The Other Girl

by C D Major

I don’t want to eat elsewhere, I like being here with the padded chairs and the candles and Father and Mother and I was just saying about the chickens. I can feel my body going up and down with my fast breaths and I want to make them understand and I’m not telling stories. It’s not fair.

  Father nods and Mother moves to my side and lifts me off the seat. I don’t want to go and I kick my legs and my foot hits the table and I call out and Mrs Clark appears in the doorway and Mother makes her take me and I shout and I don’t want to go and it’s not fair.

  ‘I’m sorry Michael, I’m sorry.’ I can hear Mother all the way upstairs where Mrs Clark has taken me and I am left in my room and I can smell the chicken from here and I run to my bed and push my face on to the top and scream to let it out.

  Chapter 17

  NOW

  ‘You suspect arson, then?’ Declan said, lifting one of the wooden stools that had fallen on its side.

  The policeman touched the scratch on his face, waving away Declan’s attempt to inspect it. ‘The superintendent wants us to be thorough.’

  Although the patients weren’t meant to have access to anything dangerous, Declan knew the rumours: Franklin the attendant, with his yellowed teeth and fingernails, always skulking around some of the patients, the smell of tobacco that accompanied those patients into Declan’s consulting room. Arson wasn’t impossible, but there was other gossip, too: rats chewing the cables, a small fire that had broken out a year ago, cause unknown, sparks from wires that had once shocked an attendant.

  ‘But why?’ Declan asked.

  The policeman settled again on his stool, cricking his neck from side to side. ‘You’re the head doctor, it’s not exactly a stretch of the imagination, is it?’

  Declan knew he should correct him, explain some of the backgrounds, the cases he was working on. He knew he should try to point out that many of the patients had a diagnosis they could manage, that the hospital’s aim was rehabilitation through work and exercise alongside medication and treatments. Many of the patients were not, to Declan’s mind, incapable of rational thought.

  Then there was the look that Martha had given the policeman, as if she wanted to kill him with her bare hands. Declan wasn’t sure what to think.

  Doctor Malone reappeared, escorting another patient into the room. All other thoughts disappeared as Declan realised it was Edith.

  ‘I took the liberty of fetching Edith myself,’ Doctor Malone said as he moved inside the room, Edith’s eyes wide as she cowered beside him. ‘And Edith here has assured me she will be no trouble.’

  The policeman grunted once.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ Doctor Malone nodded and left the room.

  ‘Sit down, Edith.’ Declan motioned, standing behind her chair as if he were at a formal dinner.

  Edith dithered for a moment, a quick glance at the policeman as if seeking permission, before she moved across the room, mouth lifting as she caught Declan’s eye. She thanked him, sitting and tucking both feet on to the small wooden rung between the legs of the stool. Moving Matron’s abandoned clipboard Declan went to sit, missing the seat by a few inches, one hand shooting out to get his balance. Edith didn’t look over at him and he straightened and cleared his throat to cover his embarrassment.

  ‘Miss Garrett,’ the policeman launched in, the scratch under his eye moving up and down as he said her name. ‘I’m hoping you will be able to help us in our investigation.’

  Edith sneaked a glance up at him. ‘I can try, Detective,’ she said, her voice dignified.

  ‘Good, good.’ He was distracted, hadn’t composed himself since the last interview, turning pages of his notepad. ‘I was particularly hoping you might be able to shine a light on the movements of patients.’

  Edith twitched her head to the side. ‘Movements?’ She glanced at Declan, who tried to reassure her with a nod. He thought of Martha, straining moments before in his arms.

  ‘We have been informed that the checks that night were not necessarily performed on the hour; that due to shortages many are often neglected.’

  Edith was looking down. Declan could see her scanning the floor, left to right, as if she was thinking of an answer.

  ‘Were there hourly checks?’

  ‘They shine a torch on us, check us.’

  ‘Regularly?’

  Edith pleated the material of her skirt in her hands. ‘They do check,’ she said, her words slow, quiet.

  The policeman gave another grunt and Edith looked up, a hint of fear in her face now.

