The Other Girl

by C D Major

  I had to get out. I clutched my broken hand to my chest. I spun, trying to turn towards the blue, the way out. Then, an explosion in the back of my head, my teeth clashing together, a shock of white and hot. Agony as it happened again, again and I felt myself falling, my body hitting the shingle below: wet and hurt and sticky blood and—

  I am crying out as I lie there and I am back in the room with the old man and their faces are leaning over me. It seems forever until it is finally over and the old man is shaking hands with Father and saying that whatever is inside me should be driven out. I stay lying down. I can feel my hands are all sticky now, and above my lip is too. My body is shaking, the noises leaping and jumping out of me.

  Father shows the old man out but I can’t stop lying on the sofa. Father doesn’t come back and I am alone in the room with the lamps and I don’t know what to do and I know that I have something bad in me and the reverend doctor was telling God about it. I feel warmth leak out of me and I know Mrs Clark will be angry but I can’t stop shaking and I can’t get up.

  Mother is in the doorway and then she is next to me. I don’t talk to her about what happened but she sees where I have wet myself and she calls Mrs Clark who doesn’t get angry at all but half carries me out of the room. She changes me as I stand in my bedroom and I don’t speak as she lifts me on to the bed even though I am frightened the old man will come back and I curl myself up so tight to make myself disappear.

  Mother brings me down later to say goodnight to Father and I whisper it quietly but can’t look at him at all. He doesn’t ask me to read with him; he hasn’t done that for weeks.

  ‘What have I got inside me?’ I whisper to Mother that night in bed when her hand is just next to my lamp and she is getting up to leave.

  She turns off the light, but she doesn’t say anything. ‘Goodnight, Edith.’

  That night I dream. An old man, a cave, it’s wet, I’m lying on the sofa, I’m lying in the drift needles in the plannies, I’m lying in the ground, everything is in my mouth, gabbled words I don’t understand float over me. Something is inside me. I’m me but I’m not me. My head hurts, so much, I’m falling. I want to go home, I need to tell her where to find me.

  Mother is there in her nightdress shushing me and Father appears in the doorway, calls Mother away and then closes my bedroom door behind me. I am left alone in the bed. I feel the warmth of my pee in between my legs again and I don’t sleep for the rest of the night and I don’t move and although it smells I don’t want to leave or shut my eyes in case it makes the dream happen again.

  Chapter 42

  NOW

  The next week seemed to Declan to be interminable. They were building something on the site where Ward Five had been, machinery digging at the ground, enormous sacks placed nearby. Something to ensure no one would think of the fire, of the place where so many women had lost their lives. Time moved on, the seasons would change. Edith would stay but she would be changed soon: different. His patient Tom Barton had missed his last appointment after an argument in the yard that had ended in him and another man being restrained and removed. He had been added to Doctor Malone’s list. The date of Edith’s operation loomed in his mind and he rushed daily to check for telegrams, for news from Oamaru.

  A few days ago he had received an offer of a job, a place at a smaller asylum in Wellington; with the war continuing, the shortages, they were keen for him to start as soon as possible. He picked up the envelope, turning it over, thinking . . . wanting to leave Seacliff, not wanting to leave Seacliff: not wanting to leave her. He looked at it again now, knowing he must reply soon.

  Then an urgent telegram arrived from the chief superintendent from the Oamaru police department.

  He had been planning it all night, had barely slept; woke already slightly shaking with the anticipation. He knew Doctor Malone recognised authority, that he would need to throw everything at it. He pleaded with the chief superintendent. Mildly irritated, but ultimately too curious to refuse, the man agreed.

  He felt his stomach grumble and twinge with the anticipation of everything that was to come. He needed it to go smoothly, realised how illogical it might all sound. That he might be the one in the straitjacket by the end of it if he failed. He swallowed, his mouth dry, peering at the clock once more, knowing she was due to arrive on the 10.34 train. That it would take her a little while to make the walk up from the station.

