Wildthorn Page 20

  I instantly move away from Eliza, my cheeks burning.

  Scratton is surveying us from the end of the bed, arms akimbo, her face twisted in a sneer. Then she goes off, laughing in an unpleasant way.

  "Take no notice," Eliza says in an undertone. "I caught her nicking—stealing stuff from the stores. That's instant dismissal, if they find out. She's just angry I've got something on her." She sounds fierce. Then her expression changes. She looks round as if to see whether anyone's near and then leans towards me, her face so serious, I wonder what's coming.

  "I've been thinking—" She stops then goes on in a rush, "I wondered—I wondered if you knew why you're here."

  I hesitate and immediately she says, "Sorry. I should keep me snout out. It's none of my business."

  "No. I don't have any idea. Mr. Sneed wouldn't tell me what it said about me in my papers. I think my brother Tom's behind it all, but I don't know why." Just saying it makes my lip tremble and I can feel tears pricking my eyes.

  "Don't go upsetting yourself." Eliza chews her lip, looking thoughtful. "What's he like, this brother of yours?"

  I tell her about Tom and me—what it was like when we were growing up, and more recently.

  "Sounds to me like he's jealous 'cos you're cleverer than him."

  "But I'm not!"

  "Sure?"

  I think about it—Tom failing his exams. Papa saying he'd rather have me helping him than Tom. Maybe she's right. And then I remember what Tom said when I saw him in London—how jealous he was of Papa spending time with me.

  "But he wouldn't do this just because he was jealous, would he?"

  Eliza shrugs. "Folk do things for all sorts of reasons. I've heard some terrible stories since I came to this place. A lady put here because her husband were tired of her and a poor lass jilted..." She shakes her head. "Anyway, tell me about your family. What are the rest of them like?"

  Hesitantly at first, but then with increasing confidence, I describe my parents—dearest Papa, poor anxious Mamma...

  Eliza doesn't interrupt or comment; she just listens, her head tilted slightly, her blue eyes fixed on mine.

  Encouraged by her attention I find myself telling her what happened in the months before I came to the asylum. I tell her everything—nearly everything.

  I only falter twice.

  When I talk about Papa's illness, I can't go on; the tears block my throat. Eliza sits quietly and waits, and after a while I can continue.

  I tell her about the terrible time after Papa died. Everything up to that last visit to Carr Head. That's when I falter again.

  I tell her, briefly, about my aunt and uncle, and Grace—I go hot when I mention her, but Eliza doesn't seem to notice—but I skip over what happened and rush on to the plan for me to go to the Woodvilles. And even though I feel stirred up by it all, and some things are very hard to talk about, I feel a kind of relief in sharing it.

  I finish with, "What I can't understand is why no one's written. I'm sure Mamma must miss me, whatever she said to Tom. I know I miss her."

  "Perhaps she has."

  "What do you mean?"

  "They keep the letter sometimes—don't let the patients have them."

  "No!"

  "S'true."

  "That's so wicked. How can they treat people like that?"

  Eliza shrugs. "Well, they do. But maybe the rest of your family don't know you're here. Have you thought of that?"

  "I don't know what to think."

  "Maybe they all assume you're still at these Woodvilles and your brother has told them some tale to explain why they haven't heard from you."

  I stare at her. Could Tom be capable of that? Why not? If he can put me in here, he's capable of anything...

  I'm still thinking these bitter thoughts, when Eliza shifts uneasily. "There's something I didn't tell you before. About Miss Hill."

  "Oh?"

  "She told Weeks she were frightened that if you took her away, her ma wouldn't know where she were and wouldn't be able to find her."

  I suddenly see Beatrice's face, her big violet eyes brimming with tears. I should have done more to reassure her. But perhaps when I burst in with my wild scheme, she thought I was just another mad patient.

  "There's something else." She threads her fingers together. Unthreads them.

  "What?"

  "I didn't want to tell you, but I can't lie to you. That gallery she's been moved to—it's where they put the incurables. The quiet ones."

