Awakening (22 page)

‘Without a shadow of a doubt, darling. Lapping a saucer of delicious cream. And all the cats that ever were will be mewing around the Throne of Grace.' His eyes beam. Human kindness can remain when reason goes, Anna thinks.

‘And what about birds? The birds she ate? And the worms the birds ate?'

‘Well now.' Mr Kyffin ponders seriously. ‘Do you think such regeneration is beyond the Almighty, who made the cosmos with his own hands, dear boy? He put us together once – he can surely repair us. Worms too, I've no doubt. And worms of course are a lesson to us, for, cut one in half and both halves regenerate. All life, all, without exception will be saved. Nature's a book and when we turn the page, does the previous page cease to exist? Of course not! And then again, take the Bible. This masterwork that I hold in my hand has been formed from calf hide and linen made from flax. The great bookbinder will restore it to its constituent elements. All creatures will be restored, you see, dear, everything will run back from destruction. Yes, spiders and the flies they have consumed. And the … whatever flies eat.'

Ellen Kyffin shivers. ‘Don't, Papa. Please.'

‘Love is our imperative though, my dear, even for low and dirty creatures. Is it not?'

‘Yes, Papa, I'm sure. But they're still low and dirty. I'm thinking we should start for home, so that you can have your lie-down. And Mama is looking tired.'

‘Oh, do you think so, dear? Are you tired, Antigone?'

‘Perhaps, just a little.'

‘Mama, let me put your cup down. The tea is cold.'

Antigone Kyffin can hardly be said to have been present, here or anywhere else. She makes shift to gather herself together in obedience to her daughter's plan, but one glove has been mislaid; her shawl slides down one shoulder as soon as it's hoisted on the other. Ellen's capable hands rearrange her like a giant doll.

‘There you are, Mama, you're all nice and ready.'

As acting head of household, the child treads a tenuous line between authority and deference. Half of Ellen basks in her predominance; the other has been deserted by parents who've dwindled into errant children. She superintends the donning of coats. The mother submits calmly but her father, one arm in his sleeve, cannot seem to engage the other, circling at each attempt, murmuring to himself as he rotates darkly in a vortex of insane speculation.

Anna waves them off, returning with relief to the warmth. She has the house to herself, with only Amy working quietly in the scullery. Opening her portable desk on her lap, Anna takes out her journal and seats herself before the roaring log fire, feet on the hearth. Your front roasts while your back freezes. She pulls the hood of her mother's mantle over her head. Heat and peace steal through mind and body; her fibres relax and by and by Anna begins to luxuriate in a mood of tender melancholy. The feel of the kitten's small skull in her palm brought to mind Magdalena. The dark angel comes and guides her pen on the page.

Had Magdalena lived, my life would have been so very different. I'd have lived a mother's life. Beatrice was happy to leave the care of our half-sister to me. It relieved her of the pressure of my grief & the child's monstrosity.

Mrs Bunce knew of women able to suckle babies without having borne a child. I'd been trying to feed Magdalena with drops of boiled milk and sugar on my fingertips. ‘You can do better than that, Miss Anna. Put her to the breast. She'll get comfort from it & I've known grandmothers able to suckle orphans for if the breast is there, the baby will pull, can't help itself, & milk will come in sooner or later, if you want it to.'

The volume of Magdalena's head increased daily & the bones of the skull could not close, they were levered apart, the fontanelles bulged. The ass Q. said there was no brain in the cavity, only water. Nothing there, nothing human. & indeed she looked like some strange aquatic specimen. Her eyes were always lowered – never looked at you. Everyone thought: Poor creature wd be better off dead with her mother. I bathed, cleaned & cared for her, walked her up & down over my shoulder – kept her in my bed at night – offered my breast & she seemed to like the living softness; sometimes tongued the nipple, lapping like a kitten. The tenderest saddest feeling in the world. There was nothing in me for you. Dry as a bone.

