Eye of a Rook

by Josephine Taylor

  ‘Thanks – that’s so helpful.’ Mia stood.

  ‘Alright. I’ll see you on Monday.’

  ‘I’ll be there. Bye, then.’

  The student walked out of the sessional staff office. What was her surname again? Parsons? Levitt? There were two Mias in the unit and fifty-six students altogether. Details that generally found homes remained unanchored in Alice’s mind, spiralling into forgetfulness.

  How would it feel to be free of this role? To allow her own thorough, diligent, perfectionist self to sleep? Recover? No students to help feel better about themselves. No complicated departmental relationships to diplomatically settle. No more second-guessing her marking: was she being too kind? too severe? too accommodating? too inflexible? She did not know anymore. The pain had taken from her some vital sense of perspective with which she once navigated her life. It had become impossible to know her own horizon. Where she began and ended; what to make of herself, or others. And it was jealous too, the pain, crowding out thoughts and plans, leaving no room for her to consider her stories – all the writing of those five-odd years. No possibility of pursuing publication, even though her former supervisor continued to urge her on, saying she must follow up the success of the already published stories, make use of the momentum. It won’t last forever, she’d said, the interest in your writing.

  Alice walked to the window and looked out over the grassed quadrangle. Duncan had a large office almost opposite hers, but jacarandas blocked the line of sight. Soon they would be caped in blue-mauve, and then would come the summer break. What if the pain stayed the same? Surely it couldn’t. But if it did. Could she last till then?

  She sighed. Tugged at the side of her undies through her skirt, dragging them down. Pulled the skirt away from her buttocks. She avoided trousers now. They pressed against all the parts of her body she was trying to forget, shunting complaint into impossibility.

  Soon she would have to drive home. The dreaded ordeal. Hemmed in by the boundaries of seat and door for twenty minutes and no way in which to twist her body away from itself. The current strategy: bracing her left leg so that her pelvis was lifted off the seat. Lucky the Toyota was an automatic.

  Maybe she could grab a sandwich on her way to the car. She had to force herself to eat these days. But the café had –

  Alice started at the shrill of her mobile. Penny.

  ‘Hi there, Pen.’

  ‘Hey, Ali. How are you doing today?’

  ‘Oh, Pen.’ The relief at her friend’s voice. Who didn’t question the reality of the symptoms, or their severity, even when Alice questioned them herself. Who had held her as she sobbed … She swallowed the tears this time – not here, not now. ‘Fairly shit. But I’m heading home soon, so I’ll get a chance to relax.’ Before Duncan comes home, unspoken.

  ‘Did you see that naturopath?’ The efficient voice also concerned.

  ‘Yep. She was really lovely but she said she’d never seen anyone with this level of pain in that spot. She was wondering about thrush. Because of the antibiotics.’ Alice had purchased acidophilus on her recommendation, and other supplements, To lift your immune system, the naturopath said. She’d also basted herself in yoghurt after looking up thrush in Joan’s handed-down copy of home remedies – a remnant of the 70s, its page corners worn by folding. The book also suggested vinegar douches, garlic pessaries and pawpaw ointment for various genital ailments. An ingredient list. But what was she cooking? Thrush? Dermatitis? A bacterial infection? A wound? ‘I tried a couple of days of saltwater douching, as well, but it didn’t seem to do anything.’

  ‘Bugger. Would you like me to come over tomorrow?’

  ‘That would be great.’ She needed her capable friend right now.

  ‘Good. I have an eleven o’clock, so I’ll get there early.’ It was a tactful warning. ‘I’ve got some names and numbers that might be helpful. A couple of GPs and another gynaecologist – female, this time.’

  They said goodbye and Alice gathered her belongings. She was tired of their every conversation being about her baffling disorder. Sick of life revolving around the centre-point of her pain. But the brief conversation had buoyed her too. Given her a sense of purpose. If the medicos who were meant to be able to help her couldn’t, perhaps she could help herself. If this wasn’t a UTI, what might it be?

