Wildthorn (3 page)

Weeks frowns. "It's the procedure." She has a London accent but speaks in a strange, slightly stilted way, as if she's trying to sound like a lady.

"But I'm not dirty. I—" I see the look in her eyes. She's not that much older than me, I am at least a head taller, yet I don't dare to defy her.

My hands move of their own accord, taking off my gloves and my hat. I hesitate and Weeks nods at the bench where I lay them down with my wrap. I turn my back on her, unbutton my bodice and step out of my skirts. All the time, a small voice in my head is saying,
Why are you doing this? You don't have to do this.
But I have the feeling that if I don't do what I'm told, something bad will happen...

"All of your clothes, Miss Childs."

She is not speaking to me.

She is speaking to me.

I undo my corset slowly, hook by hook. I've always hated its whalebone ribs but now I don't want to lose its protection. When the last hook is released, I hold the corset to me for a moment before dropping it on the bench. I take off my petticoats, unlace my boots and pull them off, rolling down my black stockings. When I have nothing on but my drawers and chemise, I stop.

"Those too." Her voice is expressionless, but her eyes insist.

Naked, I turn at last, my hands across my breasts. There is nowhere to hide.

"Give me your jewellery." She's looking at my locket and my jet ring. I cover them protectively.

"Come, I must have them."

"But I never take them off. They mean a lot to me."

She frowns. "All the more reason for me to keep them safely for you."

I hesitated and she takes a step towards me. What is she going to do? Take them from me by force?

Reluctantly, I undo the clasp of the locket, slip the ring from my finger.

"And have you any money? Or a watch?"

I nod.

"I must keep them for you too."

"What if I need some money?" My voice is too loud. It bounces off the walls.

"You may keep a few shillings. You don't need much money here, for there's nothing to spend it on." Her mouth twists in a spiteful smile.

I won't be needing much because I won't be here for long.

I fumble at my gown, unpinning my watch. A gift from Papa.
Papa
...

Weeks takes the watch and my purse and counts out some coins. She lays them on the bench. "When you need some more, I will give it to you."

She doesn't know that sewn into the waistband of my gown are some folded notes, a precaution Mamma insisted on before I ventured out into the dangerous world.

"What about my box?"

"It's quite safe. If you want anything from it, you only have to ask."

I stare at her. I don't believe her. I open my mouth to say something, but a shiver shakes me.

"You are cold, Miss Childs. Come for your bath."

***

Under Weeks's watchful eye, I sit in a few inches of greenish water and soap myself with carbolic. Afterwards I dry myself as best as I can on a thin towel the size of a napkin. Back in the room where I left my clothes I go to put them on but Weeks stops me.

"Your clothes will have to be marked with your name."

I stare at her. "But I—"

A flash from her dark eyes and my voice falters.

Don't antagonise her. You don't know what she might do.

She continues as if I haven't spoken. "You'll get them back. In the meantime, you may borrow some."

She hands me a set of underclothes then glances at the watch fastened to her bodice by a chain. Her lips tighten. I try to hurry, my fingers fumbling with tapes and fastenings.
With each garment, I feel stranger and stranger. Bit by bit, I am losing more of myself. Soon I won't exist.

At the bottom of the pile, I find a flannel nightdress and one pocket handkerchief.

Weeks goes to the cupboard and takes out a dark dress. Involuntarily my hand goes towards my gown then I stop myself.

Don't give the game away. The money might still be safe.

The dress Weeks gives me is made of coarse cloth, linsey-wolsey, perhaps. I draw it over my head, smell someone's else's perspiration. Whoever it was, she was larger than me; even buttoned up, the bodice hangs on me in folds, the high neck is loose, the sleeves flap at the wrists.

"This is too big."

"Better that, than too small," says Weeks, tartly.

She gives me a cap. I take it reluctantly—I hate having my hair covered, but I can see from her expression that I have no choice. When I've put it on, for the first time she gives a thin smile of approval.

***

More corridors. Through an open door comes the hiss of hot metal meeting damp cloth and I glimpse women wielding irons amongst piles of linen in a laundry. Next door, in clouds of steam, more women, red-faced and with bare arms, are thumping possers in vast coppers. The smell of carbolic follows us.

Another locked door. When Weeks opens it we are in a different world. A carpeted hallway stretches in front of me with wicker chairs set at intervals, pots of ferns between them. On one side is a row of doors, on the other a long stretch of windows overlooks the grounds. The silence is
thick, as if everything is holding its breath. And then a sound shivers the air, a low keening from somewhere close by. The hairs rise on my neck but Weeks takes no notice. She beckons me towards a door. "This is where you'll sleep."

