Dark Asylum

by E. S. Thomson

  But I was thinking clearly, and there was no doubt in my mind. I shook my head.

  Mrs Hawkins and the Ladies’ Committee were preparing to go outside and hoe the vegetable beds in the company of a selection of the more biddable asylum women. The chosen few waited about listlessly, blinking in the chilly sunshine or staring up in awe at Dr Mothersole, who stood at the window, bathed in a halo of golden light like some sort of over-fed celestial being. He was dressed in the costume of a Kentish yokel – a billowing smock of buff-coloured fustian, a blue neckerchief, and a drooping, wide-brimmed hat. Beneath this his legs were sheathed in the white stockings he favoured, while on his feet he wore a pair of working men’s thick heavy boots. He held a hoe upright in his hand, like a halberd. Beside him clustered the ladies of the committee.

  Dr Christie was standing beside the bookcase with his hands in his pockets. ‘My dear fellow,’ I heard him say. ‘Can you not just sit down? All this gallivanting about – gardening, and handicrafts and dancing and whatnot. These women need rest, not excitement.’

  Letty stood at his side, her finger in her mouth. She took his hand, but he shook her off with a shudder and stepped away.

  ‘You really think any of them will benefit?’ he said. ‘I can hardly see that it is worth the inconvenience.’

  ‘They need fresh air and exercise, Christie. Nature, sir. Air and earth – both help to soothe the raging beast or enliven the melancholic. Fatigue, sir, is the lunatic’s friend, no matter what might ail him.’

  ‘Well,’ said Dr Christie, ‘I suppose it’s cheaper than all the bread and custard we feed them. They are as fat as Shrewsbury geese! But I can hardly agree about the fresh air. It stinks out there today.’

  In order to lead the exodus Dr Mothersole had unlocked the doors that led out into the asylum garden. The air that wafted in was laced with the reek of the vinegar works and the meat market, not to mention the usual pungency of the river. Out in the garden the watery sunlight illuminated dismal regiments of brownish-looking onions and leeks. Amongst them, Pole jabbed at the earth with a hoe, occasionally bending down and plucking a weed from the soil. He looked up as Dr Mothersole’s voice boomed out, his face inscrutable.

  Mrs Hawkins, I noticed, was standing a little to one side, her hand clasped to the jet beads at her throat. When she saw her husband march into the room, Will and me at his side and Mrs Lunge wringing her hands behind us, her face turned whiter still.

  ‘What is it, sir?’ she said to her husband. She smiled, but her face was waxy and mask-like, her expression wary. ‘You’re all looking terribly serious.’

  ‘My dear,’ said Dr Hawkins, ‘we are here because . . . Mr Flockhart tells me . . . and Mrs Lunge—’ His voice faltered. The doubt I had seen in his eyes now seized hold of his tongue. ‘My dear,’ he said again, his voice thick with emotion, ‘you must explain.’

  The room had fallen silent, every one of us watching Mrs Hawkins. A shadow moved behind Dr Mothersole, and there was Pole too, standing motionless in the open doors. For a moment Mrs Hawkins neither moved nor spoke. Her expression was blank, her gaze resting upon her husband as if she were still waiting for him to speak.

  ‘Explain?’ she said at last. She gave a short, brittle laugh. ‘Explain what?’

  ‘It’s too late, ma’am,’ cried Mrs Lunge suddenly. ‘Oh, I tried to hide it. I tried to stop them but they would ask. It’s him,’ she cried, pointing at me. ‘He’s as much a devil as he looks.’

  Mrs Hawkins took a step back. She seemed to dwindle, to shrink in stature, so that all at once I had the impression that I was looking at a girl dressed up in her mother’s clothes, a child hiding within a carapace of damask and crinoline.

  Mrs Hawkins glanced about at the grinning patients, the staring, judgemental gaze of the Ladies’ Committee.

  ‘Mrs Hawkins?’ said one, as if she no longer recognised this half-crouched, hard-eyed version of the woman they had been told to love and respect.

  Mrs Hawkins flinched. She looked into her husband’s face, but saw, as I did, only wretchedness and sorrow, and she gave a sob. Oh, how I wished we had addressed the matter differently, in private, rather than under the disgusted looks of the ladies, the gibbering, grinning faces of the lunatics and the cold, fascinated, half-smiling gaze of Dr Christie.

