Alice Under Discipline, Part 2

by Garth ToynTanen

  “Well you should have gone to the lavatory before we left home, at the time I set out as always.”

  “But there wasn’t enough time to...”

  “You know full well there would have been plenty of time if you hadn’t kicked up such a commotion over wearing your uniform, just because your guardian decided to have me put you in a gymslip rather than the skirt and blouse we usually let you wear out. As I told you: your guardian and I determine what you wear and you’ll wear what we tell you to, without question or hesitation, however embarrassing it may or may not be. I said this morning, when all the trouble started; school uniform first and lavatory visit after. Yes you got changed, eventually, but too late for your lavatory privilege... it’s not my fault - you’ll just have to learn to do as you’re told next time.

  “But I,I,I might wet myself... and...”

  “Quite possible - and who’s fault will that be? That is why I had you change into your ‘special’ knickers before we came out.”

  “But please, I really need to...” There was a note of desperation now, the words clearly audible despite the girl’s obvious struggle to keep her voice down.

  “Seen and not heard... seen and not heard...” The woman’s voice had softened to a near whisper, a low cooing enigmatic murmur - it was part of that old saying about good children being ‘seen and not heard’ but in isolation and repeated.

  “Bu, bu, but pl, pl ple, please...” The girl seemed suddenly as if struggling to get her words out, as if finding difficulty forming the sounds correctly on her lips in addition to the lisping apparently induced by the orthodontic appliances festooned about her teeth.

  “Shssss, that’s enough. Remember what the doctor said: Seen and not heard, child... seen and not heard... seen and not heard”

  “Bu, bu, bu, bu, a, a, a, p, p, plisssh, p,p,p...”

  “That’s better!” She heard the woman now say brightly, a ray of sunshine coming in to her voice. “All nice and quiet! Now sit up properly, as you’ve been taught; back nice and straight, hands folded in your lap, knees and ankles smartly pressed together. And let’s have no more nonsense - unless you want me to warm your behind for you when I get you home; or would you rather I ask the doctor to warm your backside for you, herself?”

  “N, n,n,n,n, o, o ,o, a, p,p,p...”

  “I know, I know; the words just won’t come out. It’s nothing to worry about, just one of your anxiety attacks. Remember what the doctor said last time; don’t struggle with it, don’t try to talk, and the words will come back - then try to use simpler words, those from the list she’s been teaching you, just those you can be certain you won’t stammer or splutter over. Don’t worry; I’ll speak for you when we go in. And don’t worry about the lavatory - it is all that anxiety over going to the lavatory that is causing this. Those ‘special’ knickers you have on will deal with any accidents - and once it’s over you’ll feel better; and I’m sure your voice will come back, just like last time. Just let it happen and...”

  A rustle of starched fabric again drew her attention back to the receptionist, the tight restrained contours of her body flowing gracefully under the tightly belted nurses’ dress as she leaned back slightly, shuffling a sheaf of papers from a manila envelope she had conjured from somewhere and that now lay open on her lap. She felt herself shiver, despite her determination, as the receptionist woman finally addressed her. She felt somehow utterly gauche in the woman’s presence, dazzled, strangely overawed and embarrassed by her sudden awkwardness... Whatever had she gotten herself into? She knew only one thing - she suddenly felt out of her depth. But she was the only one who had any inkling at all that something untoward may have happened to Alice, let alone worrying as to where her half-sister might actually be... Help was on its way: Alice’s best hope was about to meet with the one lead she had...

  But did that suggestion even make any sense - rehab and Alice just didn’t seem to go together somehow - and what interest would Alice ever have in making ‘a bit on the side’ by joining up with some sort of clinical research programme? Only the one person who had known enough to furnish her with that lead in the first place, that friend of her stepmother’s, Miss Julia Soames or ‘Aunt Julia’ as she’d come to call her of late. But ‘Aunt’ Julia was also a close confederate of Lady Marchment herself, Alice’s stepmother - and a more avaricious, domineering woman than Lady Marchment one wouldn’t care to meet... And why had Alice written her a letter going on and on about how well she was getting on and how everything was ok, while between the lines practically begging her not to involve herself and certainly not to reveal her whereabouts, nor talk about it, lest she ‘get into trouble’ in some manner?

