Annoyed by the distraction I keep my mouth shut.
“Don't you feel better? More wholesome? Living in such squalor could only have worsened your condition.”
It is impossible to block out his chatter: “Yes, but please be assured, it was not done for your sake.”
“I'm glad to hear you're taking responsibility for your own surroundings.”
“That is not what I meant. Is it really necessary for you to speak so much?”
He takes a seat on my chair: “We have never discussed what happened when you relocated to England from Ceylon. Godalming’s notes mention you lived with your uncle. Is that right?”
“What of it?”
“Do you remember much about him? Was he good to you?”
“I remember a great deal about him. He took me into his home, at my father's request, without hesitation. Of course he was good to me.”
“Did it upset you that your father sent you away?”
“Not in the least. Our school could only ever have taken me so far. I needed to be given a formalised education. I will admit that coming to a new country with an unfamiliar climate and culture was jarring at first but I adapted soon enough. Pragmatism is one of the traits I inherited from my father.”
My earliest years were spent on a missionary settlement in Manepy, passing many of my days as any young boy would be expected to in such idyllic surroundings: racing to the tops of Sadikka trees and splashing about in the ocean. What hazy memories remain of this period are mainly populated by Indian girls in straw-roofed huts, backgrounded by golden horseshoe beaches and a cobalt sea. I spent most of my time alone, my younger sister Dora only being of interest to me as an occasional target for bullying.
When I was roughly five, too young to fully understand what had happened, my mother died of consumption. A few years later my father - a practical man by all accounts - took it upon himself to find a new wife and, seeing no possible candidates in our station, took me with him for an exploratory trip through the Malay Peninsula. Dora, being laid up in the Green Memorial Hospital with a mild bout of malaria, was left in the care of a Dutch missionary family of our acquaintance (the father of whom had taught me a few words of their first language). As it happened, I never saw her again. While we were away her adopted family moved to Bangkok where she reportedly succumbed to the same deadly disease that had taken our mother.
My father and I were staying in Singapore when he met an American named Sylvia. Somehow he persuaded her to leave the Christian church group with whom she was travelling and return to Manepy as his wife. She was a shy woman and did not make friends easily, preferring whenever possible to communicate through my father. I never got to know my new stepmother very well and suspect she was never fond of me: an arrangement which suited me perfectly. My concerns lay elsewhere.
One might imagine a boy's education would suffer in these circumstances but the missionary school was of the highest standard and its library stocked with a surprisingly varied and impressive range. It was here that my passion for learning was first aroused. By the age of ten, with little help from my teacher, I was fluent in Sinhalese, and had developed a workable grasp of Burmese, Hindi, and Tamil. I had read more novels than any of the adults on the settlement, leaving my classmates far behind. I wrote, too: poems and a journal and any number of stories. But it was the sciences which took the strongest hold over me. Sitting under the trees outside the library while Ceylon Lorikeets called to each other I devoured books on botany, geology, zoology, astronomy: whatever I could find. Assisted by my father I became a keen lepidopterist, taking advantage of the jungle to build my collection and diligently pinning my specimens to cork boards which I displayed in my bedroom.
Twice in my life I have been guilty of stealing: once a few years later, when I stole a knife from my a drawer in our kitchen in Yorkshire, and once when, at the age of ten, I slipped a favourite entomology text under my shirt to take with me on my solo trip to England. Only minutes before my father had visited the library to tell me he was sending me away to live with his brother. Sylvia had come with him but she wandered off part way through the conversation. My ship wasn't due to sail for another fortnight but taking possession of the book seemed like an immediate priority, whatever the risk. Who knew whether a copy would be available in Whitby, or even anything similar? Leaving my father and my home seemed tolerable, even exciting. Leaving my favourite book was unacceptable. If the librarian saw me sneak between the shelves and remove it he didn't say anything.
“Do you think your uncle ever resented taking you in?” says Seward. “Especially after he was invalided. That's what happened, isn't it?”
“I'm not sure I care for the question. Of course he wasn't resentful. He relished the opportunity to guide me, to pass on his values. My uncle was an extraordinary man: driven, disciplined, fiercely principled. Even after he had been robbed of his physical robustness. I like to think I have taken after him. Far more than my father, he made me into the man I am today.”
The doctor wanders over to the window and runs his hand over the newly cleaned sill. Dark patches, I notice, circle his tired eyes and he has shaved off his unimpressive beard. He is restless, filling in time: “Was it easy to put everything in order? Did it take long to clear out your pets?”
He suspects I have eaten them: “Bother them all. I don't care a pin about them.”
“You mean to say you never cared for them? Even after I went to all the trouble of providing me with that box? It wasn't easy to find, you know.”
“The box?”
“Yes. The wooden box I gave you. You were very pleased. Do you not remember?”
Before I have a chance to respond something swells in my chest, pushing my words out of the way and forcing itself irresistibly up into my throat and out of my mouth: “The Bride maidens,” I blurt, somewhat startled. I do not know what I am saying.
“What was that?”
“The Bride maidens. They rejoice the eyes that wait the coming of the bride. But when the bride draweth nigh then the maidens shine not to the eyes that are filled.”
