Dead Girls by Richard Calder

Author:Richard Calder [Science Fiction]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-11-17T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

The Lilim

It was Nursie who told me of the Lilim. ‘They shall inherit the Earth,’ she said, the night-light silhouetting her profile against the wall, where it joined the shadowplay of my toys. Winding them, she would let the boys cavort about the dresser, so that the beating of tiny drums and cymbals, the clatter of tinplate limbs, has always accompanied, in my mind, the memory of her words. ‘Such pretty automatons. Pantalone, Harlequin, Pierrot... How your father spoils you! But beware of her, Peter.’ And she would pick up thrashing Columbine, image of my inamorata. ‘Beware of dead girls. Their too-red lips. Their hearts of ice.’

Then stooping, her cheeks hot with shame, she would mutter, ‘Oh dear, oh dear, this really is a man’s job,’ and initiate me into the ways of the Lilim. Like most boys I had, of course, already learned much from the smutty jokes of my schoolmates. But Nursie spoke not to edify; she spoke to warn. ‘The chambermaid,’ said Nursie, concluding her biology lesson. ‘You see too much of her. Unclean, vicious girl! Your father doesn’t understand. Don’t think of her!’ But how could I not think of her, of Titania, my living Columbine? And I asked myself then: Would Nursie tell? (But what was there to tell?) That thin, high-cheekboned profile haunting the wall, those flinty, folk-dark words, that smell of lavender water as she kissed me goodnight: Nursie chastened my dreams.

Each morning that summer the sun effervesced into my room like a champagne of lemonades. The school holidays were at the meridian, the world mine and Titania’s, and Nursie’s words like last year’s snow. Pulling the curtains, I would look down upon Grosvenor Square, environed by its big pseudo-Georgian buildings. The ruins of the old American mission stood opposite, half hidden by full-leafed elms; the scented air was murmurous with bees. That summer, my flesh stirred; my voice broke; my heart bloomed. I did not know, then, that my childhood was to end surrendered to the altar of the Lilim.

One morning it began. Titania was in the kitchen. Her uniform, which my father had designed, was inspired by Tenniel’s drawings for Alice: pinafore dress, not in the usual blue, but pink, swirling about the knees; starched apron; candy-striped stockings; and pink satin pumps. (‘And how,’ father would say, greeting her, ‘is life in Wonderland today?’) Cornflakes and a pitcher of milk awaited.

‘The land of the Seven Stars—we should go there again. Today, perhaps?’ I asked my pretty friend. ‘There’s lots of work to do-.’

‘I don’t think we should, Peter,’ she chirruped, her bird-like coloratura (‘My nightingale,’ Father would say) in contrast to the autistic face. I chewed my cornflakes wretchedly.

‘You’ve got a licence. You shouldn’t worry about Nursie.’

‘Mrs Krepelkova doesn’t like dead girls. You know that. Sometimes... sometimes I get scared.’ Turning to the sink she began to wash the pots and pans, scouring them with a cold agitation. Suddenly she froze, clutching at her stomach.

‘Can’t Father fix that for you?’ I had seen these signs before.

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