  "But she was getting better, wasn't she?"

  Eliza looks down at her lap.

  "Eliza?"

  She sighs. "After she told Weeks about your plan, I don't know, maybe she felt guilty. Or maybe she realised what a fool she'd been. Alice told me that soon after I left she went funny, like she was having a fit, shaking and crying and carrying on. She wouldn't stop. They sent for Dr. Bull and he had her transferred."

  We fall silent. Despite everything, I can't help feeling sorry. I sigh. "The things she said—about her baby—did you believe her?" I know I did at the time but now I'm not so sure."

  "I didn't at first. Because that's what everyone said, Weeks, the doctors—they all said she were having delusions. But the more I saw her ... and the way she were with that doll..."

  "Mmm. I'm surprised they didn't examine her when she arrived. They'd have soon found the truth of it."

  Eliza gives me a meaningful look. "I've heard that Miss Hill's stepfather gave the asylum a great deal of money."

  Of course. With a "generous donation," that man ensured that anything his stepdaughter said about him would not be believed. Poor Beatrice.

  Eliza stirs. "It's time I were off, Miss."

  "Yes."

  "Is there anything else you want?"

  "There is something..."

  "What?"

  "Would you—would you call me by my first name?"

  She raises her eyebrows in her droll way. "I'll try, Miss." Her hand flies to her mouth and she giggles, an unexpected, delightful sound in this place. Then she straightens her face and looking at me, very deliberately says, "Louisa."

  I stare at her.

  "What's the matter?"

  "You don't think I'm Lucy Childs. You believe me!"

  "Yes."

  "Why? No one else does."

  She shrugs. "I don't know. I just do."

  Three small words. So simple, so matter of fact. But making all the difference in the world.

  I'm going to have to ask her. "Do you"—I stop, dizzy with fear of her answer. I swallow—"Do you think I'm mad?"

  She looks at me in a considering way for so long, my heart races and the palms of my hands grow moist.

  "Well, anyone looking at you now would think you were a right loony..." Seeing my face, she laughs and is immediately serious. "No, I don't and I never have done, right from the first time I saw you."

  "Oh." That's all I can manage, but I feel lightheaded, almost giddy with relief. Impulsively I catch her hand. "You don't know how much it means to me—" I stop because Eliza's cheeks are reddening and I feel strange, as if I've said more than I meant.

  For a moment we stare at each other and then Eliza says quickly, "I'll see you then. Soon as I can."

  I've hidden the Fowler's Solution under my pillow—I don't need it now. Talking to Eliza has given me hope. I've been trying to eat more and I've taken to marching up and down the whole length of the gallery. Each day I can go farther, feel stronger. And I'm looking for ways out of here...

  The next time Eliza visits, I can see immediately that something has happened.

  She looks swiftly round the room. Scratton is occupied with someone at the far end; no other attendants are near. Flopping on to the bed without any ceremony, she pulls something out of her bag and thrusts it into my hand. "It's part of your papers. I got Alice to copy them, when she were cleaning the office."

  I stare at her, my heart jumping in my chest.

  "Go on then. Read it!"

  I unfold
the grubby piece of paper and scan the pencilled words written in a round childish hand.

  "What do you think? I had a look but I couldn't make much sense of it."

  "Listen." My throat is as dry as a rusk. Clearing it and keeping my voice down, I read the words to Eliza,

  "1. Facts indicating insanity observed by myself:

  An interest in medical matters inappropriate for one of her age and sex.

  A neglect of appearance and personal toilet, and wearing unsuitable clothing for a young lady of her status.

  2. Other factors indicating insanity communicated to me by others:

  Excessive hook-reading and study leading to a weakening of the mind.

  Desiring to ape men by nursing an ambition to be a doctor.

  Self-assertiveness in the face of male authority.

  Obstinacy and displays of temper.

  Going about unchaperoned, for example, travelling to London alone in a third class railway compartment..."