  She put down her bags and walked quickly to her uni computer, before the impulse faded. Tilted the screen upward so she could stand, leaning over, and still read. What to type? She started with urinary tract infection but found nothing she didn’t already know: bacteria, causes, kidneys, bladder, urethra, symptoms, treatment … She thought for a moment. Why not try a descriptor? What about genital pain?

  The pages that came up were diverse. Words stood out from their background as if highlighted: dyspareunia, vestibulitis, genital warts, itching – the words made her feel dirty, somehow. Diseased. She saw an entry with endometriosis in it. A word she knew; a less menacing word. She replaced genital pain with endometriosis and scrolled down the results. Saw a page in the list with hysteria in it, and pain. Replaced the search entry with female hysteria, following what interested her now, rather than what seemed most relevant, traces of the old Alice reasserting themselves.

  The listed pages drew her in, and she found herself clicking back and forward between them, words jumping from the screen at her: vibrators, water massages, Victorian-era England. Sigmund Freud, of course. She moved to images. Countless shots of women with mouths open, their hands pulling at their hair, or clutching their cheeks, as if posed by an invisible man.

  Click. Click. Click.

  Click. What was this? An object that looked like some kind of clamp. Elegant yet utilitarian in appearance. But what was it used for? She clicked on Visit page. It was designed by a surgeon called Isaac Baker Brown and used with a cautery iron. Cautery? Burning? She began a fresh search with cautery iron and Baker Brown. Found herself needing her uni credentials for access to articles. Baker Brown, ovariotomy. Pages with clitoridectomy, epilepsy, hysteria … masturbation …

  Ah, cautery iron, there, on the page of cramped Victorian font. British Medical Journal, 1867. The Obstetrical Society and some kind of medical meeting. She scanned to the highlighted phrase and read.

  Two instruments were used; the pair of hooked forceps which Mr. Brown always uses in clitoridectomy, and a cautery iron such as he uses in dividing the pedicle in ovariotomy. This iron is made by Pratt; it is somewhat hatchet-shaped. The clitoris was seized by the forceps in the usual manner. The thin edge of the red-hot iron was then passed round its base until the origin was severed from its attachments, being partly cut or sawn, and partly torn away. After the clitoris was removed, the nymphæ –

  This couldn’t be true. No, surely not. Alice swayed on her feet. Put her hand to the desk to steady herself. What were nymphae – the labia? She could feel the shearing. Smell scorching flesh. She clenched her legs. Would anything be left of this poor woman?

  She returned, compelled, to the screen.

  … on each side were severed in a similar way by a sawing motion of the hot iron. After the clitoris and nymphæ were got rid of, the operation was brought to a close by taking the back of the iron and sawing the surfaces of the labia and the other parts of the vulva [cries of ‘Enough’] which had escaped the cautery, and the instrument was rubbed down backwards and forwards till the parts were more effectually destroyed than when Mr. Brown uses the scissors to effect the same result.

  The searing between her legs. The tears on her face. The nightmare she had entered.

  CHAPTER 6

  June 25th 1863

  Dear Miss Rochdale,

  Thank you for making me so welcome in your London home & for celebrating so generously both our engagement & Arthur’s exciting promotion. I will do my best to answer the several warm & sincere questions in your letter in as unguarded a fashion, as I feel you have invited me to express my genuine feelings instead of merely clinging to the surface of things.
<
br />   I hardly know how to respond to the request to think of you as a future sister, when you are like a mother to Arthur & Miss Cecilia Rochdale, & such a help to Sir George Rochdale in his political work. I feel as a child might next to you, although we are so close in age! Yet I have longed for an older sister all my life & cannot imagine a kinder, more certain presence than yours. I will look to you for help in how best to be a good sister & daughter to the family when that happy day arrives.

