Eye of a Rook

by Josephine Taylor

  CHAPTER 14

  November 2nd 1865

  Dearest Beatrice,

  You have charged me with continuing to confide in you as well as my journal while I am in London, just as I have done over the last several months at Hierde House, & I’m sure you are right, that it does me good to share my suffering, so I will try, even though it is hard to order the jumble of words & sensations that often spill onto pages no-one will ever see. Pain is a terrible thing, Bea, a devil that twists my thoughts & tosses my feelings about till I no longer know who I am. I only hope you, Arthur & Mam can continue to remind me.

  We managed to book with Normand next week—he is very busy, so I think Father must have pulled some strings—& Mam will come with me, as Arthur is busy then. Arthur did come with me today, though, to the appointment with Middleton. Nothing new, I’m afraid, just advice we’ve received before: the need for rest, avoidance of excitement, a resumption of marital intimacy, et cetera. You know the details about all that this pain keeps me from, so I don’t have to explain to you what I would like these men to understand: “resumption of marital intimacy” is what I want, what Arthur & I both want, but it is impossible, upsetting to even contemplate, when this terrible pain affects every area of my life. Of Arthur’s life too now.

  It is difficult to carry the burden of this illness, let alone to be the cause of suffering in another person & having to bear that extra weight—the weight of guilt. I know you’ve noticed that I shut myself away from Arthur in all ways, but I cannot do better just now. And you are right: I am very nervous when I attend these appointments & most anxious at the thought of the consultations ahead, especially as I can no longer lean on Arthur as I otherwise might. But I suppose I must consult these physicians & apothecaries & nerve doctors & do exactly as they suggest.

  Love Emmie

  November 7th 1865

  Oh Bea,

  Normand was awful. He applied some caustic—told me it would reduce the nerve irritation—& neither Mam nor I felt equal to questioning his decision. The burning continues now & I must lie down, take laudanum, take anything to numb me to this dreadful pain. It is so hard to know what to do next, when nothing helps!

  Em

  November 10th 1865

  Beatrice,

  You say I must assert my rights—that it is my body—& that may be true, but I am not you, nor should I you who are so certain in your thoughts & feelings, you who have the confidence to act on ideas in many spheres, & I cannot tolerate being told what bossiness when I am on the verge of breaking, of snapping like a dry, old stick. Do you not understand how exhausted I am through simply marshalling the vitality necessary to write this letter?

  Emily

  November 14th 1865

  Dear Bea,

  I feel dreadful. Your generous-hearted letter makes me ashamed for being angry at one of the very few in this world who understands me truly. Forgive me, dear sister, &, if you can, continue to make allowances for my irritation & topsy-turvy feelings. For myself, I will fight the torment that tries to snatch away all that is best in me.

  Yes, the worst of the burning has subsided & I am back to where I was several weeks ago: just able to tolerate my suffering body. I had Millie prepare the spinal couch & a darkened room so I could have some days with absolutely no movement or stimulation in order to regather my spirits, & that seemed to help. Father will visit again tomorrow, Mam says, but this does not give me ease, for he does not seem to hear me properly, even with all his knowledge.

  I’m not sure what will be advised next in these attempts to determine what ails me, but I must relay to you something that the horrible Normand told me: there are other women suffering in just the way I do. It gives me strength somehow, to know that I am not the only one in the world like this.

  Yours gratefully,

  Emmie

  November 17th 1865

  What am I to say? I cannot do that which God designed me to do. I cannot fulfil my God-given duty. I am more of a failure than my own mother, who tried over & over, more than your mother (forgive me), whose longing to bear children brought about the ultimate sacrifice. I am a failure in all I should be: a dutiful wife who tends her busy husband; a mother who births & raises children. What use am I to anyone?

  Maybe Father is right & this complaint has its roots in the past. Maybe something went wrong in me when James died. Maybe it has overcome me now, this black pall, so that I am hidden from all who love me.

  Is the fault with me or with my God?

