The Medea Complex (4 page)

“Puerperal mania is almost always directed at the child. It
is the nature of the beast, unfortunately. It is a special type of insanity.
The woman in question invariably believes that for one reason or another, the
child is better dead, but the mother, in these cases, is not accountable for
her actions.”

“I think she damned well should be held responsible.” Mr
Stanbury says.

“What, Stanbury...would you prefer your wife to be dead
too?” Lord Damsbridge says, his face turning a deep shade of red. “Is that how
you plan on punishing her?”

“Of course not! How dare you suggest such a thing, I
simply-”

I sense this is a disagreement they've had before, and try
to halt the situation before it develops into a domestic dispute.

“Gentlemen?” I start to rise slowly from my chair. They stop
arguing, and stare at me. “I don't wish to keep you, and I realize there have
been very difficult things discussed this morning. Perhaps we do better to meet
again at a future date: say, in a week’s time?”

Mr Stanbury sniffs, looking at the floor. Lord Damsbridge
also remains silent.

I push my chair back.

“So, gentlemen, once again, I thank you for coming here
today-”

“I would like to see her,” Lord Damsbridge says suddenly,
standing and looking me in the eye. “Immediately. Stanbury,” He nudges his
son-in-law; the dispute evidently forgotten or swept aside for later. “Get up.
We are going to see your wife.”

Oh dear.

“My Lord, we don't normally allow family or friends to visit
with the patients at this stage. We remove them from their home environment for
good reason. I fear that seeing you both will only do her harm.”

“No, Doctor, removing my daughter from those that she loves,
and placing her in a lunatic asylum, alone, compounded with the loss of her
child, will be doing her 'harm'. Seeing her father and her husband will lift
her spirits, and assure her of our love for her. I would strongly suggest that
our ongoing support will only serve to boost her morale.”

Spoken like a true layman. And of course spoken like a true
Earl, who somehow managed to get his daughter into Bethlem as opposed to
Broadmoor; where she should by rights and by law, been sent.

Evidently, he does not appreciate that her insanity alone
saved her from the gallows.

“My Lord, your daughter is still suffering the effects of
puerperal mania, and I fear, delusions. We could arrange a day for you to visit
her, in a week or so-” I say, faltering in my attempt to reinforce my opinion.

“I demand to see her now, Doctor. It is a dreadful thought
for me to imagine her re-awakening to reason inside a madhouse, side-by-side
with maniacs and lunatics. I beg you not to forget who I am, or the
contributions I make to this very hospital.”

I sigh. My point exactly.

“Very well, gentlemen. I do wish that I had time to better
prepare you, for I fear that you will be shocked when you see her. But if you
insist.” I reach down and ring the bell on my desk. Within a second, my
attendant appears, almost falling through the doorway. She quickly rights
herself, smoothing her skirts and blushing.

“Yes, Doctor?”

“Nurse Ruth, Lady Stanbury's father and husband would like
to see her right away. Can you please make sure that she is ready to receive
them?” I roll my eyes to the side, minutely, and she catches my meaning.

“Why, of course Doctor! Let me go and prepare her. I'll be
back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail!”

I sit back in my chair, gesturing for the two men to do the
same.

“Here, another glass, gentlemen? In a few moments, you can
see for yourself how Lady Stanbury fares.”

Lord Damsbridge refuses my offer, whilst Mr Stanbury
thirstily accepts.

This time, it is I who downs my drink before he lifts his
from the table.

Anne

October 16th, 1885

Royal Bethlem Hospital

My arms are pinned to my sides, my hands stuck fast inside
deep, itchy pockets. I can't straighten my fingers, and my long nails dig
painfully into my palms. It must be made of some sort of stout linen, or
possibly even wool. I lean against the wall and rub my body up and down; right
arm, left arm, stomach, back, ah. It brings me welcome relief for roughly two
minutes before the itching starts up again.

Are there insects in this thing?

Oh, woe is me.

I try yanking my hands upwards and outward as hard as I can,
but this only makes me almost topple over backwards. Where are the buttons, or
laces?