  You ask me to forgive your father for those awkward early meetings, but I do understand why he might have been reluctant to embrace me as a daughter. Though my family has wealth & recent prominence, we lack the standing of your family, which has been on its estate for many years. I know, though, that my family’s good fortune over the last several generations can only profit our marriage & contribute to Arthur’s future, especially if he is to enter politics one day, as he dreams. Sir George has been most gracious in our most recent encounters, which makes both Arthur & me very happy. I do so wish to live up to your family’s worthy expectations.

  As for our youth, it is true that Arthur & I have much to learn of the world & wish to marry when Arthur is younger than his father would have liked. But more than a year has passed now since we met & we have sustained our feelings through correspondence & occasional meetings over a long winter. This season has only confirmed our love for each other. We are determined, too, & both made stronger through the blows that life has dealt—brought closer through our shared grief over the loss of loved ones. Arthur thinks to build his position now he has been called to the bar & make connections that will secure our prospects & I will remain content with a year-long engagement while I plan for our future together. My mother & father are most happy with the match; their sole sadness is that they will lose their only remaining child when she marries.

  We will meet again on Saturday at the Harrises’, which Arthur tells me you are attending, & I also look forward to seeing your family at the Royal Regatta. Arthur says we must cheer from Henley Bridge for Tom Lawler, if he does well enough in the qualifying races!

  With my warm best wishes,

  Miss Emily Reid

  July 14th 1863

  Dear Miss Rochdale,

  It was delightful to speak with you at the regatta & to meet Miss Cecilia Rochdale properly. How her beauty & animation will impress everyone when she is introduced to society! The memory of the day at Henley is now a perfect little gem that I will take from its cushion in years to come, polishing it carefully each time. The shouts of excitement as boats flew down the river, the tangy strawberries in their wee baskets, the sun lodging in the sky as if the day might refuse to end … What joy!

  I was most pleased, too, that Sir George looked kindly on me. When you confided his great change with the loss of Lady Rochdale, I think he became real to me for the first time & I felt I could understand him more truly—not be quite so scared of him. I do not like to hear of the sorrows of others, but I do believe it makes me a better person to know that I am not the only one to have suffered in this way.

  Are you happy at the prospect of returning to Herdley? Or is the thought of preparing the household for such journeys daunting? I know I would find it so!

  With my warm best wishes,

  Miss Emily Reid

  August 10th 1863

  Dear Miss Rochdale,

  It was with great happiness that I received your most recent letter & heard of your preparations for the opening of the grouse season. The break from Parliament must be scarcely a holiday for you; I hardly know how you act as hostess for Sir George’s country parties, or how you help organise his demanding life. I hope Arthur is carrying some of the burden for you while there, though from the mischief in his letters I suspect he is more hindrance than help!

  I am so pleased that you would like to have Mother & I to stay with you when, as you say, “the hordes are gone”. How often Arthur has spoken of Hierde House & how many times I have imagined myself there with him. My life is very fortunate, I know, but I do so miss the sweetness of country air & the true green of trees unblackened by London’s dreadful smoke. It is a great pity that Arthur will again be busy in London by then, but he is already planning walks for us around Herdley & I rest in the knowledge you will be the best of companions.

  With my warm best wishes,

  Miss Emily Reid

  September 10th 1863

  Dear Beatrice,

  I have spoken with Mother & we will be most grateful to stay with you early in November. Father is already wondering how he will manage without “my girls”, as he calls us. No doubt Mrs Bolton will keep him nicely fed with her famous calf’s head pie!

  We anticipate confirming dates with you with great pleasure.

  My warm best wishes,

  Emily

  October 20th 1863

  Dear Beatrice,

  Yes, November 3rd suits us perfectly! Thank you for corresponding with Mother about this. She tells me that everything is now arranged, with a carriage to meet us at the railway station & provision for Millie & Ann to stay in the servants’ quarters. (How do you organise things so easily? Or is it just seeming ease? I do look forward to learning a little of such skills in your company.)

