The Spider: Chapters 1-4

Meet the Bryant family.

1

Liverpool, 1892

Stepping out of the carriage to look at number five, Percy Street, Frances Bryant gasped. Her new home stood at an impressive four stories, with an ornate gabled roof and striking red brickwork. The beauty of it brought a lump to her throat. “This is our house?” she asked her husband, who was watching the nanny lift their daughter out of the carriage. The coach driver inspected the interior for any forgotten belongings and, satisfied that there was nothing there, gently closed the door, bowing to the little girl with a kind smile. 

From the outside, the house was what her mother would have described as ‘grand’. A grand house, with a green lawn, glistening white paint on the window frames and floors upon floors of space. It stood neatly contained among a row of complementary siblings, all proudly facing the street. Their gardens displayed their prosperity; their bricks displayed their wealth. 

John Bryant stood beside his wife on the pavement, placing an arm around her waist. Frances felt that at any moment, she would wake up and be back in the cottage she had shared with her mother. “It’s ours,” John said, pointing the handle of his umbrella to the tall, black varnished door that stood within a pillared porch. “You can thank Australia.” She looked up at his handsome, chiselled face. His grey eyes pierced through his tan like diamonds in the dirt. She felt a buzz of electricity power through her body as his lips landed on her cheek. She felt his moustache brush against her soft skin; although his new fashion statement tickled her, it added to his charming character, she thought. At that moment, they could have been the only people on the street, for she could see and love only him. Only one day before, it had been three years since she had last seen John Bryant. 

“It feels like a dream.” 

Birds chirped in the dense trees overhead as the driver lifted their belongings out of the back of the cab. John ensured that the old man was paid and thanked. The horses, under firm instruction, trotted into action, taking the cab back the way they had come, leaving the Bryants and their nanny on the doorstep of number five. “Shall we?” John asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“John, you’re making me nervous,” she said, taking to the steps with a giggle. He removed his hat and unlocked the door. Frances, on closer inspection, could see that it was freshly painted. “Don’t touch it darling,” she said to her little girl.

 Elspeth ‘Elsie’ Bryant was four years old. She stood in a green velvet dress trimmed with black ribbon and held the hand of her nanny, Sarah Jones. Sarah, a young woman in her late twenties, had been an agreeable choice for a nanny when Elsie was a baby. More importantly, Elsie adored her. The family had been living in a small cottage in West Derby until John returned from Australia with what he called “a small fortune,” and swiftly moved them to the eastern part of the city. 

John stepped in first, hanging his hat on the stand. The black and white tiles that decorated the hall were brand new. “They finished just yesterday,” John remarked as the women admired the craftsmanship. He hooked his umbrella on the coat stand and, as though he had lived there for years, checked himself in the hall mirror. 

“John, this house is beautiful,” Frances said, looking up at the white, high ceilings with their decorative cornices and festoons. The chandelier in the hall seemed enormous. She wanted to cry. 

To Frances’ surprise, waiting for them at the foot of the stairs were two women. The mid-morning sun had met the window of the landing, passing white beams down the stairs that silhouetted the two women at first. As her eyes adjusted to the light, Frances could see them in more detail. One was a young, thin maid with a pasty, freckled face and long, boney limbs. The other, an older lady. Both wore white lace caps and aprons. “Frances, this is our maid, Maggie,” John said, introducing the first one.

“Good morning, Ma’am,” Maggie said with a curtsey, revealing some rebellious strawberry blonde curls that tried to burst out on her return to standing upright. John raised an arm toward the older lady, “and this is Mrs Mckinnon, our housekeeper.” 

“Housekeeper?” Frances asked, taken aback by the announcement. 

“Unless you want to run all of this by yourself, of course?” John opened his arms and twirled around the hallway. Frances shook her head. She did not want to manage four stories by herself. 

“That’s wonderful,” she said. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Frances.” she said, reaching out a hand. Mrs Mckinnon took it enthusiastically. 

“It’s lovely to meet you Mrs Bryant, Ma’am.”

“Mrs Mckinnon and Maggie are with us every day except Sunday when they finish at twelve,” John added. “The gardener comes every fortnight on a Monday.” 