  Declan found himself leaning forward. ‘That’s helpful, Edith, well done.’ He felt gratified to see her shoulders lower, her forehead smooth again.

  ‘And what about the patients. Were they all asleep when the fire started?’

  Edith bit her lip.

  ‘Miss Garrett.’ The policeman leant forward.

  ‘It was lights out,’ she said, an uncertain waver in her voice.

  ‘And you all just nod off then, do you?’ The disbelieving tone was back.

  ‘Well, it’s lights out,’ Edith said again.

  He looked right at her now. ‘What I’m asking, Edith, is whether you think someone could have got out of her bed. Whether someone could have started that fire?’

  Edith’s mouth opened and she turned in her chair to Declan. ‘I didn’t . . . no, I wouldn’t . . .’ Her eyes were wide, her throat moving up and down.

  Declan held out a hand. ‘Don’t worry, Edith, it’s only a question. Just say what you remember, nothing more.’

  She nodded, clutching her two hands together as she stared at them. ‘It was lights out. I was in my room. The dormitory is above me.’

  The policeman seemed oblivious to the shifting atmosphere, to Edith’s chest rising and falling. ‘Did you see Martha Anderson? Was she out of bed?’

  ‘Martha.’ Edith’s head snapped up.

  Declan interjected, ‘Edith was in her own room. Locked inside. She couldn’t have seen anyone else.’

  Edith looked at him then with such relief in her eyes, he felt a warmth in his stomach that he’d been a source of strength.

  The policeman glared at him. ‘She might have heard something, at least? Someone moving around?’

  There was a beat.

  ‘I . . . that is . . .’ Edith was struggling with something, her face draining of colour. Declan’s own eyebrows lifted. Had she heard something?

  The policeman leant further forward, his piggy eyes eager. ‘Yes, you can recall something?’

  She tapped on her chest, once, twice. ‘Martha,’ she repeated again.

  The policeman nodded once. ‘Martha, yes, Miss Anderson, was she out of bed?’

  Declan frowned as Edith looked at him briefly and then at the floor.

  She swallowed then, colour returning to her cheeks. ‘I was in my room. It was lights out.’

  The policeman exhaled loudly, a quick glance to the ceiling.

  Then, with little warning, Edith began to cry softly, her shoulders shaking, the policeman’s face alarmed as she dissolved in front of him.

  Declan got out of his chair, moving to crouch next to her.

  ‘It’s just so sad,’ Edith said, the tears leaking out of her eyes and down her cheeks, making damp spots on her thin blouse.

  Declan produced a handkerchief, lifted it up to her. Her hand brushed his as she took it from him with a watery thank you.

  ‘I think we should end this interview here, sir,’ Declan said, looking up at the policeman, a confidence in his voice.

  The policeman shrugged. ‘No matter,’ he said, jotting something down in his pad and sitting upright on his stool, only Edith’s sobs now audible.

  Chapter 18

  NOW

  He steered her to his office. ‘Shh, all is well, Edith, it’s all right.’

  The policeman hadn’t put up a great protest, dismissing Edith’s tears as another loony behaving unpredictably, no doubt, all his preconceptions about patients of Seacliff ringing true: an attack, a breakd
own.

  Edith snatched breaths between sobs, the handkerchief up to her face as she allowed Declan to guide her gently to his office where he pushed open the door and, awkwardly, as one arm was still around her shoulders, pulled a chair towards her. He lowered her into it.

  He rubbed her back gently, feeling her spine beneath her blouse. ‘You’re all right. Let me pour you some water.’

  He almost tripped as he reached for the jug and glass on a table in the corner, relieved as she took it from him, eyes red from the tears. A little slopped over the edge, leaving a dark mark on her blouse; he found himself staring as the stain spread.

  What sounds and smells had she experienced that night? How had the fire affected her?

  He waited, perched on the edge of his desk as if he were a teacher waiting for a class to finish their exercise.

  She sipped at the water. Then, as if she was coming to, her eyes swivelled to him as she spoke. ‘Please don’t tell. If he finds out I’m emotional he’ll . . .’ Her face collapsed, the glass trembling in her hands. ‘I just didn’t want to say the wrong thing, to the policeman . . .’

