.

“Someone is kicking up a fuss and wants to get on the train,” I reply with slight irritation in my voice, my eyes still on the young man. He is wearing neat clothes and looks rich. I just can’t see his face.

“Ridiculous,” Father snorts, and Everett asks about the time again.

I keep looking out of the window and notice that I am becoming increasingly annoyed with the young man.

Hurry up, hurry up. I want to get out of here.

Wide-eyed, I watch as the boy pushes a hefty wad of cash into the conductor’s hands, then boards. Well, stumbles is a better word. Another dark-skinned boy follows closely behind him.

Not much later, the train starts shaking, and we slowly get moving.