Beyond the Veil of Tears

by Rita Bradshaw

  Myrtle gasped in shock when she saw the money, but after reading Angeline’s letter she burst into tears. When after some minutes she was still crying and would accept no comfort, Betty Ramshaw said briskly, ‘Smelling salts, I think.’ They had just held the vial under Myrtle’s nose, causing her to cough and splutter, when a voice from the doorway into the hall caused every head but Myrtle’s to turn.

  ‘What on earth is going on here?’ Hector stared in amazement at the scene in front of him. ‘I could hear you in my study. Stop making that dreadful noise, Myrtle, and someone tell me what is wrong, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘It’s Miss Angeline.’ Albert had not forgiven his master for allowing Oswald Golding to talk him round, the day after the miscarriage. When Hector had left the big house that morning and climbed back into the carriage without a word, Albert hadn’t taken the hint and got up into his seat. Instead he had stood with the carriage door ajar and said, ‘Sir? Miss Angeline?’

  ‘She is most unwell, but they are doing all they can.’

  ‘But him, Mr Golding? Myrtle said—’

  ‘I know what Myrtle said, Albert, but she is mistaken. I understand from Mr Golding that he had occasion to reprimand Myrtle before, and could have dismissed her then, but did not do so out of regard for my niece’s feelings for the girl. Do you know about this?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then I suggest you ask the girl about it. It might put a different complexion on things. That aside, Myrtle herself admits she was not in the room at the time of the fall, and I see no reason to assume Mr Golding is to blame in any way.’

  When he had asked Myrtle later what Angeline’s uncle had meant, Myrtle had shaken her head in bewilderment. ‘I don’t know what he’s on about, Albert, truly. I’ve never liked Mr Golding, I admit that, and he’s picked up on it, I’m sure, and was always finding fault with me, but nothing specific was said.’

  Remembering this now, Albert’s voice was accusing as he went on, ‘Mr Golding has had Miss Angeline committed to an asylum this morning. This is her nurse, and she came to tell us. He’s had her put away, for no good reason. That’s what he’s done, and it could have been prevented if you’d listened to Myrtle. Golding’s a devil, an’ you handed her to him on a plate.’

  Nurse Ramshaw stepped forward. ‘Could I have a word with you, sir?’ she said quietly, aiming to dispel some of the tension, which was palpable.

  Hector was bristling with fury. To be spoken to like that by a mere servant was insupportable. Drawing himself up, he glared at Albert. ‘You are dismissed. I want you out of this house by the end of the week, for which you will be paid in full.’ Clicking his fingers at Nurse Ramshaw, he said, ‘Follow me.’

  He was halted in his turning when Olive Upton said, ‘If he goes, I go an’ all, sir.’

  Hector looked at his housekeeper. In his temper he had forgotten that Albert was the woman’s brother. Mrs Upton was excellent at her job and she suited him down to the ground; it had only been his regard for her that had persuaded him to write a reference for Myrtle when Oswald had dismissed her without one. But he couldn’t be held over a barrel like this by a servant, even one as good as Mrs Upton. Stiffly he said, ‘As you wish.’

  Once in his study he closed the door after he had waved Nurse Ramshaw to a chair at the side of his desk. He didn’t sit down himself, but stood with his back to the window. ‘Tell me what you know, Nurse . . . ’

  ‘Ramshaw, sir. Betty Ramshaw.’

  ‘Nurse Ramshaw. So where is my niece as we speak?’

  ‘Earlswood Asylum, sir. It’s on the outskirts of Newcastle.’

  ‘She is sick in her mind?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say so. No, sir.’

  ‘Perhaps you had better start at the beginning.’

  Nurse Ramshaw started at the beginning. After a few minutes, when she stopped speaking, she stared at Hector. His eyelids were blinking rapidly and he jerked his chin up and down before he said, ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but you seem to suggest there is a possibility that my niece has been ill-treated, as the maid claims.’

  ‘A possibility, yes, sir. Of course I was not witness to any physical assault, but Mr Golding’s manner with his wife was uncharitable at best.’

