Wildthorn (19 page)

I've entered the lowest circle of hell and there is no escape.

I still feel weak and lethargic, even though I've been trying to eat a little. But I don't feel as lightheaded or confused and my hands aren't shaking as much now.

I'm even getting used to the violence. The attendants are worse than the patients, especially the big one with the deep voice—Scratton, I think she's called. She likes to taunt patients until they lash out. Then she knocks her victims down, saying, "Look what you've done to yourself, you clumsy!" Lots of the patients have bruises on their faces, but no one's been to check on us; I haven't seen the matron or Dr. Bull since I arrived on the Fifth.

So far I've been lucky. As long as I stay on my bed out of the way no one pays any attention to me. But all the time, inside, I'm terrified. Not of being hit. The most fearful thing is seeing in the other patients what I might become if I give up, if I let myself sink into despair. I've tried to make myself believe I won't be here forever. I have vivid, troubled dreams, often about escaping: I climb over the gate, or disguise myself as an attendant, or, best of all, glide through the walls like a ghost...

But then I wake up and I'm still here and the long day drags on—so many hours to fill with only my own thoughts for company. If I let it, my mind runs wild, ideas and feelings whirling round till I feel dizzy. I've tried to control it by concentrating on something clear and calm. I recall mathematical formulae, I recite the symptoms of diseases and medical procedures, the discipline of it helping me to keep hold of a sense of myself. I am still me. I am Louisa Cosgrove.

But I can't keep it up.

Even if I'm moved to a better ward, I'm still going to be imprisoned. Tom won't sign my release. I won't get another chance to escape. If I did, where could I go? What could I do? I've no money now, I'd be destitute.

I'll never see Mamma again. I'll never know if Grace is happy...

Every day I feel myself sinking lower, as if I'm sliding slowly into a dark sea, knowing I'm going to drown...

There is a way out of course. If I still had my glass sliver...

Could I do it though? I don't know whether I have the courage. But if I had the means...

That would give me a kind of freedom, knowing I could choose.

***

Sometimes if I shut my eyes and relax, I can slip away...

I'm in my room at home. I'm pleased with myself because I've just translated a difficult piece of Xenophon and Papa calls up the stairs, "Lou, are you coming?"

I run down and there in the street is the gig and the whiskery horse, who rolls his eyes at being kept waiting. But Papa speaks to him and calms him and then he trots off docilely, taking us on our visits. I enjoy the breeze and the jingle of the horse's harness as Papa tells me who we are going to see.

We're nearly at the church and I hear the bell ringing, the slow single notes of the death knell. I climb down from the carriage and watch as men with blank faces lift the coffin on to their shoulders. I look for Papa but he's not there. I follow the coffin through the churchyard and watch as it is lowered into the black hole. Then the men start shovelling earth into the hole, spadeful after spadeful. But, however much earth they throw into the hole, they can't stop the terrible smell...

It's the smell that brings me back.

Papa is dead and I am here. But I still keep my eyes closed. For a little while longer, I can try to pretend.

Something touches my hand. Instantly I open my eyes, afraid of Scratton.

No, I'm still dreaming. Someone in a yellow dress is sitting on my bed. A yellow dress like butter, like sunshine.

I close my eyes, open them again. The vision is still here.

"Miss?"

My mind is playing tricks. "Eliza?"

"Yes, Miss, it's me."

I gaze at her face, that familiar freckled face.

"There now, there's no need to cry. Here." She holds something out.

It's this small cambric square that convinces me it isn't a dream.

"Keep it. I've plenty more."

I dab at my eyes with the handkerchief which smells of soap, of almonds, Eliza's smell.

When at last I look at her, I see the shock in her eyes. I'm suddenly aware of how I must appear to her, of how
I
must smell. I'm not aware of it because I'm used to it.

When did I last wash properly? Every morning, we're allowed to go to the washroom, if we want, but it's a damp, dark place with cockroaches scuttling across the floor. There's no soap and only one grimy, frayed towel between us. I've given up trying to be clean.

Now, ashamed, I bury my face in my hands.

"What's wrong?"

"I—I hate you seeing me like this." I sense her sitting down on the bed next to me. "Don't. You'll spoil your dress."

