Hidden Company

by S E England

  “No!”

  I cannot get free. My hands won’t move.

  Terror seems to feed the demon child. And others now join her, crowding around, peering like crones into a pram.

  A vile stench permeates the air, the effect like smelling salts. Along with the cold – freezing, stone-cold damp.

  I can’t move.

  So it is true, and real. I am in an asylum. For lunatics and imbeciles.

  My whole body convulses into sobs.

  “She’s awake. She’s awake. Look she’s crying!”

  ***

  This morning, however, there is no icy bath. Or breakfast. The others are stripped and washed, some raging at unseen tormentors, one flinging herself to the floor distraught to find the contents of her dresser emptied and strewn about.

  But no harridan comes for me. Instead there is more morphine swiftly followed by the velvet blackness of opiate-induced oblivion. I do not know for how long I lie in its stupor. All I know is that when the world switches back to grey, and light criss-crosses the walls once more, the melancholy is like no other. My heart sits as a rock.

  Through the bars a weak gauzy sun struggles to permeate heavy cloud, the green haze of fields merging with mist. Once I would have wished to capture such ethereal beauty but not today, it has nothing to do with me – I am no longer a part of it. At least all is quiet. The mad nocturnal circus acts have dissipated and for that I am profoundly grateful.

  Gradually, the murmur of a foreign tongue seeps into my consciousness. Maids perhaps? Are they maids? Are they kind? Will they help me?

  Half way along the row of beds opposite, two chattering women are whipping off sheets and flipping mattresses. One looks more severe than the other, with steel hair pulled tightly into a knot at the nape of her neck, and I recognise her as Mrs Payne. Ivy, the other calls her. This is the one who stripped and scrubbed me, who held me in a vice grip while Myra Strickland pushed a feeding tube down my throat. Pray she hasn’t seen me wake, although I need the lavatory quite desperately. The whole place carries the stench of a sewer. The sheets being peeled away are wet and stained, these women wearing gloves just to change the bedding.

  The one opposite Ivy is slightly younger - Nesta, I think. She’s the one facing this way, and doing most of the gossiping - the throaty ‘uch’ and ‘cluch’ rapidity impossible to understand. But gossip it certainly is, the way her speech undulates, pausing here and there to emphasise a point, shaking her head in between dipping a scrubbing brush into a bucket and scraping at the floorboards. One or two of the names mentioned are familiar – Gwilym and Myra, for example. Other words catch and repeat several times – ‘cwm, llyn, twp, gwynt, cwtch.’ The language is beautiful and lilting but ultimately elusive. I must try to understand it if ever I am to fathom a way out of here. All the while, chatter, chatter, chatter. Something she is not happy about for sure. Softer to look at than Ivy, she has the same swarthy dark skin, bird sharp eyes and sinewy frame. Her forearms are like Ivy’s too – knotted and muscled with raised veins on the backs of her hands. I imagine she slaps hard. I see those hands imprinted on my face and make sure to keep still and not call out. They will get to me soon enough. I can hold onto my aching bladder a little while longer. Let me take stock. There has to be a way out of here.

  Iron grilles block every window along the entire wall, each sash tightly shut. And although icy in here, it is also cloying and stuffy, the grate at the end unlit. No fireguard. No trace of ash. Clearly never used. There is one light in the centre of the ceiling, and twelve beds opposite. Presumably the same number on this side? So I have twenty-three companions with barely enough space between us for a narrow cabinet each.

  Thuds and thumps occasionally sound from upstairs along with isolated screams and drawn-out wailing. I wonder who is up there and why – perhaps those not fit to work? Is it the same as down here or worse? Are these for men or are there more women? Either way I have to assume it is a similar layout. Perhaps if I gained a position in an outhouse such as that of a laundry maid? From there it may be possible to run to the main road and implore a passing traveller? But money…they took my purse. And, oh, I remember now, they cut my hair. And what about clothing? How does anyone ever get out of here? I cannot stay six months. I will die. How could they have done this to me? What did I do to deserve this? Was it so wicked as to merit imprisonment without trial?

