by Lulu Taylor
Mama would reply, ‘Oh, almost, Paul. I can feel it, I’m making such progress!’
But Xenia could tell that Mama remained in the same delicate, sensitive state, and did not seem to be getting anywhere close to her old self. She was trying hard – she didn’t smoke or drink – but she remained as fragile as glass, just a tap away from shattering into a thousand pieces.
In the autumn, no one even mentioned the possibility of Xenia returning to school. Instead, as the summer faded and the garden lost its bloom, the illness came back, in waves this time. First, the low spirits, where she would often be found mumbling incoherently to herself, or lost in intense thought, that sunk downwards into a depression. That led to a heightened nervousness that climbed to full-blown hysteria, when she could not stop herself from falling into a frenzy, shouting and wailing, trying to hurt herself and attacking anyone who came near her, first with words and then with fists, though her intention was not to hurt anyone, merely to prevent them from touching her.
‘You want to send me away!’ she would shriek, as the maids or even the gardeners tried to manhandle her back to bed so that the doctors could be summoned with their sleep-inducing medicine. ‘You want to put me back into that hospital, lock me into an institution and drive me truly insane!’
The only person she would not lift her hand to was Xenia. Papa, unable to bear seeing her in that state, did not come near her at all. The longer Mama went on being ill, the more he could see that the woman he had loved so much and whose future was so glittering and bright was lost to him.
‘It is time for special measures,’ Papa declared when Mama was no better. ‘I’m getting the real experts involved now. Proper doctors, with scientific methods.’
Dr Hanrahan duly arrived. He was distinguished-looking, with handsome grey eyes and wings of silver hair at his temples. He brought with him a white box with dials and switches on the front of it.
Mama was upstairs, pacing her bedroom and bathroom like a caged animal, shouting occasionally to be let out when she wasn’t mumbling disjointedly to herself under the watchful eye of a nurse.
Papa and Xenia sat with the doctor in the drawing room, Xenia apprehensive while Papa, dressed like a country squire in tweeds, seemed excited. ‘Tell us, Doctor, what you’re going to do.’
The doctor gestured to his white box. ‘I’m going to help your wife, Prince Arkadyoff. I will cure her of this awful condition.’
Xenia leaned towards the doctor, filled with astonished hope. Was it really that easy, with that little box? ‘You can do that?’
‘Yes. This treatment is widely accepted as being efficacious for the kind of mania Miss Rowe is displaying. Let me explain. I’ll administer a general anaesthetic of sodium pentothal mixed with a muscle relaxant, so that she’ll feel no pain. Then, while she’s unconscious, I will attach electrodes to the side of her head – both sides, in her case, as bilateral shock will be more effective for her condition – and pulse an electric current through the brain. That will cause her to convulse, and when she wakes, you’ll find that she is normal again.’ The doctor smiled reassuringly.
‘Just like that?’ Xenia said, disbelieving and yet ready to hope.
‘This will cure her?’ Papa demanded.
‘Yes, I believe so.’
‘Then what are we waiting for? Let’s start at once.’
The treatment took place in Mama’s bedroom and Xenia did not see the shocks administered. She could not bear even to listen at the door, in case Mama screamed, or she heard electricity buzzing through her mother’s head. It made her think of the films of Frankenstein’s monster, hit by a fearsome bolt of lightning, jolted into life. It was difficult to understand how a current shooting around her brain could help Mama, but Xenia knew she had no choice but to trust the doctor knew what he was doing. At least he seemed to know what was wrong, and had a name for it. Mania. That’s what Mama has.
She remembered Sly Manikee shouting to get that maniac off his set. He’d been right – but calling someone a maniac was an insult. It was scornful, contemptuous. But poor Mama can’t help it. She’d do anything to be well.
Mama emerged from her treatment the next day, pale and, to Xenia’s horror, with two burn marks standing out vividly on her forehead, but eerily calm. The doctor stayed for several days and administered six doses of the electroconvulsive therapy. On the sixth day, he packed up his box and said, ‘I’m delighted to announce that the treatment has been a complete success. Miss Rowe is cured.’ Then he went away.
