With a disgruntled look in Agnus' direction, Ruth rises from her chair, curtseys slightly to me, and exits the office in an angry flurry of aprons and skirts. Agnus rises to follow.
"Nurse Agnus, dear."I stop her.
"Yes, Doctor?"
"Watch over Anne carefully whilst she is with Nurse Ruth, and report to me immediately any instance of which I need to be informed. I trust you to do your duty as well as always."
"Yes, Doctor. I will. Good day to you."
"Good day, Nurse Agnus. Now please, close the door behind you."
The door shuts quietly, and I am left alone once again with my notes. Sometimes I feel like I am in charge of two sets of patients, the nurses on one side and the 'real' patients on the other.
Why did women decide to enter the workplace? A question that will no doubt confound me until the day I die. Curing the insane is easier than answering that question.
You’ve Seen A Ghost
Anne
April 23rd, 1886
Royal Bethlem Hospital
"That be a fine pattern you sew there, my Lady." A withered hand rests gently upon my shoulder, and squeezes.
"Why, thank you Dolores."I reply, looking over my shoulder and smiling. Dolores must be ninety if she's a day, and I'm surprised she can even see my sewing. Most likely she cannot, but the kindness of this woman has astounded me during my recent days here. She takes it upon herself to walk around the day room, for many hours in the mornings, aided with two walking sticks in her hands and a heavy shawl upon her back. She offers pleasantries to all and sunder that she meets and is a charming woman indeed. Yesterday, I found her talking to Grace, telling her what beautiful eyes she had, and 'a bony lass indeed you be, indeed, my dear'. I swear Grace smiled at her too. Another woman, Esther Base, killed her baby too in a fit of insanity, and Dolores is fantastic with her; offering her comfort when she cries.
Now I have been deemed as 'restored to my senses', or at least temporarily, I have much greater freedom to wander the grounds of the hospital. Of course, this freedom only gives the mad people more opportunity to be crazy without being noticed, a notion which makes me want to laugh. I've been moved into a room a whole level up, which means I can see more of the sky through a slightly larger, yet still barred window. The room is again, singular, though now my stay in isolation is deemed a privilege as opposed to a punishment. It is even graced with a dressing table, a looking glass, a chair, and a clock!
Since they now let me hold a sharp needle, I can sew, though I don't profess to be as good as Dolores declares. Moral therapy, they call it. Beatrix would always do my sewing, dress making and mending, so I never learned. Yet is a skill I am now adamant to grasp, as quickly and as perfectly as I can. It pleases the nurses too, as it is easy for them to keep a watchful eye on me if I am in one place. They don’t altogether trust me, and I don't blame them. I don't know how long I have left in Bethlem. Half of me hopes it is no longer than the morrow, but the other half wishes it was much longer. I have a great deal to do before I am ready to leave.
Dolores pats me on the back and moves on across the room. Every patient in here has their own history, and hers is just one of them. Dolores was 'put' in here by an ex husband thirty years ago so he could be with his new mistress, and never was, nor is, insane: now preferring to stay here than being utterly destitute and shamed on what she terms The Outside. Now and then she puts on a rather grand show of being insane and throws her sticks at the nurses, but I get the distinct impression even they are aware of the ruse. Generally, they laugh, catch them, and hand them back to her. Then they make her a cup of tea. They are the most of them pleasant, except one.
Yes, I remember.
The day room in which I sit and sew is large and airy, and sunlight shines through one wall which is completely covered in glass, albeit, with bars. The grass outside is green and the sky which I can see is blue, without a single cloud marring its perfectness. I always loved crisp, cool, spring mornings. It was on such a morning my son was born.
Unwanted tears prick my eyes, and I lower my gaze to the table. If I start crying, they might think me mad again and I will be stuck here for longer than I want to be.
"Lady Stanbury." I look up and Fat Ruth is beside me. I shiver.
"Yes, Nurse Ruth?"
"Why are you crying?" she smiles, as if it gives her pleasure to see me do so.
I didn't even realize.