  Dr Mothersole glided forward. ‘Dear lady—’

  ‘Get away!’ snapped Mrs Hawkins, lurching away from him. Her gaze darted left and right, searching the room for a means of escape. But she was in an asylum, and there was no escape for those who were not deemed fit to leave. I saw an attendant appear at the door. Dr Christie motioned the woman to stay where she was, though he could hardly tear his eyes from the scene unfolding before us. Mrs Hawkins saw the attendant too, and she became more agitated still. ‘You promised,’ she cried, staring at Mrs Lunge. ‘You promised you would say nothing.’ Her voice rang out wretchedly.

  Mrs Lunge covered her face with her hands. ‘I tried to help.’

  Dr Mothersole was inching forward still. ‘My dear Mrs Hawkins,’ he crooned.

  Mrs Hawkins started back, as if she had quite forgotten where she was, and when she saw Dr Mothersole’s giant smock-clad form bearing down upon her she let out a yell and seized the poker from the hearth.

  The ladies gasped.

  ‘Who left that out?’ cried Dr Christie. ‘Pole?’

  ‘Yessir,’ muttered Pole.

  ‘How many times must I tell you?’

  Mrs Hawkins brandished the poker. Her hair was awry, her face smeared with soot and tears. The ladies clutched one another, the lunatics shouted and laughed. Dr Hawkins had neither moved, nor spoken. I put my hand on his arm but he did not even notice.

  Events moved quickly. Mrs Hawkins turned around and about, searching for a place to run, but there was nowhere to go. At her back the fire hissed and crackled, tongues of flames shot out from between the coals, and the room grew hot and close. Still Dr Mothersole came on. ‘Stand back, gentlemen,’ he cried, as he saw Dr Christie move. ‘The ladies are my forte. She will not harm me.’ He opened his arms wide. ‘Come to me, Mrs Hawkins!’ and all at once he leaped at her.

  Mrs Hawkins jabbed at Dr Mothersole’s giant midriff with the poker, but it became tangled in the fabric of his yokel’s costume and clattered to the ground. Pole sprang forward and seized it, staggering back onto the hearth to avoid Dr Mothersole’s blundering boots. He looked, for a moment, as though he were about to brain the doctor with the poker, but Dr Mothersole surged forward again, his meaty hands scrabbling at the air as he sought to grab hold of Mrs Hawkins, and the poker swooshed impotently by.

  ‘Mr Pole,’ I cried. ‘You’re making matters worse.’

  Sensing victory, Dr Mothersole pressed forward. Mrs Hawkins darted back so that he managed only to tear the shawl from her shoulders. He knocked pins from her hair and tore a ribbon from her dress; his fingers caught at her throat and ripped away the collar ofjet. Mrs Hawkins cried out as the beads burst across the room in a hail of black pellets. She writhed and squirmed in Dr Mothersole’s grasp, her hands clutched at her neck.

  ‘Bring the strait jacket!’ he bellowed. ‘Christie! Now, if you please, sir!’

  Behind them, Pole raised the poker once more. This time, it was quite clear who he meant to assault. I cried out – and I saw Dr Christie and Will bound forward. And then something happened, something more awful than any of us could possibly have imagined. The fire gave an almighty crack, and spat a fiery ember out from amongst the blazing coals. It struck Pole’s coat, catching in the folds above his pocket, where it ignited the grease-impregnated fabric in an instant. All the times he had wiped his hands on his clothes after finding them sticky with boot polish or been careless with the turpentine or formaldehyde, could be counted in the size and speed with which the flames consumed him. The poker clattered to the ground, the shriek he uttered like nothing I have ever heard – like nothing I ever wish to hear again. Mrs Hawkins and Dr Mothersole sprang away from him like scal
ded cats. The ladies and the lunatics screamed as Pole flamed before them, dancing and spinning, wrapped in a golden cloak of fire.

