"Stop it, Anne."
"Sorry."
"I can see you're not. Well, listen, Ruth certainly doesn't appear to be within our vicinity right now, does she? In all likelihood she will be engaged for some time...” She turns her head, left and right, right and left. “How about you and I retire for a cup of tea? It’s past Graces' nap-time anyway."
Perhaps I can steal her keys when she boils the water.
"That would be nice." I say, silently plotting.
When Grace is settled, we venture to a small room which nobody uses. Agnus tells me it used to be the restraint room, but now the hospital has lots of mobile restraints, it isn't needed anymore. Agnus makes us a pot of tea, whilst I sit down and pick at the table.
I don't try to steal her keys. She keeps them in her pocket, damn her.
"Thief." I say.
"Listen, Anne."
"Yes?"
"Be careful of Ruth. She is the ring leader here; just last week there was a nasty incident involving a patient playing a game of backgammon with her." Agnus says over her shoulder as she stretches to retrieve two cups from the top cupboard.
"Pardon?" I say.
"Don't irritate her, don't needle her, and for heaven's sake, never ever call her Fat Ruth to her face. She likes to act as if she has seniority here, above other employees, patients, and even the good doctor at times. Though the doctor doesn't stand for her at times. She doesn't understand, like many of them here, I fear, the operations of the mind. And what she doesn’t understand, she cannot tolerate, but she is not to blame for that. Entirely, anyway. Recently, she seems to almost be becoming a little crazy herself." She puts a dainty hand over her mouth and gasps. “Oh, I am sorry Anne; I never meant to imply you were crazy, of course.”
"Hmfph." I reply. She’s crazy, they’re all crazy. I’m the only non-crazy one here by all accounts. Crazy, crazy, crazy. "You speak French, right?"
"Yes, Anne, I do. Why is that so important to you?"
Oh, if only she knew. The only person that knows me in the whole world spoke French.
"I can tell all of my secrets in French." I mumble. I am so desperate to tell someone. Three months is far too long.
Having stirred the tea, Agnus plops the used tea bags in a nearby bin and brings them over to the table. I make a show of peering at the dirty dish colored drink.
"It's not poisoned Anne. It may not be the best tea in the world, but it's all they supply us with here. Budgeting, or some such. Though I highly suspect drinking too much of it might be bad for our health, one cup won't kill you. Here-" She lifts my mug away from me and places her own in front of me. "Better?"
Marginally. I grunt.
"Anne, I am bound by confidentiality not to repeat anything you choose to tell me. In any language, unless it puts yourself or others at direct risk of harm." She looks me in the eye. "Gods truth, Anne." She raises her cup to her mouth, palm curled flat against it.
I look steadily back at her.
“Do you want to hear something interesting?”
Her eyes glint.
“Yes, I would love to, Anne.”
I go over to the bin, and retrieve the two tea-bags.
“Anne, what are you-”
“Wait. I'm going to tell you something.” I put the teabags over my eyes.
“Anne-”
I shout.
“You should really hold your teacup correctly, Agnus! It drives me crazy!”
“Anne, stop being ridiculous.” She says it in such a quiet, reasonable tone, that I can’t help but put the tea-bags back in the bin, and sit back in the chair.
"How much do they want for me? That's the only thing I want to tell you," I say. "I want to go home to my father." I can't tell her the thing I really want to tell. I can't. Nobody in this world would understand, save two people, and neither of them is here. Tears threaten to overtake me.
Agnus sighs, and drains her cup.
"Listen carefully Anne, I am going to give you something to show you that you can trust me. We are not supposed to give personal correspondence to patients. The letters they receive, if any, are put away in a cabinet and given to them when they are recovered. The sad thing is, half of those letters are never opened, because the patients don't become well.
“I'm giving you this because I see something in you, and I feel you just need a nudge in the right direction. There is a letter here for you, perhaps from a friend or a relative, and I am going to give it to you to prove that you can trust me. And that and you are not a prisoner."
