Page 3 of Unlikable

Impatiently, I stood waiting in front of the water closet door. It was not my intention to change myself on a wobbly train, but when I noticed I was starting to drip, I had no choice. Getting off a train with blood running down your legs is something you prefer to avoid.

For the third time, I knock on the door, which has been closed since I arrived here. I know the lavatory is not empty because three times a voice answers that I should just wait my turn nicely.

A new cramp forms in my lower abdomen, and I groan in pain. I feel dirty and helpless. Once more I knock on the door, this time a little harder and longer.

No answer.

“It is highly inappropriate to keep a lady waiting so long!” I say with an urgent tone in my voice. “Open the door immediately. I swear I will otherwise…”

A loud click sounds, then the door opens. Not quite, just a little bit. Relieved, I straighten my back until I see who appears in the doorway. It’s him, the drunk guy from the platform. I recognise his long coat and his black hair, which curls against his temples. His bright green eyes are dull, as if the alcohol is still doing its job.

“Or else what?” he snarls, taking me in from head to toe. From the look on his face, he is not much older than me.

Insulted and speechless, I take a step backwards until my back touches the wall of the train. “I…”

The door is opened a little more. Stale air comes out as a result. A slender woman’s hand encircles the door, after which another face emerges.

“We’re busy,” giggles the girl who appears next to the boy. Her red-painted lips are swollen, and her hair is tangled. Her cheeks have pink blushes, as if she has been running a marathon.

I turn my head away disapprovingly and feel my face heat up. “Well, I’m sorry to interrupt your moment, but I would really like to take advantage of…”

“You can also just throw your rear over the rail of the train.” The young man grins and then clears his throat, making his voice sound a little firmer as he asks, “Or can it wait a little longer?”

“This is absurd,” I exclaim. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

He snorts. “Do I want to know?”

The girl with him in the lavatory takes in my attire and then looks back at her company. “You know, it was fun, but I also need to get back to my husband before he starts thinking strange things.” She pushes the door open a little further, corrects her skirts and then presses one last kiss on the boy’s cheek. Her red lipstick leaves an imprint. “I hope I get to meet you again.” She giggles, and as she steps out of the water closet, she nods extremely politely in my direction, then walks away and disappears from sight.

I blink and try to put into perspective what has just happened. I don’t have much time to think about it because a new cramp plays up and makes me half bend over in pain.

“Oh, you don’t have to bow down to me.” The boy laughs mockingly.

I straighten my back and give him a faint smile. I am so not in the mood to make a rebuttal and start a new discussion.

The boy takes a step outside the closet but then seems to change his mind at lightning speed. He turns back inside and throws out his entire stomach contents. The sounds coming out of him are disgusting, and the idea that I have to change myself in a lavatory where he has just been seducing that trollop and coughed up his food makes me nauseous.

I can’t. I can’t go in there…

Again, I feel the insides of my thighs getting damp.

I groan. I have to.

A few seconds later, the boy steps out of the lavatory. He averts his eyes and wipes the corners of his mouth with his sleeve.

I hesitate. The smell coming from the water closet just screams that I should go back to my compartment.

“Where are you now?” suddenly sounds an unfamiliar and deep voice. The dark-skinned boy appears in the hall. He looks worried. “We’re almost there; you don’t look ready.”

“I’m already coming, Jonathan,” the other boy replies.

His fellow traveller, Jonathan, only then seems to notice me and nods hesitantly but politely in my direction.

I nod back just as hesitantly, then hold my breath and step into the closet. I lock the door and do my best not to vomit as I take in the surroundings. It is incredibly filthy. There is a hole in the floor where you can do your business. Around and on the edges of that hole are remains of excrement mixed with bits of stomach contents.

God, what have I done to deserve this?

I look around me for paper I can use. Nothing. Fantastic.

I force myself not to think about what I’m doing, lift up my skirts and tear a piece of fabric from the bottom one with brute force. Hastily, I wipe along my legs. Oh, this is so not ladylike.

I throw the rag out through the hole, then tear another strip of fabric from my bottom skirt and roll it up into a ball. I tuck my improvised menstrual cloth into my pants, then quickly leave the cubicle. Just in time, as the train slows down and, looking through the window, I see that we are entering Canterbury West station.

· · ·

My relief is great as we drive through Canterbury’s west gate. We pass St Peter’s main street, where shopkeepers have already closed their doors. By now it is dark outside. Candles are lit, and parents shout to their children to come inside. Our carriage comes to a halt several times to let other carriages pass in front. Near St George’s Street, I regain my composure. We are almost there, just a few more streets and then we drive onto our estate.

Everett looks at me, smiling. “Are you still holding on, little sister? I can’t remember ever seeing you so relieved. Was the journey tiring?”

I nod. “I’ll spare you the details.”

Not much later, we leave the cobblestones behind and switch to sand and pebbles. The horses suddenly seem to have more energy now that they know they are almost home. I understand their joy all too well.