“Wonderful,” was all Frances could think to say. Mrs Mckinnon, almost sensing the impending silence, bent down to look at Elsie. 

“And you must be Elspeth!” Mrs Mckinnon remarked, smiling at the little blonde girl hiding behind the nanny’s skirts. 

“Elsie can be quite shy, Mrs Mckinnon,” said Sarah apologetically. 

“Ach, I’m a strange old woman today. She’ll get used to me, I’m sure.” Mrs Mckinnon rummaged in her pocket and produced a small, boiled sweet. Elsie silently approached her and took the sweet like a little bird, retreating back to her hiding spot behind Sarah. Mrs Mckinnon laughed.  

Frances took a moment to study the new housekeeper. Violet Mckinnon was a ruddy-faced Scotswoman in her fifties. She wore a tight silver bun at the nape of her neck and had a beautiful smile. She was a short, stout woman and had small, crescent glasses resting at the edge of her nose. “I wonder if anybody here likes scones? I make scones and cakes and buns, but only if everyone eats them.” 

“I’m sure that won’t be a problem you’re faced with,” said Frances, looking back at Elsie who had reappeared from behind Sarah. Mrs Mckinnon laughed again. “Let us take the bags, Ma’am.” 

Without a word, Maggie stepped forward to collect a bag and took it upstairs, silently. She was gangly and thin but clearly she had hidden strength. Frances, aware of her own clumsy tendencies, stepped back, allowing them to gather the luggage without any obstacles and watched them disappear as they ascended the staircase. 

“John,” Frances whispered, “servants?” 

He seemed surprised by her question. “Of course. I told you I wouldn’t come back unless I could give you a better life. You and Elsie, that is.” 

“We can afford servants?” 

“We can afford servants. They live downstairs in the basement, but there’s a bell in every room should you need them outside of their duties.” 

Frances stared at him for a moment. He stood before her, pristinely dressed, moustache waxed , a new pocket watch and polished shoes. She looked down at her own clothes and cringed. She wore a grey wool travelling dress and old but well-loved boots. Her daughter, she noticed, was dressed better than she was. She felt out of place in the grand house as she caught herself in the mirror. Her face, although she felt it was amiable, looked tired. 

Behind John stood a grandfather clock. Its hands were fixed on five minutes past twelve. “That’s not the time, is it?” Frances asked. John retrieved his pocket watch from his jacket and checked. 

“No, it needs winding,” he said, removing his jacket and hanging it on the stand. He set to work on it immediately. “Well, don’t wait for me. Go and explore,” he said, noticing her still standing there watching him. Sarah, without a moment’s pause, had followed Elsie out into the garden. Frances hung around for a moment longer before deciding on the parlour room. 

As she had expected, it was a grand room with elegant furniture and a decorative fireplace that made her look twice. She found herself in the centre of the room, staring at it. The mirror above it bounced the light from the window into her eyes, blinding her. Rushing over to close the drapes, she clumsily crashed into a small ornament on the window ledge. “Oh no,” she whispered as it fell onto the rug with a thud. It was a little figurine of a boy playing a flute. She inspected it quietly and sighed when she saw that he was still intact. Like a child wishing to hide their accidents from their mother, she looked over her shoulder and quietly, quickly restored him to his resting place. To her surprise, her hands were shaking. 

She shuffled out of the room and back into the hallway. The ticking of the grandfather clock could be heard now. John closed the casing and took a cigar from the box on the sideboard of the hall, lighting it with a match from his pocket. 

“Just needed winding,” he said, admiring it. “Where have you been?” 

“The parlour room, it’s beautiful.” 

“I hoped you’d like it.” 

“I do!” she exclaimed. “It’s almost as big as the entire cottage.” 

“You’ll become accustomed, I’m sure,” he said, inhaling some of the cigar and blowing it up into the air. “There’s something you might like in the drawing room. Close your eyes.” 

With his cigar fixed firmly between his lips, he took her hands in his and gently guided her to the middle of the drawing room where she stood still, waiting.She could feel her heart thumping in her chest, not knowing what she was about to see.  

“You can open them now.” 

The drawing room was large and well lit, with glass-panelled doors and a small garden outside. Frances spotted the cottage piano in the corner and clasped her hands over her mouth. John laughed at her reaction and lowered his cigar. “Well?” he asked. 