Still I felt you were not absent Magdalena but asleep & dreaming. You went into convulsions & the ass Q. stopped his bleedings & cuppings for he said the end was near. He went on his holidays and young Dr Brimelow from Bourton was his locum. He said, Bless her, of course the dear little soul knows you're there – keep Magdalena warm and cuddle her – everything you're doing is the best that can be done.

You & I at the edge of the world – together – hanging – but sent to comfort each other, if any comfort was to be found.

Once Q. had given up, Magdalena seemed – in her passive way – to rally. Whose miracle was it – God's or Nature's? – when a bluish-white pearl of milk dropped from my nipple onto yr tongue? You opened your little beak. Again. Another. Indescribable sensation of grace, as the milk came in. How I cried. You never cried; it didn't occur to you. You were too busy, darling, with your dream.

Knocking at the door. Nuisance. Send them away, do. Amy tramps through to answer the knock, grumbling under her breath, wiping floury hands on her apron.

‘It's the doctor, miss, him and another one. Am I to show them in? They said you were expecting them.'

In the heat of the fire Anna has lapsed into a reverie she's in no hurry to quit: while she's writing, Lore and Magdalena are very present. She has noticed before that the pain melts into ink when you write. The misery of bereavement dissolves into melancholy. One is quiet; there is a balance.

‘Tell them I'm busy, Amy.'

But the two men are here, without a by-your-leave, one at either side of Anna. She glances irritably from one to the other; closes the clasp on her desk and turns the key; starts to rise. Dr Quarles, smiling affably, rests one large palm on her shoulder.

‘Pray do not trouble yourself to get up, dear Miss Anna. We shall, if we may, warm our hands at the fire and have a quiet chat. How are you feeling?'

‘I am perfectly well. I didn't send for you, Dr Quarles. I'm not sure why …?'

‘Miss Pentecost – I beg pardon,
Mrs Ritter
as we should now call her – asked us to look in during her absence. She expressed some concern about your health.'

‘But there's nothing wrong with me, Dr Quarles. As you see. And in fact, I'm very busy. With household accounts. So – if you –'

The word
hysteria
is spoken.

It is denied.

It is reaffirmed, with insolent courtesy. Another word is added:
neurasthenia.
The dilemma of the female psyche is mentioned. For anxiety, turbulence, abdominal pain, sleeplessness, irritability, nervousness, aberrant behaviour all stem from the congestion of the female organs. It's a common problem and easy to treat.

‘How dare you? I am not hysterical! Get out of my house, you pair of vultures!'

Aha! This is what they had apprehended: this wild and uncontrolled burst of expletives. Anna's up on her feet, half-crouching. When she dodges out of reach, one of them stations himself at the door.

‘Let me out!'

The medical men observe her with rueful gravity. ‘Do not distress yourself,' says Dr Quarles. ‘My colleague and I are here to help you.'

At Wilton, trout basking at the surface of the Wylye can be tickled by a skilled hand, scarcely discomposing the clear chalk-stream water; the creature below hangs still among tendrils of waterweeds. From hidden aquifers the river arises, fed by rainwaters, pulsing past flourmills, through water meadows where the cattle drink their fill. In girlhood, Anna, wearing pinafore and buttoned boots, would crouch on the green bank, skirts tucked up, where salmon, minnow, loach and lamprey crammed the water. Perch and chubb sleeked by. The intent girl knew them all.

Anna convulses like prey that's all one spasming muscle leaping clear of the stream. Into full view. She's on the verge of falling into
their
hands. No. She resumes her seat and removes the cowl of her mother's cloak. Anna sits cunningly demure, back rigid. She smooths her skirts. You're frightened me. I do not know why you are here, she tells them in her quiet contralto. You should not come into my house like this, scaring me.

They've ambushed Anna. She has not been intelligent. What does a woman have to defend her except her intelligence? Anna schools herself. She parries every lunge of Quarles's foil.

We are the followers of Hippocrates. We have sworn a sacred oath, never to injure, always to heal. You can trust us. We would never harm a hair of your head.