In the weak daylight I see five iron beds with neat white covers spaced out on the linoleum. They are all empty.
If this is a hospital, where are the patients?

Above each bed is a shelf. Weeks gestures at the nearest bed. "Yours," she says coolly.

Mine. But I don't belong here. Now is the moment to speak.

But I don't. What is preventing me? I am caught up in events I can't control; it's like being trapped in a nightmare where you try to cry out but no sound comes out of your mouth.

With a touch on my arm, Weeks signals that we are to move on.

At the end of the hallway she opens another door. In this room, several ladies are sitting in armchairs or perch on wooden settles. It looks like a social gathering of the sort I've often attended with my mother. But something is wrong. These ladies are not talking or laughing—they are silent; their shoulders droop, their heads are bowed. Some gaze at the floor, others rest their cheeks on their hands. A feeble fire sputters in the grate and from above the mantelpiece Queen Victoria's solemn face surveys us.

Weeks beckons me forward but a woman stands in my way. Her eyes are like the glass eyes of stuffed animals. There is nothing behind them.

An icy finger traces down my spine.

Something is terribly wrong.

"This is Lucy Childs, our new resident," announces Weeks.

My voice spills out. "I am
not
Lucy Childs, I am Louisa Cosgrove."

Weeks doesn't react.

"I tell you, I am Louisa Cosgrove!" I grip the coins in my pocket, press their hard edges into my fingers.

Weeks frowns. "Don't get excited. Otherwise we'll have to calm you down, won't we?"

What does she mean? I look round wildly. Who can I appeal to? No one is taking the slightest notice of us apart from a strapping woman in a blue dress who has risen to her feet. She must be another attendant.

"Where am I? What
is
this place? Why do you insist on calling me by the wrong name?"

Weeks sighs. "Dr. Bull, the visiting physician will see you tomorrow. He will answer any questions you might have."

"Tomorrow? Why can't you tell me now?"

As if I haven't spoken, Weeks looks at her watch and announces, "Time for lunch, ladies. Miss Gorman, accompany Miss Childs and assist her, if necessary."

With a quick anxious smile, one of the ladies moves to my side. But I stand my ground. "Why won't you listen to me? There's been a dreadful mistake..."

The other attendant moves surprisingly swiftly for her bulk. She thrusts her face towards mine. "I'd be quiet, if I was you, Milady.
If
you know what's good fer you."

She stares into my eyes, her own unblinking, like a toad's.

***

On the threshold of the dining room, I stop. I can't take it in.

Miss Gorman tugs at my gown and I sink down on to a bench beside her, staring around.

The cavernous room is packed. A sea of dark cloth, on which white caps float like gulls. Light shines down through the glass roof, and the noise is magnified, echoing: the footsteps of the servants passing between the scrubbed tables with trays, the scrape of benches on the flags, the crash of crockery and, above all, voices—muttering, groaning, calling out, even laughing, a hard, wild sound, like the cries of seabirds.

A hand appears before me and slams down a bowl. A basket of bread is placed on the table and the others scrabble for food, tugging at the basket and squabbling. They cram their mouths with bread, crumbs falling into their laps. I have no bread and now the basket is empty, but I don't want any. My stomach muscles are clenched, my hands are clammy, I'm struggling to keep control.

Stay calm. Don't let them see your fear.

I dip the wooden spoon gingerly into my bowl. Thin, greasy soup with lumps in it. I try a spoonful. The lump turns out to be a piece of gristle. I spit out the gristle discreetly and slip it back into the bowl. I put down my spoon.

My head is starting to ring with the noise. I try to block out my surroundings, shut my ears to the unfamiliar voices I hear all around me, ignore the sucking and gulping noises.

A soft voice in my ear makes me jump. "Are you ill?"

It's Miss Gorman.

"You're not eating your lunch." She puts her fingers to her mouth and her eyes widen. "I hope I haven't offended you by mentioning it."

"I'm not hungry."

"You'll feel strange at first. Everyone does. Then you'll get used to it."

She gazes at me earnestly. Close up, her watery twitching eyes make me want to look away.

"I won't get used to it. I won't be here long."

She gives me a strange look then but doesn't say anything.

"What kind of hospital is this?"

"Don't you know?"

I think I do know now. But I want to be sure.

"It's an asylum. For the insane."

My heart seems to stop, even though I think I have known it since the moment the carriage stopped at the door.