  By ‘getting into trouble’ she felt sure Alice had been alluding to her dealings with her stepmother, Lady Marchment, in some way. Alternatively Alice may equally have been referring to ‘trouble’ of the legal variety; she knew Alice had had some sort of run-in with the police a while back, although Alice had disclosed nothing of the details. Then again Alice just as likely could have been referring to certain academic repercussions revolving around the local educational authorities or those governing her future university placing. It was so vague as to mean anything, perhaps not even referring to Alice per se but rather to herself personally, though she could not begin to fathom what.

  In the face of so much ambiguity she had indeed confided in no one. That is no one beyond the one person who had gained her full trust; Julia Soames, ‘Aunt Julia’. But the more she had been urged by Alice herself not to concern herself, not to make enquires lest she risk opening certain eyes - by which she again took Alice to mean Lady Marchment - the more she felt honour-bound to locate her. Sure, she would not make enquiries, not officially, nothing that might leave a paper trail. But there was nothing to stop her following in Alice’s footsteps as a clinical research candidate - not now that she knew of the programme... and the route in. Besides, it actually paid extremely well, given that it involved sacrificing just a few scant weeks of her gap-year.

  A couple of months or so spent reclining in a private clinic that was more a comfortable country retreat or spa - as she was given to understand it - than a hospital, undergoing what sounded like a simple battery of psychological tests; what could be simpler than that. If that was the path Alice had chosen to tread to bury herself away for the duration, then all well and good. If not, then nothing will have been lost but a little time. And she might well come up with a further lead. In any case she would emerge financially independent, if nothing else. With a little financial ‘clout’ behind her she would be that much more well-armed to pursue her inquiries further, perhaps employ professional help if necessary - that was what Aunt Julia had said.

  Sure she would be incommunicado for a few weeks, residing what was termed a ‘controlled environment’, sure she had misgivings - but then again, Miss Julia Soames, Aunt Julia, could be so very, very persuasive. She had been looking out for her cousin, Alice, from the start. What worried her now, though - now that she was so, so very close (or so she felt)- was who was going to be watching her back? No one would know of her whereabouts but this same ‘Aunt’ Julia Soames - just as no one had seemed to know anything of Cousin Alice’s intentions, let alone Alice’s present location, except her this same woman. Yet for some reason she found herself trusting this Miss Julia Soames - one of her legal guardian’s closest confidents - more than any other.

  She didn’t doubt for an instant that Miss Soames could be relied upon to contact the relevant authorities if anything untoward was to happen. Just where that unwavering confidence sprang from she couldn’t quite say. But part of the answer lay buried in that clinic, of that she was certain - and besides, she had all these problems welling up in her head and Aunt Julia had said they would help her sort herself out, those experts at that clinic - it was part of the research path they were following... And she could trust Aunt Julia... Couldn’t she?
>
  The suddenness of the door bursting open, the one inset with brass plaque, startled her and she jumped in her seat, a wave of prickling nettle-rash irritation sweeping down her body. All pretence of ‘coolness’ disintegrated in that moment. Not that there was much in evidence of that high-set-jaw aloofness she had entered with in any case. That affected confidence had quickly evaporated under the withering gaze of the hard-faced uniformed receptionist, shown up for the artifice that it was. What remained was the uncertain, out-of-her-depth, teenager that indeed was the truth of the matter. The rest crumbled away instantly under the perceptive, penetrating gaze of this newcomer.