Can I get it out of it somehow?

This is harsh punishment indeed for simply throwing the
chamber pot at my captors. What did they expect me to do? Let them carve out my
eyes? I'm not sorry for doing it, though I am regretful to be partially
restrained because of it. They don't seem to take too kindly to my defensive
strategies. But they must understand that they can't just go around the world,
taking people from their homes in the middle of the night and putting them into
cells. 

Perhaps the best thing I can do is stay quiet, and wait to
be rescued.

I shuffle over to my bed and lie down awkwardly, not sure
how I'm going to stand up again, but not caring. I close my eyes and try to
imagine what must be happening on the outside, back at the Manor. What I
wouldn't give to be back at home, amongst the people whom love me.

I must have dozed off, because one minute I'm sat in my
father's library, my favourite place in the whole world, and the next I'm being
poked by a fat finger telling me to get up.

“And quickly about it!”

Another poke.

“Wha-”

“Now!”

I'm still sleepy when Fat-Ruth lifts the brown sack over my
head, accomplishing in mere seconds what I failed to do given hours.
Unfortunately, she mashes my face into the mattress as she does so without a
care nor thought for my well-being. The smell of faeces invades my nose as she
sits me up, and I can't help but gag.

“My arms have gone numb,” I say, swallowing vomit. “And
can't you open a window?”

“It's your own fault your arms are numb and no, the windows
don't open. People would throw themselves out of them,” she says, throwing the
tangled sack into a corner by the door. “And, if you hadn't emptied your
chamber-pot over me, we wouldn't have had to restrain you, would we?”

I wonder briefly why people would be compelled to throw
themselves out of a window, but become distracted by Fat Ruth bustling about
with another porcelain jug whilst keeping it discreetly out of my reach. I
smile a little at that, until she dips a sponge into the water, and wrings it
out over my head. I utter a few profanities. When I'm all soaked through, she
pulls the sodden nightgown off me and I sit there, naked and ashamed, on the
edge of what has become 'my' bed, trying ineffectually to cover myself with
crossed legs and folded arms. She starts washing my feet.

“Ah! Wash my stomach first, I've been asleep you bloody
degenerate! You are going to destroy my circulation!”

She ignores me.

“You're absolutely filthy, you are a disgrace.” She repeats
the motion over and over again, adding some soap into the mix, rubbing my arms,
my legs, my back, my face, and last of all, my stomach. Now all of my blood
which has been involved in digestion is bound to stay there, and I shall feel
sluggish and woeful for the rest of the day. I suppose that's how the lower
classes wash themselves, which explains why she's so fat.

 The rest of the water in the jug gets poured directly on my
head. A towel is produced from somewhere which she starts roughly drying me
with, turning my skin pink.

I tell her not to rub so hard. She tuts, and finishes up,
ignoring my request.

“My god, you’re leaking again. Wait a second.” She
disappears out the door in a rush, and comes back in with a bowl. Dipping her
hands into it, she grabs hold of both my breasts.

I shriek.

“What on earth are you doing!” I scream, and try to push her
off me. She holds on tight, and starts squeezing them and rubbing them. It
hurts.

“Dear god! You foul, immoral degenerate!”

“Oh, be quiet Anne,” she says, letting go abruptly and
picking something up from the floor. “Now, put these on, and be quick about
it,” she says, flinging a clean nightgown onto my lap as she bends down to pick
up the empty jug. I stare at the top of her head and consider staying naked for
a while; putting my shame to one side just to offend her.

“I'm going to have you arrested,” I tell her. “You just
abused me.”

“Anne, the doctor is coming,” she says, standing up and
ignoring my threat. “Do you want him to see you like this?” Her keys jangle as
she makes her way over to the cell door, bending over to retrieve the sack from
the floor. “Do you know what men do to women who are exposed in such a manner?”
She leaves with a smile, slamming the door.

I get dressed quickly, scoot myself over to the wall and
start picking.