  Where is Samuel? Where is Amelia?

  Why do they not send word?

  It takes effort, a great deal, to quell the rising panic and not call out.

  Ivy and Nesta have been busy and are now scrubbing down the mattress on the opposite bed, the one which contained the diseased woman of yesterday. Was it yesterday or was it days ago? I wonder if she has passed away. Where was her body taken? Did they have a funeral for her?

  They sweep off the bedding, exposing the metal frame. Along with the bolts. Iron bolts, in fact, hold every piece of furniture – from the beds to the little cabinets in between – firmly to the floor.

  Perhaps Ivy senses the change in energy, or did I gasp?

  Because all at once her back stiffens. She stops what she’s doing, pauses, then slowly turns around. My bladder aches. I need so badly to visit the bathroom. I know my features are set to a grimace and I know she smiles inwardly at my discomfort.

  “Nesta–” The rest of her sentence is lost on me, spoken in the foreign tongue. But the meaning is not.

  The two of them are walking over now, slipping off their gloves.

  “Morning, Madam!”

  ***

  Chapter Eight

  Dr Edgar Fox-Whately is seated behind a polished desk of oak, and a fire roars in his grate. Beside him stands a woman in a long dress of black taffeta, which rustles with the silky crepitation birds wings. Behind a pair of spectacles she stares at me as if looking forward to the admonishment of a rambunctious child, her bloodless lips pressed together as if they have never, laughed.

  What a pretty sight I must present – shorn and wretched in an asylum uniform, with bleeding wrists and a cut, blackened eye. The extreme distress causing tears to smear my cheeks however, is not due to this but the hacking of my long, flaxen hair. Now replaced with the close crop of a convict, it resembles that of unfortunates I used to visit in the course of my Christian duty - those facing the noose for murder. I avert my eyes for the shame of it. To stand here so debased…

  Behind Dr Fox-Whately’s shoulder, verdant fields glisten with dew. They stretch as far as a deeply wooded forest beneath a backdrop of snow-topped mountains. Its raw beauty stings my eyes anew. Far better not to have a glimpse at all.

  On the periphery of both my mind and vision, the good doctor’s voice drawls, “Mrs George, my housekeeper informs me you would not partake of breakfast. This will not do. It is part of your treatment and I rather thought I made that clear. Do you not understand? You must take three modest meals a day or you will be unable to tolerate a regime of hard work and treatment. Hardly a good start.”

  I wish to ask him why he does not partake of breakfast in there himself, among those screeching incontinent lunatics. But hold my tongue yet. His eyes are like wintry glass and I fear to look into them, instead fixating on a spot between his eyebrows. The hairs loop outwards in wiry disarray. “In that case I offer my apologies.”

  He nods. “Good–”

  “But what I do not understand, Doctor Fox-Whately, is why I am incarcerated with those of the lower class. My family have paid. This is a private institution, is it not? The person who did this,” I point to my eye, “is a filthy imbecile – a woman crawling around on her hands and knees–”

  His countenance darkens with every word I utter, and has now reached such a degree that he can contain himself not a moment longer. “Mrs George, you are under my jurisdiction and I will decide where you reside and with whom. My wife, Cecily, and I are committed Christians and endeavour to provide for those in society who do not have the advantages people of your ilk are fortunate en
ough–”

  “With respect, there are asylums for those people who would otherwise have been in poorhouses or prisons and–”

  He holds up a hand. “Enough. We have far fewer facilities afforded to us here in Wales than in England. Therefore those of you who are able to pay help support those who cannot. I would have thought this would have pleased you as a Christian woman, Mrs George. May I also remind you, Madam, not to interrupt me while I am speaking?”

  “I beg your forgiveness, sir.”

  Again he stares at me for far too long, before eventually deciding to continue. “As I was saying, my wife and I are devout Christians. We strive to provide church services and a moral regime for all those in need, not just,” and here he spoke in the most scathing tone, “for the wealthy.”