Xenia rushed to Mama and hugged her with delight. ‘You’re better! I’m so happy!’
Mama smiled in her absent way, as though the matter hardly concerned her.
Papa was exuberant. ‘There, Natalie! You’re well! You’ll soon be making a film as great as Delilah again.’
‘What are you talking about, Paul?’ Mama asked with a laugh. ‘Delilah? I’ve never heard of it.’
Great patches of Mama’s memory disappeared. The doctor told them that the memories would return in time, but until then, she had large blanks in her mind. It didn’t seem to bother her; if anything, the loss of her past seemed to set her free from anxiety. Perhaps, Xenia thought, that was why the shock treatment worked.
Except that it didn’t work. For another year or so, Mama was fine. There was talk of her acting again. They went on holidays, touring the south of France, flying to Italy and visiting friends. But when Mama heard that Archibald Thomas had died suddenly of a massive heart attack, it triggered the depression that heralded the return of the mania. That struck with full force on a train in Italy on a blazing hot day, when Mama, agitated since they boarded, went into a full frenzy and began running up and down the train, throwing anything she could get her hands on, then tearing off all her clothes. She was wrestled by Papa and a guard back into their private compartment. Xenia, frantic, was the only one who could eventually calm her and persuade her to get dressed again.
Papa was so appalled he couldn’t look at her, even when Natalie was calm once more. She sobbed and cried and apologised, for she knew she had done awful things, even though she couldn’t remember them. Papa could not bring himself to speak to her.
Back at home, there was more ECT, more induced convulsions, more treatment. But Mama was no better.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Buttercup came in through the back door, chilly and glad of the warmth from the kitchen. She sorted Tippi out and took off her coat, then headed into the pleasant fog of cooking smells and heat from the range.
Carol was chopping onions and she looked up through teary eyes as Buttercup came in. ‘Och, these are strong!’ She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘I’m making a vegetable chilli for tonight, apparently Mr Redmain wants that for supper. Something spicy, he says, and very warming.’
‘Great idea. Nothing like home cooking when you’ve been travelling.’
‘Cold out, is it?’
‘Very.’
Carol carried on chopping. ‘It feels like Mr R’s been away a long time.’
‘Yes. It’ll be lovely to have him back.’
Carol glanced at her. ‘I expect you’ll be glad to have some company, you’ve been on your own for too long. That’s my opinion, anyway.’
Buttercup shrugged. She wasn’t going to get drawn into a personal conversation with Carol. She could imagine the report now:
Mrs R seems a bit withdrawn and lonely. She’s down in the dumps and has something on her mind that she’s keeping to herself.
Then they’d all start watching me harder than ever.
‘Honestly. I’m fine.’
Carol had finished with the onion and picked up a butternut squash to peel. ‘I’ve been thinking that you don’t have any friends here these days.’
‘No – they’re all busy with young families, and most are still in London. It’s difficult to get them down here.’
Carol nodded. ‘It leaves you rather lonely though, doesn’t it? A bit isolated. Just remember,
I’m always here if you need a chat.’
Buttercup blinked at her. Carol had never said such a thing before.
Carol was concentrating hard on the butternut squash, peeling away long orange and grey ribbons of skin. She said in a casual tone, ‘I thought Mr Redmain was a bit too harsh on poor Agnieska. I know she broke his precious plate, but she was truly sorry about it and was always such a good worker: reliable, conscientious. I was sorry to lose her, and I felt that it was an overreaction, if I’m honest. But I hear she’s doing all right.’ She looked up at Buttercup with a smile. ‘I know you were concerned about her, and you arranged those extra wages for her, so I thought you’d like to know she’s managing, just in case you were worried.’
‘Okay. I’m glad to hear that. Thanks for letting me know. I appreciate it.’ She smiled back tentatively. ‘I’m going upstairs for a bath now. I’m chilled to the bone.’