“I haven’t… I haven’t played in years.” 

Since before they were married, she realised. It looked identical to the piano that her parents had when she was growing up; it was so old that she couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t the piano she had had growing up. Frances approached it excitedly and brushed a hand across the polished wood, smiling to herself as she did so. It seemed strangely familiar, compelling her to touch it. 

“Are you going to play now?” John asked, leaning on the mantelpiece. She sat down on the stool with a thump, having misjudged the distance and after laughing at herself, lifted the lid carefully, tapping a couple of keys.

Eventually, a melody came to mind and she let her fingers explore the notes. She smiled to herself as she played.

2

Frances hadn’t noticed John’s disappearance as she played her repertoire. I don’t blame him, she thought. I’m rather unpractised. Wanting to see the rest of the house, she closed the lid over the keys and admired her piano one more time. She thought it was beautiful, but she wanted to see more of her new home and find where John had gone. With her skirts ruffling in the silence of the grand house, she ascended the stairs in search of him. 

The master bedroom waited for her at the top of the first set of stairs. Inside it hung another chandelier above a four-poster bed. Her heart stopped when she came inside the room and saw the fresh rose petals on the linen. On the dresser was a decorative wooden box. She opened it gingerly. Inside were six chocolates. She took one and nibbled it. 

She had not realised that John was waiting behind the door of the bedroom. “I hoped you’d find those,” he said, closing it behind him. She gasped, and frightened by the sudden surprise, started choking on the chocolate she had just accidentally inhaled. She had not even sensed his presence, or smelled the cigar smoke. “I’m sorry,” he said, laughing. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” The coughing finally ceased and they both laughed. 

“Do you mean to kill me, John Bryant?” 

“Absolutely not,” he purred. “I didn’t buy this house so I could be a widower in it.” He took another pull from his cigar and released the clouds of smoke into the bedroom. Frances, having never been a fan of tobacco, went over to the other end of the room and opened the sash slightly. The hustle and bustle of the city outside quietly penetrated the silence of their bedroom. Sweet summer air blew in, replacing the slight staleness with a welcome freshness. She could see the river in the distance, twinkling in the peach haze of the afternoon sun as steamships sailed across the water. Out there, grey clouds of smoke from the factories rose into the sky as though from the nostrils of a sleeping dragon. In their house on the hill, she felt like a princess, gazing down at her kingdom from the comfort of her chambers. Miles of rooftops and greenery unfolded before her, rolling into the horizon like a watercolour painting. 

“It’s really something, John. I can’t quite believe it.” She looked out at the cobbled street and thought the rows of trees were so neat, like green beacons of hope standing up against the soot-covered buildings that she had been used to seeing on the waterfront. The comforting clip clop of hooves passing by reminded her that she was really there, really at home. 

“It’s all ours. There is one condition though.” 

Frances turned to look at him. His usual playful, carefree expression was partly obscured by heavy, downcast brows. She held her breath. He looked at her concerned face and smiled. “You must come to dinner with me whenever I ask.” 

Her shoulders relaxed and she shook her head. “Oh, desist with the games, John!” She walked over to the tall, oak wardrobe and inspected its contents. Various silks, furs and gowns hung from the rail, taking her aback. She didn’t recognise any of them as hers. “John… are these–?” 

“Yours? Of course they are. If we’re going out to dinner, you’ll need new dresses.” He watched her pull out a red evening gown trimmed with lace and velvet. “I thought you’d like that one most of all.” She held it to her chest and looked at herself in the tall mirror of the wardrobe. She thought that it was beautiful; she thought that she was beautiful.

“I do like it.” 

“Well, you can wear that one this week when I take you for dinner,” he said, leaving the room. “Saturday night at the Adelphi hotel.”

Frances smiled and placed the gown back into the wardrobe delicately. As she pushed the skirt back in, she noticed that it smelled different, with a whiff of a fragrance that she didn’t recognise at first: Lavender. Realising that it had been so long since she had had new clothes, she wondered if the latest fashion was to have them made already perfumed. She looked down at her old, dull, woollen travelling gown and shrugged the notion off.

