I start running down the corridor, the sunlight burning flashes in my vision as I pass the windows at the speed of a gazelle. The sound of a shrill whistle being blown momentarily startles me but I ignore it, keeping my momentum. I revel in the fact that my feet are taking me far away from here, leading me home. I'm free, I'm free, there's no way that fat woman can possibly catch me. People jump out of my way, tables’ crash in front of me, a birdcage tips over, and as I look behind me, I see a dove soaring his own way to freedom. It is a funny sight and I giggle, just as a familiar cramp hits me in the side and I am bowled over by a man.
“Nurse Ruth!” He shouts in a loud and authoritative boom, and the buzz of activity I incited during the past few minutes stops. The dove flaps ineffectually against the glass in a fatalistic attempt at freedom.
I know just how he feels.
Just as someone catches him in a net, the man catches me and as we are both being led back to our cells in opposite directions, the bird's little black eyes meet mine. He stops struggling for a moment, looking at me.
What happened?, he says. We were almost there.
I know bird, I know. I'll ask them to give you extra feed tonight for your trouble.
But it's not really good enough is it? I hate you, he says.
I shrug. Qui onques rien n'enprist riens n'achieva, I say to him.
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” I repeat aloud, in English.
The man deposits me back outside of my cell, and the fat-one comments on how 'mad' I am, glaring at me as she holds the door open. The doctor tries to push me through, but I thrust back.
“They're all mad, Nurse Ruth, or have you forgotten where you work today?”
“If only,” she harrumphs, practically farting out of her mouth.
“You never answered my question,” I say to her, my principled display of non-conformance with the doctor continuing as I advance through the doorway inch by excruciating inch.
“What question, Anne?” she says, idiotically.
“You could at least employ someone intelligent,” I say to the man, who I realize now is the 'doctor'. “I asked her name, about four minutes ago, and she's already forgotten about it.”
He looks at me and offers me a small grin. For a second, less than a second, I feel a brief sense of solidarity. It quickly disappears when his fish eyes goggle at me.
“My name isn't the question Anne, and my memory isn't the one in dispute here: yours is. Lady Anne Stanbury.” she says, one half of her mouth turned upwards in a parody of a grin.
I could scream, I really could.
So I do.
And then, with lack of any other options, I sit on the floor in the doorway.
“Oh, how frustrated you people are making me! I've told you before, and I'll tell you again: you have the wrong woman! My name is Lady Anne, yes, but my surname is Damsbridge, D-A-M-S-B-R-I-D-G-E. Just in case you're having difficulty understanding that, I thought I should spell it out for you. But are you illiterate? I suppose you probably are. Again, Damsbridge. My father is the Earl of Damsbridge. The name of Stanbury is not mine, I have never heard of it, and I don't even know anybody by that name!”
“Anne, her name is Ruth,” says the 'doctor'. 'Ruth' farts again, and the doctor turns to her, saying, “Well? There is no harm in her knowing your name. She should, anyway, you're supposed to be building a relationship with the patients. I've told you before.”
Ruth makes another noise, and I ask her whether she just farted out of her bottom or out of her mouth. “For when you talk, it’s nothing but a lot of smelly noise,” I tell her. “Your breath stinks. I noticed the other day, but decided to be polite about it and not say so.”
Her face turns a deep shade of pink.
“But...she's so, so, stubborn! Doctor, she won’t do hardly anything I tell her, she-”
“There is no such thing as a 'stubborn' insane person, Nurse Ruth. A man or woman bereft of reason is perfectly incapable of such. The only stubborn people of the world are sane, and to understand this is your job. Now, leave us alone for a minute. Seen as how I am here, I may as well utilize this opportunity to try to assess Anne again.”
“You shan't be assessing anybody, least of all me. And I'm not bloody well insane,” I tell him as Ruth leaves, slamming the door behind her.
Ruth.
Fat-Ruth.
It has a certain 'ring' to it, or 'roll'. A dumpy, lardy, big Fat-Ruth roll.