A letter? My heart starts to beat a little faster. She pulls a creamy white envelope out of her pocket, and I positively restrain myself from tearing it out of her hands. It says:
Anne,
It is with great sadness and condolences that I write you this letter. I have not seen you for many months and I hope that you are being well taken care of, and that you will soon be released and we will see each other when you return to Asquith House. Being a ladies maid without a lady is rather unusual, and I hope to see you soon: when we will rejoice much and discuss everything that has happened, and how we both fare. I can tell you that Edgar is treating me most kindly in your absence, and although I do not have as much to keep me busy, we are both doing well, and we both miss you very much indeed. Don't be worrying about us too much though, indeed I wish you not to fret at all. You are at the hospital to become well, and I wish you speedily recovered as it is very important to me that you keep yourself healthy and happy. Whilst we are apart, I am doing what I can to keep busy, making beautiful new dresses and linens, some sewing, some mending of clothes, what I can to make the house magnificent for your welcome home. Although I feel I must tell you about Edgar: sometimes he concerns me greatly. The other day I found him burning some wood from the cot of the baby. It seems he is doing well, he eats heartily, he sleeps through the night, he is happy and walks a lot, and yet this lasts only for short periods: then suddenly he has nightmares and smashes things in the house. Yet he is never sick. He has freshly prepared food daily, full of vitamins, minerals, fibre: courtesy of the cook, perhaps this is the reason and it is comforting, but at the same time worrisome. He is sick with grief, but in the mind.
Ever affectionately yours / B F
.Uh oh. Tears prick the back of my eyes, and before I can hold them back they are falling like rain onto the creamy white paper.
"Oh, Anne!" Agnus comes around the table and gathers me into a hug. Looking over my shoulder, she reads the letter. "From your maid, huh."
"Yes, Beatrix. Oh Agnus, I miss her so much."
"Well then, let's set about getting you better shall we?" Releasing me, she returns to the opposite side of the table and sits. She looks me over.
"Do you suppose a kidnapper would be offering you comfort and mugs of hot tea, as well as giving you letters from your family?"
I suppose they would, actually, if they were trying to convince me of something against my will. But I don't feel like arguing this point with her right now. The letter has left me somewhat shaken: happy, elated in fact, but equally miserable and desolate and therefore I can't be bothered engaging in a reality check with her. So I simply shake my head, and tell her I would like to return to my room now.
"Room, is it Anne?" Agnus squeals and does a little jump. "See? Progress, already."
My Heart Is Dead
Edgar
March 1st, 1886
Asquith House
There is blood on the walls. Anne is standing in front of me, holding a knife in her left hand. Anne, what have you done? I killed your mother, she replies.
She glides towards me slowly, her movements erratic and fast.
I killed your mother and I killed your son, I will kill myself soon and it will all be such fun. I'll slit my throat and I'll slit yours too, then we can join John in hell and all shout Boo!
I wake with a jolt, the haunting taunt ringing in my ears. Sweat drips in rivulets, sticking my shirt to my back and the sheets are soaked. The sme
ll of copper hangs in the air, hijacked through my subconscious into the reality of the morning. A malevolent presence surrounds me, and for a minute or two I bury myself deep under the covers.
One breath, two breaths...I count to ten slowly, filling my lungs with air that my dead son will never inhale ever again. In through my nose, blowing out gently through my mouth. A friend of mine had forced this upon me minutes after I found John. Brandishing a brown paper bag, William had grabbed my head, pinned me with his hands, and suffocated me with it. The buzzing in my ears had quickly reduced in fever and pitch, and I had rapidly begun to breathe normally; albeit with a bag attached to my face. I remember looking at William over my nose, over the bag, and wondering where on earth he had produced such a specimen from when my wife had just murdered my only son. It seemed out of place, ridiculous somehow. Since that day, I have experienced these attacks of breathing on a fairly regular basis: making my mind and my body seize up with panic until I think I will just expire where I stand. I have taken to carrying around such a bag with me, crumpled in my pocket. Though on occasion, such as now, I can head these attacks off without resorting to such an undignified tool.