When she reached for the brass knob on the door of the bedroom, she was slowed by the sound of something creaking behind her. She sharply turned around to find that the door of the wardrobe was open, with the red skirt having unfolded and pushed its way out. She hurried back over to it and stuffed it in some more, closing the door firmly. She heard the magnet inside click and, satisfied with the second attempt at closure, left the room. 

In the next room along the landing, there was a guest bed and some furniture similar to that of her bedroom. She walked in and went straight to the window. Elsie and Sarah were in the garden; Sarah had already drawn a hopscotch grid with chalk and was hopping across the squares much to Elsie’s delight. Frances backed away from the window and sat down on the bed for a moment. The guest bedroom was another grand room, fragranced with various bowls and vases of dried flowers and herbs. Warm from the closed window and strong sunshine, Frances lay down on the bed and dozed. 

She didn’t know how long she had been sleeping for when she was awoken by the deafening whistle of the kettle. 

Downstairs, Mrs Mckinnon had served tea in the parlour room. Frances thanked her graciously and rushed to sit down and pour herself a cup. John sat on the sofa opposite, reading a paper. She leaned back and admired him over the rim of her cup. 

“See something you like?” he asked, not looking up. She laughed at having been caught. 

“Yours is a face I have not seen for a long time, John Bryant. I was trying to etch it into my consciousness,” she said quietly. He grinned and put the paper down on the coffee table. 

“I’m not going anywhere, you know. At least not until winter.” 

“By then it shall be too soon.” 

“Are you happy here?” 

“Incredibly so.” 

“Did you enjoy your sleep?” 

“I didn’t know I needed it.” 

“It pleases me to see how relaxed you feel here. I was worried you’d hate it.” 

“Why?” 

“You were so used to the cottage. You were so used to your mother.” 

“She’ll be all right. I’ve invited her here on Wednesday.” 

“Oh?” 

“Don’t look at me like that, John. She ought to see the house, don’t you think?” 

“I suppose. I wonder if I have an appointment on that day… all day perhaps,” he said, rubbing his chin. 

“John!” 

“I’m teasing. I hope she likes it. Perhaps I’ll go up in her estimations, who knows?” 

Frances smiled and shook her head. “She must be impressed. It’s not every day your daughter’s husband returns from the other side of the world and surprises her with a house and servants.”

“Good. It’s all for you, you know.” He sipped his tea and looked around the room. “I wanted it to be like new, as though I was bringing my new bride to her first house.”

“We can pretend that that is exactly what this is.” 

“If you say so.” He winked and reached for his paper again. “You like it then?” 

“I think it’s splendid,” she said, fixing her gaze on the ornate mantelpiece once more. She was happier than she could find the words to express; not wanting to ruin the peace of the moment, she suppressed any further questions about Australia or his long absence and, knowing she had little will left to avoid talking about it, filled her twitching mouth with tea instead of words. 

The clock in the hallway began to chime, which surprised Frances as she glanced at the mantle clock that said it was half past two in the afternoon. The chimes continued. She listened, counting them. 

“That blasted clock,” John said, slamming the paper down on the table. “It’s stuck on twelve again.” 

“Perhaps we need it mended,” she said. 

“Perhaps we need it hammered to pieces,” he said, rolling his sleeves up. With a look of disdain, he marched out of the room. 

3

Frances, having not yet explored the nursery, ventured upstairs. When she reached the top of the second staircase, she found that there was a long landing with only one door at the end. The long wall was adorned with various paintings of people and places. Much smaller copies of famous works by Monet and more recent impressionists whose names she couldn’t remember stood proudly, overlooking the highest floor of the house in gilded frames. 

“Elsie?” she asked, “are you there?” She slowly approached the panelled door and listened first. Frances reached for the knob and turned it clockwise. The door opened with ease as she peered in to see an empty nursery. 

  Frances looked across the room to the open window, still unable to accept that this was her view now. Across the street, there were passers by walking on the pavement and conversing outside the church. Horses trotted past carrying various loads, nodding as they pulled their carriages, trams and carts to their destinations. Everything was as expected, but a part of her felt that it would all fall away and reveal itself to have been merely a trick: something that could have been, not something that was. 