  “So my fee covers theirs, is what you are saying?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And I am not even afforded the comfort of a private room in return for the exorbitant fee my family has paid? Does my sister know of the circumstances I endure?”

  “As a matter of fact your husband is in daily contact and would like to visit.”

  My husband? No, oh no, no…

  “No! I will not see him. Tell him I refuse. I would rather see my child. And my sister…pray, why does she not write?”

  The woman’s eyes flicker.

  They are keeping something from me.

  Doctor Fox-Whately is scribbling now, scratching away in his damn ledger. Rage consumes me. Where is my sister? Where is my child? Why will he not answer my questions?

  And then to my horror, quite as if I am watching someone else, my entire being lunges across the desk, swiping ledger, books and ornaments to the floor in one swoop. A river of ink streaks across the paper, the pen flying from his hand.

  Both he and his wife jump back as if struck.

  And for one tiny, dazzling, dancing speck in time they are thrown. Quite speechless. Until a bell is sounded and shouts go up.

  Ivy, Nesta and Gwilym know what to do and they do it quickly – with spade hands and iron forearms, they slam me onto the floor face down, arms jacked up and legs pinned in less than a second.

  Breathe...just breathe…

  They have my limbs locked, cheek pressing into the floorboards. A light breeze soughs in the trees outside and the linen panelling creaks. Again distant howls echo down the flue and through the cracks in the walls, like those of distressed animals from somewhere high in the house – the attics, the turrets?

  Breathe…just breathe…one day I will be out of here…my sister will come…

  Doctor Fox-Whately is struggling to compose his features – the sinews of that flour-white face tightening into a grim mask of self-control. His razor-wire mouth twitches with distaste, the tongue flicking out to moisten his lips. “Well, it is quite clear to me, Mrs George, that you have made no progress whatsoever during your assessment period. Indeed you are a grave disappointment.”

  It is hard to retort when one’s head is being yanked backwards.

  “Where is my child? You must tell me. And my sister – why has she not written?”

  He shakes his head. “You are most unwell, Flora. Most unwell. And until you can learn to control your impulses and your violence, I am of the conviction that you remain a risk to both yourself and others. As such you will shortly commence a term of cooling treatments. These are commonly prescribed for a temperament such as yours and have shown excellent results.” He nods to the three who have me thrust to the floor. “Mrs Payne, you will see this begins immediately. We will review the situation a month hence. Good day, Mrs George.”

  There is no point in screaming. This is indignity enough. “I wish to write my sister.”

  He nods. “You may write.”

  That, at least, is something. Amelia will secure my release once she is aware of these atrocious circumstances. Her soft, sweet face appears before me now, how kind she is, has always been. Oh, she will hear of this. I will have this before the courts. Taken to the newspapers. How a husband can have a wife who no longer grants him his pleasures…how he can have her removed in such a manner…

  “And what of my child? You will tell me! You will!”

  “Good day, Mrs George.”

  Back he goes to his scribbles. But all further thoughts of dialogue now fade rapidly following another dose of morphine. And with feet dragging along the floorboards, to my utter degradation, I am forcibly removed from the doctor’s office.

  ***

  Days pass. Weeks. Another phase of the moon.

  Vigilant during the darkest hours, I lie awake night after night listening to the pitiful moans and intermittent screams from the rooms above. Who or what is up there? I am quite unable to picture a human being making such a sound, night after night – the image more that of tethered wild animals with their pattering feet and pacing despair.

  I am physically weaker now. But the morphine doses are much reduced and thus I have more wits about me. Enough to be aware of the danger here. I had thought the worst of this ordeal was to be imprisoned indefinitely without trial. But with every passing day the danger grows bolder, and the need to hear from my sister more pressing.

  Still there is no correspondence from Amelia. I have written daily and sometimes more – carefully placing the letters in the postal box outside the dining room for collection. And when the mail is delivered I wait anxiously, only to be disappointed. I do not believe I can endure another day here. Oh, it is not the harsh treatments of which I speak, for they are bad enough, but that other. There are worse things here. Far worse.

