Wildthorn Read online

  "Papa—oh, Papa," I murmured brokenly, and then I couldn't hold back any longer—all the unshed tears poured out, soaking into the fabric, washing away the last remnants of his scent that still clung there.

  All night, fear has fluttered under my ribs.

  What will Weeks say about yesterday evening? What will she do?

  The door opens ... I hold my breath ... but she drops a bundle of clothes on to my bed without a word; she doesn't even look at me. I watch her go round the dormitory, her face closed, grim.

  My swollen lip throbs, my arm is bruised where I fell. She was punishing me, I'm sure. For telling Dr. Bull about her or for eavesdropping on her attack on Miss Hill? Both probably. I could report her about the bath, but she'll say she was carrying out orders and Eliza can't support me. If I describe her cruelty to Miss Hill, she'll deny it. They'll say I'm making it up, that it's a delusion of my madness. And Weeks will punish me again.

  I pull a garment from the pile of clothes. These are mine. My own clothes.

  For a moment, I hug them to me, as if they are old friends. Then I examine my gown, my petticoats, my chemise. "Lucy Childs." "Lucy Childs." "Lucy Childs." The same name in each garment. Not my name.

  Say nothing, play the game. It won't be for long now.

  If I don't see Mr. Sneed today, I'll write the letter. Nothing will stop me.

  Looking to see that no one is watching, I surreptitiously feel the waistband of my gown. The money is still there! That at least is something.

  I dress, moving sluggishly into the routine of the day. My mouth is sore, and I have a dull pain behind my eyes; I feel worn out. I find it hard to sew, fumbling at the cloth with my shrivelled fingers, my eyes so tired I can hardly see the stitches.

  By evening there's been no message from the superintendent, so after supper I approach Weeks.

  My stomach is knotted, but I keep my face neutral and ask politely if I may write a letter. For a moment I think she'll refuse—she eyes me suspiciously—but then she unlocks the cabinet and passes the things to me without a word. A sheet of paper, an envelope, a pen, some ink.

  I try to keep my voice level. "May I have two pieces of paper?"

  Weeks frowns.

  I look her in the eye, holding my breath. She's going to refuse. But no, she hands over another sheet. "That will be thruppence."

  Five coins in my pocket. I give her one, then go to the table in the far corner. After some hesitation, I write:

  Wildthorn Hall

  Dear Mamma,

  I have arrived safely and I am well, as I hope you are too.

  When Weeks circles the room to check what we're doing, this is the letter she sees, this is the letter I'll give her to post. Hidden beneath it is the other piece of paper. As soon as Weeks has passed on, I pull this out and hurriedly write on it:

  Dearest Mamma,

  Ignore my other letter. If you have heard from the Woodvilles and are wondering where I am, I'm afraid I have some bad news. I am locked up in an asylum called Wildthorn Hall. I don't know where it is exactly, but you should be able to find it. It's somewhere in Essex, in a forest. Please come and rescue me or arrange for someone else to do it.

  I pause and glance round.

  Weeks is lecturing Mrs. Thorpe, who's been shifting from chair to chair, leaving a trail of white threads on the carpet. I'm safe for the moment.

  I think it was that woman, Mrs. Lunt, who engineered this. I'll explain it all when I see you.

  This is a dreadful place. They have locked me up and stolen my clothes. They spy on us all the time, and I mean all the time, even in the most private moments. Their treatment of the patients is appalling. Yesterday they tried to scald me and they left me in the dark for hours trapped in the bath.

  And they're trying to drive me mad by pretending I'm someone else—they want me to be like all the other mad people here, but I know who I am and I know I'm not mad. But if I stay here much longer, I'm afraid I will go insane.

  I pause, my hand trembling. I imagine Mamma at her writing desk, reading my letter ... my heart twists.

  I dip my pen in the ink and write:

  Mamma, I'm sorry for how we parted. Please make them let me out. Please come and take me home.

  The paper is full. Just enough space to squeeze in.

  Your loving daughter,

  Louisa

  If Weeks opens the other letter and wonders why there's only one sheet of paper, I'll tell her my pen leaked on the second sheet and I screwed it up and threw it on the fire. This letter, the real letter, I'll give to Eliza, with some money for an envelope and stamp. Perhaps she'll be able to post it tomorrow.

  In spite of everything, Mamma will come to my rescue, I know.

  All I have to do is wait.

  Three Months Earlier

  I let myself drift with the swaying motion of the train that was carrying me to my new life at the London School of Medicine for Women.

  Something hard hit my leg and I opened my eyes.

  I was squashed between a fat woman and a girl with a wriggling toddler on her lap. The child kicked my knee again, but the girl turned her head, pretending not to see. Someone was smoking a pipe; people were unwrapping greasy brown packages and soon the smell of ripe cheese and sausage filled the carriage, making my insides heave. The toddler grizzled and the heat rose.

