The Book Collector

by Alice Thompson

  A while later, a nurse wheeled in an old woman in a wheelchair. The nurse bustled about her, warm and kind yet patronising, as if she knew all the questions you were going to ask and had an answer for them all. Giving endlessly of herself, in spite of her short stature, as there was so much of her to give. The old woman’s head was bowed over, as if not conscious but not asleep either, as if in no-man’s land. It frightened Violet deeply to see that inward state of being. The nurse wheeled the old woman to the window and left the room again. The woman’s head remained bowed, and Violet noticed a small burn mark on each of the woman’s temples, as if she had been kissed by fire, twice.

  Violet watched dust motes hover in the air. It was stuffy. She thought about opening the window but saw that it was locked – to stop people getting in or out, she wondered? The door opened again and she turned to see a young woman, also in her own nightgown, enter. She had long auburn hair, and a little retroussé nose.

  ‘Do you mind if I join you?’ She had a rough accent, and Violet wondered why someone from her background was in this room. Violet’s own background had been painted over.

  ‘Not at all.’ But Violet did not feel like the company of others, felt too shy and withdrawn. It would be an effort to seem normal. However, the woman seemed to feel the same way. She sat down in the chair opposite and stared out the window.

  Finally, she turned her head to face Violet and stared at her unflinchingly.

  ‘I’m Donna.’

  ‘Violet.’

  ‘What are you in here for?’

  ‘You make it sounds like we’re criminals.’

  ‘Isn’t that what we are? Our crime is not to fit in.’

  ‘They are here to help us!’

  ‘Are you so sure?’ Donna gave a sharp smile. ‘It’s more like to help everyone else. To make their lives easier.’

  ‘I’ve not felt normal since the birth of my son.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I became very anxious. I started to see things crawling on my baby.’

  ‘I see.’

  Donna laughed again, a bitter little laugh, more like a gasp of pain.

  ‘I have visions, too. But of a better world.’

  She was very pretty, Violet thought, and Donna’s anger gave her an unusual edge.

  ‘Will you play chess with me?’ Donna asked.

  Violet said, ‘I don’t play very often.’

  ‘It will pass the time.’

  But it only passed a little time as Donna beat her swiftly.

  ‘I forked you like a snake’s tongue.’

  Violet noticed a small scar like a snakeskin running down her leg. Donna saw her looking at it.

  ‘It’s from dancing. I fell off the stage, once.’

  How much of this was true, Violet wondered?

  ‘You’re Lady Murray, aren’t you?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I’ve seen your husband. He comes here at night sometimes.’

  ‘To try and see me?’

  ‘No, before you arrived here. Since the start of the year.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ No, she didn’t want to think this was true.

  ‘I see him talking to the doctor. Your husband pays him. I’ve seen him hand him over money.’

  ‘Pays him for what?’

  Donna shrugged her shoulders. ‘Who knows? Who cares?’

  ‘I care.’

  Donna grimaced, tried to reassure her. ‘Don’t worry, love. It’s all harmless.’

  The short nurse came back in.

  ‘Donna. It’s your turn for treatment.’

  Donna stood up. ‘Hope I don’t end up like that!’ And she nodded in the direction of the trance-like woman in the wheelchair at the window. ‘They burn your thoughts with electricity. But they’ll sort me out. You’ll see.’ She gave a bitter laugh. She leant forward and shook Violet’s hand.

  Violet heard the door close again behind Donna and the nurse. She felt uneasy.

  The doctor returned. ‘You are ready to go home now.’ They took her back to her room, and gave her back her suitcase of clothes. She was trembling with excitement as she laced her corset and pulled her heavy green velvet dress over it. She pinched her wan cheeks to give them colour. She wanted to look as she had when Archie had first met her.

  By dusk the carriage was driving down their drive. She saw the manor house at the end of it. She had forgotten how elegant their home was, how delicate the architecture, compared to the heavy frontage of the asylum. How reassuring it was to be finally home, and she couldn’t wait to see Felix again.

