Annie
Beloved friend
1870
Iris gripped onto her knees to get her breath back and to stop the world from spinning. ‘I thought…’
Her stomach tightened. She met Simon’s eyes and knew he was thinking the same. A dog’s grave would be a perfect place to bury a man who was supposed to be imaginary.
Determined to find a shovel or spade with which to exhume the grave, they raced back to the house. Surely, spare tools would be lying around somewhere in such an old estate. But before they had chance to look, they collided with a man on the track. A collie dog at his feet barked and snarled.
‘What do you want here?’ The man asked, with a thick Welsh accent. He must have been almost sixty, with ruddy cheeks and grubby working clothes.
Words vanished from Iris’s brain.
Simon stepped forward, squaring his shoulders as if he were braver than he felt. ‘We know about Persephone Leverton.’
The man dashed his hand above his dog’s head. The dog cowered and fell silent. ‘I don’t know a Persephone Leverton.’
There was a stand-off. The dog bared its teeth at Simon.
‘Roy?’ A voice shouted from the nearby groundkeeper’s cottage. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing, Da, stay inside.’
A crunch of gravel and dirt, the squeak of un-oiled wheels – an old man pushed himself out of the cottage in a rusted chair. ‘Who are you?’ The man wore a green suit similar to his son’s, along with a flatcap. He peered at them through thick glasses.
‘Asking about the Levertons.’
‘Persephone,’ Iris said, finding her voice and stepping forward.
The shadow of recognition passed over the old man’s face. ‘Let them in, Roy.’
‘I’ve been waiting my whole life for you.’ The old man gestured for them to take a seat on a tattered settee in front of the fire. Iris tugged at her collar, already feeling the sweat building around her neck.
‘I’m Ray Brewster. You are?’
Simon and Iris introduced themselves.
‘And how do you know about Persephone Leverton?’
It was hard to take her gaze away from Ray’s shaking limbs.
‘I care for a lady who used to look after Persephone. She wants to know what really happened to her.’
‘Where was that? I never knew where she ended up.’
‘The Basildon Retreat. In south Shropshire.’
He grunted. ‘At least she wasn’t hanged.’ Ray chucked a browned apple core into the fire. ‘I wondered if anybody would come. You think a secret would fade over time. It doesn’t. It grows.’
His son came into the room and guarded the doorway, as unfriendly as ever.
‘This is about Edward, isn’t it?’ Ray smiled at the shock on Iris’s face.
‘He was real?’
‘He doesn’t seem real now. It was so long ago.’
‘But you saw him?’
Ray nodded. His loose, thin flesh wobbled. ‘I was only a lad.’
‘This isn’t going to upset you, is it, Da? I won’t have you upset.’
‘Be quiet, Roy.’
Roy blushed and fixed his mouth into a hard line.
‘It was the first time I’d ever seen blood. Human blood, I mean. So much more blood than on a skinned rabbit. She’d whacked him with a hammer. The back of his head was a mess. Da and Mr Leverton put him in my room. My blanket was ruined.’ He smiled, shook his head. ‘He was out cold for five days. I thought he’d died but my ma kept wetting his lips and changing his bandages.’
‘He survived?’ Iris breathed, as the room began to swirl.
‘Only just.’
‘She didn’t kill him?’
Simon’s little finger brushed against hers, anchoring her to the room.
‘He’d lost a lot of blood. He couldn’t walk for a week after he’d woken up. A headache like he’d been shot, I’d imagine.’ Ray laughed. ‘We weren’t to tell anyone. Not a soul. We kept our word, as we always do.’
Iris tried to clear her mind. ‘So, what happened to him? What did the servants say when they were questioned?’
‘They lied for Mr Leverton. Said they’d never seen or heard of an Irishman called Blake. Mr Leverton had told them he’d disappeared with some silver one night, that he’d scared his wife and that was why she’d got herself all upset. An Irish thief isn’t hard to believe.’
‘But why did Persephone have to go to The Retreat? She hadn’t killed him. She hadn’t made him up.’
‘She wouldn’t shut up about him. Everyone knew what had been going on between them. Not right for a woman like her to be with the likes of him. My da hated her for what she did to Mr Leverton.’
‘But she loved Edward.’
‘That’s no excuse. She was an unfit wife and an unfit mother. Sneaking around, bringing shame on the family.’
Iris bit her tongue though her insides boiled. ‘What happened to her children? This place?’
‘Patience married when she was eighteen, got as far away from here as she could. I never saw her again. James inherited this place after Mr Leverton passed, but he’d already gone to live in Italy by then. James died in 1940. His son died before him because of the drink, so his grandson owns this place now. Not that we ever see him. He’s kept us on to keep an eye on the house. We do our best.’
