Letters from Alice

by Petrina Banfield

  The almoner warmed the office teapot using the water bubbling away in a large pot on top of the boiler. After setting a few mismatched cups on top of an empty desk, she swirled the hot water around the pot and emptied the vestiges into the large porcelain sink in the corner of the room. She scooped a caddy spoon of tea leaves inside, the soothing simplicity of the act at odds with the concerns that had been swirling in her mind over the last couple of days, since visiting the Redbournes’ house.

  Outside, there was a temporary reprieve from the rain. A shaft of winter sunlight shone through the grime-covered, half-blocked windows, temporarily transforming the gloomy office from dungeon to a bright, airy place. The fug of ink, damp paper and coal in the air lifted momentarily, returning less than a minute later when the sun disappeared behind a cloud.

  ‘What have I told you?’ Frank roared a minute later, jumping to his feet. ‘Milk in last, not first!’ He strode towards Alice, pipe in hand, his grizzled features screwed up in mock disgust. ‘If you were my wife I’d ask you to tip that away and start again.’

  Alice lowered the teapot to the desk and grabbed one of the cups. ‘If we were married, Frank,’ she said, thrusting the steaming drink towards him, ‘it wouldn’t be me making the tea.’ Frank stared at her and took the proffered drink with his habitual hangdog expression. Seconds later, in a huff of smoke and quivering jowls, he bellowed with laughter. A few feet away, Alexander seated himself behind his desk with a look of distaste.

  Alice rolled her eyes and passed another of the drinks, this time with more grace, to Dr Harland. After sliding her own cup onto the edge of her desk, she sat beside the doctor and switched on her desk lamp. Light pooled on the slew of beige folders that lay between them, the Redbourne file uppermost in the pile.

  As Alice reached out and pulled the folder down in front of her, Winnie appeared. Her handbag was clasped in one arthritic hand, and she picked up Alice’s cup with the other. ‘Where would you like your tea, dear?’

  Alice pushed her chair back and half stood up to retrieve it. ‘Where it was,’ she said tersely, replacing it on the edge of her desk. Winnie’s gaze flicked between Alice and the cup as if trying to communicate the folly of such action, but then she shuffled wordlessly back to her desk.

  Before Alice opened the file in front of her, the doctor asked if any progress had been made in securing convalescence for one of his elderly tubercular patients who wasn’t well enough to go home.

  ‘Grove House in Eastbourne has reserved a place for the beginning of February. They’ve booked Mr Hobbs in for at least two weeks.’

  Dr Harland grunted his approval, dipped his fountain pen in the inkwell of Alice’s desk and scribbled something in his notebook. ‘And Mrs Taylor?’

  ‘I saw her just after Christmas. I managed to convince her to apply for a crisis loan from the Samaritan Fund.’ Mrs Taylor’s husband, Simon, had recently been diagnosed with cancer of the lung, but was struggling to come to terms with the poor prognosis he’d been given. Medical staff had encouraged him to share the burden with his wife, but he continued to reassure her that he’d be back on his feet in a day or two. While it wasn’t up to Alice to break patient confidentiality, she had been able to visit Mrs Taylor to make sure that the practicalities of losing the family’s sole breadwinner were taken care of. A proud, respectable sort of woman, she had been reluctant to even discuss any form of assistance, but with two weeks’ rent arrears and only enough food left to last the week, she eventually conceded that she needed some help. By the time Alice left her, she had been tearfully grateful.

  Alice and Peter Harland’s discussion turned to the family of a child who had died on the chest ward overnight. Nine-year-old Clara Stewart had been suffering from consumption complicated by pneumonia, and by the time she reached hospital it had been too late for doctors to save her. Clara’s parents had never been able to afford to have a family photograph taken and were desperate to take advantage of their one last opportunity to secure a memento mori, something that was certain to become a treasured keepsake, before their daughter’s body was buried. ‘The poor family,’ Alice said softly. ‘I’ll make an urgent application to the Samaritan Fund. I’m sure the panel won’t have any –’

  Dr Harland waved his hand. ‘That will take time we don’t have,’ he said. ‘I’ll take care of the expenses. All I’m asking is that you make the necessary contact with a post-mortem photographer. Not all will take on such a task.’