“Put out your tongue, please, Anne,” the 'doctor' says, approaching me slowly.
“I don’t want to, you beast,” I say. I'm really in trouble here.
“Anne. You must show me your tongue. I am a doctor.”
“My tongue is perfectly fine, you fiend. The only thing wrong with my tongue is that it has to be used to talk with you,” I say, closing my mouth and pursing my lips together tightly.
He sighs and looks about him, before making his way over to my bed and sitting, putting his head in his hands.
“Yes, you may very well cast your eyes upon the ground, you despicable creature. How dare you lock a Lady in a cell, and pretend to be a doctor, in order to look upon her tongue?”
He moves to pull something out of his pocket, and I move quickly: far too fast for him to catch me.
“Anne-“
“A-ha! You never imagined this did you, you wobbly eyed fish!” I am over the other side of the cell, facing him, brandishing my chamber-pot. I hold it above my head. “It is full, stinking, filthy, dirty full, and I shall throw it upon you unless you give me the key.”
His puffy-fish eyes wobble a little more, practically standing on stalks out of his face.
“I can smell them,” I say. My arms are starting to ache.
“Smell what?”
“Your eyes, you sea-creature.”
“My eyes?”
“Yes, your eyes. Your horrible, beady eyes. Fish eyes. I should imagine you’d like to cut mine out and make chairs out of them. I simply refuse to put my tongue out.”
He starts writing on a long, slender notepad, evidently that which he pulled out of his pocket before I retrieved my weapon.
“Can you stretch out your arms for me, Anne? Perhaps wiggle your fingers a little?”
Whilst I'm holding a chamber-pot? What a stupid question.
“No. I shan’t do anything you ask of me. Is that my ransom note?”
“No, Anne. It is-“
“It is, I know it is. Why else would you be writing upon a pad? I hope that the ink leaks out of your pen, all over your disgusting, cheap-smart clothes.”
He frowns, ignoring me, continuing to write, occasionally wiping an invisible piece of dust from his lap.
“Have you ever taken any drugs, Anne?”
I ignore the question.
“Give me the key.”
“No, Anne. I can’t give you the key.”
“Give it to me!” My voice rises; my throat starts to close up. “Give it to me right NOW, give it to me, give it to me! Give it to me, give it to me-“
The door opens with a bang, hitting itself upon the wall. Some yellow paint falls onto the floor in a pile. I want it.
“Doctor! What on earth is she up to now-“
I launch my chamber-pot.
Time stops for a moment.
I giggle.
“Oh, my!”
The ‘doctor’ runs to Fat Ruth’s aid.
“Doctor! Ohhhhhhh, oh, oh, oh, ohhhhhhhhh!!!!”
I am in hysterics. The laugh simply won’t stop and it comes with force, pushing my voice up my windpipe and out into the air in dancing, happy tones. It forces me to bend over, such is its vigour and wait, something is shining next to my foot.
A shard.
Before I can grab it, hands pull my arms behind me sharply, and I am thrown to the floor. My giggle stops in a huff sort of sound, and I can’t breathe right. The odour of faeces invades my nose.
“Nurse Ruth!”
“What, Doctor? What? You want me to
let this little wretch hack us both to death?”
“She would not have harmed us, she is-“
“She would! Why is this lunatic not at Broadmoor?”
“Because of her father, Nurse Ruth..."
My father? Broadmoor? Lunatic?
The hands let go of me, and they, as well as I, are covered in my filth.
“Get the gloves, Nurse Ruth,” he says, wiping at his trousers that now, I laugh, have something on them to be wiped off.
“How about the dress?”
“Yes, fetch the dress then. Right away.”
What are they talking about? The 'doctor' looks at me forlornly from a few feet away, blocking the door.
“I am sorry to have to do this, Anne,” he says, leaving, as Fat-Ruth comes back, holding a brown sack.
“Do what? What is that?”
“A restraint. For imbeciles like you,” Fat-Ruth says, and launches herself upon me with astonishing speed, making me wonder if earlier, she just watched me run for amusement.