‘Did Mr Leverton re-marry after Persephone had gone?’
‘He couldn’t; he was still married to her. But he found some comfort in Clara.’
‘The governess?’
Ray nodded. Iris stopped the bitter laugh before it came out. Even men could not see how their own sex deceived and lied to themselves.
‘And Edward?’
‘Ma nursed him back to health. He stayed here for almost two months. He used to play his little whistle at night. I liked it at first. Couldn’t stand it by the time he went.’
‘Wait.’ Iris searched her memory for what Persephone had told Katy. ‘Persephone was taken away quickly, wasn’t she? Was Edward here when they took her to The Retreat?’
Ray studied the floor. ‘Me and him watched her carriage go by. It was rocking, I remember that. I remember hearing her scream.’
Iris put a hand to her mouth and willed herself to stay calm. ‘What did Edward do?’
‘He played that bloody whistle.’
Her belly burned; anger bubbled inside her.
‘Pass me that box on there,’ Ray said to his son, pointing at something on the mantelpiece. ‘It’s cursed me my whole life.’ He opened the box and pulled out a tarnished tin whistle. ‘He gave it me when he left, like a thank you present. I never wanted it.’ Ray handed it to Iris. ‘Take it. Show your friend. Persephone was a hard-hearted bitch, but she wasn’t mad.’
33
1956
They found a pub that was still serving food and ordered a plate of ham sandwiches. The rickety wooden bench outside was more welcoming than the weather-beaten locals, and so they sat there, exhausted and silent, before Simon excused himself.
The tin whistle between her hands had absorbed her warmth. Iris’s fingers kept skimming over the two engraved initials, E.B.
How could you? She thought, as Edwards’s ghost appeared before her.
‘Get that down you,’ Simon said when he returned, gesturing at the pint he’d set on the table. Edward dissolved in the air. ‘I suppose it’s good, in a way. She didn’t kill him.’
‘She died thinking she had. That’s just as bad.’ Iris twirled the tin whistle between her fingertips. ‘If he’d never come, none of this would have happened. Persephone wouldn’t have been sent away, Katy would never have got involved, Basildon might never have done what he did.’
‘You can’t think like that.’
She shoved the tin whistle into her bag, unable to stand the sight of it any longer. She drank her beer and absently stared at the rolling Welsh-border hills.
‘I don’t want to be your girlfriend, Simon.’
He laughed a bit too hard. ‘Where did that come from?’ He gulped his drink. ‘I can’t say I blame you. The last few weeks can’t have filled you with confidence in the male species.’
‘It’s not just that.’ She turned to him. It wasn’t fair to keep him hanging on like this. ‘You know I want to have a career. I can’t be a girlfriend or a wife or anything like that. I can’t stay at home and have children and cook dinners for the rest of my days. Life wouldn’t be worth living.’ Her cheeks started to burn. ‘Even if you have grown on me these last few weeks. Rather like a fungus.’
‘Thanks, I think.’
She laughed with him, relieved he seemed to be taking it well. She squeezed his arm for a second before retracting her grip.
‘I’m sorry you’re not enough.’
He nodded and lifted his pint for something to do. She felt like she should say more, but she’d only be spouting awkward drivel. So, the silence grew. She was just about to head to the ladies’ room to get out of it, when finally, their food arrived. They descended on it gratefully.
Simon’s clean red car looked awfully conspicuous on the Brookside estate.
‘I’ll wait here for you.’
‘You don’t need to, I can walk.’
He shooed her away and turned off the engine. She thought he’d best lock his doors as well, just to be on the safe side.
Next-door’s children were nowhere to be seen. She knocked on number thirty-three and, like before, there was no response.
It was just like it had been: she made her way to the back room and found Mr Temperton in the same position, wearing the same clothes.
‘Back again? She’s not here. Hasn’t been for days. Out with some boy, no doubt. Slut.’
‘I’m just dropping something off. Can I go up?’
Mr Temperton grunted. She took it as a yes.
Upstairs, Shirley’s room was tidier. Most of her clothes were gone, but some odd bits remained. Stockings spilled out from one of the drawers. Lipstick tubes lay scattered on the dresser. A pair of well-worn pink slippers jutted out from under the bed.
She couldn’t blame Shirley for wanting to get out of this house. Iris would never understand what Shirley had been through growing up; the monster downstairs was not fit to be called a father. John offered a life of luxury, of status, of comfort, in all ways but one.
Iris wished another man had found Shirley first, a better man, but wishing didn’t change anything.
She laid the photo of her and Shirley from the picnic on Shirley’s pillow. She hoped the message on the back would at least be some comfort to Shirley in the dark times which lay ahead for her.
You will always be my friend.