  Father has settled on the Almsford estate that I mentioned, in Warwickshire. It has a house on it already & several hundred acres attached. Mother calls the house “a wee dear” & says it is quite adequate for their purposes as a retreat from the Great Wen, but Father has schemes for rebuilding—a “grand new mansion”, he says—one day, when he is not quite so busy.

  I am grateful for your continuing correspondence when your house is so full of activity. Your regular missives spark my intelligence & brighten my days, which are otherwise occupied with the tedium of needlework, drawing … Miss Roberts says I must polish my conversation & social graces for the wedding & marriage, which makes me impatient. And all Mam will say is, “You must listen to your governess!” At least Miss Roberts allows me to practise singing & piano—I harry her for the occasional dance around the schoolroom, which makes her grumpy, or for discussion on the affairs of the nation, which she ignores! Sometimes Mam & I receive or make visits, but I do tend to dream of my fiancé in the midst of it all. Fortunately Arthur is often with us in the evenings. He says Morrison is keeping him very occupied at chambers & I see how all he must learn at court often weighs on him. How happy I will be to find employment as his wife in the years to come, to help ease his worries & create a calming haven to which he can return each day.

  It will not be long now until Mother & I are in your haven. I am so very excited!

  With kind regards,

  Emily

  November 22nd 1863

  Dear Beatrice,

  How to thank you for such a wonderful time at Hierde House! I was delighted to see the many places I had only previously imagined through Arthur’s fond words: your dignified yet welcoming home; Hierde Farm, with the redoubtable Old Susan (how I loved her tales of naughty young Arthur); quaint Herdley & its busy market; the quiet comfort of Arthur’s elm thicket. And then climbing to the wondrous Naze &, beyond, the top of the world—I think you will understand what I mean when I say how completely at peace I felt with grass below, sky above & you, dear Beatrice, next to me.

  It was only your steadiness that kept me beside you with the arrival of such important guests on our final weekend. Otherwise, I might have hid with Cecilia in the schoolroom! How do you manage to stay so calm? I am sure I could not discuss housekeeping with your Mrs Malley with such equanimity. Can I look to you for guidance when I have my own house to run? I do hope so. (Did I tell you Mam insists I take Millie with me when Arthur & I are married? How comforting it will be to have the familiar presence of my dear maid as I make our new home.) Anyway, I feel a little more at ease with all these eminent people: it is hard to be overly discomfited when playing gaily at croquet on the lawn of Hierde House, or when guessing at a bumbling charade!

  Again, the most sinc
ere thanks from me & from Mam, who will also write to you—I could not wait. I will anticipate your return to London with great pleasure. Arthur is our frequent guest in Savile Row, of course, but we would also love to have you to dinner, & Sir George, if I am brave enough!

  With love & best wishes,

  Emily

  December 18th 1863

  Dearest Beatrice,

  Thank you for your concern. We have been terribly worried about Mother, though I am relieved to write that she is now recovering. It is old troubles, I am afraid—the many misfortunes she suffered in mothering—Father too, of course. (I will tell this to you in confidence, as most of these losses were early & without her condition being guessed at by society.) Father is asking other physicians for their opinions, but he believes himself that the stress on her system at each past instance weakened her nerves then, & now bedrest is the best tonic. She is very sad at such times, as it reminds her of that most terrible of losses, & I do my best to cheer my brave Mam, though I am also reminded of our dear James. I know, too, that even though Mam has resigned herself to my future—is delighted with dear Arthur & fully supports my entry into the sanctity of marriage—she cannot but be saddened at the thought of her surviving fledgling flitting from the home nest.

  Enough of such dreary talk! It is chilly but the sun is out, & Mother & I plan to take a short carriage ride this afternoon. It will not be too long before she is receiving visitors again with that sweet smile. As you will be in London within weeks, our very first visitor must be you. Pray agree!