by Anna Hope
That was three days without food.
In the day room she saw immediately that they had removed the encylopaedia, and that, instead of the tall gold-backed books, there was only a length of bare shelf.
A high, thin sound came from beside her, and she turned to see Clem, standing very still, staring at the space where the books should be. After a moment, Clem took a couple of steps towards the bookshelf, reached out and ran her fingertip along the wood. ‘I cannot live with you,’ she muttered. ‘It would be life. And life is over there. Behind the shelf.’
‘Clem?’
Clem raised her head.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Why? Why are you sorry?’
Ella gestured to the shelf. ‘I’m sorry they took your books away. I’m sorry the encyclopaedia has gone. I’m sorry about the dancing.’
‘Oh. Is that it?’ Clem said in a strange, light voice. ‘Is that all?’
The skin was stretched tight across Clem’s skull. It seemed to Ella that while some parts of her were shrinking, others were getting bigger. Her jaw. Her forehead. Her eyes. Fear uncurled inside Ella.
‘You have to eat, Clem. Please eat. If you don’t, you’ll get ill.’
‘I already am ill.’ Clem spoke slowly. ‘I mean, really, Ella. You can’t be that stupid, can you? Why on earth do you think I’m in here?’
‘No.’ Ella shook her head. ‘You’re not ill.’
Clem gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘What do you know anyway?’
‘I know you’re not ill. And I know they’ll put you in the chronic wards if you don’t eat.’
‘So?’
‘If you go, then you won’t come out again.’
‘If you go, then you won’t come out again.’ Clem mocked Ella’s accent. ‘God, you’re so dull sometimes, you know that? Don’t you see? Who cares?’ she said. ‘Who bloody cares what happens to me?’
‘I do,’ said Ella miserably. ‘You’re my friend.’
Clem said nothing to that.
‘Clem?’
‘What?’
‘Here.’ She reached into her dress and brought out the letter, the last one he had given her, the one she hadn’t yet heard. ‘It’s a new letter. I kept it from you. I’m sorry. Take it. I can’t read it anyway, can I? You can have it if you want.’
Clem looked from the letter to Ella and back again. Her face was twisted and ugly with wanting. She was so hungry. Her hunger was frightening.
‘Here.’ Ella pushed her fist towards Clem. ‘Read it, please. And then, would you help me write one back?’
Clem carried on staring at the letter but did not take it. Instead, she turned away, curling over herself as though protecting a wound. She began to shake. At first Ella thought she was crying, but when she finally looked up Clem’s face was contorted, her mouth stretched wide. ‘Why?’ she said. ‘Why should I help you write your stupid letter? I thought you cared about me?’
‘I do.’
‘Well, if you care about me so much you’ll know when to bloody well leave me alone.’ She was speaking so loudly that everyone would be able to hear.
Ella sensed movement in the room around them – saw the Irish nurse stand, come closer. She turned her back to her. ‘Clem. Please.’
‘Go on.’ Clem was shouting now. ‘Why should I help you? You’re just a stupid, ignorant girl who can’t even read. Why don’t you tell him? Next time you see him? Next time you dance with him, if you can even call it that. Whatever it is you do with him. What is it you do with him, Ella? Why don’t you tell him that you can’t read? See what he thinks of you then? Your man. Your John.’
She snatched the letter from Ella’s hand and waved it in her face. ‘You’ve no idea what this says, have you? You think he’d like you if it weren’t for me? If it weren’t for my words?’ Her lips curled back, and she was a snarling, spitting dog. ‘How do you even know what he wrote? I could have made it all up. You wouldn’t know the difference, you’re so stupid. How do you know it’s not me he likes after all?’
Ella reached up and slapped her across the cheek. Clem staggered backwards, hand to her face, gasping, then laughed, as though she were pleased, as though that was exactly what she had wanted to happen. Her cheek was bright red: the marks of Ella’s fingers clear upon it. She was still holding the letter, crumpled now in her fist. Ella took a step towards her. ‘Give that back.’