  My head was beginning to throb so I shut my eyes again, but this time I couldn't escape into my daydream. I had to face reality. I wasn't on my way to begin a new life; I was going to see Tom, to plead with him.

  My stomach was tying itself in knots. I'd never been to London before, never even travelled any distance on my own. On top of that I was apprehensive about seeing Tom.

  I tried to reassure myself. We hadn't corresponded at all in the three months since Papa died, but as long as I stayed calm, and stated my case clearly, I could get him to agree, couldn't I?

  To distract myself, I started writing a letter to Grace in my head.

  Dear Grace,

  Do you remember how I wanted to be a hero?

  Now my days are spent dusting ornaments and deciding between scrag end of mutton and fatty strips of belly of pork for dinners that Mamma and I push around our plates, each of us pretending to eat...

  As you know, Mamma has always been thrifty, but now, although Papa left us plenty of money, she has got it into her head that there isn't enough, and she doles out the money for the housekeeping in such small amounts, I have to scrimp to make ends meet.

  Mamma has other anxieties, too, and whatever I'm doing, she follows me about, because she can't bear to be alone. I try to set her mind at rest about whether Mary has remembered to buy candles and why Tom hasn't written...

  And I keep thinking I hear the front door open and Papa's step in the hall...

  Oh, Grace, I know you must be busy planning your new life, but it would be lovely to hear from you ... I do miss you...

  I opened my eyes, blinking the tears away.

  I would never send this letter, of course. I wouldn't want Grace to be burdened with my troubles. And Mamma wouldn't want anyone, certainly not Aunt Phyllis, to know how her grief had affected her. Only Mary and I really knew.

  I sighed. I didn't like leaving Mary with the responsibility of looking after Mamma, but I had to come. I had to try.

  And if Tom agreed then perhaps we could make some arrangement for Mamma—perhaps hire a companion for her. Someone that she trusted and felt happy with...

  As the wheels ate up the miles to London, my heart beat a refrain to their rhythm: Please let Tom understand. Please let him change his mind. Please let him say that I can train to be a doctor.

  ***

  I stepped down from the train into a barrage of noise: steam hissing, shrill whistles, doors slamming, and voices, voices everywhere. I was carried along in the crush of bodies. High above, birds were flying in and out of veils of smoke and above them, through the double vault of glass, stained with soot, I caught glimpses of yellow sk
y.

  I reached the end of the platform. This, surely, was where Tom would meet me. The crowd was thinning and I scanned every face but there was no sign of him. What if he hadn't received my letter?

  I was afraid to move in case he couldn't find me. Fifteen minutes ticked by on the station clock, by which time I'd chewed a hole in the finger of my glove.

  A voice made me jump. "New to London, are you, dearie? Looking for somewhere to stay?"

  I stared at the woman's wrinkled face, seamed with beige powder, at her rouged cheeks, her greedy eyes.

  "No, no thank you," I said hastily, and moved off towards the station entrance. There I stopped, overwhelmed.

  The broad street was choked with traffic and the noise was deafening: the grinding of iron-shod wheels over the cobbles, the cries and whip-cracks of the drivers. Crowds hurried past on the pavement, amongst them men with placards advertising theatres, patent medicines, Hovis Bread, the Daily News. The continuous movement of people in the heavy, humid air and the stench of horse manure and drains made my head reel.

  I backed against the stone wall. Its cool gritty surface felt solid, comforting, but I couldn't stay there: people, especially men, kept looking at me. I looked up at the clock on the tall red tower to my right: two o'clock already. Where was Tom?

  Stay calm. I told myself. Think. I had the address of Tom's lodgings in my bag; I must go there and see if he was at home. If not, someone might know where he was.

  I asked a woman with a kind face the way to the Caledonian Road and she told me it was just round the corner. I pushed through the noisy throng, the sultry air fastening itself like a tight band round my head.

  ***

  Partway along the Caledonian Road, I stopped and looked at the piece of paper with Tom's address on it. 7, Warren Place. He'd said it was near the canal.

  As I hesitated on the pavement, a voice said, "May I help you, Miss?"

  I turned, feeling a surge of relief at the sight of the blue uniform. The constable gave me directions, indicating a narrow passageway between two buildings. "It's only a short step away, but are you sure you'll be all right on your own, Miss?"

  "Of course." But as soon as I turned off the main thoroughfare my pretended confidence vanished.

  The passageway smelled dreadful, as if it had been used as a lavatory. Holding my breath I picked up my skirts. I came out in a gloomy square and here the smell was so bad it made my eyes water. Putting my handkerchief to my nose, I crossed the square and turned into a cindery lane, with a high brick wall on one side and a row of ill-assorted buildings on the other.

