The horses were breathing clouds and moving restlessly in the icy-cold air, shaking their heads now and again as the snow settled on their eyelashes. After a while Hector jerked the reins and they trundled off down the road that led to the hamlet, one of several he’d passed through on his way to the asylum after leaving the outskirts of Newcastle. He had seen an inn on the main road through the village and it was here that he stopped, securing the horses outside before walking into the warmth. He would need a drink – more than one – for what he was about to do.
An hour later he emerged into a night made light by its mantle of white, walking past the horses and carriage towards the end of the village, where the road led over a bridge with a fast-flowing river beneath. Walking to the middle of the bridge, he stared down into the black water.
He had never been able to master the art of swimming. Philip had tried to teach him; many summers they had gone out for the day together with their fishing rods and a packed lunch, and he had watched Philip swimming like an eel, but Hector had always sunk like a stone, despite his brother’s help and encouragement. Those were the only happy times he had known – days spent alone with Philip, away from the oppressive atmosphere at home and the hatred in his father’s eyes when they fastened on him.
He appealed to something outside himself now, unspoken words of remorse and self-loathing causing his lips to move. And then he climbed over the wooden side of the bridge and plunged into the icy depths below.
PART THREE
Earlswood Asylum
1893
Chapter Fifteen
It was morning. She had twelve hours to get through before she could return to the relative safety of this room. Long, slow, soul-destroying hours. That was how she viewed each day now, Angeline thought, as the grey light of dawn encroached upon the shadows. Hour by hour. It was the only way.
She glanced at the tiny marks on the wall next to her bed, which she had made with her fingernail and were a record of how many days she had been incarcerated in the asylum. Today’s mark would make thirty in all. She used her fingernail because they were not allowed any hairpins or sharp objects in case they tried to harm themselves, or others.
Oh, God. God, help me! She found she was praying almost constantly now, asking God to keep her sane amid the madness. Help me get stronger, so I can find a way out of here. It was the only thing that anchored her reason: the desire to escape from Earlswood.
She had spent only two hours confined in the straitjacket in the padded cell in the Admissions Block. Then apparently she had had some kind of collapse – she remembered little of it – and had been rushed to the hospital wing because the bleeding that had followed the miscarriage had begun again. When the haemorrhaging had been brought under control she had lain for days too exhausted to do more than eat and sleep, but gradually, as some semblance of strength had returned, the horror of where she was had taken hold. She had been in a separate room off the main ward in the hospital wing and for this she had been grateful. Sometimes the sounds coming from outside her door had been terrifying.
The nurse assigned to her had been a brisk, no-nonsense type, but not unkind, and she had explained exactly where the asylum was located, the rules and regulations that were enforced at all times and the day-to-day routine, but in a manner that attempted to be sympathetic. Through these conversations Angeline discovered that the asylum was practically a small village in itself; besides housing staff and patients, the main building had kitchens, a laundry, a bakery and a large central meeting hall where, on special occasions, dances were held and the annual Christmas party. In the grounds of the asylum the nurse told her there was a chapel close to the main building, and some way from that a carpentry shed, a dairy, a brewery and the stables. Cows and sheep, along with pigs and chickens, were kept in the surrounding fields and looked after by the asylum’s farm manager and his workers, many of whom were pauper patients. The ground-floor wards in both wings were reserved for the upper-class, non-violent patients and these led out to airing courts, which held lawns and flowerbeds and seating, surrounded by walls or ten-foot-high railings.
Angeline took in everything she was told, but said little and remained quiet and docile, the memory of the padded cell burnt into her mind. Dr Owen had visited the asylum once when she had still been in the hospital wing, and she had been unable to maintain the facade of calm resignation then. She had pleaded with him to help her, denouncing Oswald and his lies and insisting that her husband was the violent one. The result of this had been the staff administering medication for a few days, which had kept her drowsy and in a frightening half-world where her mind wasn’t her own.
