The Whispering Road

by Livi Michael

‘Well, I couldn't pay for her, could I?’ he shouts. ‘I'm not made of money. Costs a small fortune, keeping patients inside.’ Then, as I just stare at him, he says, ‘Look – they'll have taken her in. They don't just leave them there. And it seemed like a better place than the workhouse.’

  ‘But that's where she'll be now!’ I say furiously. ‘They're not going to keep her there for nowt, are they?’

  Honest Bob spreads his hands. ‘I did the best I could, lad. It's not as if you were there to look after her. Where were you?’ he says pointedly, and all my arguments die away in my throat because he's right. I'm supposed to look after Annie, not him.

  Abel puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘All right, mate,’ he says to Honest Bob. ‘Come on, lad,’ he adds to me, and I shake my head in disgust. For there's nothing else to do.

  ‘You'll have to go and speak to them there,’ Honest Bob says as we turn to go. ‘And I hope you find her. Though what state she'll be in, I don't know.’

  Abel nods. Then he turns round. His arm moves so fast I hardly see what's coming, and Honest Bob doesn't see it at all, but the next moment he's flying over backwards as Abel's punch lands on his nose. We leave him there, spluttering in the mire.

  Abel's strides lengthen and I trot after him.

  ‘They'll have put her in the madhouse,’ I say desperately, because all I can think of is the dribbling lunatics roaming round the workhouse, that had to be chained up when they took a fit. ‘We have to go there now.’

  ‘Not at this time, lad,’ Abel says without pausing. ‘It's past midnight.’

  ‘But I don't know what they're doing to her!’ I say and stop. I've heard fearful tales of what's done to lunatics – chains and whips, and bleeding by mad doctors who use them for experiments.

  ‘It'll wait till the morning,’ Abel says, very calm.

  ‘But I want to go now!’

  ‘Look,’ says Abel, turning round, ‘they're not likely to let us in at this time. In fact, they don't allow visitors most of the time. But in the morning we'll go straight to the governor's house. I know him. He was a friend of my father's.’

  We walk right by the hospital and I stare up at all the windows, hundreds of them, like I might see Annie's face. All this time she's been so near me, a couple of streets away, and I never knew. Just like Travis, and Nell. It's as though the road to Manchester's like a big tongue, licking everyone up.

  Then we get to the shop and Nell hurries to meet us. ‘What?’ she says fearfully, looking at my face. ‘Have you found her?’

  ‘Let's go inside,’ says Abel, and we join Travis who's sitting on the floor, nursing his foot.

  Between us we tell them what's happened. And when we get to the part about the infirmary Nell's hand flies to her mouth. ‘Oh, but they'll have put her in the madhouse,’ she says, just like me. ‘We have to get her out!’

  Obviously, she's heard the stories as well.

  ‘It's not a madhouse,’ says Abel, sitting down. ‘Not the kind you're thinking of, anyway. It's a proper hospital. I know the man who runs it.’

  Turns out the governor, John Sanderson, was a weaver, like Abel's father. A long time ago he had an accident weaving, and Abel's father took him to the infirmary. His right hand was mangled and he couldn't weave but they kept him on there, doing odd jobs. And he did well and worked his way up, and he's been governor there for the past twenty years.

  ‘He treats his patients well,’ says Abel. ‘A more humane fellow never lived.’

  ‘But they'll have sent her to the workhouse,’ I say miserably, ‘if no one's paying.’

  ‘We don't know that,’ Abel says. ‘And either way, they won't let us in at this time. We should all get some sleep. In the morning, like I say, we'll go straight to John Sanderson's house.’

  ‘I'm coming with you,’ says Nell. She sinks down at the table and her eyes look huge and exhausted. ‘Oh, if only we can find her,’ she says. ‘If only she can tell me something – anything!’ She breaks off, staring at the floor as if she can see awful things written there.

  Abel puts his arm round her. ‘I'm walking you home,’ he says. ‘We'll all go together in the morning.’

  2

  Governor

  I'm left on my own with Travis, but I don't feel like sleeping. Don't feel like I'll ever sleep again till I see Annie.

  ‘She'll be all right, lad,’ Travis says, into the darkness. ‘Try and get some rest.’