  Here I stopped. It must be a mistake. Tom couldn't possibly be living here.

  I was debating whether to turn back when some ragged children with dirty faces appeared from nowhere and started calling out to me, so I walked on swiftly. I soon came to number 7, a tall grimy house with brown flaking paint on its doors and windows. I was sure I was wasting my time.

  Taking a deep breath I pushed the bell. Nothing happened. I pushed again and waited. Eventually the door opened.

  "Yis?" A scrawny girl glowered at me, her grubby mobcap slipping over one eye.

  "I'm looking for Mr. Cosgrove. Does he live here?"

  "He's not in." She made to close the door.

  "Wait!" Desperation made my voice sharp and the girl narrowed her eyes. "Please. Could you tell me when he'll be back?"

  "Dunno." Her hand was still on the door. "Is he expecting yer?"

  "Yes. That is, I sent a letter. But I don't know if he received it this morning."

  "Nah," she said, "he didn't. His letters're waitin' for 'im."

  Tom didn't know I was in London.

  "'Ere," she said, "y'ain't gonna faint, are yer?"

  The roar in my ears receded. "No. But I need to sit down. Please let me wait for him. I'm his sister."

  She smirked at that, but she said, "I spose it can't do no 'arm. Mind, you'll have to sit in the 'all. There ain't nowhere else." She opened the door wider and I went in.

  The dim, narrow hallway was brown, too: greasy-looking brown panelling, scuffed brown linoleum; there were even dun-coloured stains on the ceiling. Why was Tom living here?

  "There y' are." The girl jerked her thumb at a chair squeezed in between the stairs and a rickety table on which some letters lay. I let myself down gingerly on to the woven seat which had come unravelled in places.

  "Gotta get on," she said and disappeared through a door in the back of the house, letting out a waft of fried onions.

  I looked through the letters: mine was there. I wondered how long it would be before Tom returned, and what he would say when he saw me.

  I must have fallen into a doze. Jerked awake by the ringing of a bell, I came to, my mouth dry, my head pounding.

  I heard a sharp exclamation from Tom, and a girl's voice saying, "She sez she's yer sister."

  Then two faces stared at me, one grinning and one astonished, with brows beginning to knit into a familiar frown.

  Tom took my elbow and steered me out into the street. "What are you playing at, Lou?" His grip on my arm hurt.

  "I had to see you, Tom." After the dim hallway, the light was dazzling, the heat pressed down on me like a gigantic flat iron. "Can't we talk in your room?"

  "No," said Tom shortly. He nodded back at his door, which wasn't quite shut, and I saw a pair of curious eyes surveying us. "This is damned inconvenient."

  I was startled. Tom had never sworn in front of me before. "Is there somewhere we can go? Somewhere that serves refreshments?"

  He gave a little tsk of impatience. I added hastily, "I don't want anything to eat ... but I'm thirsty." Was it because my mouth was dry that I was finding it hard to swallow, or because of the lump in my throat? Why wasn't he more welcoming?

  He let go of my arm and faced me. "Look, if you must know, I can't afford to take you into a respectable restaurant."

  I couldn't hide my surprise. What had he done with his allowance?

  Abruptly he asked, "Have you any money?"

  "Only a little."

  "So what the deuce am I supposed to do with you?"

  I felt dismayed but I steeled myself. "If there's no alternative, let's go somewhere that isn't respectable."

  He laughed derisively. "Right, but remember it's your choice."

  ***

  We headed back to the Caledonian Road where we passed several shabby looking chop houses, but for some reason Tom wouldn't stop. Finally we reached a place where, having peered through the steamy windows, he said, "This will do."

  Tom wasn't joking when he said somewhere not respectable. Like his lodgings, this was another brown-panelled, grimy room, dark enough that the gas jets had to be lit even on this summer day. It smelt of stale smoke, ale, and rancid cooking fat.

  I hesitated on the threshold, but Tom was already making his way to an alcove, so I followed him, stumbling over a stool leg.

  A waiter in a greasy apron took our order and when he'd gone I leant forward to speak, but Tom shook his head. "Not yet. Wait till we're served."

  I sat back again on the rough settle and surveyed my brother. He looked washed out and he had dark circles under his eyes. His hair was tousled as if he'd forgotten to brush it, his clothes dishevelled.

  "You don't look well, Tom. You're working too hard."

  He frowned. "There's nothing the matter with me. But you look terrible, Lou. And you've a smut on your face."

  I dabbed at my cheek, transferring soot to my glove. "I'm just tired, that's all." "Tired" was an understatement. These days I felt as if I was dragging a huge weight about with me. If only I could convey something of this to Tom...