  With every word, with every line, my chest tightens and I grip the paper so hard it starts to shake. Tom! I see Tom's hand everywhere in this. But the words come to a stop. There's no signature. The thing I most need to see.

  I go to speak, but Eliza gets there first. I've never seen her look so angry. "It's all wrong. You shouldn't be in here. Sounds to me like they're accusing you of being mad, just 'cos you weren't quiet and obedient, like a good little girl. Pah!"

  I smile at her wryly and nod at the paper. "Is this all you have?"

  "That's all Alice had time for. She heard someone coming."

  "Do you think she'd..."

  But Eliza is shaking her head. "It were hard enough getting her to do this much."

  She grimaces and I wonder what it took. I can't see Alice doing anything out of the goodness of her heart.

  Eliza adds, "She did mention she'd had a look at the signatures on this bit, but she couldn't make it out—it started with a "K" she thought."

  Dr. Kneale! That day he came when I was wearing that old dress to do the cleaning...

  "The other certificate was signed by Wood somebody."

  Mr. Woodville! Of course. So I was never meant to go to his mother's...

  No wonder he kept looking at me—Tom's mad sister... At the thought of how Mamma and I had both misread his interest, I can't help it—I start to laugh, a laugh that quickly turns to tears.

  "Miss? Louisa? Are you all right?"

  I wipe my eyes. "I still don't understand about the name. This is all about me, so why isn't it my name?"

  Eliza shrugs. "Maybe the doctors were in on it. Whoever asked them to certify you, like, got them to write a different name."

  Tom! My heart begins to beat like a drum. "It must be my brother then. It can't be anyone else. He was writing to Dr. Kneale about me and Woodville's his friend. There'll be another paper in my file signed 'Thomas Childs.'"

  Remembering what Beatrice said, I add bitterly, "And he's the only person who can sign me out of here."

  I pass the paper back to her. "You'd better destroy that."

  She takes it, then bending her head nearer mine, she whispers, "Maybe I could help you escape."

  I scan her face, a wild hope dancing inside me. "Would you? Do you think it's possible?"

  A vision flashes into my mind of the two of us running through the park, along the drive, and out of the gates, out, out into the world. But then reality breaks in.

  "What if they found out? What about your job?"

  "I don't care. I don't want to work here any more—there's too much unhappiness and people not treated right."

  My heart lurches, and I swallow hard. "So you're going away?"

  She gives me a little smile. "I can't stay here forever."

  And neither can I. Especially if she's not here. "You'll need a reference," I remind her. "If they find out you've helped me to escape—"

  Her face falls. "They won't find out." But she doesn't sound confident.

  "They caught me last time!"

  "But that was because Miss Hill—" She stops, chews her lip. Her blue eyes cloud over. "I've something to tell you."

  I feel alarmed. She looks so anxious. What could it be? "Yes?"

  "I've been to see her ... She's quite comfortable ... but, she's not there any more, like she's gone so far into herself she can't get back." Eliza shakes her head. "Poor girl."

  I look at her with surprise. "You feel sorry for her? When she lost you your place?"

  "Yes, I do. She's such a poor scrap. And it were my own fault. I knew I were taking a risk."

  "Why did you?"

  She plays with a frill on her dress. "At first I felt sorry for Miss Hill, being on her own, like. And I felt sorry for you. It seemed like it were helping you to see each other. It seemed to be doing you good."

  She becomes intent on her frill, pleating it between her fingers, smoothing it again.

  "Eliza? What is it?"

  At last, she looks at me. "I thought you were sweet on her."

  I stare at her for a moment, not believing I heard right. Then I have to look away, my blood racing. I can't think of a single thing to say.

  Eliza chews her lip, her eyes anxious. "I'm sorry. I've spoken out of turn."

  I turn back to her. "No. No."

  There's an awkward silence and then abruptly, she stands up. "I'd better be off"

  She's embarrassed now and probably thinks she's offended me. But I'm not offended at all. I feel as if I'm floating, light and free.