  The head and shoulders that appeared around the door’s edge possessed a face as aristocratic as it was beautiful. The woman’s jaw line was prettily, perfectly curved, the high-set cheek bones, moulded as if by a sculptor’s hand, were picked out in subtly-applied rouge. There was a humorously wicked gleam in her eye that added an unsettlingly ambiguous air to the rest. Her smile offset the authoritative aurora that seemed to surround her, yet not to the extent of diluting it entirely, merely somehow ‘disarming’ in some way she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  Suddenly her mind was in turmoil: Having no direct siblings or others who might care enough to raise the alarm should anything go awry other than a legal guardian who didn’t give a damn whether she lived or died - and who’d probably prefer the latter, for the sheer simplicity of it - she had to face it: She was already in WAY over her head. Unless she turned back now. But then again, if she did turn on her heel now she’d have learnt absolutely nothing, other than that the doctor had some decidedly odd clientele. If, indeed, she had actually been Alice’s therapist at some point in the first place.

  There were so many unanswered questions: Would Alice have gone in search of a psychotherapist in the first place? Would she have had any need to? Would Alice’s stepmother, Lady Marchment, gold-digging grasper that she was - and who, after all, held the purse strings - have been likely to have cared enough about Alice to splash out on such an eminent therapist?

  That raised another point: Without Aunt Julia’s financial assistance she couldn’t herself have raised enough from her trust-fund allowance, as generous as it was, to afford even the first of these consultations. Why would a woman, who after all was not a blood relative - or a relative in any sense - and who was a close friend of her real aunt, Lady Marchment, the prospective villain of the piece, be so keen to press ahead with the investigation as to pay out such a large sum from her own pocket? And why was she so keen not to involve the police? She understood her own motives as regards that last point - she was merely respecting her half-sister, Alice’s, wishes; and possibly safeguarding Alice from as yet undisclosed, still to be uncovered, consequences into the bargain. But what of Aunt Julia’s agenda?

  Well, unless she went ahead she’d likely never know the answer, or answers, to any of this. It was something of a gambit, but it was one she’d have to follow through with. Besides: what was the real risk here? What could be so threatening about undergoing a one-to-one psychoanalysis session or two with her half-sister’s therapist? What could be the danger, right here, bang in the centre of London’s West End, in that most respectable of respectable quarters - Harley Street no less; or at least, geographically, very close to it. This was the very epicentre of expensive, exclusively-excellent British private medicine, after all was said and done. It was not as if this were some isolated, sinister, gothic-turreted mental hospital they were meeting in, some old Victorian asylum buried away miles from anywhere behind twisted, spike-topped cast iron railings.

  The image, she had subconsciously conjured up, came direct from one of those old British black-and-white horror movies of the nineteen fifties or early ‘sixties churned out by the studio, ‘Hammer Films’. For a second she shuddered at the thought. She had again to remind herself that just a London-square’s distance away the last of the bustling, pushy ‘rush-hour’ throng of computer-bag-toting office-workers would be jostling for territorial dominance and elbowing their way through the carrier-clutching Thursday late-shopping crowd of Oxford Street.

  She wheeled round on her heel as if to leave, then paused as she was called back - this was not a request; this was an order - an order issued with authority. It was not an order encoded in the words themselves but rather was embedded somewhere within the woman’s tone, the manner in which she enunciated the words. She could feel her brave, independent, façade collapsing as surely as if the act she had been putting on were a physical thing. She could sense the psychological fortification she had erected around and about her tumbling like a crumbling brick wall, as if struck by a wrecking ball and possessing all the stability of a child’s building-block house. She knew instantly, at that moment, she was in trouble - deep trouble. She knew, just with those two simple words, there was no turning back now - she was not going to be allowed to turn back; not now!

  “Next please!”

  CHAPTER 7

  RED STRIPES AND LAUNDRY-HOUSE BLUES

  How had it happened - why had she signed? There had been a car journey, some documentation, a pen pressed between sleepy fingers and a long, drawn out, tedious and embarrassing set of admission procedures... And that was that.