“Let me go, let me go, let me GO!” I shout and I shout and I shout. My voice is heard by everyone but acknowledged by no-one.
Presumed Curable
Dr George Savage
October 16th, 1885
Royal Bethlem Hospital
There is nothing in the world more soothing than a strong cup of coffee coupled with a light read. I consider the newspaper in front of me longingly for a moment before pushing it aside, and open Lady Stanbury's case file.
Emotional side of Lady Stanbury uncontrolled, a tendency to mood swings, verbal and physical violence, marred by restlessness. Hallucinations ceased, yet delusions very much in force. Attempted to escape this morning, disturbing other patients and frightening staff. Threw a full chamber-pot of faeces over an attendant. Reached for a broken shard, unknown whether she harboured intention to do harm. To remain in isolation until behaviour improves. Currently restrained in strong clothing for as short a period as necessary; whilst she is a danger to herself and others. Lunacy Commissioners informed.
The law requires that during the first three months of a patient's admission, I make an entry into this book every week. After that, once a month, and after that, once every three months. However, given my newest patient's current behaviour, I find myself writing inside it much more often than required, as I do not wish to incur a twenty pound fine.
Gone are my mornings of a good, hearty breakfast accompanied by news of lighter matters.
I finish the paragraph and blow on the paper, the ink drying perfectly. That should make the commissioners happy. A tidy read portrays an organized hospital.
I tap my pen against the desk, thinking.
Prescribing Croton Oil.
Attention to the bowels can be of great service to these particular patients, though in Lady Stanbury's case I am eager to examine her uterus. Yet...
Patient will not let me perform a physical assessment. Hydrotherapy may be useful in calming her enough for me to do so, slowing the blood flow to her brain and thus decreasing mental and physical activity.
To review patient afterward.
A loud knock on my office door startles me, causing me to drop my pen.
“Yes?”
“Doctor?” Nurse Ruth leans through the gap. “Sir, Lord Damsbridge, and a Mr Stanbury are here.”
“Send them in, please. And bring the tissues, too, as this will stain.” I've asked her before to knock more quietly.
She peeks at the widening ink-stain and grimaces, turns on her heel, and exits the room. Seconds later the aforementioned gentlemen enter.
I glance at the paper. If I am unable to read it, it can still be put to use.
I throw it over the ink stain.
“My Lord, Mr Stanbury. Good morning to you both.”
“And to you, Doctor,” says Lord Damsbridge, shaking off his umbrella. His eyes search my office.
“In the corner-”
He deposits it in the stand before I can finish.
The recently bereaved husband stands back and off to one side with his hands in his pockets. His face is as grief stricken and apt to the occasion as his stance as he glares at the certificates upon my wall.
“Mr Stanbury, I don't believe we have met.”
“Indeed not. And I must say, I would rather have preferred it stayed that way.” His gaze moves toward me as he answers, but his body remains still.
Generally, people dislike meeting me. The policemen because they believe I 'save' guilty men and women from the gallows. The patients, because they are terrified I'm going to throw them in a cell and let them starve. The relatives, because they don't understand why their loved ones are locked away from society. Other doctors, who sneer in disdain at alienists.
It would affect a lesser man than I, of that I have no doubt.
“I agree. It is most unfortunate that this has occurred, and I offer you my most sincere condolences.”
He grunts in acknowledgment, nodding.
“Excuse my son-in-laws' rudeness, Doctor,” says Lord Damsbridge, helping himself to a chair. “Stanbury, sit.”
“Oh, I'm not at all offended, My Lord-”
The Earl interrupts me.
“Well, you should be. A true gentleman should know how to act despite, or perhaps, because of his grief.” He stops, and peers around the chair. “Stanbury, I'm not going to tell you again.” He turns back to me, and offers a small, secret smile. “I keep telling him Doctor, an attitude like that doesn't exactly inspire endearment from others.”
Mr Stanbury shoots a look of hatred towards the back of his father-in-laws head, but acquiesces.