  I must confess something to you & pray you forgive me. The only good thing I can think to do with my life now is to protect Arthur by releasing him from his vows. It is not enough to pull the tendrils of my being from his heart; to pull his from mine, terrible as that is. No, all that might solve this is to remove myself from him, to leave him free to find someone who can do for him what I cannot. And because he is an honourable man—because I can see that he does still love me, though I am useless—it would be best if I were to make the decision for him & remove myself from life altogether. Surely that would be best for us all?

  Oh Bea, what can save me from these dark thoughts?

  November 21st 1865

  Dear sister,

  I will try, though I cannot see what good I am to anyone like this, & I don’t know what to do with love that insists on me trying, when I would rather give up & find peace. I am so weary, Bea, bone-weary. So utterly worn with having to sit whenever I must leave the house, with being bumped & jerked about in the carriage, with taking off & putting on layer after layer of clothing, with having strange men examine me whilst I pretend I am elsewhere, all the while having to tolerate the intolerable: the breeze on my skin, the chafe & rub of clothing, the pressure of seats & chairs, the intrusion of cold fingers in that most private part—that part that is hardly private any more.

  Do you know what is most wearying, Bea? The never-ending battle with the burning & stinging & aching that has made its home in my body. I’m beginning to believe this devil will never be ousted; that all the efforts I make—that Arthur & I make—only seem to provide food for it, keeping it strong, while I fade away. I have lost count of the tinctures I have swallowed, the poultices dear Millie has applied, the instances of advice I have received, the aspersions that have been cast—softly, softly, but I still see them in the eyes of the men it seems I must consult.

  If I cannot find the hope you say I must, you must hope for me, for I am worn to the nub.

  Emmie

  LONDON, NOVEMBER 1865

  The men walk to the smoking room—the Reids’ new smoking room in their new and fancier home, in this newly fashionable street. Harley Street, Emily’s father told him when they were looking to move from Savile Row. And the desired location, As close to Cavendish Square as we can get. One thing about Charles, he has never hidden his ambition, or his social aspirations. Well, he got what he wanted: with this and his flourishing practice, the country estate, his daughter’s successful marriage, he has surely secured a permanent place in society.

  Now, Charles shrugs on his smoking jacket and allows the butler to light his cigar with the flickering candle. Their forms on the wall leap and dwindle.

  Successful. Their successful marriage. But how do you count success?

  “Has Emily told you of her early troubles?” Another characteristic of his father-in-law: the abrupt beginnings; the taking charge.

  “You mean the family loss?” Arthur sinks into the armchair.

  “I mean the symptoms she had. Her menses commenced at the same time as the loss, y’know.”

  It’s uncomfortable to hear these intimate details from Emily’s father. Arthur has to remind himself that Charles is a physician and such words are his stock-in-trade. Still, he feels their intrusion.

  Charles fills the pause, counting off items on his definite, pink fingers. “Headaches, anxiety, fatigue, palpitations, a weak liver. A loose kidney, perhaps. Globus hystericus.”

  Arthur does not know the me
aning of globus hystericus, but the sound of the last word alerts him to the direction his father-in-law is taking.

  “She was not simply suffering with a terrible grief? Or, perhaps, experiencing the difficult but normal changes of a girl becoming a woman?” He knows he is out of his depth, yet Charles’s words feel wrong to him; when Emily told him of those terrible years, all the elements of her suffering made sense. But, he reminds himself, he is no expert.

  “That’s what I determined at the time, but now I’m not so sure.” Charles puffs out his smoke. “Such nervous problems can indicate a certain moral … instability. They can resurface, y’know, and often in a more pronounced form. More dangerous.”

  “Instability?”

  It is a strong word, an ugly word, with implications beyond his mind’s compass.

  “There is a man who deals with such problems,” Charles says. “A surgeon.”

  “What possible reason can there be for surgery?”

  Charles looks uncomfortable for the first time.

  “He believes that moral education is not enough in some instances …” Then, in his usual resounding voice: “He is impressive—audacious, and very skilful, so I’m told.”

