by S E England
She needed to leave. Immediately. The sudden nausea caught her off guard, as if she’d been reading on the back seat of a bus and just looked up. Heat fired into her cheeks. God, what could she buy? Maybe a newspaper or…anything…a magazine…She lurched towards the back of the shop to pick one up. Straightened. And stared.
Holy crap!
Branwen’s voice floated on a woozy daydream, “Oh, you’re looking at my pictures…?”
The intense horror of a nightmare began to take a hold, exactly as it had all those years ago – that sense of dropping into nothingness, the breeze of a tunnel whistling in her ears as she fell, and continued falling, into a black void.
It took a huge effort to turn and face Branwen, to offer a half smile, to nod, and act as normally as possible.
“Only I’ve more in the back if you like them. Come see - I’ll take you through.”
She did her best to follow, clutching at the walls like a drunk, as Branwen led the way through an archway of vertical ribbons into an unlit corridor. Here it narrowed like the entrance to a cave, the walls lumpen and slightly damp. She tottered and reeled. If she didn’t get out of here soon she was going to be horribly sick.
Thankfully it branched into two ante-rooms, one a kitchen, the other an artist’s gallery.
“This is my painting room. What do you think?”
The aroma of oil paint and candle wax was a powerful, heady mix, the room a candle-lit lair. Every inch of space was covered with paintings of the same little creatures adorning the walls of the pub. Some held walking sticks, necks craning around to see who was following them in the woods. Others peered out of the darkness with lanterns, quizzical faces as white as corpses, their tiny features out of kilter with the width of their skulls – the foreheads too broad, eyes too small and far apart – both different - mouths skewed to one side. All, however, wore the same expression of surprise - as if caught out, shocked to be seen, creatures existing in a parallel world that should have remained in the dark.
“You see them, don’t you?”
“Yes, these are in the pub. So you’re the artist?” Jeez, her words were slurring.
Branwen nodded. “I’ll give you one if you like. To put on your bedroom wall.”
“Thank you, but really, I can’t afford and–”
“Oh no! No money changes hands for these, lovely. These are always gifts.” She lifted one from its hook, a witchy looking creature in a long, full-skirted dress with a bustle on the back. The tiny poppet’s face was creased and warped, its expression puzzled and unworldly, the eyes pinhead black.
“Oh no, really. I couldn’t.”
“Take her. She’ll look after you. In the dark when you’re all alone out there.”
A huge wave of nausea surged in a tidal swell that was now unstoppable. She slammed a hand to her mouth, swallowing repeatedly.
As from another room a baby started to wail.
“Okay, well thank you very much. If you’re sure? They’re odd creatures, aren’t they? I mean–”
“You see them, don’t you? You see the Unseen?”
“I’m sorry but I think I’m going to be…I feel–”
“Excuse me a minute, the baby’s crying. Come through while I change her.”
In the kitchen an old-fashioned cradle had been placed near a cooking range, the cot piled with blankets. Branwen was still chatting away, but the minute she turned her back the words were lost amid the noise of a howling wind - like a storm blowing through an empty church. It filled her ears. She had to get out of here immediately. It was too hot. And getting hotter by the second. A pressure-cooker.
She rushed to the back door. “Sorry, got to–”
Branwen was leaning over the cradle, pulling something off …the scene unfolding in slow motion as Isobel lunged for the door handle, the other hand clamped over her mouth. She yanked the door open, shot into the back yard and grabbed onto the stone wall, taking great gulps and gasps of fresh air.
Behind, in the doorway, Branwen stood with the child tucked under one arm, simultaneously turning to toss something back onto the cot. Something that clunked heavily.
“Are you all right?”
Her eyes were streaming. Nodding, still with her back turned, she held her hand to her stomach waiting for the nausea to subside, gratefully inhaling from the mist. Mustn’t be sick…mustn’t be sick…Deep breaths…
“You all right, lovely?” Branwen called again.
