Pure by Andrew Miller

Author:Andrew Miller [Miller, Andrew]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Publisher: Hachette Littlehampton
Published: 2011-06-08T23:00:00+00:00

Upstairs, shielding his candle from the dozen draughts that live in the air at the top of the house like so many secret, invisible streams, the engineer stops outside Ziguette’s room and looks down at the line of light at the bottom of her door. It is late, but he is curious to see her, this melting girl. And he would, if he is able, like to give her some reassurance. As a guest, a type of guest in this place, it surely behoves him to offer her his sympathy, and he is about to tap softly on the door when it is opened and Marie is there, the hint of a smile on her face. For a few seconds they stand, blatantly regarding each other; then she steps back to admit him.

Two candles (in addition to his own) illuminate the room: one on the dressing table, the other in a little holder of painted porcelain on the cabinet beside the bed. The room is spacious, at least three times the size of his own, and with a large shuttered window over the quiet street. Put into good order, it would be a pleasant room, the nicest in the house perhaps, but nothing here is in good order. The place appears to have been subject to a private storm, one that has whirled every dress and petticoat, every linen pocket, embroidered apron and set of stays, every mob cap and straw hat, every frill, stocking and furbelow that a cutler’s paternal love can bestow upon an only daughter, whirled it all into the air and then, suddenly ceasing, left everything to rain down in confusion. In the centre of it all, partly covered by it, is Ziguette herself, her body loosely sculpted by a linen sheet, her face flushed with a heat whose source is surely internal. (The room has only a modest fire.) She stares up at the engineer with swollen eyes, her hair – unpinned, uncovered, uncombed – spread over the bolster in a heavy blond tangle. Her mouth has a punched look, and in the stretched white of her neck he can clearly see the pulsing of her blood.

‘It is not too late, I hope, to pay a call?’

She does not answer him. He looks round at Marie, who is standing directly behind him, hands clasped at the front of her thighs, her expression now perfectly blank.

‘Your mother,’ he says, turning back to Ziguette, ‘thought you would not object. I have just come from having supper with her. Your father too, of course.’ He gestures outwards and downwards towards the sitting room. ‘I am sorry to find you unwell. Sorry if I, in any way, unwittingly . . .’

She makes a frantic gesture. Marie drags a large pot from under the bed. Ziguette retches. She does not produce much – presumably her belly is near empty – but the noise, amplified by the pot, is impressive. Marie holds the girl’s head, red fingers sunk into the yellow hair, tugging it.

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