  Education? In what? And, audacious: Arthur can hardly imagine what that might mean.

  “But what does the treatment involve?”

  “Ah, here he was not clear. Gentlewomen were present at the meeting I attended.” Charles taps the side of his nose. “Must protect their delicate sensibility.”

  “It seems odd to talk about cures while offering such little information.”

  “Well, yes, but he has an impressive list of supporters, y’know. Tiptop people.” It is the kind of thing that wins over his father-in-law, the approval of society. “He’s a pioneer in ovariotomy—uses methods that others have avoided, in risky operations—and now he’s President of the Medical Society of London. As for these experiments in this new procedure? He’s been publishing on this for some years now.”

  “Experiments?” The word is hardly reassuring.

  “You must understand how we use such words.” Charles speaks with satisfaction through a plume of smoke. “All surgery involves risk. And he has extended an open invitation, y’know. To physicians, surgeons. So I can observe this operation. Be properly informed. Some positive action: that’s the ticket!”

  He hates the way the words roll so glibly from Charles’s tongue. As if such terrible suffering might be removed in an instant. And the implied criticism: as if Emily is not wanting to be better. As if he and she are not doing all they possibly can.

  And he thinks of Tom, who has warned against ill-considered action. Maybe we should continue to wait and see, Tom said when he confided that Emily’s symptoms remained unchanged. It is important to avoid precipitous or ill-considered action.

  The different impulses jostle in him: Tom does not have to live with this suffering, be helpless in response, fail the person he loves most in the world; Charles does not have to watch his daughter suffer after calamitous treatments. As for him, no-one knows how much he longs for certainty, to urge Emily to try harder, to ignore her pain. How he dreads falling back into the, the … weakness of his boyhood. But no-one knows, either, how her cries of pain tear at his heart. And yet … But still …

  “Maybe we should wait,” he says. “Try further rest at Herdley.” He holds his father-in-law’s eye. “I will be able to be there for some weeks. I will know if she does not improve and if more action is necessary.”

  “Think on it, Arthur. I would urge this treatment before the condition becomes ingrained.”

  November 26th 1865

  Dear Bea,

  So Arthur has written to you of this Isaac Baker Brown. No, I do not know the details of the “operation”, do not understand what logic it is based in. Arthur himself is not clear. Like me, he cannot understand how surgery could cure such a stubborn & widespread malaise, though we are too uncomfortable to share our concerns in the way we once did—too estranged from each other altogether, though I will not say more, knowing how, even though you understand our dilemma, this distresses you. My father seems to know a good deal, but pulls back when I ask him & says, “Arthur should make an appointment & then you will know.”

  It all makes me terribly uncertain & uneasy. What I do know is that it would be folly for me to make decisions, affected as I am by pain & confusion, folly to resist the advice of those who surely know better than me. I have no choice but to place my trust in my father & my husband, & this I have resolved to do.

  Emmie

  November 28th 1865

  Dearest Beatrice,

  We have decided not to see Mr Baker Brown, for the moment, & to find what several more months at Herdley can achieve. If there is no improvement by the end of January, we will make an appointment then. It is a great relief, I must say, if for no other reason than to have a break from examinations, & treatments that seem to harm more than heal.

  Arthur is organising the transport & I am speaking with the domestics—we will leave skeleton staff in Portland Place & bring our usual. Arthur will write to Father Rochdale, but you can expect us on the morrow.

  My loving Bea, thank you for your forbearance. It will be good to be with you, to be home.

  Emmie

  CHAPTER 15

  PERTH, JANUARY–MARCH 2009

  They were still difficult, these support group meetings. Each month an unfamiliar house, another woman’s home. Claremont and Sally’s, then Maria’s student share house in Freo, and now long sweeps up the ‘scenic route’ to Simone’s home in the hills, the flashing toy blocks of the city in the distance, the Swan River a sparkling filament threaded through the city and its lazy summer suburbs.