  Angel Meadow Asylum, 18th September 1852

  The place we had arrived at looked like paradise. The heavens were the brightest blue – a blue no Londoner has ever seen, so that it was hard to believe we all shared the same sky. Overhead, emerald birds wheeled and raced, as bright and joyful as our London pigeons are grey and wretched. Flocks of white doves settled in the trees, like hosts of angels, and everywhere there was greenness of a thousand different hues. The colours of the land and the sky were more vivid than anything I had ever seen, so that it was as though the whole world had been fashioned out of gemstones, cut and polished and set in a silver sea. We were used to dirt and squalor, to meanness, hunger and brutality, so that we hardly knew what to think when we climbed from our miserable floating prison and saw the gaudy world that awaited us. But life mocked us still, for we were to find plenty of what we were familiar with beneath those luminous skies.

  I was granted a ticket-of leave for good behaviour the moment we arrived – as were all but the most violent and furious of the women. You may ask why we were not locked away, but there was a shortage of women, and our ticket-of-leave meant no more than permission to work for a master, with our continued freedoms, such as they were, dependent upon church attendance and good behaviour. There was no choice and no dignity for any of us, and the manner in which our masters chose us was little better than a cattle auction. We waited on board ship, dressed in whatever clothes we had brought with us from England and which were not ruined and degraded by the journey. Men came from the town – those who wanted a maid, or a worker, or a wife – and picked whichever of us they wanted from the line.

  I was taken by a merchant – he was a wealthy man and was given first pick of us. He had heard I could talk like a lady, could read and write and do arithmetic, and he paid a good price for me. I was lucky, but many were not. Those too old or ugly, too mad or troublesome to be either desirable or useful, were sent up river to the female factory at Parramatta: there was nothing there but violence, deprivation and misery. I visited the place only once. I saw the two women there who had watched me become Neptune’s bride that day, though they did not recognise me. They were drunk, lolling in the gutter calling out in lewd language to the men who passed by. They were filthy and bruised, their faces puffy from the beatings they had received and the rum they had drunk. Did they ever think of home, as I did? I did not stop to ask them.

  My master, James McKinley, was a Scottish merchant. He employed me as a housemaid, though when he had satisfied himself as to my honesty, he put me to work in his office. It was not long before my condition was obvious. But McKinley was a kindly gentleman – having him as my master was the only stroke of good fortune I had. He had come out as a free passenger some years earlier, and he knew what took place on board the transport ships. He never asked me about it, but said I might keep the child as long as it did not interfere with my work.

  I saw Dr Rutherford about the town, now and again. He was known to McKinley, though he said nothing about what had happened on board ship. I too remained silent. I would not jeopardise my situation, would not be sent to Parramatta or have my ticket revoked. So I did as I was expected: I worked hard and I said nothing. The two of them had an interest in phrenology. Back home, McKinley had attended lectures by Combe in Edinburgh, and had his own collection of skulls, some of which – the skulls of aborigines – he had given to Dr Rutherford.

  ‘Surgeon on board a convict ship?’ I heard Dr Rutherford say. ‘It will do for now, McKinley, but I have ambitions that lie far above and beyond. I am collecting the skulls of those who are slaves to their own base instincts, their own passions. Convicts and lunatics, natives, women and children – those are the forms that interest me most, and upon which I will forge my reputation.’

  When my time came, McKinley called Dr Rutherford, though I screamed that I would not have him near me, that he was the devil himself and I would rather die than have him touch me. It was the only time my master raised his hand to me. He cut my lip with the back of his hand and bade me be silent, or by God he would send me to the barracks for the soldiers to use me as they chose. If he knew Rutherford for the man he was then he did not show it, and there was nothing more I could do.

  Rutherford himself was singularly uninterested in me. He clicked his tongue as he opened his doctor’s bag. ‘I know what you are, my dear. McKinley has spent too long here to know a whore from a lady, though it’s not for me to enlighten him. You should thank me for finding you so comfortable a situation.’

  And so, my baby was brought into the world by the man who had watched while its father had raped me. I was determined that I should hate it. I imagined it having fish scales for skin, its hair strips of stinking weed, and when he handed me the bundle I would not look, not at him, nor at the child – a boy, I was certain, who would be born to violence and arrogance just like all men. But something in the baby’s silence tugged at my heart. It had no choice who its parents were, no responsibility for the wicked deeds that had brought it into the world. I pulled back the blanket.