Burying the doubt once more, she turned around to look at the nursery again. It looked as though Sarah and Elsie had already explored their new rooms, placing their things on the beds and changing out of their travel clothes. Frances picked up Elsie’s little green dress from the bed and hung it in the wardrobe that stood against the partition wall to Sarah’s bed. Frances, on closer inspection, thought that the side room where Sarah slept was cleverly designed; Elsie could have her own room with her nanny always within arm’s reach. 

Unlike other parts of the house, it was not the fumes of fresh paint that reached her nostrils in this room, it was a floral fragrance. As with her bedroom on the first floor, there were bundles of potpourri stationed on every surface, resting in little dishes on dressers and above the wardrobe. They smelled of rosemary and lavender. She thought of the red dress and suspected that there was potpourri in her wardrobe, too. 

The teddy bears and rocking horse reminded her of her own nursery when she was small. She pushed the horse gently and watched it glide back and forth on its runners. Its expression, although carved and permanently set, seemed cheerful. 

She loved the nursery. It had plenty of room for play. As she admired the teddy bears of various shapes, colours and sizes, Frances wondered if they would have any more children to fill the enormous room with. Elsie had been their only child due to John’s work arrangements. The thought of being alone for several years more made her shudder. She wondered if that was over now as she examined the toys and the furniture in the room. There were so many toys. Too many for one girl. 

The little bed where her daughter would sleep had a curtained canopy. Elsie had called it a “princess bed.” Frances sat down on it and admired the decor and linens of the room. John really had thought of everything. Rows of pretty dolls sat against a wall, each decorated with their own frilly frocks, bows and bells. Frances admired them all, wondering how much John had had to pay for them. He hadn’t discussed specific numbers but, judging from the clothing she had seen and the house he had just moved them to, she felt that it must have been enough to buy all of these toys as well. She picked one of the little dolls up and held it. It had tight black curls and blue glass eyes that stared back at her. 

“That’s Blissy,” said a little voice behind her. Frances felt her heart leap and kick back into action again as she looked down at her daughter. 

“Goodness, you scared Mummy, sweetheart.” 

“Blissy is new. She has lots of sisters,” Elsie said calmly. She was wearing a lighter, blue frock with a broderie anglaise skirt. It was incredibly similar to the frilly dress that Blissy was wearing. Frances looked back at her daughter and then at the dolls sitting against the wall. 

“Oh she certainly does, doesn’t she? How are they all feeling about the new house?” 

“It’s not new for them,” Elsie said. Frances felt her blood run cold. “They’ve been here for a long time.”  

Their strange conversation was abruptly executed when the little bell on the wall of the nursery rang. Frances, not knowing what it meant, slowly approached the landing, held her breath and listened. Downstairs, she could hear the kettle whistling again. 

Frances sat at the kitchen table with Elsie while Sarah prepared supper for her, making some tea for Frances in the process. Frances thanked her and took the cup gratefully, sipping on the steaming liquid. Despite the summer evening sunshine outside, she felt chilled to the bone. 

“Ach, you should have let me do that, Sarah,” said Mrs Mckinnon, entering the room with a basket of fruit and vegetables in her arms. She laid it down on the kitchen table. Elsie’s eyes lit up at the sight of cherries, which rested with their shiny red skins atop cabbages and turnips. Mrs Mckinnon wiped her hands on her apron and poured a cup for Sarah. “Tomorrow, I’ll bake some scones,” she said. “How would you like that, Elsie?” 

Elsie nodded. 

“Good.”

“Thank you, Mrs Mckinnon,” Frances said, looking at the basket of food, “that would be nice.” 

“I can’t wait to sleep in the princess bed,” Elsie said, eating her toast. 

Frances thought of Elsie’s pretty little bed. “When I was a little girl, I’d have loved nothing more than a princess bed,” she replied. “You are a very lucky girl, Elsie. Daddy bought this house and decided that you would have a princess bed. How lucky you are.” 

“Maybe Daddy is a king.” 

“Maybe he is.” 

“And Mummy is a queen.” 

Frances brought the cup to her lips and, in a moment of absentmindedness, scalded her top lip on the tea. She flinched and licked her lip, lowering the cup back down to the table. As she blew tendrils of steam away from it, she noticed something laced around the inside of the china cup: it looked like a crack. She blew some more until it was safe to investigate with a finger. On closer inspection, she saw a long thread of dark brown hair with amber flecks that caught the fading light of the sun. Sarah, who had been watching in horror, apologised. “I didn’t see, ma’am.” 