“Uh-huh…sorry, sorry–”
“No, no, you take your time. You did look a bit peaky – probably the shock you had earlier, is it? Being run off the road like that?”
After a minute or two, she recovered sufficiently to consider making it back through the shop and out to the car. “I’m okay now. Honestly, I’ll get straight back though, if you don’t mind. I had a sleepless night and it’s been quite a day. I haven’t eaten much, either, it could be that.”
Branwen nodded.
“And thank you for my picture. It’s very artistic…very unusual…” she was saying as she picked it up again.
She’d put it down on the kitchen table in the rush for the back door, and as she did so, now noticed the object lying in the empty cot.
Branwen caught the direction of her stare. “Oh, you’re looking at the iron scissors! We use them to protect our young from crimbils.”
“Crimbils?”
“Changelings. We call them crimbils round here. You know, when your baby isn’t yours anymore – when it’s an imposter? You must have heard of changelings?”
“Well yes, but only in myths and fantasy stories.”
Branwen smiled. “Ah, but they affect you so, Isobel…the pictures.”
“I was just a bit hot that’s all, and I’ve had nothing to eat since this morning and–”
Branwen smiled and laid a hand on her arm. “The fae. They affect you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Come back and have a chat some time, lovely. Come soon. You know where I am.”
***
Chapter Eleven
Flora George
March 1893
After the stabbing incident there has been a change here. We no longer congregate for treatments, but are taken out one by one. For myself this entails being marched across the yard to an outbuilding in order to have freezing water tipped over my head - often as many as fifty bucketfuls.
They segregate us as much as possible too, the already nervous atmosphere now thick with resentment and fear. And gone the laughing and frolicking in the corridors at night. Doubtless, Dr Whately-Fox has put a stop to Gwilym’s little business of bringing locals up here to view the mad people. I imagine watching someone scampering around on all fours or lying naked and prostrate on the floor would be hilarious fare, and well worth the few pennies Ivy and Gwilym charge for the entertainment. But that, as I say, has stopped. Perhaps Whately is nervous of gossip, of attention being drawn to his fine establishment?
And today there has been a visitation from someone on high. We watched through the bars on the windows, as the doctor and his wife shook hands with dignitaries before ushering them inside. The more outwardly insane have been removed entirely from view, the most docile positioned at work in the gardens or the laundry. The rest of us, those of us currently undergoing treatments, have been doped and left in the dormitory - too fuzzy headed to care about the shuffle of visitors’ feet outside the door, or their hushed voices as they peer through.
After a couple of hours they depart with cheery waves, the spectre of Diane repeatedly banging her forehead against the window upstairs, going quite unnoticed.
This girl, Diane, is of recent interest to me. How, I wonder, has she become so fat in here? She sees me looking from time to time, smiles shyly, pats her stomach and explains she swallowed a snake. But deep behind her eyes I can see there dwells a private hell, as if the soul is trapped and struggling to reach out, to make contact. It is the faintest of human connections I have with her, on
e which waxes and wanes. Twice now she has extended a childlike hand and tentatively touched my arm or face, before slumping to her bed once more, rocking to and fro as if to console herself somehow. Nevertheless, she remains one of my few hopes. There is a kindred soul there, I know it.
For my part, not one of the letters sent to Amelia has elicited a response and now the year tips into spring. Evenings sink into a rosy amber glow that spreads across the walls, lambs bleat in the surrounding fields, and through the bars the distant lake shimmers and glints. Once or twice, at dawn or dusk, I swear there is a figure standing at the water’s edge looking straight back, hand raised as if to wave…although it is probably just the way the shadows fall. Nonetheless it is an eerie sight and one which plays on my mind, for the figure is dressed in a long, hooded robe and holds a staff…before vanishing into the mist. Ghosts? No, I do not believe in ghosts. My mind is quite cured of wood sprites and creatures of the supernatural. A trick of the light, therefore…yes indeed, this magical landscape is quite the painter’s dream.