  He had known, hadn’t he? Deep down he had known, but he had tried to shut his mind to it, which was one of the reasons he hadn’t gone back to the estate over the last few weeks. It had been easier to accept at face value what Oswald and the doctor had said. He had enough problems of his own; he didn’t need further aggravation.

  After questioning the nurse a little more he rang the bell for a grim-faced Mrs Upton to see the visitor out, and stood at the window watching her walk down the drive. Myrtle was waiting by the large open gates for the nurse, and as the two of them disappeared out of sight they were talking avidly.

  Sitting down in his big leather chair, Hector put his elbows on the desk in front of him and dropped his head into his hands. He remained thus for some minutes. Then he rose and again rang the bell, and when Mrs Upton answered the call, he told her to tell Albert to bring the carriage round to the front of the house. ‘I shall drive myself,’ he added as the housekeeper turned with a flounce and a curt ‘Yes, sir’.

  It was beginning to snow in the bitter north-east wind when Hector approached the elegantly proportioned gatehouse entrance of the asylum more than two hours later. The journey on the icy, snow-packed roads had not been an easy one, for several reasons: Hector was not used to driving himself; the weather conditions were not good; and he had been unsure of the actual location of the asylum. He brought the horses to a halt and stared at the neoclassical half-circular arch, large and solid, over the tall barred iron gates, which incorporated a small pedestrian gate with its own key-lock. The harsh, architecturally sturdy lines were softened somewhat by the ivy that enveloped the upper parts, but Hector felt a shiver snake down his spine. A ten-foot-high stone wall stretched on into infinity on either side of the gatehouse, and it was impossible to see anything of the asylum itself from the road, but one of the men he’d asked directions of had told him it was surrounded by fields and farmland, where some of the patients worked.

  ‘Them as are not too far gone,’ the man added grimly, tapping the side of his head to emphasize his point. ‘There’s others who never see the light of day, if half the tales are true. Poor blighters. You wouldn’t let a dog suffer like that, would you?’

  The gatehouse-keeper came out after Hector had rung the bell attached to the side of one of the massive gates. And after Hector had given his name and explained that he was here to see his niece, the carriage was allowed through onto a wide drive that snaked through a small area of woodland, before opening up to reveal a snow-covered lawn beyond which stood the asylum. The huge, prison-style building had a high, square central tower with clock faces on each side and tall, narrow windows with semicircular brick arches at the top of each one. Hector felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as he gazed at it. He assumed, correctly, that the fields and farmland stretched away at the back of the asylum, but the forbidding facade that presented itself initially was enough to quell all hope in the most optimistic of minds.

  After bringing the carriage to a stop in the courtyard in front of the building, Hector tied the horses’ reins to one of the posts provided and walked up the wide stone steps. The massive front door had a well-polished brass knob and bell, and almost immediately swung open in response to his ring. After stating his business to the hall porter, he was asked to wait, and sat down on one of the chairs lining the vast expanse of green-and-brown-tiled floor. The doors opening onto the entrance hall were all closed, but in the background he could hear sounds, and once or twice a scream that curdled his blood.

  The minutes ticked by and Hector was aware of the porter watching him, from behind his partly glazed cubbyhole. The chill of the place began to seep into Hector’s bones, but it was a chill of the spirit rather than the body. And then, after more than ten minutes, a d
oor at the far end of the hall opened and a tall, well-built woman dressed entirely in black walked purposefully towards him, her austere face unsmiling.

  Hector stood up, holding out his hand as she reached him. ‘Good afternoon. I am Hector Stewart, an uncle of Mrs Golding, and I understand she has been admitted here today and—’

  ‘I am Matron Craggs, Mr Stewart,’ the matron interrupted coldly. ‘I have not been informed that you have permission to visit Mrs Golding.’

  She did not shake his hand and after a moment Hector let it fall by his side. ‘Permission? Of whom?’

  ‘Mrs Golding’s doctor, or her husband.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that was necessary.’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Particularly with new admissions, and ones that are as troubled and distressed as Mrs Golding.’