Dr George Savage

October 16th, 1885

Royal Bethlem Hospital

Leaving my office, the three us make our way to the female
ward. Our footsteps clack a staccato against the floor, and every now and then
Mr Stanbury stops and calls to me, pointing out one curiosity or another. You'd
think the man had never seen a woman scratching her skin off with her teeth.
Thankfully, people don't get the opportunity to do so anymore.

Decades have passed since the public were allowed and
indeed, encouraged, to darken the asylum's doors twice a week to study the
oddities within. Although I understand the nature of human curiosity, I am
thankful that the patients are no longer treated like animals. No poking with
sticks under my rule. I point out a few things as we go.

"This is the dayroom, where patients are free to roam,
sit, and pass the day at their pleasure: though they are strongly encouraged to
engage in various moral activities. Even games are encouraged; they engage the
mind. An author once said: 'the philosophy of games to me forms the philosophy
of life', and I tend to agree. I encourage the staff to play with the patients
to open up channels of communication. Here is the female day room; the entire
male department is over on the other wing. Patients of the opposite sex do not
interact with one another. I actively discourage such behaviour outside of rare
social functions, balls and such."  The corridor opens out into a large
room, and the gentleman stop behind me.

“And here is where we host those balls. Dancing is wonderful
for the mind: restoring the self-control lost during madness; and is actually
one of the rare occasions where members of the opposite sex are allowed to mix
here at Bethlem. For one evening only, the residents and staff become an
extended family without distinction of neither status nor rank." I look at
the men in turn. "Under strict observation mind, you understand. We've not
had anyone escape yet."

"Will Anne be engaging in such activities?" Lord
Damsbridge asks, looking around the hall.

"Yes, when she is well enough. Don't worry; all of our
patients are escorted by the attendants."

We continue through the hall and into another corridor,
where we come across Grace, one of our incurable patient's in her usual spot,
obscuring the corridor.

"Good morning, Grace," I say, momentarily bending
down to touch her forehead. No response. I ceased writing notes regarding this
patient a long time ago. She is, sadly, more of a pet now than a human-being.

"Good morning, Nurse Agnes.”

"Good morning, Sir," the attendant replies
cheerfully, waving at me and smiling at the two men behind me. Despite her
newness she is an absolute delight to work with. Dedicated and gentle, she is
well on her way to being the one of the best attendants, despite coming from an
obscure background with no prior experience in the field.

"Gentlemen, may I ask you to kindly step around Grace,
she is one of our patients here."

"What ails her?" asks Mr Stanbury from behind me.

"I am afraid I am not at liberty to discuss patients
with you, laws of confidentiality-I'm sure you understand," I reply. A
faint grunt of acknowledgment answers me. We continue on our way, and I
inwardly curse the attendants when I observe a pool of urine underneath a
table. Thankfully, the gentlemen don't notice: instead whispering amongst
themselves and pointing to various paintings on the walls.

Their earlier disagreement seems to be all but forgotten,
and I breathe a silent sigh of relief as we come to a halt outside Lady
Stanbury's room.

I lift the large metal ring attached to my belt with a
chain, and flip through the keys. "Gentlemen, this is one of our
segregation rooms, that is to say, Lady Stanbury is alone in here. The reasons
for this are long and varied, but in a nutshell, she cannot be trusted amongst
other inmates at present.” I find the key and insert it into the lock. “We do
not give her freedom in the hospital based on these grounds, but we do try to
escort her around the ward on a daily basis when permissible.” I turn my hand
and the door unlocks with a quiet click.

“You mean to tell me that my daughter is locked up like a
common criminal?” Lord Damsbridge says, coldly.

“Not at all,” I say, pulling the key out of the lock and
putting the bunch into my pocket. Does he forget that his darling daughter
committed a crime? “I believe in the gaol, she would have been forced to work
the crank wheel, amongst other, most unpleasant things that they make prisoners
do. Here, she is simply segregated for the good of her health. We don’t treat
any of our patients like criminals, My Lord. But you need to understand that
she is dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” He says, and splutters on a half-choke,
half-laugh. “Why, my daughter is the most docile, polite creature ever to grace
this earth!”

