Wildthorn Page 10

  "What is it, Susan?" said Aunt Phyllis, with unusual sharpness.

  "Oh, Ma'am. It's a telegram. For Miss Louisa."

  For a second no one moved or spoke. Then I seized the yellow envelope and with trembling fingers drew out the thin sheet of paper. As I read it, I felt the colour drain from my face.

  "What's happened, Lou?" Grace was watching me with concern.

  I stood up. "I have to go home immediately. Papa is ill."

  There was a general exclamation.

  "May I?" Taking the telegram from my hand, Aunt Phyllis scanned it. "Your mother doesn't say what is wrong." She gave me a lopsided smile. "Perhaps it's not so serious. You know your mother."

  "Yes. But I must go. I must see how he is."

  She nodded. "Of course. Whatever it is, he'll feel better for the sight of you. The maid will pack your things and I'll order the carriage."

  ***

  I left in a confusion of goodbyes. At the last minute Grace thrust something through the carriage window. It was the sketch she'd made of me. "If Uncle Edward is all right, you'll come back again, won't you?"

  Her beautiful face was creased with concern and I wanted to jump out of the carriage and bury myself in her arms. But I was also frantic to get home.

  We set off. I sat staring at the sketch, but I didn't see it. Was Papa seriously ill? Had Mamma sent for Tom too? Or perhaps she was mistaken and it was a false alarm. Oh, if only it was and I could go back to Carr Head...

  In time with the rhythm of the rolling wheels, my mind spun between two desperate poles: Grace, Papa, Grace, Papa.

  ***

  The journey had never seemed so long. We had to stop to change horses, but I wouldn't go into the inn, I didn't want to waste a minute. And I couldn't eat. The coachman stood in the yard to have a bite of bread and a few mouthfuls of ale, then we sped on again.

  When I reached home, Mamma met me at the door. She looked pale and the lines on her face were deeper.

  "Where's Papa?"

  "He's just gone upstairs to fetch something."

  I stared at her. "He's not in bed then?"

  She shook her head. "He says it's nothing. Just a bilious attack."

  "You sent a telegram for a bilious attack!" My voice echoed in the empty space of the hall. I wanted to shake her for dragging me away from Grace, frightening me for nothing.

  Mamma sat down on the hall chair as if she was tired. "I'm so worried about him."

  "But why? What's the matter?"

  Before she could explain Papa appeared on the landing. "Lou? What are you doing home?"

  He started down the stairs but I ran up and met him halfway. I hugged him round the waist. Under his jacket, I could hear his heart, a steady, reassuring beat.

  He smiled down at me. "I didn't expect you for another week."

  "I couldn't stand any more fussing and furbelows." Angry as I was with Mamma, I didn't want to tell Papa about the telegram. That he was at home in the afternoon was unheard of. Perhaps Mamma had good reason to send it.

  To change the subject I said, "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

  "I'm only feeling a little unwell. And I have been taking things easy."

  I shook my head. "You should be lying down. That's what you would tell your patients."

  He laughed. "Doctors make the worst patients. It's well known."

  "And what are your symptoms?"

  He ticked them off on his fingers. "A headache, a touch of diarrhoea, and I don't care for my pipe. Oh, and a disinclination to work. It's probably something I ate." He smiled. "You know how the ladies like to spoil me. It was probably Mrs. Petty's fruit cake. Months old, I expect. And now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll read the paper."

  He passed me and continued down the stairs. He was moving slowly and holding on to the banister but he was steady. He disappeared into his study.

  I felt reassured. Mamma had caused unnecessary alarm and I was about to say so when something in her stiff posture silenced me. She hadn't moved from her seat and, in the dim light, her eyes looked like bruises in the pale oval of her face.

  Steam is rising from the surface of the water in the bath. I hunch into myself, but I can't cover my nakedness.

  "Stand up straight, Miss Childs." Weeks is thin-lipped.

  I don't trust her for a moment. But Eliza is here, standing by the taps, and she gives me an encouraging look.

  "But I had a bath yesterday when I arrived."

  "This is good for you, Miss." Eliza glances at Weeks and adds in an undertone, "You know, for your monthlies." As if she thinks I might find the subject too indelicate, she mouths the last word. But Weeks has heard.

  "Eliza's right—this is the recommended treatment for aymenoria." She stumbles over the last word.

  I'm puzzled. I've never heard of this before. And then I realise—"Oh, amenorrhoea."

  Weeks scowls. "Hold her arms, Eliza."

  It's too late—I should have run. But without my clothes, how could I?

  Weeks is holding a canvas strap in her hands. What's it for? My skin crawls. I saw what she did to Miss Hill. What's she going to do to me?

  Eliza gives me a rueful look as if she's sorry for what she has to do. I cling to this. Weeks can't do anything bad while Eliza's here.

  Swiftly Weeks wraps the strap around my chest, pinning my arms to my side.

  "What are you doing?" My voice wobbles.