The day that Anne killed our child was the day I stopped breathing. I haven't been able to take a clear breath since. How can I, when half of me is dead?
John was my lifeline, my savoir, my world, my heart, my soul. My very essence of life. How can the blood continue to run through my veins, when it ran out of his onto our kitchen floor? If my heart is dead, how am I alive?
Marriage’s Are Unhappy
Dr Savage
March 1st, 1886
Asquith House
“Thank you for coming to see me, Doctor. I fear I am not in a fit state to make the journey to the asylum today.”
His hands shake as he lifts a glass of water to dry, cracked lips. His eyes are bloodshot, his face pale, his voice weak.
“Mr Stanbury, you don't look at all well,” I say, looking around me. Having never stepped foot inside a house so grand before, I'm rather taken aback by the size of it. The furnishings appear to be influenced by some obscure European country, and splattered with Middle-Eastern, possibly Arabic, figurines. There is a large burnt area on the front lawn, and I wonder what happened.
“Anne's mother, I believe,” he says, noticing my gaze. “From what little I can gather, she liked to travel a lot before she became pregnant with Anne. Lord Damsbridge keeps her souvenirs around, I guess as some sort of shrine to his lost wife. She loved France, apparently.” He shrugs. “I suppose it shan't be long till I shall be making a shrine to Anne; smelling her nightshirts, and going to sleep caressing her gowns. I miss her Doctor, terribly, and in answer to your observation, no; I am not well at all. I fear I am withering in my grief for my son, and my wife.” He sinks a little lower into the chair, his shoulders slumped. “I am not a bad person, Doctor, despite rumours to the contrary. I may have done some underhanded dealings in the past, but one thing is the God's honest truth: I love her. I really did at the end.”
I'm unsure to what he alludes. A figment of his imagination? Can it be possible that I now have two patients from the same household; both of them ironically unaware of it? The great clock on the wall strikes the hour, and Mr Stanbury practically jumps out of his skin.
“Stanbury, most men don't love their wives at the altar. The stuff of nonsense, in my opinion. Nay, marriage is for a meeting of values, of means; rarely a joining of minds and hearts. If love occasionally grows from that, then all the merrier. One thing I have learned is that most marriages are unhappy, and half the reason my profession exists.”
He looks up at me sharply.
I nod.
“Oh, yes. Many husbands and wives are driven mad by the fact that they are living in the same household, even sharing the same bed with someone they detest. Thank god for divorce, that’s what I say, but realistically, it is out of reach for almost everyone. Drives some of them to murder. Anyway, I come with rather good news that will cheer you.”
He barely reacts; closing his eyes. I'm not sure if he intends to sleep, or if he is bracing himself for another emotional blow.
“Anne is progressing, Stanbury.”
He opens an eye.
I wait.
Silence descends.
He is forced into responding through politeness, yet the enthusiasm I expected is woefully absent.
“And?”
My cue.
“And? Great news! She is no longer in continued segregation. She made friends with one of the nurses, and a few patients. She talks a lot with Agnus-”
“Agnus?”
“Yes, sorry, one of our newer nurses. She is recovering, Stanbury. I'm fairly sure she will be home within months.”
The expected reaction doesn't come. Instead he blinks at me, and sighs. “I shan't be visiting her, Doctor. It hurts too badly. At least, not until she is well...”
My concern deepens when I detect the faint whiff of sour alcohol.
“Stanbury, are you drinking much of late?”
He mumbles something under his breath.
“Stanbury?”