"It doesn't matter. Don't upset yourself, Miss."

And then I feel her arm around me. The hug only lasts a minute, but I can still feel the comfort of it even after she lets go.

I look into her blue eyes. "I didn't expect to see you."

"I wanted to know how you were, like. Sorry I couldn't come sooner. I couldn't see you, you know, in Solitary." She seems embarrassed at mentioning it.

Scratton isn't here this afternoon and none of the other attendants are taking any notice of us, but I still lower my voice. "You heard what happened?"

"Yes." The way she says it makes me think she knows everything. She gives me a wry look. "That were a neat trick with the chloral. Martha were right riled about it. And copping Weeks! That were a good one."

I smile briefly. "But it didn't work, did it?"

She smiles back, rueful and sympathetic.

It dawns on me—she doesn't mind that I tried to escape; she doesn't disapprove! And coming to see how I am. How kind she is. She'll tell me the truth, I'm sure.

But it takes me a minute or two to screw myself up to ask the question. "Is Beatrice—Miss Hill"—I swallow—"Is she dead?" My voice wobbles on the word.

"Dead? Why no, Miss."

I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding. "I thought—when I went to her room and it was locked, I thought—"

"She'd been moved—to another gallery."

She's avoiding my eye. There's more to this but I don't know what questions to ask.

"Is she safe?"

"She's safe, right enough." She has a strange expression on her face, as if she's swallowed sour milk. For a moment she seems to be struggling with herself, then she bursts out, "I know she were your friend, Miss, but I can't forgive her for what she's done to you."

I go cold. "What do you mean?"

Eliza shakes her head. Something too awful to tell me.

My thoughts scatter. What did Beatrice do? Then they settle on something so obvious I can't believe I didn't see it before."
Beatrice told Weeks about my plan?
"

She nods.

The noise in the gallery recedes and I seem to be suspended in a white empty space. This is what it must feel like to have a limb amputated. Feeling nothing at the first cut, because of the shock.

Eliza is peering at me, looking worried. "I'm sorry. I weren't going to say."

I seize hold of a straw. "Perhaps Weeks is lying?"

Eliza shakes her head. "I were there."

"But Beatrice didn't mean to tell? It slipped out by accident or—or Weeks tormented her, until she was forced to confess?"

I can see the truth in her face.

"Weeks didn't lay a finger on her. She just blabbed it all."

I can't believe it.
Beatrice.
I thought we were friends. I thought you trusted me.

My heart twists as I remember the moment I stood outside, under the stars, when I was so close to freedom.

"Did you know I made it to the door, actually got outside?"

Eliza nods.

"I couldn't believe how easy it was."

She looks at me meaningfully and suddenly I understand this too. "Weeks made it easy for me? The keys where I could get them, my clothes on top of the pile, the door left open?"

"Yes."

It all makes sense now.

Eliza seems distressed. "I wanted to warn you, but I didn't get the chance. Soon as the canary sang, I were out of there, like a shot."

"What do you mean?"

"Weeks got it out of Miss Hill that I'd let you visit her. That were the end of the Second for me. Alice has got my place now."

I stare at her, dismayed. This is my fault. "Oh, Eliza, I'm sorry."

She shrugs. "I knew the rules. It's not so bad in the Fourth."

"You're still here, then? In the asylum? I thought—your dress—"

She smiles. "It's my afternoon off."

She's given up her afternoon off to come and see me. And after I've made things worse for her.

"Is the Fourth like this?"

Eliza surveys the ward. "Oh, no, Miss. Not like this. The patients are quieter than here, much quieter."

I've overheard Scratton talking to another attendant about the different galleries."
At least here there's something going on. With the deadheads, you might as well be dead yourself.
"

Poor Eliza. Stuck in a place like that.

"I'm sorry, Miss." Eliza stands up. "I'd better be going now. They'll be expecting me at home."

I don't want her to go.

"Is there anything I can get you?"

She'll come again, if I can think of something! "I—I don't know."

She looks at my hair and raises her eyebrows comically. "Wouldn't you like a comb?"

"A comb?"