With no clocks or calendars available to us, the only clue to the time of year is the length of day and hue of colour. Sometimes the beauty, as now in the late morning after our visitors have gone, causes such pain inside me as to be almost unbearable. This summer I will not feel the sun’s warmth on my skin, or lie in the meadow amid the drone of bees and fragrance of honeysuckle. Not for me the cool rush of the brook over my toes, or the hypnotic sway of the great willows while I paint. Perhaps never again? Ever!
The panic at this prospect is immense. Daily I beg Nesta to see if there is mail for me – a note from my sister - but there never is. Not a word from the sister I grew up with, learned to ride with, shared a schoolroom and nursery with, sat alongside for many an hour, sewing, painting and discussing who we would marry. Not a single line. I cannot say how heavy my heart lies. It is as if I have been erased from her life. Left to decay until I am dead and buried in the ground.
But somehow each day is faced once more, and with each passing month there can surely not be more to go? He said six months, he did, pray to God I have not remembered incorrectly.
Again my mind has wandered into painful introspection. And our distinguished visitors have been gone not yet ten minutes when there is the quickening of footsteps outside the dormitory. Ivy and Myra.
They bustle in with purpose, Myra with keys jangling at her waist like a jailor. Both are dressed as usual in the dour uniform of long grey woollen dresses buttoned to the neck. They turn and lock the door behind them lest one of us bolts, faces grim, boots echoing on the floorboards.
There is a lull in the dormitory now, from the muttering, humming and fidgeting. Who is it they come for? Some chuckle nervously, convulse and twitch; others shake uncontrollably or continuously pull and snatch at imaginary irritations of clothing or hair. All scurry into the shadows, fleeing with squeals like alerted quarry in a jungle. Except for the silent old woman with blinded eyes, who seems to watch. And know. They call her Violet. And Violet nods in my direction.
Yes, I thought so.
With no words of preamble Ivy and Myra grab my arms and in one swift movement we are hurrying through the locked door and marching rapidly down the corridor. Not a word is spoken. I will not show my fear. I will not ask. I will not feed their pleasure. Where are we going? Outside to the yard now the visitors have gone? More freezing water? But no, it is not to the main staircase but to a wrought iron one at the back, which leads only one way. Upstairs!
I will not panic. I refuse to ask. I can and will endure whatever is coming.
Once onto the upper landing we hurry to the point of running, towards a door at the very end.
The door is flung wide.
And once again that cold blade of fear plunges into my stomach.
Seated side by side, at the end of a large room devoid of any other furniture, are three women, each strapped to a chair in a leather straitjacket. And there at the end is one vacant chair.
Every nerve in my body fires - the instinct to scream, kick, buck and scratch my way out of here. But the hands gripping my arms are of iron. And besides, I can hear him coming – the loping, key-clanking power of an idle stride - the one who has turned up no doubt to enjoy the show. Gwilym Ash would delight in sending me spinning right back and worse.
Without a word of explanation, Ivy and Myra begin busying themselves with locks and clamps. What have I done to merit further punishment? Have I not taken week after week of near-drownings and freezing head baths? But there is nothing for it, nothing to do but acquiesce as with alarming speed they shove me into the fourth chair. And now there are four of us sitting side by side. Each positioned with our backs to the window, necks held rigid by leather straps, ankles bolted with chains to the floor.
Finally the two women retreat, joining Gwilym Ash who lounges in the doorway. The door is then locked. And the four of us are left to the throb of our own pulses, and the gentle fluttering of birds in the eaves.
One of the three laughs as their footsteps retreat down the corridor.