Suddenly Miss Gorman grasps my wrist and whispers, "We are in one of the best wards. Be sure to keep your place there." She nods several times as if to underline her point.

I stare at her, my spine going cold.

"Don't you want your soup, dearie?" The voice comes from my other side. Bright eyes at my elbow, a leering smile, a hand reaching across me. I let her take it, and, guzzling it in a trice, she tries the same trick on someone else. But this patient, a plump woman, holds on to her bowl with both hands.

"Mine! Mine!"

The thief lets go, but the plump woman continues to roar. Others join in, banging their mugs on the table. Two attendants arrive and hurry the plump woman out of the room. Gradually the noise subsides.

My neighbour winks at me. Her hands are filthy, the bitten nails black. Her teeth are yellowed stumps, her breath smells foul.

I shut my eyes.
This is a nightmare, it must be. Soon I'll wake up and everything will be all right.

Ten Years Earlier

It was Sunday morning, and Mamma was testing us on our scripture.

Normally I hated being in the parlour in the daytime: it was dark and stuffy, with its heavy velvet curtains and crimson walls. But today we had an audience: our aunt was visiting us. I was sorry that Grace hadn't been able to come—she had a cold—but she had sent me a letter.

While we recited the Commandments, Aunt Phyllis lounged on the sofa, the skirt of her lilac gown spread round her. Even in the gloom, her face was bright: she always seemed on the verge of speaking or laughing. She was such a contrast to Mamma, who sat stiffly on a hard chair, her pale face still and watchful.

I had just repeated the seventh Commandment, and now it was Tom's turn again.

There was a pause. Tom flushed and shuffled his feet.

I felt a bit sorry for him, but also excited. He didn't know what came next, but I did!

"What
is
adultery, Mamma?" Tom asked.

He was playing for time.

Mamma shifted in her seat and glanced towards the sofa. Aunt Phyllis raised her eyebrows and the corners of her mouth twitched.

Mamma said, "It's not something you need to worry yourself about now, Tom. When you are older, you may ask your father. Now, the next Commandment?"

I burst in, "Thou shalt not steal," and looked at Aunt Phyllis to see if she was impressed. She rewarded me with a smile.

Mamma, however, was frowning at me. "Yes, that's right," she said. "You shouldn't have interrupted Tom, though." She looked at Aunt Phyllis again, almost apologetically.

Tom's elbow dug me in the ribs and I glanced sideways. He was glowering at me, but I shot him a defiant look. It wasn't my fault he hadn't learnt his scripture properly...

When we had finished, Mamma stood up. "Have you both got clean pocket handkerchiefs and a penny for the Collection?"

With one eye on Aunt Phyllis, I showed Mamma my handkerchief and collection money, proud that I'd remembered to ask Mary for them.

Mamma sighed. "Oh, Louisa, look at you."

I put my hand over the dirty smudge on the frill of my best white dress. I'd been trying to teach myself to juggle, using my rolled-up stockings as balls, and they would keep getting under the bed.

But Mamma wasn't looking at my dress; she was frowning at my hair. Several strands were tickling my cheek; they must have escaped my ribbon, as usual. However tightly Mary screwed my hair up in rags at night, it had a will of its own and would never form the perfect ringlets I saw on other little girls at church.

Before Mamma could attack me with the hair brush, Aunt Phyllis said, "Come here, darling."

She pulled me close, in a rustle of silk. "You're tall for six. You'll be catching up with Grace soon."

As her hand smoothed my hair, I breathed in her scent. "You smell nice."

"Louisa!"

Mamma was shocked, but Aunt Phyllis's eyes crinkled with amusement. "It's jasmine," she explained.

She finished retying my ribbon. "There," she said, smiling.

I smiled back at her. Her hazel eyes were flecked with gold, just like Grace's.

"She has Edward's hair," Aunt Phyllis commented to Mamma. "As a boy, his was always wild."

I was interested. I'd never thought about my hair in this way before. Mamma's hair was smooth, light brown. I looked at Aunt Phyllis's hair. It was nothing like Papa's dark brown mop, but a rich colour, like chestnuts, with glinty bits of red in it. It looked as if it always behaved itself.

Now Aunt Phyllis said, "Speaking of Edward, it's time he came out of his study, isn't it? We don't want to be late."

We all set off up the hill to the Parish Church.

Usually I liked to walk with Papa, as Sunday was the one day he had some time to spend with me. He would point out interesting things as we went along and we would talk about important matters, like where the moon went in the day, and how rainbows were made.