  Declan leaned forward, interrupting her, confused. ‘If who finds out?’

  She placed the glass on the floor, shook her head.

  ‘Edith?’

  She inhaled deeply. He could see her mind working, the worry etched on her forehead.

  ‘If Doctor Malone finds out,’ she said finally.

  ‘Finds out what?’

  Her voice sped up. ‘Finds out I cried. He’ll say I’m hysterical again, I’ll have to go into the white room. Please, I know they’re watching me, for the operation . . .’

  Declan hadn’t realised until this moment that she knew about the possibility of the leucotomy. ‘It’s fine, Edith, fine,’ he soothed. ‘I don’t need to say anything.’

  What else could he promise? He couldn’t reassure her. He felt the worry steal over him: if they were watching her behaviour, she should be wary. Next time it might not be electric shock treatment, it might be the knife.

  She slumped in the chair. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, giving him a thin smile. ‘I worried I would get it wrong, when the policeman asked me about Martha . . .’

  He didn’t deserve the smile, waved the thanks away with a hand. ‘What did you worry you might say?’ he asked, curious as to whether Edith did know something. How could she have, if she had been locked inside her room?

  Edith didn’t answer him at first, picking up the water and sipping at it once more.

  ‘There’s no need to be nervous, Edith, I’m here to listen.’

  Edith’s body stilled and she ran a finger over the rim of the glass. ‘It was when he asked me about movements. The patients moving about . . .’

  ‘Did you hear anyone?’

  Edith paused, a small jerk of her head. ‘I didn’t hear anyone.’ She took a breath, looked up at him, her brown eyes warm in the light from the window. ‘But they had a key. Donna did. Martha and her could open some of the doors inside the ward; they could open mine,’ she said quietly.

  Declan’s eyes rounded; he raked a hand through his hair. ‘A key,’ he repeated, straightening, pacing for a moment before spinning back to her. ‘Did others know about this, Edith?’

  ‘I . . . I told the nurses,’ she said softly. ‘But they didn’t believe me. I don’t want to be punished, Doctor, please, what if they don’t believe me now . . .’ She became distressed once more, her knuckles white as she squeezed the glass in her lap.

  ‘I won’t say anything,’ Declan reassured her, his gaze steady, waiting for her to meet his eye. Her hands relaxed on the glass. ‘It’s not proof of anything, but perhaps it was best not to let on.’ Declan thought back to the policeman, the song and dance he might have made of the information. ‘I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell me though,’ he added.

  Edith looked at him with solemn eyes. ‘I do, Doctor.’ She reached to place the glass on the desk in front of her before sitting back down in her chair, tucking her hands under her legs as she looked around his office.

  It was only then, looking over at her, that he realised she was finally here in his office, his mouth opening and shutting as the temptation to discuss the things in her file almost overwhelmed him. He knew Doctor Malone would be furious with an impromptu session and Edith had only just recovered from her upset over the fire.

  ‘Was it exciting?’ she asked, her voice stronger, one finger up.

  He was confused for a moment before he realised where her finger was pointing: to the photograph of his graduation propped up on his desk.

  ‘I’d be terrified. All those people watching,’ she said.

  ‘A little,’ he admitted. ‘Do you not like being in the spotlight?’ he asked, determined to steer her into talking about herself.

  She shook her head vigorously from side to side. ‘Once I was playing my flute in the music room and Nurse Shaw heard me and she asked me to play a solo in front of the whole dayroom and I just couldn’t . . .’

  He was pleased she seemed to have relaxed; the past few moments already separate from this new Edith who wanted to open up, to talk. He found himself settling on the edge of his desk to listen. There was already laughter in her voice, her cheeks flushed with colour.

  ‘I wanted to race back up into my room. But you look, well’ – she looked back at the photograph – ‘you seem utterly unafraid.’ She pointed to the expression on his face. Certainly, the photograph was flattering, Declan standing tall between his parents, beaming straight into the lens, his mortar board cocked at a slight angle.

  ‘I think I was just very relieved, if I’m honest. There were times in the early days I wondered if I’d ever graduate.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I didn’t have an iron stomach, let’s say. I’m much more comfortable in psychiatry.’ He realised he was looking into her eyes, open in question, then shifted his gaze to the mole on her neck.