  ‘Look, I just want to see my niece for a minute or two. Her parents died and she was my ward until she married Mr Golding. I won’t stay long.’

  ‘I’m afraid that is not possible.’ Then, seeing his stricken face, the matron’s manner softened slightly. ‘Come along to my office, Mr Stewart. We can talk there.’

  Feeling as though he had been offered a huge privilege, Hector found himself scurrying after the commanding figure of the matron as she led the way out of the hall and into the wide, high corridor with tiled walls and a stone floor. Pausing for a moment, the matron said, ‘We have two identical wings that house the two sexes, with a dividing corridor right through the middle of the building, and within each social class the violent and the non-violent are segregated. We have mostly private patients here, but at the bottom of the scale there are a number of paupers who are, of course, kept quite separate from the other classes. Rest assured, Mr Stewart, your niece will not have to socialize with those beneath her. We pride ourselves that Earlswood is a hospital for the curable and a retreat for the incurable, but at all times the niceties of society are maintained.’

  Hector didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing as the matron continued walking and talking over her shoulder.

  ‘We follow the new guidelines here, and the patients are split into different categories depending on their condition. There are those persons of unsound mind, or whose balance of mind has been temporarily unhinged, and who require care and control. Then there are those who are mentally infirm and have become permanently incapable of managing their own affairs. Then there are the idiots who are defective in mind since birth, along with the imbeciles who are capable of guarding themselves against common physical dangers, but have no moral understanding. Then the feeble-minded, who may be capable of earning their own living under favourable circumstances and are on the whole non-violent – unlike the moral imbeciles, who are the most dangerous category and display some mental defect, with vicious or criminal propensities. And finally the epileptics, the inebriates and the deaf, dumb and blind.’

  They had reached the end of the corridor and the matron opened a door that led into a large square, with more corridors leading from it. The smell that Hector had detected faintly in the entrance hall was stronger here and he found himself swallowing hard. Sounds filtered through, shouts and screams, and the matron turned briefly to say, ‘Do not be alarmed. The restraint wards are kept locked at all times. You are quite safe. Here is my office, Mr Stewart. Would you care for a cup of tea?’

  The matron’s office was warm and well furnished, a coal fire burning in the grate and a comfortable chair for visitors opposite the large desk, but Hector didn’t notice the creature comforts. Clearing his throat, he said, ‘The restraint wards?’

  ‘For those who may injure themselves or others.’

  ‘When you say “restraint”?’ He cleared his throat again, for the matron’s face was not encouraging questions.

  The matron was clearly finding his persistence annoying. In a clipped voice she said, ‘When necessary we use straitjackets, muzzles to stop people biting, chains to fasten hands together, and so on. Each of these wards has a padded cell with restraining harnesses. It is necessary, Mr Stewart. We cannot have the staff harmed, or other inmates – or even the patients themselves. Safety for all is paramount.’

  Hector found that a separate part of his mind was saying over and over again, ‘Oh dear God, oh dear God. Angeline, Angeline!’ But out loud he said, ‘And my niece? I trust she is not in one of the restraint wards?’

  ‘Mrs Golding is in the Admissions Block at present.’

  Hector had noticed the slight hesitation before she had replied. ‘And does this block have a restraint ward?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And my niece?’

  ‘I am sorry, Mr Stewart, but I cannot discuss Mrs Golding’s treatment with anyone other than her husband or doctor. Suffice to say that we will have her best interests at heart in everything we do. Now, let me ring for a cup of tea before you leave.’

  Hector wanted to shout that he didn’t want a cup of tea. He wanted to get the woman by the throat and demand that she take him to Angeline. He wanted to get Philip’s daughter out of this place, with its smells and sounds and nightmarish corridors. He wanted – he wanted to go back to the day of Philip’s funeral and start again.

  Instead he drank his tea when it came and made polite conversation with the matron in the five minutes she allotted him. When a big, buxom nurse knocked on the door and opened it, the matron rose to her feet. ‘Nurse Skelton will see you to the entrance hall, Mr Stewart.’