I start to open the door, and stop.

“Does your daughter ever talk out of turn, My Lord?”

“No, not at all.”

“Does she ever swear or act vulgar in her mannerisms?”

He looks aghast.

“No. She learned politeness before any other subject.”

“Well, she does now,” I say, and inch open the door without
waiting for a response.

“Where is the handle?” Mr Stanbury asks, just as we are
about to cross the threshold.

“There is no handle, they pose a safety risk. Patients running
into them and trying to do all manner of things with them; I daren't tell you
what. It is truly insane what lunatics can do with a door handle.  Here, look.”
Lifting a flap of metal, I show him the hidden keyhole. “In the unlikely event
that a patient managed to get hold of a key, they wouldn’t be able to access
the lock unless they figured out how to lift this almost-hidden flap of metal.”

“Impressive security.”

“As I said, Mr Stanbury, we try our best,” I say, pleased.

On entering, we find Lady Stanbury sitting on the bed, her
back to us, gazing out of the window. When she hears the door open, she turns
to us and smiles. He hands are cupped around something.

"Good morning, Anne." I say.

"Go to hell."

I look to Lord Damsbridge pointedly, and he shrugs.

Quickly, I take the men aside, and speak quietly. "You
will notice I address her rather informally. This is because she does not
associate herself with the name Lady Stanbury; a symptom I'm afraid is
associated with her disease. As that name means nothing to her at present, and
to call her Lady Anne would inhibit the healing process, I call her
'Anne'".

“Why would that inhibit the healing process?”

“Because her mind would only remember the time when she was
Lady Anne, which was before she married. It would not encourage her to remember
her husband, nor her child.”

"What are you whispering about, you fiends?" Lady
Stanbury asks, opening her hands.

In them is a pile of yellow paint flecks.

Something to do with seeing his wife acting and talking so
strangely affect's Mr Stanbury, as all of a sudden he falls to his knees and
starts to cry. "Anne, Anne, Anne," he repeats, wringing his hands.
“My love, my heart!”

His suit will get filthy on the floor, yet I refrain from
advising him to stand. He's not a patient.

"Oh dear," she says, frowning at her forgotten
husband, throwing the paint onto the ground where they settle like yellow
petals torn from a flower by an errant child. She settles herself further away
from us on her bed, until her back presses against the wall.

"Anne, this is your father and your husband, do you
recognize them?" I ask her, approaching her slowly. Though she doesn’t
appear to hold any sort of dangerous object, her earlier performance encourages
me to remain wary.

As equally suspicious of me as I am of her, she eyes me as I
move towards her, rubbing her hands against each other, alternately studying
them and me. "Well, of course I recognize my own father; hello, Father;
but you haven't kept me as a hostage quite long enough to drive me insane, just
yet. Though why you would try to pretend this gentleman,” she points to Mr
Stanbury, “is my husband, I can't imagine. You're all crazy." At this
point she moves her gaze off her hands and looks directly at Lord Damsbridge,
leaving the bed and moving a step towards him.

"Dearest Father, how much do they want? I was captured
like a felon, placed under lock and key, even thrown into a sack! Where are the
police?” She moves another few steps and looks around her, peering between us
towards the door. “Ah, you're not so fat that I can't see through the door,
fish-eyes. Yet I don’t see the police, and I don’t hear them either. Oh, I know
what's happened.” She walks around in a circle, nodding to herself before
returning to her bed, and starts absently picking at the wall. “They've told
you not to involve the law, haven't they? Fiends.  Well, listen, I would not
enter into any negotiations with them if I were you: you know what happened
with the French Revolution and the Spanish Inquisition – bloody foreigners. In
fact, Father, it is rather comfortable here, well, apart from being treated
like a potato which was most disagreeable. Yet, my staying is actually putting
my kidnappers out, for I am being fed and watered daily." With this she
begins to laugh until tears roll down her face. "Isn't this just
exquisite? Oh, how I turned the tables on my captors!"

Lord Damsbridge looks at me. “A sack?”