‘Sure. See you later.’ Carol turned back to her preparations.
That was weird. Buttercup went slowly up the stairs, not seeing them but thinking about Carol. What made her say that? Is she trying to let me know that she’s not as much on Charles’s side as I thought? It’s going to take a lot more than that before I can trust her again, that’s for sure.
In the bath, as the hours melted away until Charles’s return, Buttercup realised she was feeling rather sick. The time was approaching, there was no way she could put it off. Everything had to come out into the open, and that meant she must be honest too: she would tell him frankly what she knew and how.
Except I promised Rose not to reveal her part in it.
Buttercup splashed warm water over herself, frowning. It would be difficult to be entirely honest without doing that. Fine, she told herself. I won’t tell him that I’ve read any documents or know some of the history between him and Ingrid. I’ll ask him to tell me the truth – all of it.
A small voice in her mind piped up: but he didn’t have to tell you he never sees Ingrid. He didn’t have to tell you that she was the one who insisted on living in Fitzroy House. Why has he never mentioned the issues with her, why hasn’t he shared that with you?
Protecting me, she insisted to herself.
But that inconvenient little voice wouldn’t be silenced. He’s lied to you, right to your face. You wouldn’t have minded contact with Ingrid if he’d been honest about it. And he’s spied on you.
It was harder and harder to convince herself that the desire to protect her might be the reason. Then why?
The voice said: To protect himself, to keep you ignorant of what he’s really like. So you don’t do what Ingrid did, and leave.
She sighed sadly. All that effort, all that work, all that vigilance to stop something happening – and only bringing that possibility closer with the lies and control that were used.
But I believe that if we’re open and honest with each other, if I talk to him and explain how I feel, we can make this better. He’s not behaved well with Ingrid, but he was deeply hurt and, no matter what her letter says, she was unfaithful to him. He can’t be expected just to get over it. Charles has an intense nature, she must have known that before they got married. He was always going to react badly.
She pulled herself up mentally.
Are you making excuses for a bully? she asked herself. Why should Charles be allowed to be controlling and vengeful and spiteful, just because it’s his nature?
She splashed lightly in the warm, scented water.
He has to tell me the truth. He has to promise he’s changed. That’s the only way we have a chance.
Buttercup’s stomach was still fluttering nervously when she came downstairs a little later, having dressed carefully for Charles’s return in a dress he admired, and with her hair loose and flowing as he liked it.
She heard the crunch of the car on the gravel and went to the front door, opening it and standing in the pool of light from the hall, looking out into the dark night where the car’s lights glowed like the eyes of some giant wolf. She shivered in the freezing air, watching as Charles climbed out of the back and walked across the gravel towards her, holding his coat and briefcase. He looked exhausted.
‘Darling, it’s so wonderful to see you.’ He kissed her wearily.
‘Welcome home, Charles – you look completely bushed.’
Inside she could see clearly that he was grey and tired, not at all like his usual energetic self.
‘This trip has taken it out of me.’ He put down his things, slinging his coat on to a nearby chair. ‘Sorry to be a party pooper, but I’m going to have a bath and then go straight to bed. I’m feeling pretty ropy, actually. Tell Carol she must save my chilli until tomorrow night.’
Charles went upstairs, leaving her watching him, concerned. It wasn’t like him to be shattered. A trip to Shanghai, packed with all the usual meetings and dinners and late nights, was bound to take it out of him, but he had never flagged quite like this before.
Sometimes I forget he needs taking care of. Our talk can wait till tomorrow.
Coming back through the hall after telling Carol that Charles wasn’t eating this evening, Buttercup saw his tablet on the table. He would definitely want that, he hardly ever went to sleep without perusing it first, and he often put on a meditation app if he couldn’t sleep. She scooped it up and headed up the stairs to their bathroom. She got to the door and was about to knock and announce herself when she heard Charles’s voice rasping away loudly inside.