  ‘They do operations here too,’ she added softly; the brief bonhomie passed.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, feeling tongue-tied. He cleared his throat. ‘Well, I’d better get back, see whether our friend is still waiting.’ He took the coward’s way out.

  Edith looked down, nodded. ‘I am sorry, about earlier, about crying.’

  Declan went to kneel down next to her chair. ‘That’s fine, Edith, you went through a dreadful ordeal.’

  She didn’t meet his eye. ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ she said in a whisper, her body drooping, the energy gone.

  Declan paused for a moment to see if she wanted to say anything else.

  ‘I’m fine to return to the ward now, Doctor,’ she said, her tone flat, and Declan felt his shoulders fall.

  Chapter 19

  THEN

  Edith left the garden on trembling legs, her heart hammering as she followed in silence, Nurse Shaw still not looking at her.

  Had they found the key? Where was Matron taking her?

  The main building loomed ahead, the grey stone a castle about to swallow her whole. So many questions, but she kept them all inside.

  ‘He’s got some time and wants to see you,’ Matron barked as Edith followed her through a wooden side door. She unlocked the corridor that led to the doctors’ offices.

  Who wanted to see her? Edith licked her lips. Flaking skin: she scraped at it as Matron knocked, it stung as she peeled.

  Doctor Malone was behind his desk, dipping the nib into ink, looking up as she shuffled inside behind Matron.

  ‘Edith for you, Doctor.’

  Nurse Shaw waited in the corridor outside. Had she told Matron about the key? Had they found it? It wasn’t her normal time to see Doctor Malone; why was she here?

  ‘Good, thank you, Matron. Edith, take a seat. Matron, I’ll let you know what needs to be done.’

  Edith swallowed, watching Matron with wide eyes. What needed to be done? To whom?

  ‘Doctor.’ Matron nodded before leaving without a word; the last thing Edith saw as the d
oor closed was Nurse Shaw staring back at her.

  Doctor Malone leaned forward, searching her face. Edith remembered to blink.

  ‘Matron reports you are experiencing paranoid episodes. Seeing things that aren’t there and the like,’ he stated, his eyes not leaving her face.

  ‘I . . .’ Paranoid episodes. That had been something he had talked to her about before, when she was younger and louder and in his office more. Paranoid episodes could be treated. ‘No, Doctor, I . . .’ A pen, an ink pot, sheets of paper, an opened telegram, a glass paperweight; her eyes scanned his desk. No key.

  ‘You told a nurse, did you not, that you thought one of the other patients was planning to get you – those were your words?’ Doctor Malone huffed, his pen now poised over a fresh sheet of paper.

  ‘I . . . it wasn’t . . . I . . .’ What could she say to stop this? She had just told Nurse Shaw about the key, she hadn’t meant . . . She could feel herself getting hot, damp under the arms, under her hair. ‘I didn’t mean . . . I thought Donna had a key . . .’

  ‘A key.’ He looked up at her sharply and for a strange second she thought it might all be all right. She had been right to tell Nurse Shaw. They would find it; they would summon Donna here.

  ‘Are you suffering with delusions?’ His eyes narrowed.

  ‘Delusions?’ she whispered, the hopes disappearing in smoke as he lifted his chin, continued to assess her.

  This wasn’t like their normal monthly session. Then he barely asked questions, often not lifting his eyes from his desk as he announced no new adjustments to her medication; was she suffering side-effects, was she benefitting from the fresh air, the work? Nod, yes, nod, no Doctor, thank you Doctor: that will be all. He would sign his name, send her on her way within a few minutes. She was quiet, quick to respond: no fuss.

  ‘Are these similar to the imaginings you had when you arrived? That you are being tampered with?’

  She didn’t talk about those imaginings any more; she hadn’t thought about them for years. This wasn’t the same. The thoughts were crammed inside her head; she rubbed at her nose. ‘I . . .’

  ‘It is a concern, of course, if those thoughts are reoccurring. I would recommend a course of treatment if so, to ensure . . .’