  I can only sigh. ‘I've done everything wrong, Travis.’

  ‘No, you haven't,’ he says. Course, he would say that.

  ‘I have,’ I say. ‘My life's a mess.’

  There's a little rumbling chuckle, but when he speaks he sounds serious. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘you've come a long way. You got away from those folk at the farm – and the workhouse. Nell told me about that. You got yourself into Manchester and you've survived on the streets. How many people can say that, eh?'

  I only feel a bit better. ‘But Annie –’ I say.

  ‘We all make mistakes, Tom – Joe – whatever you're calling yourself. I made my mistake coming to the town. I knew it wasn't for me.’

  ‘Why did you?’ I say. Seems like the old Travis would never have come near a place like Manchester.

  He's silent for a while, then he says, ‘I had no plans to come here. But what happened… rocked me. I couldn't think straight. So I gave my freedom up. But I'm better now.’

  I crane towards him, trying to see in the darkness. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘This place isn't for me, lad. I'd like to see the little maid again, to know she's all right. Then I'm off.’

  ‘But where will you go?’ I say, thinking, What will a one-eyed, one-legged tramp do in the country? At least he can beg in the town.

  Travis sighs and shuffles. ‘I need the open road,’ he says. ‘I'll head back towards the hills. Maybe I'll look up Dog-woman.’

  ‘What? Go back to the forest?’ I say, feeling fear at the thought of it.

  ‘Us angels have to stick together,’ he says, and even in the dark I can hear him smiling. They say her bite will either kill or cure, he told us, then I think of him trying to run with the pack. But I can see he'd rather die in the forest than live in the town.

  ‘Let's hope you find her in the morning,’ he says, meaning Annie. ‘Try to get some sleep now, Tom.’

  And while I think I'll never sleep, suddenly I'm yawning fit to split my head in two. And I curl up on some sacking in the corner of the room.

  In the morning Abel has to wake me up. ‘Sun's shining, Joe,’ he says. ‘Best set off early.’

  Nell's there already, looking pale and tense. My stomach's churning and all I can think about is Annie. We walk through the streets in silence. Lammas is a holiday and only a few people are up and about, though later they'll all be at the fairs.

  The governor's house is in the hospital grounds. We have to cross a yard where people are walking round in a long line, for exercise, and my stomach churns even more when I see how they look; some empty-eyed, others bent and haggard. Bright sunlight doesn't improve them – most of this lot'd look better in the dark. Their mouths hang open and some of them are drooling. Annie's not with them.

  From the hospital building there's the sound of someone crying on and on. We come to a bright-green door with a brass knocker and Abel raps on it smartly. A manservant appears and he's dark, like Digger.

  ‘Visitors for the governor,’ Abel says, but the manservant doesn't look impressed.

  Governor's busy,’ he says, but Abel stops him closing the door.

  ‘Will you give him this card?’ he says, and the manservant looks at it suspiciously, then nods.

  Moments later there's the sound of someone clattering down the stairs.

  ‘Why, it's Young Abe!’ he says, before he's got to the door. ‘Abel Heywood's son!’

  Seems everyone in Abel's family has the same name. The door opens wide and an elderly gent with flowing grey hair stands beaming at us through silver spectacl
es, one hand on the doorframe, the other in a leather glove by his side.

  ‘Come in, come in!’ he says, and we follow Young Abe through the door. The governor skips ahead of us.

  ‘You'll have to excuse the mess – I'm preparing an audit and figures never were my strong point. Not like Albert here,’ he says, nodding at the manservant, who's still glowering at us suspiciously. But the governor shifts some papers from a seat.

  ‘Sit down, sit down!’ he cries. ‘To what do I owe this unusual pleasure?’

  I look at Abel and Abel looks at me. Nell looks at us both.

  ‘Mr Sanderson,’ Abel begins.

  But the old gent says, ‘John, please – your father and I were good friends. Call me John. Everyone else does.’

  ‘John, then,’ says Abel. ‘This is Joe.’

  John shakes my hand gravely. ‘How do you do?’ he says.

  Now I should say, ‘Fine, thank you,’ or something like that, but instead I just blurt out, ‘I'm looking for my sister!’