But today I chose to walk beside Aunt Phyllis. I went along as sedately as I could, my gloved hand in hers, stepping carefully on the cobbles to avoid getting mud on my best Sunday shoes. I couldn't help smiling to myself when Tom stepped in some horse droppings.

I often found it hard to say awake in church. The vicar's voice droned and he used long words I didn't understand. Today, I claimed my place at Aunt Phyllis's side and vowed to stay alert.

Standing so close to her the fringes of her shawl brushed my arm, I clutched my hymnbook and sang out. During the prayers, I bowed my head and shut my eyes tight.

I prayed, "Dear God, please make me good. Please make Grace's cold better soon. Please let us not have mutton today. Amen."

For once I didn't peek, even when Tom nudged me.

***

After lunch (it
was
mutton), we went to the door to say goodbye to Aunt Phyllis and she kissed each of us in turn, even Tom, who squirmed. Just as she was going, she deposited a small paper bag in my hands and another in Tom's.

Mine crackled enticingly; the contents felt knobbly.

"Don't eat them all at once or you'll make yourselves sick," she said.

As soon as the clatter of the carriage wheels died away, I looked inside the bag. Miniature pear drops, strawberry pink and lemon yellow, with a dusting of sugar crystals.

"What have you got, Tom?"

He showed me his treat: acid drops.

In return I showed him mine, but he pulled a face. "Pooh, girls' sweets."

I went to take one from the bag, but Mamma's hand descended and caught hold of mine.

"Not on the Sabbath, children," she said. "Remember, it is a Holy day."

I looked up at Papa to appeal, but his eyes were on Mamma; he was shaking his head slightly.

Mamma flushed slightly. "Yes, I know, it's kind of Phyllis, but I don't know what she's thinking of. It's so bad for the children to indulge themselves with sugar."

"It won't harm them once in a while." Papa was brisk.

Mamma pursed her lips, but she turned to us. "Very well. I shall put the sweets in the sideboard and you may have some after tea, starting tomorrow."

She took the bags out of our hands and carried them away.

All afternoon we took it in turns to read from
The Pilgrim's Progress.

My favourite part was where Christian fought Apollyon. The idea of the foul Fiend, with his fishy scales, dragon's wings, bear's feet, and lion's mouth spouting fire and smoke always made my spine prickle delightfully.

But not today. The thought of the sweets burned in me.

That night I lay in bed, clutching Annabel. I was wide awake. I waited and waited until I was sure everyone had gone to bed. Then I tiptoed downstairs, my feet chill on the oilcloth.

At the dining room door, I hesitated. It was dark inside, and smelled of furniture polish and cabbage.

I was shivering at my own boldness, but the sweets drew me on.

I felt my way along the wall until I reached the sideboard. I ran my fingers over it until I found the lion-shaped handle. Opening the door, I groped inside. Paper rustled under my touch. I plunged my fist inside and grasped a handful of sweets. The gaslight from the hall guided me back to the door and I was away, up the stairs as fast as I could go, my heart racing, one hand holding up the hem of my nightgown, the other clutching my prize.

Under the safety of my quilt, I relaxed a little.

I put one sweet in my mouth. Stowing the rest under my bolster, I cuddled Annabel to me. The sensation on my tongue was sharp and I stiffened.

Tom's acid drops!

But he wouldn't notice, surely ... I hadn't taken so many. What a pity. I would much have preferred my pear drops. Cheering myself up with the thought that I still had them all to come, I lay and sucked until the sweet dwindled to a splinter in my mouth.

***

As soon as I woke up I remembered the sweets. I didn't know what to do. If Tom knew I'd taken them, he'd be cross even if I gave the rest back. Perhaps it would be better to keep them and hope he wouldn't notice. But Mary would find them when she made my bed. I looked round for a better hiding place and finally settled on the doll's house I hardly ever played with.

After tea, Mamma opened the sideboard door. I felt a thrill of anticipation. Because my pear drops were smaller, I was sure I'd be allowed more, but Mamma put the bags in front of us and said, "Just two."

I seized two sweets and popped one in my mouth.

Tom was peering into his bag with a puzzled expression. He looked across the table, straight at me. I froze, the pear drop dissolving on my tongue. I could feel myself blushing. But he didn't say anything. Slowly, he put an acid drop in his mouth, his eyes never leaving mine.

When we were sent upstairs, Tom followed me into my bedroom and pounced. "It was you, wasn't it, Lou? You've taken some of my sweets."

He was pale with anger, his eyes boring into me.

My heart beat faster, but I stuck my chin out. "No, I haven't."