She presses my hand. "Don't give up hope, Miss. I'll bring you a comb, and some soap and stuff. You'll feel better if you wash."

I think it will take more than a wash to make me feel better.

"And Miss, you should try to eat more. I know the food's disgusting, but you should try to build yourself up a bit."

I nod, but her mentioning the food has given me an idea. "Do you still use Fowler's Solution for your hands?"

She looks surprised. "Yes, I do." She holds out her hands for my inspection. "I think they're a mite better, don't you?"

"Yes, they are." I try to look as innocent as I can. "Could you get me some Fowler's? I will try to eat more, but the food here gives me indigestion..." I can feel myself going red at the lie.

But Eliza doesn't seem to notice. "I'll bring you some, soon as I can."

I watch her threading her way down the ward, a patch of sunshine passing through the grey. She turns at the door to give me a wave and then she's gone.

***

It seems much darker in the gallery now. Was she really here or did I dream it? I stare towards the door, willing her to reappear. Of course, nothing happens—only the noisy whirl of the ward carrying on as usual.

I don't want to be shut up in my head again. I don't want to think about Beatrice. If I had the Fowler's Solution now, I'd only have to swallow it all down and the arsenic in it would quickly do its deadly business. That would be the end of this misery.

The thought makes me clench my hand and I find I'm still holding the small square of cambric. I wipe my eyes, breathing in its smell, Eliza's smell. And I think, It's true—she was here!

I've looked out for Eliza every day, even though I've known it's too soon—she won't have another afternoon off yet. As time passes, I've begun to believe she won't come again. Why would she? I'm not anything to her, just as I wasn't anything to Beatrice, I realise that now.

At first I felt bitter, wondering why I gave up my chance of freedom for someone who betrayed me? But now I believe it was my fault. I was too impulsive. It was a reckless plan, I see that now. Me playing the hero, rescuing the princess. But not for love—for pity.

I don't have any idea why Beatrice wouldn't want to run away from here. But then, really I don't know her at all.

And perhaps I pitied her more, because she reminded me of Grace...

Grace.
I haven't thought of her for such a long time!

All that emotion ... It seems a long time ago now, like a half-remembered dream—my life then, what I wanted—all a dream...

I feel tired today and despondent.

Scratton is scolding the woman next to me for destroying another pillow; her voice jangles my nerves. I didn't have a good night—my sleep was disturbed by the others' noise: someone screaming, another singing, someone else shouting out obscenities. I would take my chloral now, but no one brings any—perhaps they think it would be wasted on us.

Suddenly Scratton barks, "What are you doing here?"

I look up and here is Eliza in her yellow dress, looking calm and unruffled. My heart lifts as if the sun has come out.

"It's my day off. I can do what I like."

"Hobnobbing with the patients. You'll catch it, if Matron finds out." Scratton's eyes gleam with malice.

Eliza darts back, "How will she find out? Unless you tell her?"

"Sharp, ain't you! Mind you don't cut yourself." Scratton goes off, grumbling to herself.

"These are for you." Eliza hands me a bunch of violets in a jam jar.

I stare at them in wonder. Such a delicate purple ... I believe they signify "faithfulness." And Eliza is being such a faithful friend to me. I smile at her. "They're beautiful."

"I thought they'd be nice to look at while they last. A touch of spring to cheer you up. Not much of a vase, like, but in here..."

"Good idea." I put the flowers on the shelf above my bed. Against the grimy wall, they glow with colour. "What month is it now?"

"March."

"Oh!" My heart contracts.

"Is it the flowers? Was I wrong to bring them?'"

"No. I'm glad to have them. But I hadn't realised I'd been here so long."

"I brought you these." She unwraps the bundle she's carrying; soap, toothpowder, toothbrush, comb and hairpins tumble on to the bed. "And here's a towel. Oh, and the Fowler's solution." She fetches a small bottle out of her bag and passes it to me.

I feel like a traitor. If she knew what I wanted it for...

There's a little awkwardness then, as if neither of us know what to say next. I realise I'm still clutching the bottle of Fowler's and I lay it aside. I don't want to think about that now; I want to think about something cheerful. "Tell me about your family—and your home."