‘Why should I?’
She grabbed Clem’s hair and twisted it around her fist. ‘Give it back.’
Clem cried out in pain, and as her hands went to her head the letter fell to the floor. Ella let go, clawing to pick it up, but arrived too late.
The Irish nurse had got there first.
Charles
IF HE RESTED his hands on the green baize of his desk, they did not tremble quite so much.
The crumpled letter was pinned by a paperweight at each corner. He read it again, slowly, mouthing the words under his breath.
Gradh Machree,
I barely know how to write to you, since now you seem to me a creature beyond any words.
There was a moment when I watched you, before you knew I was there. I watched your face as you stood beneath the tree. I hope you can forgive me. But there was no fear there, even though it was dark and the night was all around.
I will not write of our meeting. I cannot. Only to say, I believe the trees were our only witness. The trees and the fields and the sky.
You told me we were free. I asked you to stay with me. I think of this often, now. I told you once that you were made for flight. And so I believe you are. Forgive me for keeping you here.
It is my great hope that we will meet in the same way again. But I would wish we would meet in freedom. True freedom. You were right. We must take our freedom now.
We will meet again. I know it. I know it as I know that my name is John or that I have five fingers on my right hand and I come from Mayo in the far west of Ireland. And these are things I know well.
And so, I look forward, mavourneen, greatly to that day, or that night.
Yours,
John Mulligan
The handwriting was careful, perhaps not that of a man who was used to wielding the pen, but the language was fluent enough, or, if not fluent, it made a virtue of a slight hesitancy. Charles knew there were board schools in Ireland, but there was something in this man’s turn of phrase that could not be taught. Where had he learnt to write like that? And this girl – she was half feral. Surely she could come up with little in response?
‘What does this mean?’ He pointed to the letter, looking up to where Nurse Keane was standing before him.
The woman leant over the desk. ‘Mavourneen? That would mean … my darling,’ she said, pressing her lip in a tight thin line.
‘And this? … Gradh Machree?’
‘I believe,’ the tip of the woman’s nose was turning red, ‘bright love of my heart, Doctor.’
‘I see,’ said Charles. ‘Thank you.’ He dismissed her with a wave of the hand.
As he sat there, something occurred to him: that this was not the only letter; somewhere there must be a hoard of them, a cache. The girl must have them about her person somewhere. If he were to summon her here, force her to give them up …
He folded the letter and placed it on the mantelshelf alongside his sketches. If he were to summon her directly, the game would be up, and there would be no more letters. It would be more politic to wait and watch.
Along with delivery of the letter, the nurse had brought him news of Miss Church’s disobedience. He requested an appointment with the superintendent at the earliest opportunity; Dr Soames received him in his room.
‘It appears my idea has worked, sir. Miss Church has refused to eat for the last few days.’
The older man nodded. ‘So I hear. And you take this to be a good thing?’
‘I do, sir. She is reacting against her environment. Now her books have gone she cannot help but see what surrounds her. This is the
first step towards her recovery. But it will not be easy; there has been a violent incident with another patient, a Miss Fay. A most unsuitable companion for a young lady. Miss Church has been violent with the nurses too it seems. One of them was badly bitten while trying to feed her.’
‘I see.’ The man nodded. ‘Where is she now?’
‘The infirmary. I think, sir, she must be fed by tube.’
‘Indeed.’ The superintendent looked hunched suddenly, old. ‘You know I am a friend of the father, Fuller. Considering the … special nature of the patient, I wouldn’t want to entrust such a job to just anyone. But I find I have little stomach for the task. Might I entrust Miss Church to your care?’
Charles wanted to laugh. Was the pun intentional? ‘Of course, sir.’ He gave a slight bow. ‘I should be delighted to carry out the feeding myself.’
When the patient was carried in by two male attendants, she was already strapped to the chair. She had grown noticeably thinner. Charles was shocked at the transformation but determined she would not see what he felt.