  She was white as milk, and raven haired, like me. Her skin was smooth, flawless and perfect, her face peaceful, innocent of the cruel world into which she had arrived. I held her to my breast fiercely then, resolving to do all I could to care for her, to make her life better than mine. I stroked her cheek, and it was as soft as down and cool to the touch. She opened her eyes and stared straight at me.

  He – I can hardly bring myself to write his name – was watching in silence. ‘You must sleep,’ he said. But I did not want to sleep. I did not want to let go of her, did not want to close my eyes with him still in the room. But I did sleep, for I could not fight it, though I slept with my baby at my breast, my arms close about her.

  When I awoke she was gone. I asked where she was, my baby girl, but my master shook his head. ‘She’s dead, Kitty,’ he said. ‘Don’t you remember?’

  I said nothing, though I remembered that I had stroked her cheek, that she had been cool, cooler than she should have been, new-warm with my own blood. I remembered too that she had been still and quiet in her blanket, and I wondered whether it had been in my imagination that she had opened her eyes and looked at me. I asked him once more where she was, could I see her, but he only shook his head again and said the same words. ‘She’s dead.’

  I never saw my baby daughter again. I asked after her over and over again, though I knew she would never come back to me. I wanted to bury her, to put her in the bright soil of her birth-land and allow the hot sun to keep her warm – not for my daughter the cold and putrid earth of St Saviour’s. But my master shook his head, and said that it was better if I forgot. That it was too late. That Dr Rutherford had taken her, Dr Rutherford had her now.

  I never saw Dr Rutherford again, until I came to Angel Meadow. I heard he had returned to England and had quitted the Bay Fleet, but I did not know where he had gone. My master never mentioned him once he had left Australia – acquaintance out there depends upon proximity, and neither had reason to maintain contact with the other over such a distance. I worked for McKinley for two more years. He married me then, though I did not love him. As a wedding gift he gave me a necklace to wear to cover up the scar – a pink ring about my neck that the noose had left – so that my past might be hidden from both of us.

  After another year he decided to take me back to Edinburgh. I was on a conditional pardon by then, free, yet not permitted to leave the colony. But McKinley had many friends; it was always his intention to return, and so getting me onto a ship bound for Home was no hardship. We arrived in London at the same time as the cholera, and my husband died of it before he even reached his native town.

  James McKinley was a good man, and I will not speak ill of him. He left me well provided for. But I was afraid that should anyone realise that I was neither fully pardoned nor officially free to return
to England they would send me back, for as far as the law was concerned I was still a convict. And so I went to France – I had started a new life once before, might I not do it again? I had no friends there, but it was easier than I thought, for I had money enough to manage, and as a widow in command of some fortune I was able to acquire acquaintances easily enough. It was in that capacity – as an English widow of independent means – that I met Dr Hawkins.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I looked up at her, once I had finished reading. ‘You’re wondering whether I have told my husband,’ she said. ‘I have not. When I came to London with him and found Dr Rutherford here at Angel Meadow, I hardly knew what to do. I was afraid that he would betray me – to my husband at least – and yet I had never forgotten my daughter. Whatever Dr Rutherford had done to me when she was born I do not know, but I had never conceived again, and the need to know where she was, to get her back, overwhelmed me. My mind seethed with questions – what had he done with her? Was she really dead? Why had he taken her? And, I cannot deny it, somewhere at the back of my mind was the hope that she was alive. I had to know.

  ‘That night, I took my husband’s keys and I went to Rutherford’s rooms. You have heard what Mrs Lunge had to say. It’s all true. Dr Rutherford told me that my daughter was dead, and that he had her skull in his collection. Even then he taunted me, for he would not say which it was. And, Mr Flockhart, you are correct; it was me who Dr Golspie saw in the mirror, for I appeared behind him just as the mirror shattered. But I stepped behind the screen, so that when he turned I was gone. After Dr Golspie left, I confronted Dr Rutherford. He threatened to tell my husband who I was, to tell the magistrate that I had broken the conditions of my pardon. And he said that he would never give me my child’s remains, that they were as much his as they were mine and they had become a part of his scientific collection.