  It seemed an unending wait, his eyes constantly drawn to the window and his view of the driveway, looking out for a lone woman, panicking that she wouldn’t come, that he would be humiliated. He licked his lips, forced his eyes back to the article he was reading by a journalist in America that months earlier he might have scoffed at. It mentioned the commission set up by Gandhi a few years before to look into the case of Shanti Devi, a four-year-old in India at the centre of a compelling case for reincarnation. Even this couldn’t hold his interest; he must have read the same sentence three times. He glanced again at the driveway, at the carriage clock, at the driveway again, jumping at the rumble of a trolley in the corridor beyond. He got up from his seat, moved across to the window as if he could conjure her.

  The minutes ticked by and he noted a motorcar appear, the chief superintendent stepping out, craning his neck as he looked up at the soaring building. Declan felt sweat pool under his arms, break out on his palms. What would he say? He couldn’t prove anything unless she was here. He needed her to support his theory. He rushed to pull his coat on, as if the white material could give him a layer of authority. He thought he might vomit as he turned the doorknob of his office, his plans all dissolving around him.

  The policeman was waiting in the foyer, the receptionist fussing around him, asking if he would like a tea or a coffee. He was waving her away with a hand, the buttons on his waistcoat straining with the movement.

  ‘Doctor Harris, I assume all this cloak and dagger won’t be a waste of my time.’

  Declan felt a familiar sense of fear as he looked at the man. He had forgotten the size of him, a hat covering the bald head. Declan felt like a boy next to him. He opened his mouth, closed it again, trying to think of another reason he had telephoned him so urgently. His mind was a blank, he simply couldn’t think of anything to fabricate. An attendant wheeled a large trolley past and Declan wanted to run and disappear under it.

  ‘Thank you for meeting with me. I know you have plenty of questions so I thought it best to show you . . .’

  And then, pushing her way through the heavy oak door of Seacliff came the woman he had been waiting for; under a pink felt hat and a worn coat, she looked up at him.

  ‘Miss Wilson.’ She looked startled as Declan took her gloved hand, the relief making his handshake so forceful she winced as he gripped her. ‘Thank you so much for being here, thank you for getting here this morning.’ He could have kissed her.

  The policeman gave Declan a sharp look. ‘What is going on? What has this place to do with anything?’

  Declan held up a hand. ‘Let me explain. Do both follow me.’ Turning to the receptionist, feeling confidence rise up within him, he asked her to ensure patient Edith Garrett was brought to Doctor Malone’s office that moment. She hurried off and Declan tugged at his tie, nerves bouncing around him. This had to work.

  He coughed and turned. ‘Shall we begin?’

  ‘Please do, Doctor.’ The policeman was trying to hide his exasperation.

  ‘I believe there is a very good reason for you both coming here today. I thank you, sincerely,’ Declan said, quiet but firm. He looked at them both. ‘Now, if you follow me.’

  The three of them moved down the corridor towards the office. Declan was aware of the everyday sounds and smells of the asylum: a shout from an attendant, laughter and talk from inside the dayroom, the smell of cabbage as they neared the kitchens. Miss Wilson was staring around, her eyes wide apart, both rounded, her nose wrinkled a little, clutching her handbag to her with both hands. Her dress seemed a little big, as if it had been
made for someone larger. The policeman had fallen into step beside Declan, intermittently looking over his shoulder at the woman.

  Declan licked his lips as they stopped outside the office door. ‘In here,’ he said, his voice breaking a little. He knocked on the wood. This was the moment. There was no going back now.

  He strained to hear the familiar voice and felt his resolve waver in the face of no response. He stood hopelessly outside the door, turning to the two people in the corridor.

  ‘I’m sorry, if you could wait here I will see where Doctor Malone has got t—’

  ‘I’ll tell you where Doctor Malone has got to.’ Doctor Malone stood at the end of the corridor, his face set in an angry line. ‘I don’t like being ambushed by my own staff, Doctor Harris.’ More words petered out as Declan saw him take in the policeman’s uniform, the female stranger. ‘I . . .’

  ‘Doctor Malone, please, I have invited a couple of people who I think can help us with a particular patient.’