"I pricked my finger on the needle," I say, shortly.
"Hmm," Fat Ruth says. "Let me see."
"No." I panic.
"Give me your finger!" Fat Ruth raises her voice and pulls my hands from my lap. Her eyes widen."There are no marks!"
I remain silent. I consider putting the needle through her face.
"Leave me alone, Fat Ruth." I say quietly, so low that only she can hear me.
"What is that, Baby Killer?"
I grab her hand and pull it underneath the table, twisting her fingers back before she has a chance to cry out.
"I repeat: leave me alone, Fat Ruth."I spit at her. She stares at me.
"That's right. You will damned well leave me alone from now on, or I swear it so, I'll have your job. You'll be out on your ear before you can say my name. My father is the Earl of Damsbridge…do you know what that means? Let me make it clear for you: he knows people in high places, why do you suppose I am here instead of the criminal asylum, Broadmoor?" I laugh. "And yes, I killed my baby, and I'll damn well not pause at killing you either if you don't leave me the hell alone."
Fat Ruth gapes. I grab the needle and plunge it into my thumb, once, twice, three times. Blood swells like a teardrop. I squeeze it, and the blood starts running out, down my hand, down my wrist, all over my needlework.
"My Lady! You hurt yourself!" Dolores has finished her round of the dayroom, and is once again behind me. Ruth is still next to me, staring at me.
"Oh, Dolores! I fear I have ruined my quilt!" I start to cry again, this time openly.
"Dear, dear, that's nothing a bit of cold water won't fix. Here," Dolores grabs the patchwork off me, and bundles it around her neck. "I'll wash it in some water for you, my Lady, you'll never know a thing." With that, she hobbles off humming a song.
"Did you just threaten me?"
"Pardon?" I wipe the tears from my face and turn to gaze at Ruth. She hardly seems so big anymore. "You look like a scared hippopotamus. Should you really be working with crazy people if they scare you so easily?"
Ruth looks at me and turns away. Her face has turned white.
"Faint, will you?" I ask, taunting."Will the other nurses come to your aid? I don't think you have many friends here, Ruth."
She pushes her chair back from the table, practically toppling in her haste to get away from me.
I smile with satisfaction.
A Chicken Bone
Edgar
April 26th, 1886
Royal Bethlem Hospital
"Dr Savage, good morning."
"And a good day it is, Stanbury. A good day indeed. Indeed." The excitement radiates from the doctor, yet it fails to bring a smile to my face. It took all of the effort I possess to make it to the hospital today, and I almost told the coachman to turn back twice. The rain battering against the windows matched the hammering of my heart; the rocking motion of the carriage made me nauseas. The mere thought of seeing my wife again made my head pound. I was utterly alone in my misery.
"Stanbury?"
I still am.
"Stanbury?"
I always will be.
"Stanbury!" The doctor calls my name, and bangs his hand on the desk.
"Yes, Doctor?"
"I had to call you three times. You seem a bit pale. Are you alright?"
No. I'm not alright. Nothing will ever be alright ever, ever again.
"I'm fine," I say, forcing myself to meet his gaze and turn my lips upwards in a parody of a smile. It hurts my face, the muscles used to express happiness left long unused.
; The doctor gazes at me, his excitement receding. He twiddles a pen in his hands, a file open on the desk in front of him.
"I asked you here today because I have good news, Stanbury. Very good news. But tell me, how are you? Did the chloral help you at all? How has your drinking been of late?"
Why does he keep asking me that? There is nothing wrong with a man having a few whiskeys to pass the long, lonely evenings. Being alone is awful, terrible. My heart is broken, and I am a lost, miserable, angry man. Every day in Asquith House could be my last, and I spend the days staring at the library door. Terrified that my father-in-law will barge in and order me to leave. Whiskey is my friend. The world is both brighter and somehow dulled, turned into a perfect place where no memories, thoughts, nor emotions exist. Just a black nothingness.
I could go without the headaches, but they're worth it.