Frances looked around at her daughter and Sarah. Sarah’s mousy, light brown hair was tied up in a braid; mother and daughter were blonde; Mrs Mckinnon’s hair was unquestionably grey. 

Later that evening, Frances came to say goodnight to Elsie in the nursery. When she reached the top step of the landing, she smiled at the sound of Elsie’s little voice, deep in conversation with someone. Frances crept around the corner to see if she could catch a glimpse of the imaginary discussion, as she always enjoyed doing. Elsie was talking to a teddy bear on her bed. Sarah was on the other side of the room folding clothes into a drawer. 

“It’s time to go to sleep, Finn,” she heard her daughter say to the bear. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” 

Frances’ stomach sank with sadness at the thought of anyone being afraid of the dark. She wondered if the bear was acting as a vessel for her daughter’s worries and decided to step in. “Nobody’s afraid of the dark in here, are they?” 

Elsie shook her head. “Finn was, but he’s not any more.” 

“I’m glad to hear it, Finn.” Frances looked down at the tatty golden bear in her daughter’s arms. 

“Mummy,” Elsie began, “are you afraid of the dark?” 

“No, darling. I’m not afraid of the dark.” 

“Mary is.” 

“Is she?” 

“Yes. The dark is when she’s alone.” 

Frances’ and Sarah’s eyes met, locking for a moment. Sarah feigned a smile and said, “I’m sure Mary will be fine, Elsie. Don’t worry about such things.” She closed the drawer and came to the bedside. “Give your Mummy a kiss and say goodnight. We have church tomorrow, don’t forget. A piano lesson, too.” 

Frances leaned in and kissed Elsie’s forehead. “Goodnight sweetheart.” 

“Goodnight, Mummy.” 

Frances nodded to Sarah and left the room, closing the nursery door behind her. The sconces on the landing flickered slightly with the backdraft of the closed door, casting long, erratic shadows across the walls.

The dark is when she’s alone. 

 Frances shook her head. “Childish nonsense,” she whispered to herself. 

She descended the staircase and shot a look across her shoulder despite herself. The landing was still, with a sliver of golden light stretching from underneath the nursery door. She went downstairs in silence. 

4 

Frances wasn’t sure what time it was when she awoke to the muffled sound of Elsie talking to Sarah upstairs. She pulled a robe over her nightgown and crept up to the top floor to see her. When she opened the door, she found that she was walking into an early morning tea party. A selection of dolls and bears sat around a picnic of tin teapots, plates, cups and saucers. Elsie was talking to Finn again when she noticed her mother standing in the room. 

“Good morning,” she said, kneeling down to kiss Elsie on the head. “Is there room for me?” Elsie nodded. Frances sat down beside a doll she recognised: Blissy. It looked up at her as usual, with an expressionless, wide-eyed face as only a doll could. Frances, deciding to focus on something else, looked over to the alcove which led to Sarah’s room. “Good morning, Sarah,” she said, a little louder than how she’d greeted Elsie. There was no response. 

“Sarah is downstairs,” Elsie said, pouring an imaginary cup of tea for her mother. The tea set was one of the only possessions Elsie had brought with her, shipped as a birthday gift from London on behalf of her father, a year before. 

“Is she? I thought I heard you talking to her?”

“I was talking to Mary.” 

Frances, refusing to accept that she had distinctly heard a woman’s voice, looked around at the dolls to see which one could be Mary. Without their distinct hair colours, they all looked the same; they were bland, with white faces and thick black eyelashes. “Which one is Mary?” she asked, pointing at the sea of shining faces.

“Mary isn’t a doll, Mummy.” Elsie looked up at her with a patronising tilt of her head. “Mary is a lady, like you.” 

A sudden, loud clap caused Frances to jump and drop the cup onto the picnic blanket. It was the cuckoo clock, sending a chirping mechanical bird out into the room, flapping its blue wings and dipping its body up and down. It was seven o’ clock. 

“Oh, Mrs Mckinnon is probably making breakfast. We must get ready for church,” Frances said, swiftly departing from the tea party. “Please get dressed.” 