When she saw him standing, waiting with the tube, she thrashed about like an animal. A length of muslin was tied around her mouth – presumably to keep her from biting those around her – but it did not prevent the most terrible, bestial noises from escaping. The nurses took up their positions, two of the strongest on each side to hold the patient down and another freer to move about. As Miss Church was placed in front of him, the hands of the nurses became white with the effort of restraint. A nurse stepped forward and untied the gag, and almost as soon as she had done so the patient began to spit and curse.
Charles stood by, astonished, as the words spewed from her. Had it been in her all along, this propensity for filth? Or had she learnt it here from companions like Miss Fay? He could not but suppose the latter; still, the performance had to be seen and heard to be believed. It was like cutting into something fine – a good steak, perhaps – and seeing that beneath it was rotten and that flies had beaten you to the feast. When he had heard enough, Charles gave the signal to the nurse, who pinched the patient’s nose with a clip. A sheet was tied beneath the chin. The patient was obstructive, tightening her lips, but Charles stepped forward and pulled them apart. He called for the steel gag, which he ran around the gums, feeling for gaps in the teeth. She twisted her neck wildly. ‘Hold her, nurse!’ The free nurse moved to her head, and with two of them there the patient ceased her movement and he found a gap – cutting the flesh of the gums a little in the process, blood running over his fingertips as he prised the jaw open wide, then secured it tight. A low moaning came from the patient now, but the eyes were the only things that moved. He was reminded of the time he read her notes, of placing his handkerchief over those eyes so that he might not see. Now though, he did not need any such props, now he stared straight back and it was she who looked away first.
He brought all of his attention to the task in hand. Though such feedings happened in the asylum every day, it had been a good while since he had carried one out himself. First, he took the end of the length of India-rubber tubing and began to train it down into the throat. On the first attempt Miss Church gave way to a violent coughing fit, and the tube was expelled, but on the second try Charles was more careful, and after an initial gagging from the patient the tube passed through the throat and into the oesophagus, and there were no more convulsions from the chair. He placed the bowl ready on top of the rubber tube and called for the mixture. It was ready prepared, the same used for any patient who must be fed: beaten eggs and milk and vitamins added to the whole, altogether as much nourishment as might be had in liquid form, and really, he thought, as he steadied it over the opening of the tube and the patient’s eyes grew wide, really, she was lucky they were feeding her at all. In Holloway, he had heard, they poured the mixture in through the rectum; punishment, not nourishment, was what was offered there. He could see the bared whites, the curve of the eyeball, the thin red veins lacing the sides. He began to pour. Silence. The only movement in the room the preparation moving from bowl to tube, the only sound the soft glug as the mixture went down. After a moment, the patient’s body convulsed, and the nurse closest to him put a hand on Charles’s arm. ‘She can only take so much, Dr Fuller. It’ll just come straight back up.’
He poured more slowly then, steadily, not stopping until the whole bowlful had disappeared. ‘The mixture needs to digest,’ he said when he was finished. ‘And we’ll have no vomiting tricks. Hold her down while I am gone.’
When he stepped out of the room and pulled the door shut behind him, Charles found his shirt was damp with sweat. He needed air. The infirmary was on the west side of the asylum, close to the men’s quarters, and it was a short enough walk to a side entrance that brought him out overlooking the wood. Even at this early hour it was hot, and the heavy quality of the air felt wrong, like something rotten. He hurried towards the trees; let their green coolness envelop him. Fine spider’s webs looped from their branches, filaments glistening silver. The first horse chestnuts had fallen and old leaf fall crunched beneath his feet as he walked. He made his way to a clearing and packed his pipe. Somewhere close by a twig snapped, making him jump. He cast his eyes about him but could see no one there. The trees were our only witnesses. Had it happened in here? In this very clearing perhaps? Impossible to know which trees had been witness to the sordid act. A small breeze came, ruffling the leaves in the high canopy, and Charles had the uneasy sense he was not alone. ‘Was it you?’ he said to the thick-trunked beech beside him. ‘Or you? Or you or you or you?’