Tom frowned. "You might as well own up. I know it was you. And it was a rotten thing to do. Didn't I give you a tin whistle just the other day?"

It was an old whistle he didn't want any more, but still, he was right, it was a rotten thing to do even if it was a mistake. And he was bound to find them. "All right. I didn't mean to take them. I thought they were my pear drops." I ran to my dolls' house, and fetched the sweets. "See, they're here. I only ate one..."

Tom snatched the sweets from me and inspected them. He seemed a little mollified, but he said, "What would Aunt Phyllis think of you if she knew, Miss Goody-Goody?"

He still hadn't forgiven me for knowing the eighth commandment yesterday.

"I suppose you're counting on Papa to let you off, as usual. But I shall tell Mamma."

"You sneak!" I launched myself at him, my fists raised, but he dodged me and ran from the room.

***

In the parlour, I stood before Mamma, hanging my head.

"You understand what you've done?"

I studied the pattern on the carpet: dark red and green triangles marching across the floor, converging on the black points of Mamma's shoes, the purple hem of her dress. She sounded more sad than angry.

"Look at me."

Unwillingly, I raised my head.

Mamma's expression was sombre. "You know that you've broken three of the commandments?"

I was puzzled. I knew she thought I'd stolen the sweets, although I'd only meant to take what was mine. But what else had I done?

In search of inspiration, I looked around the room. The pot dogs sitting on the mantelpiece stared back down at me with superior expressions on their faces.

"Thou shalt not steal?" I ventured.

"Yes, and what else?"

I shrugged.

Mamma sighed. "You've also coveted what was not yours."

This wasn't true. I'd much rather have had my pear drops.

"And you have disobeyed me, for I made it quite clear when you were allowed to eat those sweets.
'Honour thy father and mother.'
"

I could tell from her tone that this was the worst crime.

I shuffled my feet. "I'm sorry, Mamma."

Her face softened a little. "Well, at least you're showing some remorse. But you know you will have to be punished, Louisa. You are old enough to know better now."

A small worm of anxiety uncurled in my stomach.

She went over to her writing desk, opened the drawer, and took out a thin cane.

Cold fingers ran down my spine. Mamma had never used the cane on me.

"Please, Mamma. I
am
sorry. I'll never do it again, I promise."

"I am glad to hear you say that, Louisa." She looked at me sorrowfully and shook her head. "I don't want to do this, but you must be taught a lesson. Hold out your hand."

My hand trembled as I held it out to her, keeping my eyes fixed on the lithe thing quivering in her hand.

She raised the cane and brought it swiftly down. My hand flared with sudden heat. Tears sprang into my eyes, and I bit my lip, to stop myself from crying out.

I looked up at Mamma and her face was tight, as if something was hurting her too, but she still raised the cane again.

This stroke stung into the previous one. Instinctively I thrust my hand under my arm to deaden the pain. Through the blur of my tears, I saw Mamma putting the cane away. Furtively, I examined my hand. Two pink weals crossed on my palm.

Mamma took something from her pocket. "I want you to put these in the kitchen range now." Her voice sounded funny, not as firm as usual.

She placed a crumpled paper bag in my uninjured hand. My pear drops.

We went to the kitchen together, and Mamma watched while I threw my treasure on to the flames. Then she took me upstairs and helped me to undress, as I couldn't have managed one-handed.

Once I was ready for bed, Mamma produced a brown bottle and my stomach contracted. Rhubarb and soda. She was assuming I'd eaten
all
the missing acid drops, not just one, and needed a dose of purgative!

Tom must have eaten the rest. And I was the one being punished. It wasn't fair. But it was no good telling Mamma—she'd believe Tom, not me.

Mamma made me swallow a large mouthful of the horrid pink stuff. I gagged as it slid down. Then she stood over me while I knelt to say my prayers.

"I want you to say this today, Louisa. 'Wash me clean of my guilt, purify me from my sins.'"

I bowed my head.

"Oh Lord, wash me clean of my guilt..."

"Purify."

"Purify me from my sins. Bless dearest Papa and Mamma."

"You forgot Tom."

I hesitated. Mamma frowned. "—and Tom. Amen."

When Mamma carried the candle away, I couldn't hold back the tears any longer.

It was all Tom's fault. He needn't have told. Especially when he ate the sweets and I didn't.

And Mamma didn't love me. Would she tell Aunt Phyllis what I had done? Would Grace find out? She would think so badly of me.

I hugged Annabel to me and wept until her cloth face was soaked with my tears.