"Oh, it worked," I say, neglecting to tell him that I took a small amount of the chloral with alcohol against his advice, and it didn't work. I do my best to appear cheerful, and contrite. The effort pains me. “It worked wonderfully, Doctor. And I have nipped my drinking in the bud, as they say. It was my grief Doctor; I fear I let it get a grip of me for a small while. But I am feeling much better now. Good news, you say? What is it?” I try not to breathe in his direction, in case his senses pick up the whiskey I drank not half an hour ago. There is more than one way to cure travel sickness.
His smile makes my stomach flip.
“Well, that's wonderful news! Brilliant!" He looks as if he is about to clap, but thankfully, doesn't. "You know, Mr Stanbury, I am very relieved. I must say, I was worried about you for a while there. You do still look a bit peaky, but I suppose that’s to be expected given the dreadful circumstances under which we must meet." He sighs, and puts a pair of glasses on his nose. Fiddling with the arms, he continues. "This hospital, this superb building and so many others alike it, right across the country, promote the aid and recovery of poor souls whom have lost their senses, their mind, and in several cases, their families, dignity, and even souls. Through the wonder of modern medicine and the application of moral therapy, Bethlem has a most esteemed record of patient recovery, taking in those cases of madness which are most likely to terminate in cure. Lady Stanbury is one of our successes, dear boy." He pauses.
I wait.
My head thumps.
I stopped listening to him after the second sentence.
He coughs.
What did he say, something about success?
"Success?" I venture, awkwardly, quietly.
He snaps his fingers.
"Yes! Success! Through a routine of work, exercise and rest and an emphasis on community life designed to re-condition the brain, your lovely wife is restored to her senses. Sanity is much returned, and she is able to be discharged. Cured!"
I am numb. Happiness wells within me, somewhere, but overridden by fear of the unknown. Fear of Anne.
Fear of myself and what I might do. To her. To myself. To us. Fear of the future.
Dr Savage misinterprets my silence for rapture, gratitude, or perhaps a combination of both. "Of course, you are speechless. Sometimes I dazzle myself with my brilliance. Yes indeed, we are teetering on the brink of true medical salvation. Patients such as Lady Stanbury serve to reinforce our achievements to those that doubt us, fear us, call us 'mad doctors', alienists, what they will. There are several classes of people out there, other doctors, lawyers, political figures that do not share my opinion as to the efficiency of restful, pleasant surroundings in the treatment of mental disorder. Do they forget that we 'head doctors' are distinguished members of the MRCP? Those ignorant fools forget or oversee this extremely valid point! They condemn us as crazy as those we treat, and insist upon choosing to believe in the virtues of 'medicine out of a bottle!'" He shakes his head. "Chemical cosh! Bromide, paraldehyde and chloral hydrate, unfortunately; ever-present concoctions to be found in every asylum in existence! Tremendously addictive, not altogether as innocuous as those prescribing them would you believe. Sulphonal! Yes, they have their uses, but not for the prominent, nor primary cure of lunatics!"
He has forgotten that he prescribed me one of the very things he now refers to as 'cosh'. Yet an unfamiliar emotion is stirring within me; a strange, recently elapsed sensation.
Hope.
Thank God my wife was under the care of this doctor. What if she had been forced to take these dangerous and addictive medicines, when all along she was in no need of them? She may never have become sane, she may never have been discharged, she may never have come home to me...
Home.
To me.
I am saved.
I jump to my feet and grab his hand.
"You are a genius, Doctor! Thank you, thank you!" I pump it, tightening my grasp. "I am thankful and grateful that Anne has been in such eminent and reputable hands. Lord knows what may have become of her in another asylum." My stomach lurches, but I ignore it. The doctor smiles awkwardly, and gently removes his hand from mine."Times are changing, Stanbury. Soon, we will be in a new century. Enlightenment will occur throughout the medical profession, I am sure of it. I hope for it, at the very least." He sighs. "The sad truth is, we are steadily becoming overcrowded: not just here at Bethlem, but in every asylum. Before long, they are bound to become understaffed, underfunded, and grossly undervalued. Any idiot can see that this outcome would not the most propitious climate in which to engender bright new ideas, nor ideals. An increased inmate population...But enough of my deliberations." He closes the file with a smile. "Any questions?"