“What do you mean? Are you quoting scripture?”
٭
Only hours later, when Seward has taken his leave and I have changed into my nightgown and climbed into bed, am I struck by the meaning of these words. It is a message, of course, a message from my master and saviour, delivered in the form of a riddle. Staring hard at the far wall I attempt to unpick it. It stands to reason that I am the 'one who waits'. Therefore my saviour must be the bride that draws near. But who are the bride maidens? Are they the attendants? My fellow inmates? I sit up and pull my legs towards me.
The solution strikes like a thunderbolt. The maidens represent knowledge. Knowledge will not be imparted to anyone whose eyes are filled. So I will not receive my message if I am awake. In such a state of exhilaration it will be difficult for me to fall asleep but I lay back and close my eyes...
A vision: the outer boundary of the airing court. Above the wall the sky is cloudless and the moon is three-quarters full. At first nothing seems out of place but if I concentrate I can see a portion of brickwork has become distorted, misty, as if something opaque hangs before it. An extraordinary intelligence is calling out to me. I must find a way to reach it.
Shoving my bed sheets away I go to the shutter and quietly push up the window. Surly it is too high to jump? From this perspective, here on the second floor, the patchy grass below seems dauntingly distant. Although I was not witness to the event I remember hearing of an inmate who tried the same thing and shattered the bones in both his legs, leaving him unable to walk. I must consider this logically; employ my trained scientist's mind. Struck by an idea I put on my shoes without bothering with socks or changing out of my nightgown. Then I strip my bed and heave the mattress to the window, folding it in the middle and giving it a series of shoves with my shoulder to force it through. It hits the ground with a hollow thud. Gathering my resolve I take hold of either side of the
frame and clamber onto the sill. After taking a few seconds to prepare myself I launch into the chilly night air.
The fall lasts for an age. I hit the mattress heavily, turning my ankle and landing on my right side. Winded and gasping for breath I struggle to my feet. I cannot afford to hesitate. Down the space between the two high walls I limp, every step sending a pain shooting up my right leg. At the corner of the building I am forced to rest for a moment before pushing onwards.
Seen at night the airing court seems unfamiliar to me, far larger now without the shuffling and nonsense of the lunatics. Unlit windows look down over the wooden benches. From a distance I scan the patch of wall that appeared to be distorted in my vision, but see nothing unusual. I move closer, passing through the thatched shelter. Still nothing. The brief moment of black despair this brings about is quickly swept away when I realise the apparition must have been meant as a marker, a waypoint, like the North Star. My saviour wishes for me to not only break the confines of my room, but of Carfax itself. This is the spot at which I will make my escape.
Taking the nearest bench by the armrest I begin to drag it behind me, pleased to discover that my time in the asylum has yet to sap all my former physical strength. I must work quickly: the sound of the feet scraping along the floor is sure to draw attention. Pushing the backrest against the wall I climb onto the seat but find the top is still far out of my reach, as I worried it might be. I look around for something else to use as a boost but find nothing suitable. In an act of desperation I stretch my arms up and discover, to my amazement, that I am able to place my hands comfortably over the creasing tiles. It is nothing less than a miracle. My saviour has shortened the distance, extended the bones in my arms, manipulating the laws of the universe to assist me on my journey. I have no time to reflect on the enormity of this. Placing the soles of my feet against the bricks I haul myself over and drop down the other side, grazing my palms on the way.
How long has it been since I was last outside the walls of the asylum? Long enough for me to sincerely doubt whether the world beyond even exists. And yet here it is, undeniably before me: a narrow mud track leading to my left and to my right, lined by thick brambles heavy with fruit. Farther down the path a fox stands frozen with one paw raised as it assesses the level of threat I present. We stare at each other, my ankle throbbing exquisitely. Once the glossy-coated creature is satisfied that I mean no harm it turns and trots nonchalantly away. In equal measure terrified and exhilarated by my new found freedom I obey my instincts and follow the trail to the left.
I am led down the slope, across some train tracks, and eventually to a place where the path opens up, taking me to a medieval church with a small, walled graveyard. Looking back I see the moonlit Gothic madhouse perched on the top of the hill and become convinced – convinced – that I should be able to see the church tower from my room. But the construction is entirely new to me. Where could it have materialised from, this moss covered and crumbling structure? Has it been conjured into existence for my benefit? My saviour is more powerful than I could ever have imagined, and my mission one of unparalleled importance. Pushing through the iron gate I hobble along the grass-grown stone path.
The doors are padlocked and chained. There must be another way inside. As I circumnavigate the building I am shocked by a sudden and ear-splitting noise: the escape sirens are sounding, a long wail descending downwind. My absence has been detected. I must work quickly. The rear door of the church, I discover, is also bolted, and every one of the stained glass windows protected with thick wire mesh. I am at a loss. In the distance people are calling to each other, organising an approach.
“I am here to do your bidding,” I whisper. If I cannot break into the church I must try to communicate with my saviour by other means. “I am your slave, and you will reward me, for I will be faithful. I have worshipped you long and afar off.”
I wait for a reply but nothing comes.