But the trees only stood there and said nothing in response. He was woozy as he made his way back to the asylum, and somehow the path he took was the wrong one, leading only to more trees, thicker now, darker, through which he stumbled, pushing through their branches, emerging in a bramble thicket, gasping into the light. When he reached the safety of the buildings, he turned and looked back. The wood was traitorous. He would not come here again.
The treatment room was empty but for one nurse sitting beside Miss Church, who stood as he entered. The patient was slumped in the chair. She appeared to be asleep. He approached her quietly. Looking at her lying so still, with her pale skin and her fine, light colouring, it was almost possible to feel tenderly towards her, to feel as though she might yet be unspoilt. She really was a most attractive girl. Then her eyes fluttered open. ‘All done,’ he said. Her expression had changed. There was something else there. Hate. He pulled on the end of the tube. It was strange to watch it come out. There seemed to be so much more length than had gone in.
Ella
IT WAS THE first cool place she had been for months, and at first it was almost a pleasure to be down where the sun was tamed to a high, bright rectangle on the wall.
Her fury kept her hot though, wrenching and turning in the long sleeves, even though she knew it was useless, until she had tired and bruised herself. She conjured Clem’s words, her twisted face.
You think he’d like you if it weren’t for me?
How do you even know what he wrote? I could have made it all up.
She saw the triumph on the Irish nurse when she had claimed the letter, and she knew that she and John were in danger now. And wasn’t that Clem’s fault?
But then the cold began to seep up from the ground, and the strangeness of it all stole over her: Clem’s dancing, her opened mouth, her searching tongue, and then her anger paled and cooled.
Was Clem down here too then, in the long sleeves? She could be in the next cell for all it was possible to know.
And she feared for her then. She wouldn’t be able to eat, strapped in like this. Someone should tell them that she hadn’t eaten. It would be six days, wouldn’t it, without any food?
When they brought her back up, there was no sign of Clem or of the books. A new woman was sitting in Clem’s chair, toothless and square as a box. She growled when Ella came near.
Ella took a seat on the other side of the room and nursed her swol
len, painful arms, while around her the women fratched and cried. Outside, the sun shone, as though it still, after all these months, had something to say, lighting on the women’s maddled faces, on the close, brown walls, the locked fireplace. On the piano, lying closed and heavy and still.
As soon as she could, she stood, went to the bathroom and made her way to the last of the stalls. But when she got there she saw the window had been replaced with green marbled glass. They knew. She climbed up on the toilet seat and put her eye to the pane, and a strange, twisted world became visible: brown grass, stretching; the stand of trees. The fields. There was no line of men though. The harvest was done. Whether the sun knew it or not, summer was coming to its close.
She pressed her forehead to the glass and groaned.
When she came back out of the toilet block, she threaded her way around the women to her seat.
‘Whatisitthatshewants?’
‘He’sburningburningburningher.’
Old Germany caught Ella’s hand. ‘Where is she?’ Her face was plaintive. ‘Where’s my lovely? Where’s my lovely to play for me?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ella, miserably, prising the old woman’s hand away. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know.’
Late in the afternoon the dog men appeared, and the old familiar fear rose in Ella: the chronic ward, the gawbers. With no music to cover it, the women’s whimpering was loud. But sitting there amid the reeky stench and the yammering women, watching the men go about their work, something came to her, a thought that was clear and whole: she would go to the chronic ward. Go in with the gawbers. John was in the men’s chronic ward. And the women’s ward was surely where Clem would be. If she could not run, then she would stay. She would choose it.
The thought flamed in her blood.
It wouldn’t be too hard to get there. She would simply have to do something bad. Start a fight. It would have to be vicious though, to make them send her there. Her eyes grazed the room and then tangled with those of the Irish nurse, who was sitting over by the door. The woman gave a brief, nasty smile, and Ella’s blood quickened.