"What is Anne's prognosis?"
"Excellent. I would not expect her to relapse unless she was to birth another child. It is not certain she would suffer another attack of the senses, but in my clinical experience I have certainly seen patterns of repetition affixed to post puerperal insanity."
My nausea increases.
"So, we are not advised to have another child?
"Sadly, no. I would take precautions as far as possible to avoid a future pregnancy. I am sure you are aware of such methods: withdrawal of the penis immediately before ejaculation, introduction of a sponge into the vagina as to guard the mouth of the womb, douching by Lady Stanbury immediately after intercourse with tepid water..."
No more children.
The end to everything I have worked towards.
No, it can’t be. It can’t. She will have a baby with me, consequences be damned.
"...or a combination of baking soda and vinegar; pre made solutions of carbolic acid, tannin and salicylic acid. The list is rather exhaustive, so you see there are many means to prevent unwanted pregnancies."
"Thank you, Doctor." I didn’t listen to a word he said.
“Then, of course there is the option of complete abstinence.”
I laugh.
"No, really, Stanbury.”
Did I laugh out loud? His speech continues on the ether of my hearing, something about how wonderful sexual relations are, and how he understands that as a man, it is difficult to abstain. I smile and nod politely throughout.
"You fidget, Mr Stanbury. Can I infer that you wish to see your wife straight away?"
I nod.
Rising from our chairs, we leave the office and start the journey to Anne's room. The asylum seems lighter, brighter, and somehow altogether more cheerful than I remember on my last visit here. A large fireplace fills the dayroom through which we walk with heat and light and a woman sits next to the fire, sewing. It is a cosy atmosphere, and a sense of relief floods through my veins. Anne would have liked it here. She did not suffer. I spy a bird cage in one corner; inside is a beautiful finch. The stories I hear of neglect and abuse in lunatic asylums quite clearly don’t apply to Bethlem, and for that reason alone I am thankful her father pulled whatever political strings he did at the outset to prevent her otherwise impending incarceration at Broadmoor.
"It is rather lovely in here," I say, taking in my surroundings. I cannot help but comment. Dr S
avage stops in his tracks, turns to face me and positively beams. "Thank you Mr Stanbury! To have our efforts appreciated by those closest to our patients' is no mean feat." We continue walking, and as we pass a door a loud thump comes from within, startling me.
"Oh, that." The doctor turns, and shakes his head sadly. "That is the incurables room, containing the very few patients we have been unable to bring about any recovery. It is for everyone's happiness, sanity and safety that they are kept segregated from the rest. Generally, after a period of one year we discharge all patients whether they are cured or not, but for these few there is no alternative. No family, nowhere for them to go. Transferring them out to another asylum is not an option I favour." Stopping outside the door, I look through the glass panel. Inside are six or seven patients and four nurses, or at least that I can see: the small transparent square makes for a limited viewpoint. It is chaos. Numerous women, some shouting, some screaming, some singing, some banging: all of them making the most god-awful din. The doctor leans over my shoulder and peers through the glass. "Gives them a place to be themselves without disturbing others whom do not appreciate the volume." A nurse rushes past and stops a woman from banging her head, in what appears to be a deliberate move, against the head of another patient.
Dear Lord.
"Are they violent? Was my wife ever around these people?" I ask, aghast.
"No, she wasn't. Don’t worry. And generally not, no, they're not violent, despite appearances to the contrary. If they were, they would be isolated from the others. But sometimes disagreements happen between individuals, much the same as the outside world I'm afraid."
An elderly woman approaches us in the corridor, politely nodding her head. "Good day to you, kind Sir's," she says, stopping and reaching into a wicker basket.
"Good day," I say, watching her warily. I raise my eyebrows at Dr Savage questioningly.
Slowly, she pulls something out of the basket.
I step back.
The Medea Complex Page 14