It had been a salutary lesson in going along with Dr Owen and the staff and keeping her own counsel.
After nearly two weeks she had been considered well enough to leave the hospital wing. As her manner had become circumspect, it was decided that she would be placed in one of the ground-floor wards, which were actually long rows of individual rooms leading off a corridor. Each room was simply furnished with a bed and chest of drawers, the small window had bars on it and a shutter in the door enabled the staff to check on their patients at all times. In the room next to hers Angeline had discovered that the lady there believed she was the Duchess of Windsor, and on the other side was an elderly woman who spent all her time slumped in stolid, unrousable immobility.
Now, as the shutter in the door opened, a voice said, ‘Breakfast in half an hour, Mrs Golding.’
Breakfast was taken in the ground-floor dining room, but the floor above housed the violent patients and the shouts, shrieks and cries filtering through from above her head made mealtimes an ordeal, as did the underlying odour from the incontinent patients. And the habits of others. One young woman with beautiful golden hair and the bluest of eyes, who was apparently the daughter of a Member of Parliament, appeared perfectly normal most of the time, but as soon as she had eaten she would vomit into her dress and then eat it, if the staff didn’t get to her to prevent it.
Angeline swung her feet over the side of the bed onto the tiled floor beneath and shivered. She was always shivering. Even in the dining room and the day-room where big fireplaces held substantial coal fires it was chilly, but in the corridors and especially in the cell-like bedrooms on the ground floor it was bitterly cold. She had asked for extra blankets for her bed and immediately got them, but the rawness crept into bones and muscles and could not be dispelled.
She dressed slowly. Most of her movements were slow these days and if she thought about this, it frightened her. There were so many inmates here who ambled at a snail’s pace with a vacant smile on their face, as though all the life had been sucked out of them. At first she had assumed it was the drugs used by the staff to keep certain patients docile that made the women this way, but as the days had gone on and the rigid routine and monotony had taken their toll, she could see that it might be because they had simply given up hope.
After brushing her hair she wove it into one long plait at the back of her head, securing the end with the small band that the women were given for this purpose. Even the most trusted and quiet patients were not allowed pins or clips.
Exactly half an hour later the nurse opened the door and Angeline stepped into the line of women in the corridor, from where they followed the nurses in charge to the dining room. Patients took their meals around a number of large tables and ate using enamel plates and basins, with only a spoon. These were counted after each meal before they filed out of the dining room. They were served by the pauper inmates; some patients, like the elderly woman in the room next to Angeline’s, had a nurse sitting with them to supervise their eating. Many of the women were nervous and fidgety, constantly twisting their fingers together and mumbling to themselves. One or two seemed in full possession of their faculties, and Angeline’s eyes were often drawn to them. One woman, a tall redhead, reminded Angeline of Mirabelle and had caught Angeline’s stare on a number of occasions and smiled at her. Now, as the firs
t drink of the day was served – an enamel mug of sweet, sludgy cocoa – she again made eye contact.
Angeline smiled back, wondering what the redhead’s story was. She didn’t seem disturbed or ill in any way.
All had been relatively quiet from the floor above as the women had entered the dining room. Now, as often happened, an eerie wailing that turned into wild, passionate, despairing cries rent the air for some minutes, causing an uproar that included thumping and banging, before all became still again.
Angeline found that the slice of bread and jam that was served up with the cocoa was sticking in her throat. She couldn’t stand another day of this, she told herself. The loss of self-respect, of liberty, and the constant fear would see her as mad as the poor ladies on the floor above before long. And somewhere in the world outside, which seemed a long way away, Oswald was going about his business after having her callously locked up. How could this be? How could the law allow it? After the incident when Dr Owen had come to see her in the hospital wing, one of the nurses had actually remonstrated with her and told her it cost hundreds of pounds a year for the first-class patients to be cared for, and that her husband must love her very much to do this. Angeline had looked into the self-righteous face and hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry.
