Bodies of Water

  Bodies of Water

  After ministering to fallen women in Victorian London, Evelyn has suffered a nervous breakdown and finds herself treated by the Water Doctors in the imposing Wakewater House, a hydropathy sanatorium.

  Years later, Wakewater House is renovated into modern apartments and Kirsten moves in, fresh from a break up and eager for the restorative calm of the Thames. But her archivist neighbour, Manon, fills her head with the river’s murky past and with those men of science and art who were obsessed with the drowned women who were washed up on its banks.

  As Kirsten learns more about Wakewater’s secrets, she becomes haunted by a solitary figure in the river and increasingly desperate to understand what the water wants from her.

  PRAISE FOR PREVIOUS WORK

  ‘V.H. Leslie’s fiction builds in intensity, but at the same time possesses a strange, silky kind of calm.’ —Conrad Williams, author of The Unblemished

  ‘The strange and vivid worlds in V.H. Leslie’s stories have a nightmarish fairy tale quality to them.’ —Alison Moore, author of The Lighthouse

  ‘Tales of quiet unease, enigmatic, beautifully told, varied and darkly poetic. Your trepidation with a V.H. Leslie story is not that you might be disappointed but rather the thrill of just how good it is going to be.’ —Stephen Volk, author or Whitstable

  Bodies of Water

  V. H. Leslie’s stories have appeared in Black Static, Interzone, Shadows and Tall Trees and Strange Tales IV and have been reprinted in a range of ‘Year’s Best’ anthologies. 2015 saw the release of her short story collection, Skein and Bone. In 2013 she won the Lightship First Chapter Prize and was a finalist for the 2014 Shirley Jackson Award for her novelette, ‘The Quiet Room’. She has also been awarded fellowships at Hawthornden Castle and the Saari Residence.

  Published by Salt Publishing Ltd

  12 Norwich Road, Cromer, Norfolk NR27 0AX

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © V.H. Leslie, 2016

  The right of V.H. Leslie to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Salt Publishing.

  Salt Publishing 2016

  Created by Salt Publishing Ltd

  This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN 978-1-78463-072-0 electronic

  For my mother, across the water.

  1

  Kirsten

  She needed to be close to the water.

  It was a realisation that had struck her almost forcibly as she’d stood in one of the part-renovated flats belonging to the Wakewater Apartments development, or what would become Wakewater Apartments, once the restoration and modernisation was complete. But Kirsten had hardly noticed the interior. It was the view that drew her interest, the kind of view that she’d never be able to afford closer to the heart of the city. There the Thames was engirdled by concrete and metal, homogenous tower blocks lining the water’s edge, houseboats and converted barges crowding the surface like some ready fleet. The people there were stacked upon one another, tolerating such confined living in their need to be close to the river. They had their exclusive view, but so did everyone else who could afford it. The water wasn’t able to meander by without being watched by the whole of London.

  But here, the Thames was surrounded by hedgerows and fields. Kirsten had looked out at the river and only its glassy surface had stared back. The opposite bank wasn’t teeming with buildings but edged with trees and brambles. It was hard to believe that this same water ran all the way to the centre of the city, to those dense, overcrowded pockets where life swarmed. It was a relief being at a distance from it all. Though her commute would be longer, here, the river was entirely hers.

  It was easy to overlook everything else. The flat was in quite a run-down state, in a large Victorian building that had been equally neglected. The developers were only renovating this one wing, so just a handful of flats would be made available initially before the rest of the building was restored. The refurbished wing would act as a model for the rest of the development – a show home. Beneath her hardhat, Kirsten tried to imagine the space painted and decorated, furnished with her things. But she kept returning to the view. Perhaps she’d been landlocked for too long. She hadn’t known that she’d missed the water so much.

  The estate agent expected the flats to sell quickly, mostly off plan. Kirsten knew it was a sales ploy to impose this sense of urgency, but she really couldn’t bear the idea of missing out on such a prospect, quite literally. She dismissed her usual caution, letting it drift out the window where it floated away down the river. She wasn’t even put off by the fact there was, as yet, no fitted kitchen, or that the ceiling leaked in the bedroom. As the water splashed against her hardhat, it only seemed to drive the point home. She needed to be close to the water.

  ‘It’ll be water-tight by the time you move in,’ the estate agent had assured her, the assumption being that she would move in. Perhaps this language of certainty was another sales technique, or maybe he had noticed that she kept walking away from him when he was talking, to gaze back out the window. Either way, Kirsten had secured the property later that day.

  It was with a sense of apprehension that Kirsten made her way back along the drive towards Wakewater Apartments on the day of exchange, the keys to her new home sitting in the envelope on the dashboard. It had been months since that first decisive visit and though the estate agent had warned her that progress on the main building had stopped – due to some hold up with the planning office – she wasn’t quite prepared for what she saw. The site, which had previously been filled with vehicles and JCBs was now deserted. There were no men carrying ladders or laying cables, the drive was free of building materials and Portacabins. Strangely, without this veneer of activity, the building looked sadly exposed – uneasy.