  ‘Are you?’ says the governor, shaking his head. ‘I'm sorry to hear it.’

  I look at Abel again. ‘I'm told she's here – with you.’

  ‘Is she?’ he says, amazed. He pushes his glasses further up his nose as between us we tell our tale. And at one point of it he says, ‘Ah,’ and I know he knows what we're talking about. I stop talking and he looks at us.

  ‘Have you seen her?’ I say.

  The governor presses the tips of his fingers together. ‘A little girl was found here one night, yes. Nobody knew where she'd come from.’

  ‘Did you keep her? Is she here?’

  ‘A problematic case,’ he says. ‘One of the most serious states of catatonia I've ever seen.’ He looks at Abel.

  ‘But is she here?’ I demand, and he carries on talking to Abel.

  ‘The parish are supposed to pay seven shillings a week for the care of those who cannot pay,’ he says. ‘But of course they are denying responsibility. It cannot be proved, they say, that she is of this parish. The beadle said she would have to go to the workhouse.’

  My heart sinks. I never wanted to go near one of them places again.

  ‘Is that where she is then?’ says Abel.

  ‘No, it is not,’ says the governor. ‘One of the doctors here is specially interested in catatonic states as opposed to dementia, and I thought he should be given the opportunity to examine her. She is here,’ he says, standing up and bringing out a large bunch of keys, and my heart flies up again.

  ‘Can I see her?’ I say, stepping forward.

  He fingers the keys. ‘I don't suppose it would do any harm,’ he says, cautiously. ‘But in cases of catatonia you can never tell.’

  I start to speak again, but Abel interrupts. ‘What do you mean?’

  The governor rocks on his feet. ‘Catatonia is a case of extreme withdrawal,’ he says, like he's reading from a book. ‘It sometimes occurs after severe shock. The patient will neither speak nor respond to outside stimuli. As though they have retreated, as it were, a long way inside themselves.’

  I look at Abel and Nell. ‘But that's just Annie!’ I burst out. ‘She's always like that.’

  The governor looks surprised. ‘All evidence of normal consciousness is suppressed,’ he says. ‘There is no interest in the outside world at all, the sufferer lives completely in a world of his own. Very little research has been done in this area, so our doctors were most interested in her condition. I've seen one or two cases before, but nothing like this.’

  ‘But that's Annie!’ I say again earnestly. ‘That's the way she is.’

  The governor looks at me over his glasses. ‘Do you mean to say,’ he says, ‘that if you stick a pin in her she does not respond?’

  ‘Have you been sticking pins in my sister?’ I say hotly.

  Mr Sanderson looks stern. ‘We have not “been sticking pins in her”, as you put it,’ he says reprovingly. ‘This is a humane hospital, run according to the principles of the great Dr Ferriar. It is not an old-style asylum where patients were subjected to fear and shock in order to cure them. It is our belief that sickness of the mind can be cured as well as sickness of the body, by patience and rest and good diet… But we did have to establish the degree of severity of catatonia. We pricked her with a single pin,’ he says, ‘and she did not respond.’

  That sounds a lot less like Annie. I'm worried now and I don't know what to say, but Nell steps forward. ‘Please will you take us to see her?’ she says. She clasps her hands and the governor looks at her kindly.

  ‘Are you a relative?’ he says.

  She doesn't know how to answer that one, but Abel takes her hand. ‘Only the boy is a relative. We're looking after him.’

  ‘Well,’ says the governor, and pauses. ‘I suppose we have to establish first that she really is your sister. I'll take you to the nurse in charge.’

  We follow him out of the house and across the yard, which is quiet now, all the lunatics having been led back in. My stomach's all twisted into a knot. Hold on in there, Annie, I'm thinking. I'm coming back for you.

  He opens the great doors with a huge key. ‘As I say, this hospital is run along the most humane principles that you will find anywhere in Europe,’ he says, leading us along a narrow passage that smells funny. ‘We are opposed to all forms of violence and use minimal restrictions when a patient becomes… excitable. Fresh air and kindness, that's what the good doctor used to say. But in the little girl's case we were thinking that we might have to resort to force-feeding,’ he says, opening another door. ‘We cannot allow her to starve to death in our care.’