  Chapter 17

  STANDING AT THE top of the entrance steps of their house, waiting for her, was a woman Violet had never seen before. She was fair and pretty like a fairy tale princess or ballerina. In her arms she was holding Felix. In that moment, Violet thought, she looked like the mistress of the house, with the heir in her arms, but as she grew closer, she could see that her clothes, although perfectly presentable, were slightly worn. As Violet alighted from the carriage, Archie was nowhere to be seen.

  The woman came down the steps to greet her. She was like a still pond. Her thin fair hair fell in strands onto her shoulders like spun gold. She smiled slowly, as if a shadow of a cloud was slowly lifting from a field.

  ‘I’m Clara.’

  Violet reached out to take Felix in her arms and Clara immediately handed him over to her. He was fast asleep. His long black eyelashes were long, curled up against his cheek. His soft rosebud mouth was slightly pursed. Violet placed a finger gently on his palm and his fingers curled round her own.

  A feeling of maternal love swept over Violet that was so powerful it made her feel faint. Noticing this, the new nanny stepped in quickly and took Felix from her arms, so naturally, Violet thought.

  ‘It’s bed time,’ Clara said firmly as Felix stirred and Violet watched as his head nestled into her neck.

  ‘Good night, Felix,’ Violet said. Softly, too softly, frightened of disturbing the boy. But he didn’t turn his head as Clara climbed back up the steps and disappeared into the house with him.

  At last, Archie came running out of the front door onto the gravel driveway to meet her and flung his strong arms around her.

  ‘Welcome home, my darling.’

  ‘I’m so happy to be back,’ she said, tears in her eyes, tears of gratitude that she had been cured. She was so relieved to be surrounded by loving people and that Felix had been so well cared for. And she would be able to be a good mother to Felix now that she was cured.

  That night, at dinner, she looked at Archie’s face in the candlelight, surreptitiously as she didn’t want to seem over-curious to him. He did look different, she thought, harder round the edges, his gestures heavier. They ate their first course in silence. As they waited for their plates to be cleared, she suddenly asked, ‘Did you miss me, Archie? I missed you. And Felix of course.’

  He was looking at her as if for the first time, as if he had only just noticed her.

  ‘Of course I did, darling.’ He smiled his generous smile. ‘But I knew it had to be done for your sake. For all our sakes.’

  ‘Of course.’ She looked down at the white tablecloth. A breeze from the open window caressed her bare arms, made her silk dress flutter like a moth’s wing. She tried to concentrate on remaining sitting on the chair. She was scared she might fly away, if she made a quick insubstantial movement. She started to play with a fork, its silver glimmering in the candlelight.

  ‘Felix seems so well.’

  ‘Clara has done such a good job.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She looked at his narrow strong shoulders, his perfect shape in its dinner jacket. He was like a shiny toy soldier, she thought, made of tin.

  ‘It’s going to take a while for you to fully recover, darling,’ Archie said.

  But there was no sympathy in his eyes, she thought, only that new brittleness. Or was it new? Was it just that she hadn’t noticed it before? She wanted to rush round to him, hold him, grasp
the old Archie, the one she had loved so intensely, but her hands were gripping the chair too tightly, afraid that she would slip away into the ether.

  That night they made love. He was tender, insidious, reassuring. She felt protected, loved, drained. He touched her in a way he had not before, as if he knew her better than she knew herself. Afterwards, she heard him fall quickly into sleep. She lay awake, luxuriating in the soft cotton sheets against her skin, the scent of lavender emanating from the open window. She looked up at the white corniced ceiling with its intricate swirls, like icing on a wedding cake.

  How she longed for normality, to be how she had been before the birth, to regain that innocence before the madness had struck her and given her such a terrible knowledge it was now impossible to lose. She did not know what the knowledge consisted of. She only knew it had a heavy darkness at its centre, like the poppy head, bowing low.