  Yet, minus the scaffolding, Kirsten could see what an imposing building it must have been once. Hadn’t the estate agent said it had been some kind of hospital? It was certainly big enough. Much bigger than she remembered, now that it wasn’t dwarfed by workmen and upheaval. It still possessed whispers of its former glory: the grand front entrance, comprised of pediment and pilasters; the gothic-style tracery around the windows. It wasn’t just its size that gave the impression of grandeur; it had a sense of integrity.

  She drove around to the newly-renovated wing, parking in the recently-tarmaced space that was allocated to her. She felt better already. The west wing was much smaller and the façade was less ornate, more approachable, modernised with fresh paint and box privet. Wakewater Apartments was inscribed in blue lettering above the modest entrance.

  But as Kirsten got out of the car, she realised that none of the other parking spaces were occupied. It was a weekday; the other residents would surely be at work. For a moment though, she wondered if she were alone here. It had never occurred to her that she might be the first one to move in. She looked up at Wakewater Apartments, a building that was essentially a mansion, encircled by its own stately grounds. She couldn’t see beyond the trees that lined the drive. She hadn’t considered quite how remote it was, and quite how unsettling it could be if there was no
one else to share it with.

  It was with a sense of relief that she heard the sound of an engine and turning she saw the removal van making its way up the drive. The prospect of a pair of heavy-set removal men, armed with all her belongings, made the place instantly less daunting. Kirsten made her way to the entrance and propped the door open before taking the stairs to the third floor. Outside her own front door she struggled with the lock; it would be new, the key freshly cut. It wasn’t well worn with age like the older parts of the building. It was modern and rigid, unyielding, as if wanting to keep some of Wakewater’s secrets all to itself. Hearing the removal men on the stairs, Kirsten redoubled her efforts and the lock finally gave way.

  It was certainly a show home. Magnolia walls, polished wood floors, marble fire-surrounds. The fitted kitchen was top of the range; the new appliances gleamed. And there was still that extraordinary view: of the river making its way past her window, outside three of her windows, in fact. She could run from one room to another if she wanted to see its slow, winding progress.

  As Kirsten watched the removal men fill the empty rooms with her things, she felt an enormous sense of relief. Buying a flat in such a dilapidated state had caused her no end of consternation, though it hadn’t been the renovation but the river that had troubled her the most. What if that strange instinctive reaction she’d felt to it had gone? What if the curious lure of the water, the almost physical need to be in its proximity, had somehow evaporated? But watching the dark surface now, stood beside the window, she felt the same uncanny pull. She could almost feel the water washing over her, taking hold of her body and rocking her gently in its calming depths.

  2

  1871, Evelyn

  Evelyn tried not to look at the water as the carriage made its way along the track beside the river. She looked instead out of the other window, at the trees and hedgerows, occasionally the odd dwelling. When she tired of the view, she stared at her gloves instead. She wanted to look at the water but she knew what she would see there. It was the cruellest of fates sending her here, to be so close to the river. If her father was capable of irony, this was a particularly fitting torture. But he was only guilty of insensitivity; Evelyn’s feelings were inconsequential to him.

  The carriage eventually left the river behind and made its way through a small village, before entering rather stately grounds. Evelyn cast an unguarded look out the window now, taking in the manicured lawns, a solitary gardener pushing a wheelbarrow, the copse of trees on the periphery. And she saw the striking immensity of Wakewater House in the distance, the place that was to be her home for the indefinite future. At least until the doctors convinced her father that she was well again.

  Evelyn was greeted at the door by the housekeeper and directed in for refreshments while the groomsman took her bags to her room. It had been a long journey and though she’d fought her father with every logical and emotional objection she could muster about the prospect of coming to Wakewater House, now that she was here, she found herself strangely resigned to whatever lay in store. Perhaps a rest was exactly what she needed.

  After her tea, the housekeeper invited her to meet the doctor. Evelyn would have preferred to see her room and unpack, but Dr Porter was keen to meet all of the guests at the first available opportunity.

  ‘Patients, you mean?’ Evelyn said, correcting the housekeeper, a stout, serious woman.

  ‘Dr Porter likes to think of those he helps as guests, not patients.’

  ‘In case he doesn’t cure us?’

  The housekeeper conceded a tight smile. ‘If you’d care to follow me.’

  Evelyn followed her through the winding passages, which were illuminated by the soft glow of gas lamps. The house was austere, severe looking, without a great deal of ornamentation or ostentation considering its size. It was soberly, stolid, as if it needed to be modest and unpretentious if it was going to be taken seriously as a place of medicine. The housekeeper paused outside a door and knocked. A voice beckoned from within and the housekeeper opened the door.

  ‘Miss Byrne,’ she announced.