  ‘Will you tell my niece I came, and that I am thinking of her? I’m sure this is a mistake and—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Stewart, but I would have to check with Mr Golding before I agreed to that. We find reminders of the world outside can be upsetting for the patients, particularly those who have not been with us long.’

  ‘I doubt Mr Golding would object. I am her uncle, after all.’

  ‘That is not for me to say, but perhaps it would save you a fruitless journey in the future if you obtained Mr Golding’s permission first?’

  Hector stared into the cold, phlegmatic face and then looked at the nurse, who was equally detached. These were the kind of women who would be dealing with Angeline. Angeline, who had always been too sensitive and emotional and warm-hearted, if anything. She would feel utterly bereft. If her mind wasn’t already unbalanced, it would be after a few days in this place.

  He tried one last time. ‘Mr Golding is not an ideal husband, Matron. My niece has recently lost a baby and needs to be in familiar surroundings with those she knows. I would be quite prepared to take her home with me and take full responsibility for her. I will sign anything you want me to sign and—’

  ‘Mr Stewart!’ This time the interruption was sharp and frosty. ‘I see that I have failed to make the situation clear. Mr Golding is next of kin. He has full rights, and you have none. Nurse, see Mr Stewart out.’

  The nurse said nothing as she led the way to the entrance hall. She opened the front door and stood aside for him to leave and, as Hector stepped out of the building, the door immediately closed behind him. He stood for a moment in the falling snow, breathing in the fresh, clean air to rid his nostrils of the faintly fetid smell of the asylum. It wasn’t until he untied the reins and climbed up into the driving seat of the carriage that he realized tears were streaming down his cheeks. The words Albert had thrown at him were drumming in his mind as he left the asylum grounds. It was true, he had handed Angeline to Golding on a plate – and this was the result. What was she going to be like when she came out of that place? If she came out?

  Only last week Hector had read a report in the paper which suggested that the somewhat ‘mysterious disappearances’ of certain people, who had become an inconvenience to their relatives or spouses, might well have become engulfments in the madhouse oubliette; forced into an existence which mirrors that of a prisoner in a dungeon. ‘The number of sane men and women confined in lunatic asylums under the easy facilities of the Lunacy Act is a disgrace,’ the article had gone on, giving an instance of one phy
sician’s statement, which apparently read: ‘She had certain impressions with regard to certain other persons which are not accurate or true.’

  He groaned out loud, staring ahead as the horses clip-clopped their way down the drive and out through the gates, which the gatekeeper had opened, obviously having been warned of Hector’s departure.

  He had thought Golding would be kind to Angeline, that she would have a life of ease in the higher ranks of society; he had acted for the best. He told himself the same thing over and over again, but tonight, in the heavy twilight that had fallen while he had been in the asylum, it was no good. He had been fully aware all along of the kind of man Oswald Golding was – the still small voice of his conscience accused him relentlessly – but the bait Golding had dangled, the promise of money to pay off his debts and wipe a number of slates clean, had been too great. Hector had been tempted and he had taken the apple.

  He brought the carriage to a halt on a rise, and there, far away down in the valley, lay a small village. Smoke was rising into the snowy air from a number of chimneys and the spire of a small church rose into the white sky. His gaze became transfixed, as the remorse that he had held at bay for so long would no longer be denied. His gambling had become a curse, and God demanded retribution. He was ruined, financially and socially, but that day he had gone to see Angeline after the miscarriage had been his spiritual ruin. He had looked down into the bruised, swollen face and had known what he should do. If he had acted then, Angeline would not be in that living tomb and he would have retained some measure of self-respect. She was his one and only relative in this world – the same blood ran in their veins – and Philip had trusted his most precious thing into his care, and he had let his brother down.

  Philip. Oh, Philip! What am I going to do? Hector looked around him wildly as though seeking an answer, but there was only the lengthening twilight and the silent snow falling in fat, feathery flakes.