Seeing the grotesque, wrought-iron fences that surround our estate always gives me a warm feeling. This is the estate where I grew up. Where Mother was happy in the few years she lived.

The torches illuminating the path to the house burn welcomingly. I sit up slightly straighter and smooth my skirts. Fortunately, you can’t see that the bottom skirt is completely ruined. What would the servants think of me?

Father does not fail to notice my strange behaviour. “In a hurry?” he asks with a sigh.

“I can’t wait to take a bath,” I explain, and when the carriage comes to a stop, the door is opened and the coachman holds out his hand to help me out. I almost burst into tears of relief and fatigue. The fresh and clean evening air invades my nose and seems to embrace me. My footsteps make noise in the gravel, and I climb the steps leading to the large, double front door.

At the front door stands Gemma Jones, the housekeeper. Next to her are four other servants, including my lady’s maid, Cecile. They all look like they haven’t slept for days, except Mrs Jones, who never looks tired. I know Mrs Jones works incredibly hard, besides giving orders, but it seems like that woman never needs sleep. She is already in her late fifties and has the stamina of a racehorse.

“Gentlemen, Miss Prime,” Mrs Jones greets us, and she nods to the other servants, who immediately move in and get our things out of the carriage. “Did you have a good journey?”

Father nods briefly and gets into a conversation with her about the temporary move.

“Don’t worry, Mr Prime. I’ve sorted the stuff, and I’ll make sure everything you need leaves with you for Mr Clifton’s estate.”

Everett also stays to join the conversation. I don’t. I have better things to do, so I rush inside, where the huge hall is lit with oil lamps and full of crates of our belongings. Some rooms had to be cleared for renovation, and some of the stuff has to go with them to Mr Clifton’s estate. After all, I shouldn’t think about my violin being left here or me misplacing certain items of clothing later.

Cecile comes rushing after me with my suitcase and drags it up the marble stairs to the top.

“Will you prepare a bath for me, Cecile?” I ask when I am upstairs and walk to the bathroom. “I’m so ready.”

“Of course, milady. Any aroma preferences?”

I turn to her and give her a smile, which takes a lot of effort on my part thanks to sudden spasms. “You know what I like.”

“Lilies, milady?”

“As always.”

Cecile immediately prepares the bath for me. She uses gas to bring the water to temperature and helps me out of my corset and many skirts. She says nothing about the tears in the bottom skirt, but I can see that her gaze lingers on it for a moment.

“Throw those away, Cecile.”

“Yes, milady.” She swallows and crams the fabric into a ball. She grabs my makeshift menstrual cloth between her thumb and forefinger. If she finds this embarrassing or annoying, she knows how to hide it well.

Cecile starts removing the pins from my hair. This seems to take forever. Finally, my hair falls over my shoulders like a greasy veil and tickles my back.

“I will unpack your suitcase and make your bed.”

I watch her until she has left the room and closes the door behind her, after which I dip my feet into the warm water one by one. I give my body time to get used to the temperature, just for a moment, because I want to lie down. With a relieved sigh, I lower myself into the water, then close my eyes.

“God, I was so ready for this,” I whisper to myself. I move my legs up and down to get a little warmer. The clatter of drops falling back into the bath is hypnotic.

What a trip. This day does not top my list of best days of all time. It was exhausting, both mentally and physically. The fact that people can be so rude is truly horrifying.

My thoughts wander unintentionally to the boy and girl hanging around each other’s necks. I feel the blood rise to my cheeks, open my eyes and sit up straight in the water. Don’t think about it, Eleonora. Those are very wrong and inappropriate thoughts.

For a while, I sit like this. Normally, I can enjoy a bath for hours, but there are too many thoughts in my head this time.

“Cecile?”

The door opens, and the friendly face of my lady’s maid emerges. “Yes, milady?”

“I have finished bathing.”

“Already, milady?”

I fall silent and get up. Cecile fixes her gaze on the ground as she walks towards me, grabs a towel from the shelf and wraps it around me. When I step out of the bath and feel the cool tiles under my feet, blood starts dripping again.

“Moment, milady.” Cecile looks around hurriedly and then grabs a newspaper from the stool beside the bath. She places it on the floor and then looks at me apologetically. “I have already packed almost all your things. Including your…”

“No worries.” I smile stiffly. I step on the newspaper and breathe shakily. Then my eyes fall on the drawing on the front page of the paper. My stomach turns.

It is a drawing of a woman. A dead woman. Can she still be called a woman? She looks elderly but young at the same time. Her eyes have been removed from her face. The headline above the drawing reads: “Body found again of young woman. Perpetrator unknown. A pattern seems to be developing. Should we fear a second Jack the Ripper?”

I look away from the newspaper, into the eyes of Cecile, who then also stares at the drawing and squeals. “Heavens, I’m sorry, milady! I totally hadn’t seen that…”

“From when is this paper?”

“From today, milady.”

“Take these to my room.”