  Doctor Malone forced his mouth together, his colour growing as he moved stiffly towards them, produced a bunch of keys from his pocket. Declan swallowed down his instinct to appease, to kowtow as he stepped aside, watching Doctor Malone unlock the door.

  ‘Oh please, Doctor Harris, do show us the way.’ Doctor Malone waved him in with a theatrical flourish and Declan knew that his days in the job were numbered. He imagined himself packing up his things that afternoon, making the long walk down the driveway, looking back at the turrets and stone, humiliating his father and wondering if he would have done things differently.

  He moved into the room, clutching the folder stuffed full of paper, better organised now, knowing this wasn’t about his job any more; it was about something much bigger.

  Doctor Malone moved behind his desk, his bulk silhouetted in the windowpanes. ‘Well, Doctor Harris, you have us all here; what is it that you wanted to tell us?’

  Declan turned to the woman in the felt hat. She looked nervous, casting frightened glances at Doctor Malone who was stiff with tension, bristling with energy. Her pale face, pinched with worry, blanched as she met Declan’s eye. He steered her gently towards the leather-studded chair and invited her to sit down. Opening the folder on the desk, he pulled out the top three sheets, things he had copied out in a neater hand for her to read.

  ‘Here.’ He handed them to her and she rested them in her lap, reaching into her handbag for a small pair of spectacles, blushing up at them all as she fumbled. ‘Please take your time, Miss Wilson,’ Declan added, hearing Doctor Malone huff behind him, while the policeman, unable to tear his eyes away from the young woman, waited.

  She removed her hat, her light-brown hair flattened, as she hooked a pair of spectacles over her ears and lifted the first sheet of paper, glancing quickly at the other two men, clearly loathing the unexpected spotlight on her actions.

  He knew Doctor Malone and the policeman were watching her every movement as she read the three pieces of paper. Declan had underlined certain passages in them. Her lips were moving as she read, mouth moving faster as she turned to the last page.

  ‘I don’t . . .’ She looked up at him, a bewildered expression on her face, then back down, scanning the last sheet, her forehead a series of furrows.

  It seemed the carriage clock was louder with every second that passed, that everyone was waiting for the moment she would finish. Declan felt every muscle strain, his fingernails biting into his skin as he waited, body buzzing. Miss Wilson eventually stopped, looking up at Declan, her expression one of abject confusion. ‘But . . .’ One of the sheets slipped from her lap on to the floor as she stared at Declan. ‘I don’t understand?’

  A knock broke the moment, Declan leaping a little at the noise.

  ‘Doctor Harris,’ came Matron’s voice.

  ‘Come in,’ Declan called over his shoulder.

  Doctor Malone threw both hands up in the air. ‘Bloody circus,’ he said as Matron pushed in, a terrified Edith in her wake.

  ‘You asked for Edith to be brought here, Doctor?’ Matron was brisk, looking curiously at the group in the room.

  Doctor Malone started to bluster. ‘I did no such . . .’

  ‘Thank you, Matron, I did.’ Declan stepped across the room, taking control of the situation, blocking out the protests from Doctor Malone as he ushered Edith into the room. ‘Thank you for seeing us, Edith,’ he said, a wide smile on his face, wanting to relax her, trying to hide his shock at her diminished appearance, her skeletal frame; her red-rimmed eyes, unfocused, scabs on the skin around her temples. She wasn’t looking at him at all, her gaze fixed to the floor: didn’t react to his words.

  ‘That will be all, Matron,’ Declan said firmly, watching Edith edge along the wall of the office, her eyes never moving from Doctor Malone, like a cornered animal. She looked impossibly thin, her white blouse too big for her, her skirt slipped down her hips. Declan felt his body ache at the dramatic change: lacklustre hair, a light gone from her eyes.

  ‘This, Miss Wilson, is Edith Garrett. And you are reading the things she said when she first arrived here fifteen years ago.’

  Miss Wilson was staring at her too, curiosity coupled with alarm rather than recognition on her face. She looked back down at the notes in her hand, picking up the fallen piece of paper from the floor.