  She fell into a fitful sleep where she was walking through a field of white poppies with their dark centre and petals outlined in a black inky line, unable to find a way out, surrounded by the intense scent of her new knowledge.

  Such was Clara’s strange presence, Violet felt, unless she resisted, she would be engulfed in it: there was no edge to her, she was full of curves. She was amorphous. Her big blue slowly blinking eyes were like discs of wonder, as if Clara couldn’t quite believe in her own existence, as if she was her very own constant surprise.

  Bea, when she came round to visit, was clearly impressed by Clara’s competent manner. When she and Violet were alone, Bea asked if Clara was seeing anyone.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Violet said, surprised at the question.

  ‘I think we need to find Clara a nice young man. I know just the person.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My nephew. He’s coming to stay with us for a few months. He interested in farming and he needs a wife who knows the value of hard work. Not some upper crust lady who doesn’t want to soil her hands. Clara is wonderful with Felix.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she’ll make a wonderful mother. A good wife. And most importantly of all, as far as Ralph goes, she’s beautiful.’

  Violet mentioned this to Archie, that night.

  ‘Bea and I are going to try to matchmake Clara.’

  ‘Oh? Are you sure that’s a good idea? We might lose her.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that. But it will be fine. He’s local.’

  ‘And who’s the lucky gentleman?’

  ‘Bea’s nephew Ralph.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think he’ll have much luck!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because Clara doesn’t strike me as the marrying kind.’

  She was astonished. How on earth did Archie know that? He never noticed anything, as he rooted obliviously around in his own masculine world. He noticed her surprised expression.

  ‘Oh, I can just tell. She’s kind of shut off,’ he continued.

  ‘Well, we’ll see. Ralph sounds like a rather fine man.’

  Archie stood up from the table. ‘Well, I think it’s a stupid idea and will end in trouble.’

  ‘Don’t be so pessimistic, Archie. It’s not like you.’

  Archie turned round and snapped at her – ‘And don’t you be so interfering’ – and stormed out of the room. He seemed so irritable, she thought. When they had first met he had been so attentive. Which was the real version, she wondered? She longed for the return of the original version, as if Archie had been replaced by an imposter. She gave up on the idea of finding someone for Clara.

  Chapter 18

  CLARA WAS AN expert at everything she did. She helped the maidservants with the cleaning, cared for Felix, and agreed with all of Violet’s opinions as if they were her own. Felix always appeared in the morning rested, dressed in his smart clean baby clothes. Violet was still not well enough to attend to his practical needs but she could read, and take walks in the garden as Clara and Felix played together, and she was content to relinquish the care of him. Clara would show him pictures in a book, carry him around the garden, and pick flowers for him to smell.

  Violet noticed how devoted Felix was to the nanny, how he relaxed into her arms, in a way he did not with her, how he looked at Clara with a loving shine to his eyes. Felix clung to Clara, and Violet felt only gratitude, relief that her previous behaviour had not affected him too badly and that Clara was now compensating for his mother’s inadequacies, which might otherwise have caused him harm.

  ‘You are being collected for the asylum.’

  Donna looked happy.

  ‘Who is collecting me? I have no family.’ Why was she feeling so confused? Since the electric shock treatment she had felt light headed and irresponsible. The visions had vanished to be replaced by a colourful, amenable world. Why had she not recognised this before? How free she was?

  ‘He says he is your uncle.’

  ‘All my uncles are dead.’

  ‘Do you want to be released or not?’ The doctor looked angry.

  Is he something to do with this, she wondered? She quickly thought, I have to get out, if this is the only way to escape, I should go along with it.

  A carriage was waiting at the door. It was a brand new hansom cab. This was strange. And how odd to be in her old tatty clothes again. They smelt musty and unclean but this was the beginning of her new life.

  ‘Good bye, Donna,’ the doctor said. ‘It has been a pleasure to have you with us.’