She paused, realising he was talking to someone while in the bath. He must be on the phone. She didn’t exactly mean to listen, but his voice came quite clearly through the door.
‘What are you talking about, Elaine? . . . You’re in the office? Well, that’s dedicated, I told you to go straight home . . . Yes . . . Are you sure? Is anything missing? . . . Does Rose know the combination? . . . All right. She’s the only person who could have touched the lock, isn’t she? But I don’t see why she should have if she doesn’t know the combination.’
Buttercup realised her heart was pounding and her grip on the tablet had tightened so much, her fingers were stiff.
Charles went on. ‘Listen, calm down. If nothing is missing, then perhaps you simply don’t remember the way you put the padlock on . . . Do an initial search tomorrow and we’ll have a more thorough look later in the week when I’m back in the office. Chances are it’s a slip on your part. Don’t panic . . . Listen, just a thought – can you make sure my medical files are all intact? . . . Thank you, Elaine. I’m sure it’s fine. We’ll speak tomorrow.’
Buttercup heard him click off. She stood outside the door, her mouth dry, hardly able to move.
Oh God. Have I got Rose into trouble? I must warn her. And I still have Ingrid’s letter. I must get it back in the file before Charles notices it’s missing.
She gathered herself together and tiptoed quietly away, Charles’s tablet hugged close to her chest.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The next morning, Charles slept uncharacteristically late. Buttercup left him in bed, got dressed quietly in the dressing room and slipped downstairs. It was pitch-black outside and she could tell that the temperature had plummeted.
It’s almost December. But it’s pretty cold, even so.
She went into the drawing room where the fire was already lit. Carol was up and about then.
Buttercup rang Rose on her mobile. Rose answered at once, her tone surprised.
‘Mrs R? This is an early call.’
‘Yes, I expect you’re still at home. Sorry to disturb you. I just wanted to warn you—’
‘Yes?’ There was instant panic in Rose’s voice.
‘It’s okay – but Elaine has sussed that the cabinet has been touched—’
‘Oh my God! Oh no!’
‘Calm down, it’s okay! She’s told Charles and he thinks she made the mistake herself – the lock was on backwards or something like that. He doesn’t think it was you. So all you have to do is tell Elaine that you didn’t notice
anything wrong and never touched it. Okay?’
‘Oh my God.’ Rose’s voice sounded panicked. ‘You don’t know what Elaine’s like, she has a bloodhound’s nose for lies. Shit, I’m going to be fired. Fuck.’
‘You can do this, Rose,’ Buttercup said firmly. ‘Just be calm and tell her you never touched it. If the worst happens, and she thinks you opened it, tell her that I ordered you to do it and you had no choice. But I think she’s ready to believe you. The important thing is to stay relaxed. So deep breaths . . . You’ll be fine. I promise it’s going to be okay.’
Once she’d ended the call with Rose, Buttercup felt her own anxiety rising. It was all very well keeping Rose calm, but she was worried about what might happen next.
I don’t want her to get sacked, I promised her I would look after her. I need to get to London and put that letter back, just in case.
Charles was still grey and exhausted when he came down for breakfast.
‘This trip has completely taken it out of me,’ he said. ‘I don’t feel at all well. I probably need some vitamins or something. I might see the doc and find out what he advises.’
Buttercup poured some coffee for him. ‘I think you should. Get Elaine to make an appointment. Or go to the surgery here, if it’s quicker.’
‘I’d rather see my doc in Harley Street. He knows me.’ Charles smiled wanly. ‘I’ll pop up as soon as I feel better or get him down here if I get any worse. I’ve told Elaine to clear my diary for a bit. That way we can have some time together.’
‘I’d like that.’ She smiled back, feeling a little of the old affection for him returning. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for them, if they could talk it out. But this wasn’t the time for a confrontation or a heart to heart. She would wait until he was feeling stronger.
‘You work far too hard, you obviously need a rest. It’s the Christmas party here next week, you’ll want to be better for that, so take it easy.’
‘Ah yes, the party. I can’t miss that.’