  Yes, it was still frightening, this entry into a different kind of space. But Alice remembered the last few meetings and the women who had drawn her out of her dark, repeating thoughts and into their conversations. Into their lives. Sally, the go-to psychologist, her life seemingly organised around this illness. Simone, her attention turning inwards now as she readied herself for the birth. Volatile, potty-mouthed Denise. Atikah, quiet and thoughtful, her words carrying authority. And Maria, urban and edgy and into jewellery design, with metal wrapped around her arms and through her skin. Hearing these women, listening to them, having to take them into account, it lifted a weight from her. So it was early days and, yes, still difficult, but she was beginning to feel … What did she feel? That she could, perhaps, trust these women who shared her pain?

  Alice zigzagged the Toyota up the escarpment, thinking about the words she’d known in her old life. Dysmenorrhoea from her mother, when she’d been troubled by painful periods as a teenager. Endometriosis as some kind of gradually dawning common knowledge. Words she’d been made to learn since. Vulvodynia. Vestibulodynia. And words she’d heard for the first time with these women. New diagnoses. Speculative causes. How insignificant she felt each time the clinical-sounding terms were voiced. Interstitial cystitis, like a UTI that never left; a tiny, pressed and painful space, the rock and the hard place scraping on each side. Lichen sclerosus? A term that, horribly, conjured multiple sclerosis and growths that flourished in moist darkness, but really described a skin condition. Atrophic vaginitis: a thinning, shrinking vagina that was atypical. Like her. No longer typical. No longer normal.

  Were these hard, exotic words the language they must learn? Or might their bodies teach them a kinder language? One that might lift them, hold them, carry them home?

  Near the crest of the hill now, time to focus. She followed the directions Simone had given her, along hilly twists, to the timber house on stilts. Cars were lined up on the narrow verge, but the driveway was empty. Maybe Simone’s partner had left for the afternoon, as seemed to be the unwritten convention. Would Duncan hang around when these women came to their house, or would he escape to the tennis courts? Not that he looked for an excuse these days. Not that she wanted to bring these women into that cool space either.


  Simone came at the knock, nut-brown and heavy with baby, and led her into the lounge room before easing her own pregnant bulk onto a chair with a sigh. Alice glimpsed whimsical watercolours and wall-hangings and guitars, before her attention was caught by Denise’s avid gaze at Simone’s belly. She wasn’t surprised when, after all the greetings had been exchanged – Sally, Maria, Atikah already kneeling or sitting around the chunky coffee table – Denise raised the subject: ‘How long now?’

  ‘A couple of weeks.’ The movement of hand to belly and small, proud smile were involuntary. But Simone looked anxious too. She was still opting for a vaginal delivery, but worried that it would increase her pain. How will I handle a newborn if it does? she’d said at the last meeting. No-one could offer a definitive answer; not one of them felt able to adequately reassure her.

  It was a delicate subject all round. Alice had learned that Denise wanted a child – had wanted one for years. But life had not cooperated, and now she was thirty-eight and single. The men drawn to her spiky independence were unprepared for her demanding disorders, her pressing hopes: a loving partner, a family.

  Even worse for Denise must be Simone’s seemingly miraculous pregnancy. God knows how it happened, Simone had already confided. Sandpaper between two razor blades, were the words she’d used for sex. Yet she’d fallen pregnant and Denise had remained her friend, in and out of the group. And what about Sally? She’d said that surrendering to the fear that swamped her at the thought of a baby, and the belief that barely tolerable pain might become intolerable as a result, was her biggest regret. Alice had contemplated repeating this to Duncan, but she wasn’t even ready for that conversation herself. The feel of the floating embryo further away now. In another life, really.

  And what about the others, the occasional participants in the group, teenage Ashleigh – tottering on giraffe legs and impossible shoes – and Eileen, in her eighties? How utterly disabling to be elderly and unable to sit or stand. How tragic to be young and unable to have sex. It’s driving Ryan crazy, Ashleigh had said. And of course it was understandable, the craziness – a young bloke with hormones zipping around his body and a gorgeous girlfriend who flinched when he touched her.