  Alice turned to face him, her expression soft. ‘That is very decent of you.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he mumbled gruffly. ‘Anything else? I need to get –’

  ‘Just a minute!’ Frank piped up from across the room. ‘Isn’t photography a hobby of yours, Alex? Perhaps you could help them out?’

  ‘I prefer my subjects to have a pulse, but it’s terribly good of you to think of me, Frank,’ Alexander answered icily, his gaze on the papers in front of him.

  ‘I need to get back to the ward if there’s nothing else?’ The doctor tapped his fingers on the desk with impatience.

  Alice rested her hand on the Redbournes’ file, her expression thoughtful. She hesitated for a moment before asking, ‘Do you remember tending to a child called Henry Redbourne? He came in at the beginning of the summer. You treated him for pneumonia.’

  The doctor gave a small nod. ‘Is he unwell again?’

  ‘No, he seems perfectly well. It’s just that …’ She opened the file in front of her. ‘We called in on the family and,’ she paused, rolling her lips in on themselves. Across the room, Frank, who had been making notes in a ledger, peered up at her. ‘The children seemed quite well, but something wasn’t right.’

  The doctor looked at Alice, his green eyes cloudy with impatience. ‘In what way?’

  ‘I am not sure exactly. Their eldest was upset and … I mean, she didn’t say much but she didn’t really need to. There was something … I still cannot grasp what it was, but it was unsettling. There was definitely something. I could feel it.’

  The doctor raised his heavy brows. ‘I prefer to deal with facts, Miss Hudson. Not feelings.’

  Alice stared at him for a moment before answering. ‘Yes, of course.’ She lowered her gaze, returning her attention to the file. She flicked through the papers and then turned back to the doctor. ‘A financial assessment was carried out before Henry’s admission, and when his siblings were treated before him, but the parents were not forthcoming at the time and –’ Her words were left floating in the air.

  Dr Harland said nothing, but his lips narrowed into a thin line.

  ‘I wondered if you might shed a little light on the family, if you have memory of them?’ Alice pressed.

  Dr Harland inched back in his chair, bristling. ‘They’re fairly respectable, from what I recall. We’re talking relatively, of course. But I noticed nothing out of the ordinary.’

  Alice chewed on the inside of her cheek. ‘But Mrs Redbourne has been seen the worse for drink on a number of occasions while their children were left home alone,’ she persisted, flicking rapidly through the papers again, one way and then the other. ‘They’ve been lying to us about having lodgers, I’m certain of that, and … I realise it’s of no medical concern, but I feel that our help is sorely needed.’

  The doctor made a face and returned his gaze to the pile of files on the desk. The almoner stared at the pages of the file in front of her for a full half-minute before returning her attention to Dr Harland. ‘There was something there,’ she repeated insistently. ‘Something about the place that just didn’t fit. I just cannot yet grasp what it was.’ The doctor puffed out his cheeks then returned his gaze to the files.

  From across the room, through a cloud of smoke, Frank’s eyes were still resting on Alice speculatively.

  Chapter Four

  We are all mad when we give way to passion, to prejudice, to vice, to vanity; but if all the passionate, prejudiced and vain people were to be locked up as lunatics, who is to keep the key t
o the asylum?

  (The Times, editorial, 1853)

  The call of distress from the Redbournes’ home came just before five o’clock that afternoon, as the meeting between Alice and Dr Harland was drawing to an end.

  A quiet but feverish rapping at the door drew everyone’s attention. ‘Come in,’ Bess Campbell said without looking up. The tapping stopped but the door remained closed. Alice turned to meet Frank’s gaze. He sat motionless, eyeing her through a cloud of smoke. She huffed out some air and got to her feet. When she opened the door her eyes widened in surprised recognition – standing before her was one of the Redbourne girls, Elsa, wearing nothing more than a thin cotton dress. Soaked through and shivering with cold, the twelve-year-old looked close to passing out. ‘Please, Miss, can you come?’ she cried breathlessly. ‘Something awful’s going on.’

  Alice glanced behind at her colleagues. Miss Campbell and Dr Harland were already on their feet. She turned back and quickly beckoned the girl into the basement. ‘Yes, of course, I will come directly, but what is it? What has happened?’