  Lord knows how many months on and here she was, sorting through piles of laundry that each seemed to grow organically before her eyes every time she paused to gather as much as a breath for herself. Others brought in the work in a never-ending stream of plastic baskets, the rustling of their 50s style uniform work dresses becoming audible as each drew near despite the hypnotic chug, chug chugging of the line of washing machines behind her back.

  The knitted nylon fabric of their work frocks was hot and sweaty and particularly unsuited to this steamy environment. The discomfort was made worse by the rubberised girdle they wore underneath and the crisp, plain nylon full slip that went on over that. The whole was topped off - if working in the ‘laundry house’ - with a matching plastic-backed nylon pinafore apron and an elasticated mob-cap to cover the hair, such as it was after the attention of Matron’s scissors. And it all came in that same institutional bottle-green as seemed to form a constant backdrop to all done and seen in this place. Even the walls were painted this shade, the lower halves at least; the upper sections abruptly changed to an equally institutional cream.

  For other times and other tasks a waist apron was worn or just the dress alone with no additional protection. But whatever the situation, whatever the discomfort, the same stipulation always applied; all buttons had to be done up, from those fastening the cuffs of the dress’s long-sleeves at the wrists to the top button which closed the button-through monstrosity’s shirt-style collar around the throat.

  The sun - or what she took to be the sun, she could make out no detail - streamed through the frosted white-faced window, projecting a shadowy image of the criss-cross basket-weave of painted cream wirework covering it across the light grey flooring. The window was set high and way out of reach, as they all were around the facility or institution - she no longer thought about her new home as a clinic of any sort, even under the most extreme self-denial - but still the powers-that-be had thought it necessary to guard it behind iron and steel anyway. They had thought it necessary for it to contain frosted glass too; well, it was the laundry so perhaps it made sense that it should match those in the shower and toilet block. But then, those in the dormitory were whitewashed when surely the heavy, plasticy-looking curtains the dormitory mistress drew across them each night would have sufficed if privacy had been the issue.

  Only the Norman-arched windows of the chapel were not filled with frosted glass and had escaped this ubiquitous whitewashing. But those were of leaded stained glass and provided nothing in terms of view beyond the bible stories they depicted beneath their protective covering of padlocked wire mesh and the kaleidoscopically fuzzy outline of the bars running down the outside.

  It
was so difficult not to become submerged in this strangely anachronistic manufactured world being woven about her. It was so all-encompassing, so... so... plausible. It was all so real; from the stark-faced nun in her white wimple or headdress and black and white habit prowling between the worktables, cane in hand, to the tang of the bleach and the soapy detergent that she could actually taste on the moist heavy air. The mundane, repetitive nature of the task was itself like a form of mental torture to one of her innate intelligence, even given the degree of mental numbness brought about by the medication they had her on. In combination with the constant background of gently lilting religious chant broadcast over the speakers the effect was almost soporific.

  It set up an unsettlingly pleasant rhythm that denied cogent thought and to which it was all too easy to surrender, to the extent that a day’s toil could pass almost un-noted. More than once of late she had found herself muttering what was to her nonsensical religious doctrine as if a mantra. At other times she had found herself with the responses to the prayers they broadcast wafting around the work rooms absentmindedly trickling off her lips. It had shocked her to hear a voice, sounding far, far away, as if someone else’s, then to gradually become aware that it was in fact her own. It shocked her even more to realise there were occasions when those phrases she thought she was mouthing were actually in her head!

  If she let it, a day could mindlessly pass without trace, delineated from the next only insofar as to whether she was praised for having met her ‘quota’ or scolded for not doing so and made to bend to receive the Mother Superior’s cane across her bottom. Or she could fight it and face the hour upon hour of soul-destroying tedium and the nerve-shredding repetitiveness of all those hymns, chants, readings and all the rest of the stuff that just made her want to scream. Whatever happened the day would eventually draw to a close. But then there would be the change into school uniform, the seemingly endless hours standing through the service in the chapel, adjournment to the classroom for all the rigours of strictly disciplined bible study, and then yet another service in the chapel before finally bed - and far too few scant hours spent sleeping.