Cecile presses her lips together. Her cheeks turn red.

“Is there a problem?”

“It’s just…” She clears her throat. “Your father wouldn’t want you to read this. He has forbidden you to read the newspaper.”

True. But that has been true all my life. I can read, play the piano, violin, write, you name it. I was taught to read so that I can read along to the texts in church, so that I can recite poems in company, but not to gain more knowledge of the world. That is a job for men, I was told.

And I am an exemplary daughter, so I behave and do what is asked of me. When people are watching, at least. I know the books under the shelf in my room have to go. I know I can’t even think of opening them. I know I can no longer burden Cecile by asking favours to provide me with new reading material, but it is that urge in my heart that tells me, nay, begs me to get on with it. To develop myself.

On reflection, I am a terrible daughter.

I know I am fooling myself as long as I think “what I don’t know won’t hurt me”.

“My room, Cecile,” I insist politely. I wrap the towel a little tighter around me and leave the bathroom with my legs pressed together.

· · ·

THE SOUTH EASTERN GAZETTE

MAIDSTONE GAZETTE, KENTISHE COURANT, SURREY NEWS, AND ADVERTISER FOR KENT, SURREY, AND SUSSEX

ANOTHER BODY FOUND. AGAIN A YOUNG WOMAN. PERPETRATOR UNKNOWN. A PATTERN SEEMS TO BE DEVELOPING. SHOULD WE FEAR A SECOND JACK THE RIPPER?

Canterbury, 3 November 1889— In recent months, nine bodies of missing women have turned up in and around the Canterbury area. The ages of these women range between fifteen and twenty-eight. The perpetrator’s motive is as yet unknown. A recurring pattern is that the women’s eyes have been very carefully removed. For this reason, authorities suspect that the perpetrator has knowledge of surgical operations.

While bodies have been found each time in non-crowded places such as rivers, roadsides and remote paths, that is not the case with this body. The woman, now identified as Felicity Johnson (3), was found on the early morning of November in the heart of Canterbury, in front of the entrance to The Duke’s Head, our city’s best-loved pub. The owner of the pub does not have a good word to say about this atrocity.

Investigators noticed that Miss Johnson, in the few weeks that she was missing, had undergone a transformation. Her body aged years on both the inside and outside and can be compared to that of a 70-year-old woman.

Johnson is this killer’s ninth victim. Police are assuming there’s only one perpetrator, judging by the external condition in which the women are found. A motive is still being speculated on. Among the citizens of Canterbury, the killer has been dubbed “Jack the Ripper .0” or “Junior R”. Police are asking everyone to keep their wives and daughters off the streets at dusk and keep their ears and eyes on alert. As long as Junior R is on the loose, no woman is safe.

I only read through the article once; that’s all I need to see. That’s all I want to know. There is a killer on the loose in Canterbury, and this gruesome fate that befell Felicity Johnson and eight others could happen to me too. I crumple the newspaper into a wad before tucking it under the loose shelf in the floor near my secret stack of books. After pushing the shelf back into place, I walk to my bed. A candle still burns on my dresser by the window, but no way will I extinguish the only source of light.

I crawl onto the bed, quickly pulling my feet up the mattress and draping the sheets over me, afraid some monster will grab my ankles if I leave my feet on the floor for too long. I listen to the branches of the oak tree softly tapping on the window. Even though I know where the tapping is coming from, it scares me. Right now, everything frightens me.

I toss and turn, trying to get comfortable on my back, my right side, my left side, my stomach. After turning about twenty times, I fall onto my back and poke my head above the sheets to gasp for air.

It reminds me of when I was a kid. Everett could tell the scariest bedtime stories, and he was only too happy to do so. He liked to scare the heck out of me. At night, he would sneak into my room with a candle in his hands, holding the flame under his chin so he looked even scarier. The stupid thing was, I wanted to hear his stories because I was curious. Only when he finished his story and left the room did fear strike. Each and every night.

When my mother asked me why I was crying at her bedside almost every night, I confessed that Everett told me ghost stories. I did not receive the comfort I expected. I was only told that curiosity is good but that the answers I seek will not always be reassuring. “An ignorant person is happiest,” she then told me.

I was five years old when she said that to me. Back then, I didn’t understand what she was trying to tell me. I thought it was a stupid answer. They were not the words I was looking for, not comforting enough for a five-year-old child with nightmares.

The tapping of branches against my window weakens. The wind dies down. The flame of the candle burns quietly on. I close my eyes and try to ignore the cramp in my lower abdomen.

Now I understand all too well what she meant and find that I still haven’t learnt anything in that area. My curiosity still takes over. My obsession with riddles and stories continues to grow. I curse myself often enough when this curiosity takes hold of me because every time I find out the answer, it terrifies me. So too now. Asking Mother for advice is impossible now. Feeling her hands comforting my crown is only a fantasy. Mother died just before my sixth birthday and in the process also took all the light in the world with her.