  It takes a while to see them. In a similar way to the eye adjusting to darkness and shapes to be revealed, so it is with the hidden layers within these walls. And they exist as surely as the umbra of a shadow. Everyone here knows it. Even the lunatics. Especially the lunatics.

  Those dangerous layers swirl around the three of them like a noxious gas – Ivy Payne, Nesta Winters and Gwilym Ash. They whisper furtively in their native tongue, glancing my way far too frequently for comfort. These people are untrained and uneducated, yet quite unlike the maids at home, are utterly devoid of compassion and decency. Perhaps the vulnerability of insanity attracts a certain type? I have witnessed slaps, kicks and peevish pinches on simple, child-like creatures who mean no harm; and the beating of a young girl foaming at the mouth on the floor.

  It does not bode well.

  It most certainly does not bode well…

  Each day my senses clear a little more and I have learned how important it is to appear meek, agree and obey, swallow down the castor oil and not grimace. To remain bodily free is paramount, restraints being one of the most distressing punishments. Yesterday morning a woman broke free of a leather face mask which had been fastened overnight at the back of the neck with straps. It had sent her quite hysterical. On being untied she bolted from the room, took the stairs at a rate and threw herself from the bathroom window. Her body smashed onto the terrace below, the neck quite broken.

  I have seen others spun around in a chair whilst blindfolded, until dizzily disorientated they fall to the floor, vomit and lose control of their bowels. This is purging. And always seems to bring Ivy, Nesta and Gwilym an inordinate and inhuman amount of pleasure.

  For myself the treatments prescribed are cooling, such as it is again this morning. The first time I was not sure what to expect as we were marched outside to stand in a row. Alas, with each successive treatment the dread builds. A cure is apparently effected by taking us to the brink of death in order we may be reborn without afflictions, thus each of us is dunked into a tub of freezing water while strapped to a board, and held under to the point of drowning.

  I am not sure how much more I can tolerate. Each time the cold water treatment is carried out it leaves each and every one of us with wracking coughs, violent, uncontrollable shivering and lungs so painful it is nigh impossible to draw breath. Some cannot walk afterwards, but topple and fall to the ground. Others contract consumptio
n. And one or two are not seen again.

  Alongside me this particular morning are gibbering fools with no coherent thoughts in their brains, and I wonder what the good doctor hopes to gain by nearly drowning them. For example, there is Ada, with her neck jerking rapidly from side to side, grimaces and tics contorting her face, and wadding covering the oozing erysipelas on her skin. One moment she is laughing hysterically, the next sobbing and throwing herself to the ground for no apparent reason. At night she is heavily sedated to prevent her from dressing and undressing, getting in and out of bed and pacing around the dormitory or methodically ripping up sheets and clothing. Now, muttering to herself in an excitable, frantic language all her own, she nibbles her nails to the quick while Ivy and Gwylim muscle her onto the water board. Poor Ada, she has no recollection they did this to her yesterday and how badly it’s going to hurt.

  And Diane, dreadfully rotund, a pudding faced teen who shouts at imagined spectres and is forever either cowering like a terrified child or running around like a banshee threatening thin air. At night she repeatedly bangs her head against the wall to get the devil out. Now she too walks forward to be submerged once more. Shouting at the attendants with intelligible words she looks as if she’s knitting something, always her arms are busy – as if she trying to communicate in a language which doesn’t make sense.

  My heart overflows for these poor wretches, long since abandoned by families who are shamed by their existence. Not so long ago I too called them imbeciles, idiots and inferiors, and shame washes through me for the person that I was. They are human. Not well humans. Traumatised or with some curious oddity. But mostly I am frightened. Because I think I am perhaps the only one who remembers each day what is going to happen and how close we are to dying, to contracting disease, to ceasing to exist, and for no one to even care that we once did.