Simon dropped her off at Smedley. She waved him goodbye before she made her way to Kath’s ward. Inside, there was a hush to the place, an absence. Nurse Okeke met her at the doors, her round eyes wet. She shook her head.
Kath looked as if she were sleeping; her mouth open slightly, her eyes shut. The picture Iris had given her was face-down against her heart. Albert remained at her side, holding her hand.
‘Albert?’ Iris nudged his shoulder.
He tried to turn his head as much as he could. She knelt before him and saw the tears sliding down his nose.
‘She’s gone,’ he whispered.
Iris hugged him; the act comforted them both.
‘She was happy, in the end. We have you to thank for that, Iris.’
The hard ridge of the tin whistle pressed into her back. She slid it out of her bag, then dropped it in the nearest bin.
‘She’s at peace now.’ Iris hoped Kath was in heaven with Persey and all of the Annies were running around at their feet. The thought made her smile.
Epilogue
1903
She is not looking. A pretty something from one of the stalls has caught her eye, like it usually does. Stupid girl.
I hitch up my skirts, ready. I start walking, slowly at first, checking no one sees me, then faster. No one will miss me, yet. No one will hear the crunch of my vanishing footsteps over the cacophony of the brass band. No one will notice the disappearance of one of the many shadows that haunt this place.
I try to run, but my legs burn, unused to the exertion. I keep going, forcing myself forward, until finally I am out of sight.
The horizon wavers. I must be quick, or else they will notice my absence.
I glide past the woods, thinking of the little graveyard between the trees where my dear Annie now rests, and over the swathes of fresh-cut grass. As I glance behind me to where the house looms, I stumble.
He is there.
His piercing blue eyes watch me from his study.
I stop. We hold each other’s gaze.
I know what he has done. I knew it when Katy struck him with the poker; I saw the truth in his eyes. He knows that I know, and that is why he will not stop me now.
I turn, lift my skirts again, but there is no need to rush.
I take my time, let my breathing slow. Above, a buzzard circles, looking for meat.
The music from the fate is distant now, I block it out of my ears easily. The lake spans before me, twinkling in the sunshine like a carpet of stars. I step closer to the edge and feel the wet earth give beneath my feet.
The bite of the water takes away my breath as it creeps up my legs. My skin prickles. My hands meet the water as I step in further. Waist deep... chest deep... neck deep.
I cannot be saved. None of us can be saved. I am sorry for Katy, I am sorry for myself, but it is too late for both of us now.
The water slides over my face. My toes reach for the bottom, but it has disappeared. The world has opened beneath me.
The water will carry me to the sea, and I will be free.
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Afterword
Thank you for taking the time to read Woman on Ward 13. I hope you enjoyed it and will consider leaving a review online as it truly helps authors to get their work into the hands of those who will love it.
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Acknowledgments
Once again, thank you for reading!
I would also like to thank my family for being so supportive and encouraging me to follow my dreams. Thank you to my mother for always being there with constructive criticism and for being the first to read my work. Thank you to my father for all his technical support. Thank you to my husband for believing in me completely.
A special thanks goes to my Aunty Jan, who helped enormously with the research of this book. It was through her that I got a real sense of what working life was like in a psychiatric hospital.
If you would like to see the inspiration for Ward 13, then find the videos on YouTube of Powick Hospital Worcestershire from the 1960s.
There are so many other sources which proved invaluable in the creation of this book. It would take too long to list them all, but if you are interested in the treatment of the mentally ill throughout history, here are a few recommendations:
Inconvenient People: Lunacy, Liberty and the Mad-doctors in Victorian England, Sarah Wise.
The Victorian Asylum, Sarah Rutherford.
Madness: A Brief History, Roy Porter.
The websites of the Glenside Museum and Worcester Medical Museums, both of which can be visited in person.
Finally, a big thanks to the online Indie community, who share their knowledge and expertise and continue to
fill our world with wonderful new books.
About the Author
Delphine Woods graduated with a First from The Open University in 2016, where she studied for an Open Degree, specialising in Creative Writing.
After a busy couple of years writing her collection of Victorian mystery-thrillers, she released her debut novella, The Butcher’s Wife, in July 2019.
She lives with her husband in Shropshire where she writes in her spare room, her dog by her feet to keep her warm. You can keep up to date with her news and get in touch with her via her website, newsletter, and social media platforms.
www.delphinewoods.com
Also by Delphine Woods
Convenient Women Collection:
The Butcher’s Wife
The Cradle Breaker
The Promise Keeper
The Button Maker
The Little Wife
Convenient Women Collection Box Set
Standalone Books:
The Last Flight of the Ladybird
Woman on Ward 13: A haunting gothic novel of obsession and insanity (Iris Lowe Mysteries) Page 24