Four watchers are visible now, the silver buttons of their uniforms flashing in the moonlight. Having spread themselves strategically they approach from different directions, one through the gate, one by way of the tower, and two stepping carefully around the tombstones.
In desperation I continue my plea: “Now that you are near, I await your commands. And you will not pass me by, will you, dear Master, in your distribution of good things?”
From ten yards away one of the watchers breaks into a run towards me. Swinging my weight around I meet his jaw with my fist and send him collapsing to the ground. My task is incomplete and I must not be obstructed. Taking me by surprise a second watcher grabs me around the neck from behind and works to pin back my arms. In response I stamp on his feet and elbow him in the gut. He doubles over and lets me go but I am rammed violently from the side and sent sprawling.
Knees on my spine. A palm pushing my head down. Lichen on a burial slab scratching my cheek. Hardy is on top of me, his face contorted with pleasure and rage.
“Got you now,” he spits.
A ferocious bite to him thumb causes him to rear away. I fight to get upright but barely make it to my feet before I am caught again, this time around the waist. Dealing a blow to my assailant's nose I feel the bone crack beneath my fist but ultimately I am overpowered and bundled into the long grass. All four men are needed to hold me down.
It is an opportunity too sweet for Hardy to resist. Pulling back his fist he drives it into my face: once, twice, three times. He will kill me if he is not stopped.
“Enough!”
Seward's voice, somewhere nearby.
“That's enough!”
Too keyed-up to hear, Hardy continues his attack while his colleagues keep me pinned. The escape sirens howl.
“He is a patient!”
The Superintendent pulls him off me and Hardy steps away, his fist covered with blood that may or may not be my own: “He was asking for it. He struck the first blow.”
After a brief spell in the Infirmary I am taken to a padded cell, buckled into a straight waistcoat and shackled to the wall.
٭
My uncle's housekeeper in Whitby was of a different species. No taller than a child but as broad and round as a barrel, she had a prominent black mole protruding from her chin and hair so thin the grey skin of her scalp was visible. Rather than walk she waddled, her tiny steps punctuated by high pitched wheezes. From my perspective Mrs Highsmith seemed ancient, unimaginable as a younger woman, although in retrospect I suppose she was somewhere between fifty and sixty years of age.
Standing next to her it was difficult not to think myself superior, both physically and mentally. Her forgetfulness was a source of frustration to my uncle as much as me, especially when his reliance on her suddenly increased following the sharp downturn in his health. She was forever spoiling food by leaving it too long in the oven or neglecting to prepare my bath. Worse, she seemed unable to stop herself from addressing me as John, no matter how angry it made me. Oscar explained she once had a son of that name who had perished in the Opium War, so I should try my best to be patient with her. Evidently I looked a lot like him.
I was studying the etymology text I had stolen from the library in Manepy when she came into the dining room to tell me I was to see my uncle in his private study straight away. It embarrassed me to be in her company. Just before I woke that morning she had featured in one of the lascivious dreams that had plagued me all summer. It was a habit of mind which I seemed unable to prevent. That she had come to be the subject of one these unwelcome fantasies was, I suppose, something to do with her being the only grown woman who I encountered on a regular basis, but this made is no less shameful.
“Hurry along now, John” she said. “You know very well he wouldn't want to be kept waiting.”
This could only be bad news. Uncle Patrick seldom spoke to me after our evening meal, and never invited me into his study unless he intended to dole out some punishment. What could I have done? My heart sank when I remembered the glass beaker I had accidentally
broken the previous week. It had cracked when I dropped it and rather than admit my fault I had washed it and placed it in the kitchen cupboard with the crack turned the other way. Preparing myself for a rebuke I passed Mrs Highsmith in the doorway and made my way upstairs.
Although it had been three years since I moved to Yorkshire my uncle's study was still an unfamiliar place, only ever entered in his presence and by invitation. Inside, any wall space not taken up by books and trophies was packed by double-hung landscapes, many of which had been painted by Patrick's father, my grandfather. Dominating an entire corner was a piano. As well as being a keen sportsman my uncle was a talented amateur musician, a gift mercifully unaffected by his malady. He took great pleasure in playing at night and I often went to sleep accompanied by the sound. About Beethoven he was evangelical, reciting his pieces without the aid of sheet music. Although he claimed to have no favourite compositions he played Piano Sonata No.14 more than any other.
I knocked on the door and waited to be admitted.
“Come in.”
I found my uncle positioned in his red leather armchair, dressed in his robe de chambre and with his familiar old cane resting against the shelves to his side. In the firelight his eyes appeared even more sunken than usual.
“Richard. Sit down.”
I did as I was told, placing myself on the mahogany-framed sofa that backed onto the opposite wall, still unsure whether I would admit to my deception or deny all knowledge. Tense
“Richard.” He seemed restive, less sure of himself than usual. “I had a disturbing conversation with Oscar this morning.” The blood drained from my face. “I am sure you know what it concerned. Your antics with Magdalene. To say I am disappointed would be understate myself. I am...” He took a moment to find the appropriate expression. “Disgusted. How old are you, boy?”
“I am thirteen, sir.”
“Thirteen. And are you a child of God?”
Visitor in Lunacy Page 9