‘No, of course you would not, Dr Quarles,' says Anna, picking up a piece of embroidery. ‘I know that. Of course I do.' She disappears beneath the surface again; its stillness puzzles the beholder's eye. Deep breaths. Her panic ebbs. She offers tea and macaroons; talks to them of macaroons, how success or failure is bound up with how stiffly you beat the egg whites. A properly feminine preoccupation.

Avicenna, it seems, the respected Arab doctor, had much to say about the malady of hysteria. So Dr Palfrey observes. Avicenna was an ancient philosopher-physician. An Arab, as a matter of fact. Has Miss Anna heard of Avicenna? No? Not many ladies have. The Arabs, who have since declined, were once foremost in scientific discovery. Avicenna was in so many respects a modern, and it's curious to reflect that the nineteenth century, the age of Science, has in some aspects scarcely caught up with his wisdom. Dr Quarles agrees, polishing the head of his stick, that there's nothing new under the sun. He gets to his feet and turns his back to the fire, speaking ruminatively, his hands under his tailcoats which he whisks up and down.

Anna keeps silent. She pricks her finger through the linen.

What happens next seems a bedlam without beginning or end. A swooping, a scuffle, a swift bodily removal. Conducted up the stairs, feet almost off the ground. Yelling to Amy for help. Bedroom door shut, bolt thrown. No fire in here. The cold shocks her splayed legs. Red male faces looming low over her prostration issue caressive words as they handle her, for her own good.

Relax, that's the way. Now, if I …? How's that? Let go, for you've been suffering far too much for too long, poor young lady – and there's nothing whatever you can do to succour yourself. We are Christian gentlemen, professional men. We know what we're about. It is a man's job, a doctor's or a husband's job, Avicenna said so – but no, no, of
course
we are not going to break your hymen, good gracious no, there-there, do not be the slightest bit afraid.

Anna is covered with a sheet and they reach beneath it.

Manual stimulation will ease the blood blockage.

We are not looking at you. Your maidenly modesty is safe. A medical procedure. Virginity intact. Be assured. Of that. We know. How to. Find. The little – place by. Touch … alone.

She snarls; bites the hand of Palfrey hard. It stinks of tobacco.

But he finds the place with his left hand. Will. Bring. Her. To hysterical paroxysm. If it is the last. Thing he does.

And he does. At least he thinks he has.

There now. That's the way, lie back. You'll feel better directly. The
hystera
, do you see,
is where it all begins. The womb. We have released the blood flow. When you are married, your husband can take over from us. You must under no circumstances try to do this for yourself. It's a purely medical business. In the past, pelvic massage was administered to sufferers by midwives but such females lack technical knowledge. Dr Palfrey is, in point of fact, devising a small machine for this purpose.

Oh, and one more thing: vigorous exercise on horseback will also help address the disorder.

They wash their white hands at Anna's basin and dry them carefully on her towel. They fit their fingers into supple leather gloves, which they button at the wrists.

*

All is bustle at Sarum House. Christmas approaches and the dear old goose must be throttled. Anna exists behind glass. Like a specimen. People come up and peer through; she pretends to acknowledge them. Her face is blank. She glides about on casters, a clockwork woman. The goose: will you do it, Joss?

Anna's brother finds himself about to depart on a vague but urgent errand. He states this while grooming his moustache in the mirror; twirling the oiled tips between finger and thumb, twisting his head to judge the effect of his tweakery.

‘
Why not employ Elias's man to kill the geese?' he suggests. ‘Isn't the pig-sticker available? I'm sure he'll do us a goose for sixpence.'

‘Amy and I will have to manage ourselves.'

Anna has never before been faced with such tasks. Beatrice, who killed her first hen at the age of eleven, took it in her stride; just came in a trifle pale and quiet. Anna, flinching and fascinated, stared at her sister's hands as she scrubbed the death from them. Well, said Beatrice in her grown-up way, I notice you don't say no to eating it. Anyway, nobody would dream of asking
you
to do an important job, Anna,
you
are not practical and resourceful; Papa would never ask you; you're just a little
pet
,
a useless animal,
that's all you are.