“No,” he answers quickly, his mouth puckering in defiance. “Well, a little. Yes, I suppose so. But what do you expect? I've lost my child. You tell me my wife is progressing but as of now, she's still insane. Isn't she? That's the point, Doctor. Your platitudes of her 'becoming well' soon and 'cured eventually' ring a little hollow to me, for as yet I see no proof. I sit in a house that doesn't belong to me. See the desk over there? That's not mine. Nor is the floor, the windows, the door, the figurines, hell: I'm only here due to the kindness of Lord Damsbridge, and how long do you suppose that will last? He tolerates me, and even that is evidence that he is a better man than I will ever be. How did I imagine I could merely step into a gentleman’s shoes, and expect to walk as one? Do you realize, Doctor, that I have no claim over anything here?”
“I could be thrown out of here, quite rightly or not depending on your point of view, at any time. The servants hate me. Lord Damsbridge no doubt despises me for getting his darling daughter pregnant, and thus into this whole mess in the first place. Our marriage was a sham. A sham. And all for the want of ready money. Pathetic.” He sits himself upright just enough to lean over to pull the bell-rope that dangles next to his chair.
“Yes, Sir?” An old man enters, dressed immaculately in a uniform which clearly denotes him as the butler of the household.
“A bottle of the finest whiskey, please.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Whilst this brief exchange between master and servant occurs, I ponder whether to mention his drinking further. The man is in a difficult position. His obvious nature of intemperance having led him to drink, and yet I have had many a man admitted to the asylum for reasons such as his. Debt, grief, anxiety, and depression, topped with acute alcoholism: he worries me. Notwithstanding the physical effects that he may suffer: gout, renal disease, arterial degeneration to name but a few.
He is a future case just waiting to happen.
“She hid the pregnancy from me for five months, Doctor.”
“Pardon?”
“For five, whole, long months. I should have known she was up to something when she wouldn't lie with me anymore.”
“You say she hid the pregnancy?” Concealment of pregnancy is against the law, for good reason.
“Yes. She screamed at me when I found out, but how could I not? She was eating enough at dinner for three people; I noticed her breasts spilling over her dress...” He trails off and shrugs, embarrassed. “I guess she never told me because she was scared of another miscarriage. I didn't act as gentlemanly as I could have when that occurred. I should have given her more support, I should have done something. How could she be too frightened to tell me she was with child?”
“I-” I am momentarily lost for words. There are other reasons that she may have hid the pregnancy, reasons that I don't want to consider. Reasons that surely, do not apply to a
woman of such standing. I wave my misapprehension away.
“Stanbury,” I say, with a joviality I don't feel. “I would like you to try something.” I pick up the bag that I carry everywhere with me, and pull out an item.
“How are you sleeping?” I ask him, as I hold the item in my hands.
“In fits and bouts. I have nightmares.”
As I thought.
“About your child?”
“Yes. And Anne.” He tugs at his tie, and I notice how wrinkled his clothes are. I suspect he slept in them.
“And you say the servants 'hate' you? Why would this be?” A man who drinks is liable to suspecting people and plots of all kind; there is actually no man more dangerous than a drunkard with suspicions. Such a person is likely to carry about a weapon, and use it, either out of a misaligned need for revenge, jealousy, or just plain old hallucinations. “The butler seemed respectful towards you.”
“Yes, but he's the only one,” he says, his flushed cheeks deepening in colour. “The rest of them treat me with barely concealed contempt.”
“Do you have any friends you could call upon?”
“None.”
“What about hobbies, interests? Do you enjoy entertainment; the theatre, for example?”
He laughs, and says, bitterly, “It was the damned theatre that started all of this. Damn William IV and Dorothea Bland to merry hell.” He raises his glass. “God bless you, grandmother.”
I realize he is drunk already, and what I supposed to be his first glass of the day is probably his fifth, or sixth.
“Why did you call me here today, Stanbury?”
He looks at me with a forgotten expression.
“Well, because I wanted an update on my wife, of course.”
“Nothing else?”
He frowns at me.
“Such as what, Doctor?”
“Help, perhaps?”
“Help? For what?”
I shake my head, and offer him the object from my bag.
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