Once breakfast was finished the patients filed through to the day-room. Certain of the women were led away by nurses for what was termed ‘treatment’. Angeline didn’t know what this entailed and didn’t want to know. Because of the inclement weather the doors that led to the airing courts were shut and bolted, and patients were encouraged to read, crochet or apply themselves to fancy needlework under strict supervision. Some merely sat staring into space or huddled by the fire, others rocked themselves to and fro whilst mumbling incoherently, and one middle-aged aristocratic lady positioned herself in front of the windows each day and refused to budge, saying that her son was coming to collect her shortly and she wanted him to see that she was waiting. One of the staff had told Angeline that the lady’s son had been killed in a shooting accident in front of his horrified mother, and it was this tragedy that had caused her to become ill.
Angeline took a book from the small bookcase in a corner of the room. She pretended to read each morning so that the nurses were satisfied she was ‘settling in’, as they put it, but in reality she sat in a maelstrom of despair and turmoil. Retiring to the chair she favoured, which was one of two in a small alcove, she sat down. The alcove was well away from the fire, which was a pity, but as most of the ladies were drawn to the warmth it meant she was left in peace most of the time.
Today, though, a soft voice said, ‘Do you mind if I sit with you?’ and she raised her head to see the lady with red hair standing in front of her.
‘Of course not.’
‘Thank you. I’m Verity, Verity Fletcher.’
‘Angeline Golding.’
‘Please don’t think me presumptuous, but I’ve been watching you and, unlike some of these poor dears, I’ve come to the conclusion you are no more mad than I am.’ Verity smiled. ‘Don’t look so surprised.’
Recovering herself, Angeline smiled back, but she was still a little wary. Some of the ladies appeared quite normal until something disturbed them.
‘You’re married?’ Verity was looking at Angeline’s left hand, and at Angeline’s nod, she said quietly, ‘I’m not. In fact that is the reason I’m in here. Can you believe that? Well, it’s true. My father could forgive me being a Socialist and a supporter of women’s rights – just – but when I said I wanted to spend the rest of my life with my lover, who is a railway clerk, without marrying him, he imprisoned me in my bedroom at home. When I wouldn’t give in, he and two of my brothers dragged me to a carriage in the middle of the night, tied me up with a rope and deposited me here. My father had a magistrate’s order and two lunacy orders from his doctor and another physician, and that was all it took. My father said that because I was going to live with a man who is below me in station, and because I believe marriage is immoral, my brain had been turned by Socialist meetings and writings and I was unfit to take care of myself. He said it was social suicide and he was saving me from utter ruin by keeping me here until I see sense.’
Utterly shocked, not least because Verity had spoken so casually of wanting to live with her lover, Angeline said, ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Three months.’
‘Three months?’
‘I shan’t give in. Edgar is doing all he can with our comrades in the Social Democratic Federation, but of course my father will allow no visitors. But somehow I will get out of here and, when I do, I shall publicize cases like mine.’
Verity’s eyes shone with zeal, and Angeline had no doubt she would do what she said, if she got the chance.
‘What about you?’ Verity asked quietly, after she had glanced around to make sure none of the nurses were taking an interest in their conversation. ‘Why are you here?’
Angeline told her, and was touched when Verity placed her hand over hers briefly when she mentioned the miscarriage.
‘I shall never marry,’ Verity said firmly. Looking keenly at Angeline, she added, ‘That shocks you, doesn’t it?’
‘Well, yes. I’m sorry, but yes.’
‘Don’t worry. It shocked my father more.’ Verity grinned. ‘Father is an architect of some repute and simply rolling in money – the whole family is. On my mother’s side there are connections to royalty, a fact we’ve had drummed into us from the breast. When I wouldn’t do the London Season and continued with my education instead, Father threw a blue fit. I’m the only girl, you see, amid five brothers. As far as he’s concerned, daughters are good for one thing only, and that’s to marry well. We have never got on,’ she said, stating the obvious. ‘Father is one of those men who believes he was born to rule. You know?’