  "Now, Miss Childs, don't make things worse for yourself" She is efficient. She has already put another strap round my thighs and is bending to fasten my ankles together, giving the strap a painful tug before standing up.

  She reaches towards me. I can't help it—I jerk away, lurch, lose my balance, and fall. My chin cracks on the stone and hot pain shoots up my jaw. Stunned, I lie still for a moment.

  "Miss, are you all right?" Eliza is bending over me.

  "Of course she is, Eliza. Don't make a fuss." Weeks's tone is acid.

  I feel foolish, lying naked on the cold floor, unable to get up. I explore my mouth gingerly with my tongue. All my teeth are in place but I can taste the metallic tang of blood.

  "Let's get this done."

  The next minute Eliza and Weeks haul me to my feet and before I can say anything, they pick me up and drop me in the bath. Water fills my mouth and nose. I can't breathe. Panicking, spluttering, I scrabble with my feet and manage to push myself up, bring my head into the air. I gasp for breath, inhale hot steam.

  Behind my head, I hear a cupboard door opening. Now Eliza is standing beside the bath, her arms clasped round something that is rolled up; in the dim light, it looks like a thick blanket or a rug.

  Weeks moves to the other side and between them, they unfold the roll and hang it over the bath. It's a canvas cover, which comes up to my neck and stretches down to the taps.

  My spine prickles with apprehension. "What's this?"

  Weeks ignores me. Eliza explains, "We can't stay and watch you, Miss." She's busy fastening the cover under the rim of the bath. Rough canvas chafes my neck.

  "But I don't need watching. I won't climb out." How can I, strapped up like this?

  "It's the rule," Weeks snaps, checking the fastening. The cover's too tight. It's choking me. I press my head against the back of the bath. This is mad. They know I'm sane so they're trying to drive me mad.

  "Right, Eliza."

  Eliza gives me another rueful look but she has to follow Weeks out. They take the lamp with them.

  I daren't move. The darkness presses on my eyes and ears and I listen out for footsteps. Surely they'll be back soon? All I can hear is a muffled drip drip.

  I realise I'm holding my breath. I let it go, then breathe in just a little through my nose. I'm scared of swallowing the blackness.

  Why have they done this to me? I've done nothing wrong.

  You've made an enemy of Weeks. And you know what else you've done.

  I close my eyes. Then jerk them open.

  Don't fall asleep. Think. Think. Find something
to focus on. How to amputate a leg? Yes. Apply a tourniquet.

  I have to find a way out of here. If I write tonight, Mamma should get my letter tomorrow.

  With the knife, cut through the soft tissue to the bone, leaving flaps of muscle.

  I might hear from her by tomorrow night.

  With the saw, cut the bone...

  Or perhaps she won't write, but will come immediately.

  With the forceps, trim round the edges of the bone

  I might be home in a day or two. Unless Mamma is too anxious to come herself.

  With artery forceps, pick up the ends of the major arteries and veins and apply ligatures to stop the bleeding.

  She could send Mary.

  Fold the flaps of muscle over the cut bone...

  Oh Mamma, I'm sorry I was so angry with you. Please send Mary...

  and sew the edges together.

  Or perhaps it's Tom I should be writing to. Yes, Tom, he's much nearer. But maybe he can't get away at the moment. Would Aunt Phyllis be better?

  Who? Who will come and save me?

  The hot steam rises round my face. My sore mouth is throbbing. Mustn't shut my eyes. Mustn't sleep. But I'm so heavy, drowsy in the heat, drifting...

  I'm in a green leafy place. Somewhere water is trickling and I can hear laughter.

  I go in search of it, brushing aside branches bowed down with white blossoms. It's warm—I'm hot in my heavy gown. And then I hear a familiar lilting voice. It's Grace! She says, "Why don't you take off your clothes?"

  I obey, undressing slowly as I stroll dreamily on, leaving a trail of garments behind me. Grace's voice soothes. "Isn't it lovely? Feel the cool grass under your feet..."

  For a moment I'm utterly happy...

  But then a different voice hisses in my ear, "You're a bad girl, a very, very bad girl, and you must be punished..."

  My feet are clamped to the ground and I can't move. Long white fingers like maggots creep over my body, I'm sinking into the earth, deeper and deeper until I'm lost. The cold creeps up my body and then I know. I'm dead. I'm buried.

  I open my eyes.

  It's totally dark. I'm numb with cold, and fear beats in my ears. I can't move. A heavy weight is pinning me down. My mouth, my eyes, my ears are blocked with darkness. I've been buried alive. They have dug a pit and put me in it and stamped the earth down on top of me so that I can't cry out...

  Drip.

  I remember. I'm still in the bath. How long have I been here? Why has no one come?

  I try to call but only produce a croak.

  The door opens sending a bar of light across the canvas cover.

  "Miss? You're still here?"

  It's Eliza, with a lamp.

  "Oh, Miss, are you all right? I'd have come to top up the hot water, but Weeks sent me on an errand. I thought she'd see to you."