  Bess Campbell draped a blanket over Elsa’s shoulders and guided her to one of the chairs closest to the hearth, where a fire blazed. The girl refused to sit down. ‘We have to go!’ she cried, hopping from one foot to the other. ‘Mum says you have to come. Charlotte’s gone mad and you have to lock her up.’

  Alice, Frank and Miss Campbell exchanged glances. ‘Why, my dear?’ the Lady Almoner asked. ‘What on earth has happened?’

  ‘I dunno! They won’t let me see her, but Mum says she’s lost her mind and the devil’s responsible. She said you would take her away.’ Elsa began sobbing. Her legs buckled and Alice guided her gently down onto a chair.

  Bess Campbell looked expectantly at the doctor. ‘I’m about to go off-duty,’ he said. After an uncomfortable silence he looked up at the ceiling and added gruffly: ‘Right, I’ll make a house call then, shall I?’

  ‘Good,’ said Miss Campbell. ‘Alice?’

  The almoner gave a grim nod. ‘I’ll accompany them,’ Frank said, reaching for his hat.

  Elsa made a move but Miss Campbell pressed her hands down onto the girl’s damp shoulders. ‘You’ll wait here with me, at least until the storm passes. Once we’ve established what has happened, then you may return.’

  Moonlight flickered as Alice, Frank and Dr Harland disembarked from a hackney carriage taxicab at the end of Dock Street. The rain was lashing down, arcs of light from the terraced houses rippling over the surface of the puddles.

  Clumps of confetti from the New Year celebrations still littered the pavements, the soggy flakes clinging to the hem of Alice’s long cape and the tips of her laced-up boots. A discarded sock trailed over the side of a cattle trough, the wool stiff with cold.

  Frank marched purposefully towards the Redbournes’ house, his head tilted against the onslaught of rain. Alice wrapped her scarf carefully around her neck and squinted, the doctor following on a few feet behind. Their steps seemed to drag as they followed Frank. Setting out like this gave them all a sense of the likely grimness that lay ahead.

  ‘She was morally flabby right from the off,’ Mrs Redbourne proclaimed as soon as she opened the door to the small party. Her jowls quivered as she spoke, her compressed mouth growing so thin that her lips were barely visible. ‘Never sat still in church. I knew she’d never amount to much, what with the aggression and the wild ways, but you’d think she’d have learned her lesson after the last time.’ She looked angry, but her eyes were shiny with suppressed tears.

  ‘What ails Charlotte, Mrs Redbourne?’ Alice asked as she followed Frank into the hall. The doctor stifled a yawn on the shoulder of his coat as he closed the door behind them.

  ‘I don’t know what it is, do I? An overflow of blood to the head, George says. I say it’s the work of the devil.’

  Alice was accustomed to dealing with families who were so mortified by their daughters’ behaviour that they claimed they had been inflicted by a sudden onset of insanity. A diagnosis of insanity was seen by some families as a way of ridding themselves of the embarrassment of wayward daughters, a sort of absolution from the stain of it. The affluent sometimes shipped their ‘excitable’ daughters abroad, or confined them and their offspring to a secluded cottage somewhere in the grounds. There were few appealing options open to most of the Royal Free’s patients.

  Surprise rippled over the faces of Alice and her colleagues at the apparent spite shown by the woman, quickly followed by distaste. They watched her in silence for a few moments. It was Dr Harland who spoke next. ‘If you’ll show us the way, then, Mrs Redbourne,’ he said quietly, nodding towards the stairs. There was a coldness to his tone and a degree of irritation as well.

  Mrs Redbourne pulled her chin in and straightened the apron she was wearing, her neck flushed. When she next spoke, it was with a precision that was uncharacteristic and clearly forced. ‘They’re in the back parlour. Step this way, won’t you?’ Her use of the plural pronoun seemed to go unnoticed by the doctor, but Alice and Frank exchanged puzzled glances as they followed Mrs Redbourne along the dim passageway. There was no sign of the other children, but excited mutterings and a distant thud suggested they were shut away in one of the bedrooms upstairs.

  Outside the parlour room door, Mrs Redbourne lowered her voice to a loud whisper. ‘You’ll pardon the smell. I haven’t been able to get near the bed to change it and she won’t surrender the babe. She’s not put it down since delivering.’