  ‘Yes,’ a young man smiled, striding across the room. ‘Delighted to meet you, Miss Byrne,’ he said, taking her hand before inviting her to sit down.

  Dr Porter resumed his seat behind his desk. Despite his whiskers and moustache giving him an air of maturity, Dr Porter seemed very young to be running such an establishment. He was perhaps of a similar age to Evelyn herself. She’d never met a Water Doctor before. She wondered if their credentials were different to other medical men. Did these therapeutic trends promote those who couldn’t practice other more serious branches of medicine? For all her father’s flaws, she doubted he would have entrusted his only daughter to the care of a charlatan.

  ‘Welcome to Wakewater House,’ Dr Porter began, ‘named after our conviction that only water can truly awaken the body and mind.’

  ‘Can you guarantee that?’

  ‘Well, when our guests adopt our procedures and are committed to getting better,’ he replied earnestly, ‘we’ve seen some excellent results.’

  Evelyn smiled.

  Dr Porter laughed, ‘I see you’re teasing me. Your father said that you might.’ He held her father’s letter in his hand as if for support. ‘He says that you don’t have much faith in the Water Cure?’

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I,’ she replied, rather more defiantly than she intended.

  If Dr Porter was offended by her tone, he didn’t show it. ‘Despite what you may have read about hydropathy, we run things a little differently here. It’s not just baths and bland food.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘He also informs me that you have quite an active campaigning life?’

  ‘Yes, I’m involved in rescue work.’

  ‘A noble cause, I’m sure, but one that has undoubtedly taxed your body and mind.’

  ‘I think little of my suffering compared to the plight of those poor souls selling their bodies for a shilling a time.’

  Dr Porter shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Quite. Quite,’ he replied in admonished tones. Regaining his composure, he placed the letter down. ‘But if I may, it’s crucial to be physically and mentally strong, if you’re to help others.’

  Now Evelyn shifted in her seat.

  ‘Despite the rather…brutish tone of your father’s letter,’ he continued, looking at her squarely, ‘perhaps he isn’t wrong about you being worn down?’

  Evelyn smiled; she hadn’t expected to enlist an ally against her father. But she was suspicious of doctors as a rule; Dr Porter’s eagerness to pass judgment on her father could merely be a way to gain her confidence. Perhaps originally he belonged to one of the more dangerous branches of medicine after all, that of the Mind Doctors.

  ‘Let’s get you fighting fit again so we can send you back out there.’

  Evelyn took in Dr Porter’s youthful energy, his capacity for optimism, and she was suddenly aware that Dr Porter’s station in life was decidedly different to hers. Despite his fine suit and his fine whiskers, his mannerisms were too casual, as if they’d been rehearsed to give the impression of nonchalance. And had she detected a country edge to his accent? Here was a man who’d worked his way up in life. An educated man of small means. The best and worst of combinations. Best, because he had been taught to dream, and worst because he’d learnt that few, except the privileged, succeed. He had probably spent his whole life pitted against affluent men like her father.

  ‘And I wasn’t joking when I called this place humble,’ he continued. ‘We employ a small staff as well as the medical team, though I’m sure Mrs Miller – the housekeeper – will endeavour to meet all your needs. It just might not be what you’re used to.’

  Evelyn dismissed the images of the brothels and poor houses she frequently visited, the London slums where she’d spend most of her time if she could.

  ‘I’m sur
e I’ll manage.’

  ‘We’ll discuss your treatment tomorrow. As for tonight, dinner is at seven, where you’ll be able to meet the rest of the guests and my associate, Dr Cardew.’

  Evelyn rose.

  He reached out for her hand again and shook it firmly. ‘I think the water will agree with you.’

  3

  Kirsten

  Kirsten had managed to clear a path through the boxes, but unpacking was a slow process. Every few minutes she was back at the window looking out over the river. She’d read somewhere that when the Thames used to freeze over, street traders would set up an impromptu fair on the ice. It became part of the winter festivities for families to amble out onto this strange platform, perhaps skating over its surface, singing carols and buying roasted chestnuts from red-cheeked vendors. How odd it must have been to walk upon the river, to have gained access to this temporary midway point between the banks on either side. Though they saw the river rush past in every other season, they trusted the ice to bear them up.

  Watching the river’s surface now – so still and calm – it hardly seemed capable of destruction. But when the ice broke all those years ago, it wasn’t just the freezing water but the perilous undercurrents that cut short the lives of those who’d ventured too far into its domain. How many people had it dragged down as the ice gave way?

  Kirsten turned away from the water and resumed unpacking. She would empty three boxes, no, five boxes, before she rewarded herself with another glimpse of the river. She recognised the need to curb this strange habit now or she’d spend her whole time watching the hours float by. She couldn’t deny that it made her feel better, watching the water. She was filled with a strange sense of calm despite how turbulent the previous few months had been. She’d hardly given a thought to Lewis, to the solicitors, the home she’d left behind.