"Part of her delusions: she believes she has been
kidnapped," I tell him, deciding that now is not the time to discuss the
use of mechanical restraints.

"My father knows that I have been kidnapped, as opposed
to 'thinking' I have. He can see me with his eyes, his not-so-fish-eyed eyes,
like yours!” 

"You haven't been kidnapped," says Mr Stanbury,
still on his knees, tears falling down his face.

“Fish eyes?” Lord Damsbridge looks at his daughter, and
offers her a smile. She frowns back at him, and goes back to picking paint.
Suddenly, she whirls.

"YOU!" she cries, aiming the flecks at Mr Stanbury
whereby they sprinkle ineffectually to the ground. "Why don't you go and
join Fat Ruth? We do not need a spare part for our negotiations."

"You told me you didn't want to negotiate, Anne."
I say.

"Father, this is ridiculous! There are dozens of poor
women here!" she screams, ignoring me.

"Who is Fat Ruth?" asks Lord Damsbridge to nobody
in particular.

"She is quite insane," Mr Stanbury observes
quietly, standing up and pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. Dabbing his
eyes, he continues.  "What treatment has she had to date?"

“Treatment? Well so far, we have simply given her rest in a
cosy atmosphere, it is-”

"'Cosy atmosphere’?" Lady Stanbury retorts,
jumping up and pointing to the window. She continuously moves and fidgets.
"Do you maniacs call bars across the window 'cosy'? Where were you born,
in a cave? A prison? Yes, you probably were, I bet your father was a lying
thief too.” She turns to Mr Stanbury and shouts at him loudly. “Did I not order
you to leave the room?"

"Leave us a while, Stanbury," says Lord
Damsbridge. “I'm sure the good doctor will discuss treatments with us at a more
appropriate time.”

I watch the exchange with interest. This conversation will
progress nowhere as it stands, and as I previously tried to tell Lord
Damsbridge, nothing has been achieved by bringing them to see her. The sight of
her husband seems to be distressing her immensely, though she claims not to
know who he is. She recognizes her father, yet his presence does not seem to be
calming her any. I am keen to follow up on her delusions, and though I am
equally eager not to have Lord Damsbridge observe the proceedings, I shudder to
think what impact it could have upon the hospital if he was to withdraw his
funding.

"Mr Stanbury, could you kindly wait outside for a
moment?" I ask him. "I'm sure one of the nurses would be all too
happy to make you a cup of tea."

He stares at me, twitches his jaw, and knocks twice on the
cell door, hard and loud. Nurse Ruth opens it for him, and he walks past her
muttering obscenities under his breath and sniffing.

"Really, you employ people whom use such foul language
in front of a lady? Disgraceful," Lady Stanbury says, picking the paint
again. A large area of the wall is now grey; she has exposed the stone.

Evidently she has no insight into her own vulgarity, and the
hypocrisy of her words are not lost on Lord Damsbridge as he shakes his head in
shame.

"Anne, tell me where you are." I say.

"I'm in a cell, are you blind? There is no door handle,
I am trapped, and nobody speaks French. Where is Beatrix?"

"Do you remember how you got here?"

"No, because you evidently gave me chloroform or some
such." She starts swaying back and forth.

"What is the last thing you can remember before waking
here?"

She becomes wild, leaping off the bed and circling the room
like a caged animal. "I was at home! I went to sleep! And I woke up here!
Believe me, when I DO remember getting here, I will identify every person
responsible for this and make sure they are all swiftly arrested." She
stops, stands in front of me, and squints. "Including you. I can be sure
to remember your long, unruly beard, and evil eyes."

"Do you remember my name?"

"You call yourself Doctor. Now, I shan't answer any
more of your questions as firstly, they bore me rigid, and secondly, I shan't
give you any reason to harm me."

"But Anne, why would we want to harm, you?"

"For the ransom, idiot,” She turns to her father.
“Father, do these people never read? By next week expect a finger or toe in the
post. I'm sure their lack of education will ensure they resort to violent negotiations
soon enough,” She shifts her gaze back to me.