In the bathroom of the first floor, John was shaving in the mirror as Frances passed. He was naked from the waist up with a face covered in shaving soap. “The moustache isn’t going to church?” she asked, watching him gently slide the blade across his top lip, stopping to perform small, precise scrapes under his nose. He rinsed the razor in the sink and started the process again. 

“It’ll grow back if I change my mind.” His reflection winked at her. She leaned on the door frame. 

“I think I preferred it. It will look rather interesting, that white mouth against a tanned face.” 

“I’ll just have to tan there, too.” The blade gleamed in the light of the morning sun as it glided up his neck and the outline of his jaw bone, exposing his skin that had briefly hidden under the white mask. “We had some fine weather last week. Perhaps it will carry on this week.” 

“Chance would be a fine thing.” 

“Indeed it would,” he said, smiling. His hands looked like long, tan gloves against his white torso.

 “You look like a butcher,” she remarked. 

“A butcher?” he asked, raising his eyebrows ironically. “I thought this was what they call a farmer’s tan,” he said, flashing a grin. “You say such mean-spirited things to me, Frances. I’ll have to whip you.” He fixed his gaze on her as she held onto the door frame. She laughed and quickly ran across the landing. The razor clattered in the sink as he discarded it and chased after her. 

They met their neighbours and the local vicar at the church. The Swinsons from number 7 greeted them in earnest, making the biggest impression on Frances out of all the other parishioners. Edward Swinson informed them several times that he was a doctor, belonging to a surgery on Duke street. Frances’ cheeks ached from the repeated smiles as he spoke. Although he was a friendly man, with a white, neatly trimmed beard and a comically red, bulbous nose, the Bryant’s felt that Dr Swinson would have continued speaking had they been there or not. At one point, Frances felt that they were the last people on earth, enduring the aftermath of letting everyone else escape a meeting with Dr Swinson. 

 In the several attempts at finding an escape with her eyes, Frances had clocked Mrs Swinson– a woman in her sixties, who eyed the Bryant’s with a keen, interrogative stare. “You all seem so familiar!” she said, looking down over a hooked nose. Frances laughed nervously and looked up at John who was smiling and putting his hat on. 

“That’s not possible, unless you are also from West Derby?” she asked. Mrs Swinson shook her head. 

“We’re from Manchester, originally,” she said, fastening her jacket. “We moved here five years ago to open the new surgery. Are you registered with a doctor?” 

I will be if I die from boredom today, Frances thought. 

“Not yet. Perhaps we should register with you!” John suggested. The Swinsons laughed heartily, and Dr Swinson handed him a card which he took gratefully. She thought he was the most wonderful, patient man in the world as he laughed with them and shook their hands. 

“Well, I’m a family doctor, if ever you need one.” Dr Swinson looked down at little Elsie who was clutching a doll in her arms. “Or if Polly dolly should ever get sick,” he said with a wink. Elsie turned the doll around to show him Emmie, her golden-haired porcelain doll. “She looks like she’s in good health, though. What a good nurse you must be!” 

They descended the church steps together and walked into the park that separated the church from their street. Sarah and Elsie walked ahead and sat down on a bench nearby. The Swinsons bade their farewells to the remaining clergy and shuffled across the cobbles back to Percy street. John watched them walk away and, leaning into his wife’s ear, quietly said “he is a doctor, you know.” Frances covered her mouth with a gloved hand and looked at the floor. “He didn’t ask you a single thing about yourself,” she observed. 

“They think they already know us. Did you catch Mrs Swinson’s stare?” 

“Yes. I thought she was going to reveal that she was a neighbour from home.” 

“I did, too. She wouldn’t take her eyes off me,” he said, adjusting his hat. 

“Perhaps she thinks you’re a filthy criminal who escaped from the Australian prison camp.” 

“How do you know I didn’t?” he asked with a wink. 

“Stop it. Imagine the scandal,” she said, half-flushed. “There’s enough of that in the papers.” 

“What do you want to do today, anyway?” he asked, changing the subject. The river snaked in the distance, its scales catching the light of the mid-morning sun. “What do people around here do on Sundays when they don’t have front steps to wash?”