I can and will endure this. I survived the cold water treatment when others did not. Many of the weak and the frail have disappeared, and not for the first time it begs the question - where did they take those shivering, waxen bodies when they collapsed? What happened to those who burned with fever and delirium in the night? Did they have funerals? Did relatives claim their bodies? Certainly, with the exception of the distinguished guests this morning, there has been no clatter of hooves in the courtyard. And I have been here night and day, lying awake in the hours of dawn especially - the only sounds those of screech owls in the forest, and tortured souls wailing and crying in the dark.
After a while I dare to speak. “How long are we here?”
No answer.
“My name is Flora. Please speak if you can.”
Again there is no reply. One woman is quietly crying. Another is making harsh, violent movements, repeatedly she jerks her neck with full force against the leather clamp, determined it seems to break it. Another has quite obviously soiled herself, forced to sit in excreta for the rest of the day.
It is inhuman. Whatever we have done we do not deserve this. Tears blind me. Oh God, please, please help us.
But only when the light dims once more and the silhouettes of branches stretch across the walls, do Ivy and Myra return. Carrying gas lamps and chatting to each other over our heads, they unfasten the clamps and unlock the chains as if it is simply another annoying chore.
Once free it is hard to straighten up much less to walk. The relief, however, is enormous – to have survived that horrible day – it is like walking on air and I almost fall.
“Enjoy that, did you, Madam?” Myra whispers as we race back along the corridor.
I will not give her any satisfaction or cause to make my life worse. I will not.
“Better get used to it. You’ve got a month of that. Every…single…day.”
No, no, no….
Nor is there supper. And it is dark in the dormitory after I have been taken to the bathroom and thrown back in. Gloomy with pacing spectres of people who had once been in the world, but who now scrabble on the floor like scavengers or pace, moan, cry or rage at things others cannot see. It is a kind of hell. Yet tonight I stretch out my legs and embrace it, wiggling my toes, stretching my fingers. I am still here.
The next day and every day thereafter, at mid-morning, the four of us are taken out for exercise - straitjackets concealed by great coats and flanked on each side by an attendant as we stumble along for the daily walk on weakened legs. It is brief and quick, a march along the driveway to the lane leading to the village and then back again. Perhaps a mile.
One day, a week or so later, there is a moment, only fleeting, when a smart carriage clatters by and without thinking I call out, my voice croaky and hoarse in the soft, early mist, “Hello! Hello! Stop - please, help me! I am just like you…”
It is, of course, a huge mistake.
<
br /> “You are to be restrained at night too now,” says Myra when we reach the dormitory. “Perhaps one of these days you will learn to behave with respect, my girl. How dare you embarrass the doctor and his staff? How dare you!” Clamping one of my arms to a crib, she adds, “I’ll be back for you in in the morning.”
The words come to me from nowhere. Words I have never used and never heard except once from a coachman. They explode inside my mind, the voice no longer mine. Fuck you, vile bitch!
***
There are angels, though. Here on earth – truly. And mine is called Diane. Diane’s story is heart-breaking, the poor child more vulnerable than I could ever have thought possible. It transpires she is the very same age as myself - a farm girl from over the border in Shropshire. For years she said she had felt restless, aimless, as if her life was pointless and empty, and was often beaten by her father for staring into space instead of, say, milking the cows or churning butter. Increasingly she found herself quite forgetting to wash or eat, would be seen staggering into the village not knowing for what purpose or how she got there. And soon people began to gossip, calling her simple or tapping their head when she walked by. She said she found it difficult to speak in a coherent manner, that the words came out all in a jumble, her hands working away with frenzied gesticulations.
Then one night there was an almighty racket and her father burst into her bedroom with a gaslight to find her repeatedly slamming her head on the floorboards having ripped the room apart, shouting, ‘Get out of me, get out of me!”
“And do you remember that? The words?”
“Oh yes! I saw him you see? I saw the devil in the moonlight and he entered my soul.” She pinpointed the nape of her neck. “He got in here. And he’s still there. In my brain.”
“You told your father this?”
She nodded. “Yes, that was when he got the doctor.”