“My apologies. I fear I am not myself. My wife did murder my baby less than two weeks ago, so you'll have to excuse me.” His anger is palpable.
“Completely understandable, Mr Stanbury. Now, could I offer you gentlemen a coffee?”
“Yes-”
Lord Damsbridge interrupts his son-in-law.
“Something stronger would be more appropriate at this time. Whiskey, perchance?”
I glance at the large grandfather clock, left here by my predecessor. I assume he's referring to the meetings impending subject matter, as opposed to the hour, as the hands show only nine and twenty.
“Well, of course. I'm sure Nurse Ruth can fetch some, that woman can find anything given half a chance. She should be back momentarily, as I spilled-”
I stop.
It's best I keep my inherent clumsiness to myself.
“You were saying, Doctor?”
Opportunity presents itself in the personification of my attendant, as she knocks on the door and peers questioningly at me through the gap.
“Yes, come in, Nurse Ruth. I was saying, gentlemen, that when you let women into a man’s domain, they tend to get carried away with their curiosity. Take this one here, for example: liked the look of my pen, and decided to write a note to her husband with it. And look at what she did!” I remove the newspaper with a flourish. “This is solid oak, gentlemen. Ruined, by romantic sentimentality in a flash.” I press my finger into the ink pointedly.
Her mouth drops open, but she quickly recovers.
“Yes, I am such a stupid woman,” she says, the sarcasm lost on the two men. She shakes the tissues in her hand, and advances. “Here, let me clean that.”
I wave her away.
“No, Nurse Ruth. I shall buy a new desk. You can repay me by finding our gentlemen here a bottle of our finest whiskey.”
“Certainly. Nice to meet you, My Lord. Mr Stanbury.” She curtseys, and leaves the room quietly, shutting the door with a small click.
“Women,” I say, laughing.
“Quite,” says Lord Damsbridge.
I reach into the desk and pull out Lady Stanbury's folder.
“Right. I requested your company today so I may learn more of Lady Stanbury: her habits, friendships, personality, etcetera, in order to start appropriate treatment. This is a two way discussion, and I welcome any questions fro
m you both.” As they nod in synchrony, Lord Damsbridge more so than the other, I continue onward with the speech I give to the relatives of every new patient admitted.
“Let me allay any fears you may have with regards to Lady Stanbury being in, dare I say it: a lunatic asylum.” I raise my eyebrows in an imitation of mock horror. “Forget the histrionic stories that old wives exchange on street corners about madmen being chained to the walls. This is the nineteenth century gentlemen, and our field of expertise is much more advanced than that which prescribed the inhumane and inexperienced treatments of yesteryear.”
“Though it remains true that the people in here are lunatics, does it not, Doctor?” Mr Stanbury says, spitefully.
“Well, yes – some of them, but Bethlem is a place of rest where anyone suffering mental deficiency can come to be treated. We even have people admit themselves voluntarily, of their own will.” I sift through the drawer of my desk again, and pull out a form. I put the paper in front of the gentlemen and reach for my pen. Ah, it is covered with ink. I fumble discreetly for a spare whilst the men read over the sheet. “Cast your eyes over the writing at the top.” Aha. A pen. I pull it out and tap it over the paragraph I want them to read. “It says: 'All persons, of unsound mind presumed to be curable, are eligible for admission into this hospital for maintenance and medical treatment'”.
“Presumed 'curable'?” Lord Damsbridge asks, eyebrows raised.
“Yes,” I say, pleased he focused on that word. “She can be cured completely.”
“Cured of what, precisely? What is wrong with her? Why did she kill our eight week old son?” Mr Stanbury says, his jaw set tight.
“She-”
We are interrupted by the door opening, and Nurse Ruth makes her way inside carrying a silver dish. Atop lay a crystal decanter, three glasses, and a bottle of Tullamore Dew.
“Good choice,” says Lord Damsbridge, lifting the whiskey and pouring two generous measures. Handing one to Mr Stanbury, he looks at me.
“For you, Doctor?”
The Medea Complex Page 3