  As soon as she clambered up into the empty cab, it started to drive away, the horses galloping faster and faster. The carriage rocked from side to side but heading in the opposite direction to London. Where am I going, she wondered, but she was past caring. Soon she would be able to dance again, put on her red shoes. How she loved to dance. The leaves of the trees shimmered in the darkness and the wind blew past her as they drove. The trees became thicker and thicker. Finally the horses came to a halt in the middle of a forest.

  A man came out to greet her. He was wearing a long cloak and a hat that shielded the face.

  ‘I’m so glad to meet you, Donna.’

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Thank you for getting me out of the asylum. I thought I would die in there.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I would not let you die in there.’

  He took her hand. She felt so unbearably happy to be free of the asylum. She hardly knew what she was doing. She felt she was in a dream or a strange fairy tale, and this was her prince come to rescue her. She had been waiting for this all her life. He took her to a tunnel in the hill and they entered it, a cavernous tunnel in the hill. The darkness seemed to caress her skin and his strong hand holding her arm, leading the way, seemed to comfort her.

  She began to wonder if she were still in the asylum and this was a mad dream. They entered a room fashioned from the rock. It was like a cave with a table and bookcase. The bookshelf was empty.

  She began to feel uneasy. But the treatment had left her with a wonderful feeling that she was untouchable.

  ‘Sit on the bed, Donna.’

  She watched as he started to prepare something. He was getting out a hook, which he was attaching to a metal bar in the ceiling.

  ‘Would you like a drink of water?’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  He brought over a jug from the table and poured out some water for her. She drank it obediently. Obeying the commands of others was what she had been doing for years in the asylum and she was so grateful to be out in the real world. She was beginning to feel drowsy, as if drugged by the same medicine they had used to sedate her in the asylum, when she became too difficult.

  ‘Do you like fairy tales?’

  She nodded.

  He brought out a fairy tale book.

  ‘Would you like to rifle through and select one?’

  She did as he asked; there were so many.

  She came to ‘The Red Shoes’. ‘This one,’ she said.

 
‘Ah, you like to dance. You have such pretty feet.’

  She looked down at her feet encased in their old black patent boots. How could he tell, she wondered, that she did indeed have pretty feet.

  After she lost consciousness and collapsed onto the floor, he carefully untied the laces of her boots. Her feet were small and delicate. He undressed her completely. She had red pubic hair to match both her hair and also the story, he thought approvingly. It was all meant to be. And she had beautiful full milky white breasts. He wondered how long it had been since a man had touched her and he stroked her breasts gently but the nipples remained inert. He stroked down the inner side of her soft thighs.

  He made a square incision on her back, began delicately to peel back the skin. It was exquisite white skin, he thought, and he was careful not to tear it. It was so soft. He brought the knife up, still dripping with blood, and pressed it against her face.

  Chapter 19

  VIOLET BOUNCED FELIX up and down on her knees. He giggled with pleasure, his round cheeks like a doll’s, she thought, an impossibly perfect porcelain doll. Archie was lying on the lawn, a few feet away, reading a newspaper. Felix was laughing and Violet was laughing because he was laughing. He was getting wrapped up in her long dress as they lay on the grass. The sun was beating down and butterflies were skimming the foxgloves and peonies, turquoise wings and pink and white petals a confusion of colour. For a brief moment she wondered if it was all a dream and she was still in the asylum.

  She traced Felix’s cheek with her finger. How warm his skin was, the opposite of the cold harsh texture of the asylum. He was life, as the asylum had been death. She buried her face in the nape of his neck, smelt his warm sugary scent, burning hot with life and needs, a flame of energy. He was hers. She had given birth to this wondrous creature. It was a miracle she still couldn’t quite believe in, this act of creation. Before the asylum she had felt her life was constructed by thought, would fall apart without it, but now she could see that the opposite was true, life would happen quite happily without any thinking at all; she didn’t need to worry or ponder or deliberate or imagine anything at all.