  All the time she's talking, she's unfastening the cover, helping me out. I can hardly stand. My teeth are chattering.

  Eliza supports me on one arm, rubbing me vigorously with a towel.

  "You're right perished! It's wicked. Can you walk?"

  A nod. All I can manage.

  Eliza helps me along the hallway to the dormitory, where she unlocks the door.

  "You'd best get into bed, Miss. It's the only way to warm up. Here, slip under the covers, while I fetch your night gown."

  She holds back the bedclothes and I climb stiffly into bed. I lie curled up with my arms wrapped round me, trying to get warm. My hands and feet are numb.

  Eliza is soon back. She helps me to sit up and puts my nightgown on me, as if I were a child. My skin is blotchy, wrinkled like a prune. I try to fasten my nightgown, but my shrivelled fingers won't work. Eliza does it for me, patiently tugging at each button with her broad fingers.

  She smells of milk, and almonds.

  When I am tucked in, she pauses by the bed.

  "I'm sorry about this, Miss. I'd say something, but it'd cost me my place, you see."

  I manage another nod.

  "You have a good sleep."

  Don't take the lamp away. Don't leave me alone.

  The light goes from the room. I'm in the dark again. The fear is waiting.

  Just once I let myself think, "Grace, where are you?" Then I roll into a tight ball and tell myself, over and over again, "It will be all right, it will be all right..."

  Seven Months Earlier

  I didn't want any pudding and strangely, Mamma didn't insist. She was staring out of the window and seemed to have forgotten the food going cold on her plate.

  Neither of us spoke. In the silence, the ticking of the clock seemed louder than usual. I wondered if Mamma, like me, was thinking of Papa, lying in bed upstairs.

  I looked at her. "Shall I see how he is?"

  "Yes, do." Another strange thing. Usually I couldn't leave the table until everyone had finished.

  ***

  Papa was lying back on his pillow. On the tray in front of him, the bowl of soup was half full. Still, he had eaten a few spoonfuls.

  He smiled at me. "Hello, Lou. Had your dinner?" He was trying to speak normally, but his voice sounded hoarse. His face was flushed again, a deep red.

  "Papa, I think I should take your temperature."

  "Don't be silly, Lou. It's not necessary."

  "I think it is. Papa, you know it is. Please."

  He gave in as if indulging my whim, and I fetched the thermometer from his study. When I saw the result, I exclaimed. "It's a hundred and three! We should send for Dr. Kneale."

  He lifted his hand in protest. "No. There's no need to trouble him. I've probably got a touch of influenza, that's all." He broke off in a fit of coughing. Perhaps he was right about the influenza.

  When he'd recovered, he murmured, "What I need is a good sleep."

  I took the hint and left him in peace.

  Alone at my desk, I tried to read, but I had to keep going back over the same sentences. I couldn't stop thinking about Papa.

  "Louisa!" It was Mamma's voice, sharp, urgent.

  I ran to my parents' bedroom.

  Papa had vomited. He was tossing around in a tangle of sheets and he still looked very hot.

  Mamma tugged at his soiled nightgown but he was flailing his arms so wildly she couldn't get if off. "Help me, Louisa."

  We managed to pull the gown over his head but as we were trying to put on a fresh one, he sat up and pushed us away.

  "Don't touch me, you blackguards!" he shouted and, seizing his pillow, he thrashed it about as if he was fighting off an unseen enemy.

  "Papa, it's me. Louisa!" But he didn't know me.

  Mamma cried, "Edward!" and tried to catch hold of his arm, but he pushed her violently against the chest of drawers.

  I went to the door and shouted for Mary. As soon as she appeared, I said, "You must run for Dr. Kneale. Hurry, Mary!"

  ***

  It seemed like an age until the doctor came. All the while Papa thrashed about and babbled nonsense in a voice I'd never heard before. Mamma and I watched in silent horror. There was nothing we could do.

  Dr. Kneale arrived. Although he was a colleague of Papa's at the Dispensary, we didn't know him very well. He examined Papa then turned to Mary and said, "Have you any ice?"

  When she nodded, he told her to fetch some, wrapped in a cloth, and hold it on Papa's forehead. Papa was less agitated now and submitted to this quietly, although he continued to mutter and once said, very distinctly, "Pecked off her nose!"

  Dr. Kneale took Mamma out of the room and I followed.

  On the landing, Mamma was saying, "He's been so restless at night, unable to sleep. It's unlike him."

  "And he's had diarrhoea," I added. "Not much and not very often, but it's yellow, like pea soup."

  Dr. Kneale surveyed me with his mild blue eyes. "Well, now. That's a very precise observation, young lady. You're quite the nurse, aren't you?"

  His tone made me squirm, but before I could say anything, Mamma asked, "What do you thin
k it is?"

  We both stared at him anxiously until he said, "I don't think there's anything to worry about. I'd say it was a common fever. It shouldn't last more than a week or so."

  A sigh escaped Mamma and her shoulders relaxed. I felt reassured too. The doctor left, saying that he would look in the next day.