  ‘I . . . but . . . how?’ She stared more closely at Edith.

  Doctor Malone had clearly had enough. ‘What is all this, Doctor Harris? What kind of show are you running here? I do not appreciate being left in the dark.’

  This was the moment.

  Declan turned to face the woman in the chair, not responding to Doctor Malone’s blustering. ‘Miss Wilson, may I ask. What have you read?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she began, the words slow, removing her spectacles and staring up at Declan.

  ‘The notes you have just read,’ Declan explained, ‘were from statements made in interviews with Edith when she first came to Seacliff, when she was five years old. Can I ask you, Miss Wilson, do you know Edith?’ He indicated Edith with a hand.

  Edith jolted upright at the mention of her name, flat against the bookshelf.

  The woman stared at Edith, at her lank hair, the curls limp, at her worrying at the sleeve of her blouse. ‘No,’ she said, with a small shake of her head.

  ‘Did you know her family? They lived in Dunedin. Her father was a pastor there; she had a younger brother, Peter?’ Declan asked her, his voice loud, clear.

  The woman shook her head. ‘I’ve never heard of them. But then . . .’ She looked, puzzled, at the pieces of paper in her hand.

  Declan took a deep breath. ‘What are you wondering, Miss Wilson?’ He felt his whole body tense, suspended, desperate for the answer.

  The policeman shifted on the spot, head moving left to right, from the woman back to Declan. Even Doctor Malone was quiet now.

  Miss Wilson lifted the pieces of paper. ‘How did she know all this?’

  Declan felt an enormous wave of relief flood through him, that she had clearly read enough, that the woman had recognised it all. That Edith hadn’t been lying all those years ago.

  ‘This is Primrose,’ the woman went on, waving the papers at them all. ‘This is my sister.’ Then she burst into tears.

  Chapter 43

  NOW

  The chief superintendent confirmed that the body found in the cave was that of fourteen-year-old Primrose Wilson. That she had been killed by a blow to the head. He read Edith’s statements about how Primrose had died, and it matched the injuries found. Miss Mary Wilson, Primrose’s little sister, had been six at the time. She’d never believed Primrose had run away, had left her. She returned to the house, Karanga, in Oamaru, always in the hope of finding her there. She told Declan, through fresh tears, that her stepbrother had died in a bar fight in 1928, that he had abused them both as children, that Primrose had always protected her.

  Declan listened to all this as if from a distance, staring over their heads at Edith
who seemed to have collapsed against the wall, her mouth a rounded ‘O’ as others spoke. The only one who remained silent was Doctor Malone, fists curling and uncurling as he kept his back to the room and looked out over the front lawn. Edith’s eyes darted over to him time and again until Declan finally steered her out of the room, not wanting her to become even more overwhelmed.

  They stood for a moment in the corridor outside Doctor Malone’s office. Edith had a faraway expression on her face, one hand reaching up to the stone wall for support.

  ‘Will you be all right?’ Declan asked, his voice soft.

  ‘That was my Oamaru sister,’ she said finally, looking back at the door that was now closed. ‘But I don’t remember her now. Why don’t I remember her now?’ She stared up at him, suddenly a lot younger than her years.

  Declan bit his lip. Should he tell her about similar stories? About children who lost these memories of past lives when they were five or six years old? It was too much. He held her shoulders firmly in both hands, forced her to look at him. ‘Do you know what matters, Edith? You weren’t lying all those years ago.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ she said, shaking her head quickly in response.

  ‘You were telling the truth,’ Declan clarified. ‘But now they know that. Doctor Malone knows that.’

  Edith’s eyes rounded as he said his name. ‘So your diagnosis,’ he continued, ‘the multiple personalities, the schizophrenia. That can’t be right, Edith, can it?’

  Edith shook her head again, slowly. ‘I never thought . . .’

  Declan released her, smiling as he saw the information finally starting to sink in; some colour seemed to already be returning to her cheeks.

  ‘Will I still have to have the operation?’ she asked finally, her voice almost a whisper. ‘They say it’s next week. I’ll be like Patricia.’