  I hasten to assure her, "I felt sorry for Beatrice, too, you know. I wanted to rescue her. That's all."

  "Oh." Her eyes clear, become as blue as a summer sky. More silence as I look at her and she looks at me.

  Then she says softly, "I'll get you out of here, Louisa. Somehow."

  There's something in her tone that makes me look at her hard, and she's looking at me and in that moment something happens, I don't know what, as if a spark leaps between us and my heart falters and then goes on faster than before. I want to say something without having the least idea of what it might be. The silence stretches and we go on looking at each other.

  She is the first to break it. "I nearly forgot." Fumbling in her bag, she pulls something out and gives it to me. It's an orange.

  I hold it cupped in my hands. The colour is so vivid it hurts my eyes. And the smell ... I close my eyes and breathe it in.

  "It's not just for sniffing—you make sure you eat it. There's more where that came from."

  I open my eyes. "Thank you."

  "Is there anything you want next time?"

  Automatically, in a kind of dream I reply, "No. I don't need anything, thank you."

  ***

  Even after she's gone, I go on feeling happy for hours. I sit in a daze, holding my orange, but I'm not thinking of it, I'm thinking of Eliza, her expressions, the things she said. Especially that one thing." I thought you were sweet on her" She said it so simply. As if it was the most natural thing in the world. As if it was all right.

  At last, with a sigh, I turn my attention to the orange and for a long time I just look at it, savouring its colour, enjoying the weight of it in my hand, the anticipation. Finally, I start to peel it, digging into it with my nail, releasing the sharp sweetness, the sticky juice.

  I'm just about to put the first segment into my mouth, when I see that my neighbour has suspended her blanket-shredding and is watching me. On an impulse, I offer the piece of orange to her, but she rears back with a squawk of alarm. She utters a word which sounds like "pisspallet" and then she starts on her blanket again. So I eat the segment myself and it's delicious.

  Very slowly, bit by bit, I eat the orange, enjoying every mouthful. And all the time, it's as if Eliza is still with me, buoying me up.

  I can't believe it! Eliza was here only two days ago and here she is again! I see her coming in at the door and Scratton, who's dealing with a screaming patient, puts out a hand as if to detain her. Eliza ignores them both and comes rapidl
y down the gallery. I'm grinning like an idiot and then I see her face and I go cold.

  "What is it? What's happened?"

  "I've been suspended."

  "What? What does that mean?"

  "I've been taken off the gallery for now. I'm to go to my room and wait there until Mr. Sneed send for me. I had to tell you, in case—" She doesn't finish the sentence.

  In case. In case she's forbidden to see me again, in case she's dismissed...

  All the possibilities are bleak. And they all mean the same thing—I won't see her again. And there will be no escape.

  "Oh, Eliza." I can't say any more. My throat is blocked and something is clawing at my chest. I seize her hand and press it to my face.

  "I must go."

  "I know." But I can't let go of her hand. I search her face, taking in all the familiar details, committing them to memory.

  She puts her face even closer to mine; I can feel her breath hot on my ear. "If you can get to the Infirmary, you might be able to get out."

  "Out? How?"

  But it's too late. Scratton is at the bedside, with a twisted smile on her face. "I don't think you're supposed to be here, Miss Shaw." She gives the name a mocking emphasis.

  Eliza straightens up. She draws in her breath. She gives me one last agonised look then she walks away from me, down the gallery to the door, and she's gone.

  Scratton leers down at me, but I turn my back on her and curl myself into a tight ball.

  This has all happened so quickly I can hardly take it in.

  I can still see Eliza's face, feel the pressure of her fingers on mine. It's as if someone has plunged a knife into my heart and I can't do anything, I just have to endure the pain.

  ***

  After a long while I come back to myself and try to think.

  I must somehow get myself taken to the Infirmary, like Eliza said. It's a separate building across the park. Maybe it's easier to escape from. But how do I get to it?