  Alice turned and looked at Frank with astonished eyes. He grimaced in response, pipe suspended in the air an inch from his mouth. As Mrs Redbourne pushed the door open and went inside, the smells of the enclosed room spilled out onto the hall: damp linen, lochial blood and the sickly sweet smell of colostrum. Frank took a staggering step backwards, folding himself against the wall. Alice sidestepped him. With her eyes fixed on the bed, she raised the coned sleeve of her cape to cover her mouth and stared.

  Several dirty blankets formed a makeshift wall along each side of the mattress and just visible above the bedclothes beyond was Charlotte, a tiny infant’s head lying in the crook of her left arm. Mother and child were utterly still, their faces alabaster. The bedspread covering them, large with embroidered flowers, was crumpled and heavily stained.

  ‘When did she deliver, Mrs Redbourne?’ Alice asked, a slight catch in her throat.

  ‘About an hour or so ago. She’s working in the kitchen then all of a sudden she abandons the preparations and goes missing. I heard all the carry-on in the privy.’

  Alice closed her eyes momentarily but Mrs Redbourne’s face was set, her expression implacable. ‘She needs to rest for now,’ the almoner said, looking at the woman evenly. ‘I shall wait with her while she recovers, and we can examine her when she wakes. The time might be useful for you and your husband to reconcile yourself with events.’

  ‘No, no way,’ Mrs Redbourne spat from the foot of the bed. ‘You need to get them out of here now. George won’t have no product of sin …’ she stopped, gathering her rage. ‘A bastard. He’ll not have no bastard child in this house, and nor will I!’ On speaking the word ‘bastard’, she crossed herself.

  Charlotte stirred then and half-raised her head from the pillow. The baby remained still. The teenager’s faintly puzzled frown deepened as she took her unannounced visitors in, then her eyes grew wide. A flush rose up her neck, flooding her cheeks crimson.

  For several moments no words were spoken, but a strange uneasiness grew. The seconds stretched out. Charlotte’s eyes flitted around the assembled group, analysing their every movement. Slowly, without taking her eyes off her audience, she eased her cradling arm half an inch to the left.

  Her mother turned to Frank, eyebrows raised. Taking his cue, he stepped forwards, and then several things happened at once. Charlotte bolted upright and fumbled for her baby, clamping the bundle tightly to her breast. Her thin cotton nightgown shimmered in synchrony with her trembling limbs.

  Alice mov
ed then. With one gloved hand outstretched and placating, she edged sideways around a chamber pot half-filled with pink water, blood-soaked rags and something fleshy floating around inside. ‘Charlotte, it’s all right. We’re not going to harm the baby.’

  The girl stared at Alice, her eyes wide and fearful. Her lips were almost without colour, the rims of her eyes white. ‘When was the last time Charlotte ate or drank anything, Mrs Redbourne?’ Alice asked, without taking her eyes off the young woman. ‘She looks terribly weak.’

  The woman folded her arms haughtily. ‘I’ve told her. She’s getting nothing ’til she recites Our Lord’s Prayer.’

  ‘Am I to understand nothing has passed the girl’s lips since delivering?’ Dr Harland asked quietly from the doorway. Charlotte turned towards the voice, the glaze clearing from her eyes. A shadow passed across her face, one that seemed to pass unnoticed by the others in the room.

  Mrs Redbourne shook her head. One of her eyelids flickered, a brief insight into her guilt. She swept it away with a swift wave of her hand.

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, woman,’ the doctor burst out. ‘She must have water.’

  The woman baulked at that, flattening her hands either side of her substantial breasts. ‘I’ve told her –’

  ‘Water, now please,’ the doctor blasted through gritted teeth.

  Mrs Redbourne’s arms fell to her side and her mouth dropped open, but after a moment’s hesitation and an affronted stare she barged past the assembled group and slammed out of the room.

  She returned a minute or so later, a cup of water in hand. Without a word she passed it to her daughter, who took a hungry gulp and then choked, the rest of the contents spilling over onto the bed. The infant failed to stir at the disturbance. Alice turned, her features tightened with concern. Dr Harland dropped his Gladstone bag onto a side table near the bed and pulled out his stethoscope. ‘I really must examine the child,’ he told Charlotte. ‘We mustn’t delay.’