Angeline nodded. Oh yes, she knew to her cost.
‘The terrible injustices to the poor, to women and children, have never held the slightest interest for him. Or to my mother and brothers. The nicest thing my father has ever said to me is that he considers me a cuckoo in the nest. I was so pleased about that. I couldn’t have borne the thought he imagined that I was like them.’
Warming to her theme, Verity leaned closer. ‘It’s the same here: the divide between rich and poor. Did you know the pauper wards sleep fifty to a dormitory, with practically no space between the beds and no privacy whatsoever? And unless they are quite incapable, the paupers are expected to work constantly. The men mostly outside on the farm or in the fields and vegetable gardens; some of them in the carpenter’s workshop or the blacksmith’s next to it. The women do a little outside work, but mostly they’re in the laundry and kitchens, or cleaning the wards and the rest of the asylum. May told me even the most infirm are made to sit picking lumps out of horsehair for mattresses, or making coconut-fibre mats. Apparently the matron and doctors maintain that the work is essential for their well-being and recovery – or simply to keep necessary control. A tired patient is less likely to cause trouble. Now possibly all that is true, but my argument is: why don’t they give us proper work to do?’
Angeline didn’t comment on this. Instead she asked, ‘May?’
Verity lowered her voice still further. ‘May is one of the pauper patients. You might have noticed her – she’s very striking, with jet-black hair and pure-green eyes. She helped serve our meals last week.’
‘Yes, I think I know the girl you mean. She carries herself well and doesn’t appear to be like the others.’
Verity grinned again. ‘That’s May. She has spirit. Well, we’re not supposed to talk to the paupers, as I’m sure you’ve been told’ – this was said with such disgust it left Angeline in no doubt how Verity viewed this rule – ‘but one day I had a headache and was allowed to go back to my room to lie down. May was on cleaning duty that week, and she was in there. We started to talk a bit, and since then we’ve managed to exchange a few words now and again. She’s a wonderful girl
. The kind the Socialist Party would be proud of.’
‘What is wrong with her?’
‘Wrong with her? Absolutely nothing. It would be more in keeping to ask what is wrong with society.’ Realizing her voice had risen, Verity glanced about her, before continuing more softly, ‘She was in service and the son of the house noticed her. She spurned his attentions; he’d already got a previous housemaid in the family way, and so one night he got her on her own and forced her. When May found out she was expecting a baby as a result of the attack, she refused to go quietly like the other maid had done. May threatened to tell the son’s fiancée what had happened and expose him for what he was. That night she was taken from her bed and brought here, where she was admitted for being “morally feeble-minded”.’
Verity paused to let the full weight of the injustice done to May to sink in.
‘For the first six weeks here she was kept in a restraint harness in a padded cell, because she wouldn’t change her story and say she’d been carrying on with a number of the male servants, as the family she worked for claimed. Can you imagine what those six weeks were like?’
Angeline shuddered. She could imagine it only too well.
‘Of course the inevitable happened, and at the end of the six weeks May lost the baby. Probably that had been their intention, I don’t know. I might be doing them an injustice. But after she came out of the hospital wing she was put in the pauper ward and labelled a “morally unfit unmarried mother”. That’s why she has to wear the blue-striped dress. Have you noticed that?’
Angeline had been aware that among the pauper women who did the cleaning, serving and other tasks a couple of them, including May, didn’t wear the asylum’s grey-and-white striped frocks, but she hadn’t really thought about it.
‘She has been told she’s in here for “reformative treatment”. Matron told her that her wayward and irresponsible moral outlook would forever lead to harm to herself and others, and that until the authorities are convinced she has repented of her ways – and not least the slandering of the good name of the family she worked for, which they say was for financial gain – here she will stay.’
Beyond the Veil of Tears Page 17