  All the time he's talking I'm feeling worse. I never knew Annie refuse food. We enter a large room with high ceilings. Several women patients are there. On the whole they look better than the ones in the yard. They're sitting quiet and sewing or knitting. A nurse is bending over one of them and helping her drink from a cup.

  ‘Ah, here we are,’ says the governor as the nurse straightens. ‘Nurse Agnes Weir. She has particular charge of our little patient.’ And he explains to her who we are and why we've come.

  Nurse Agnes Weir has a lot of white hair, red cheeks and the widest mouth I've ever seen. Green eyes far apart. Looks like a frog. She nods and clucks and makes sympathetic noises as the governor explains.

  ‘Can you take them to identify the clothing first?’ says Governor John.

  Nurse Agnes leads the way and we all follow. We come to a room that's full of locked cupboards. ‘Now then,’ she says, ‘which one was it?’ and I wait, hopping up and down while she opens one cupboard after another. Finally she brings out a small, pathetic-looking bundle, and I recognize the clothes Annie wore with the fair.

  ‘Them's hers, all right,’ I say, clutching them, and something falls to the floor. Nurse Agnes bends down and picks it up and I can only stare. It's the necklace our mother gave Annie, the little beads and half of a coin that I now know is a threepenny bit.

  ‘We take everything off and wash the things they come in with,’ Nurse Agnes says. ‘But we keep them all for them, for when they go out again.’

  I find my voice. ‘You mean she let you take the beads?’ I say, and Nurse Agnes looks a bit offended. ‘We can't let them keep anything they might strangle themselves with,’ she says. ‘Them's the rules.’

  Now I really am worried. Annie never let anyone touch that necklace. She'd fly at anyone who tried.

  ‘I think you can take them now,’ the governor says, and Nurse Agnes picks up a bundle of towels. ‘Fresh linen,’ she says, ‘I almost forgot.’

  We follow her along one corridor and into another, and the voice we heard crying when we first came is louder now. A woman's voice crying, ‘Oh, what will I do, whatever will I do?’ over and over again.

  The next corridor's lined with doors. ‘These are the individual cells,’ Nurse Agnes says. ‘Any patient can come here to be quiet, if they're tired of the common room. And sometimes we bring 'em here to quiet 'em down, if you take my mean
ing. But mostly it's their choice.’

  ‘Do they eat in here?’ Abel says, and he carries on asking her questions like he's doing research, which he probably is.

  I'm hardly listening. I feel like hot coals are burning me up inside. It's a long, long corridor, and Nurse Agnes stops at each door to put a clean towel on each bed. All the doors are open, which surprises me, but in one room a man dashes towards us snarling, and I see he's tethered by a long chain.

  All this makes me feel worse and worse. I'm frightened of seeing Annie, and more frightened of not seeing her. Feels like a bad dream that won't end.

  Then suddenly I can see a door at the very end of the corridor, and sure as if she's calling me, I know Annie's in that room. And I'm breaking free of the others and running ahead, and they're all calling after me but I can't hear. I charge into that room and see the little shrunken figure on the top of the bed, two pale feet pointing at the ceiling. And a groan bursts out of me like it's come all the way from my own feet, and I fall on her and scoop her up in my arms crying, ‘Annie!’ And for the first time in my life, I burst into tears.

  3

  Necklace

  Seems like once you start crying there's no stopping. I hold on to Annie and cry till all the front of her gown's wet. She doesn't move. There isn't even a flicker in her pale eyes.

  ‘Annie, Annie,’ I moan, rocking her. I don't even care that the others are watching from the doorway. This is the worst thing, out of all the bad things that have happened. And it's all my fault.

  After a while Nell comes up to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Joe, dear,’ she says, and I can tell from her voice that she's nearly crying too, and she doesn't know what to say.

  Then Nurse Agnes says, ‘Best leave them alone for a while,’ and they all tiptoe away.

  I'm left with Annie. After a bit I prop her up on the pillow. I brush the hair away from her face and stare into her empty eyes. ‘Annie,’ I whisper. ‘It's Joe.’

  Nothing. But I have to keep on talking. I tuck another strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I left you,’ I say. ‘I shouldn't've left you and I'm sorry. And now you've left me. But I've come back, Annie I'm here. It's me – Joe!