Human Traces (20 page)

the mattress, on which lay a creature, barely man, no threat to anyone because so much of him was missing limbs, hands, half a face so that he was not much more than a trunk with most of a head, breathing, alas; scraps of human matter cohering sufficiently to live. Thomas held the flesh of Tyson's cheek together as they waited. The instigator of the trouble began to turn his violence on himself, hammering his head against the rim of a bedstead. Thomas knew he should intervene to prevent self-harm, but hoped the man would stun himself sufficiently to become more docile. There were running footsteps at last, and Miss Whitman returned with two attendants. "Morphia," she said, holding out a bottle to Thomas. "That's what they give me for him." "That's all right," said Thomas. "You dress Mr. Tyson's wound, you two help me." The attendants reluctantly approached the naked man, who now stood up and turned to face them. He was well-made, muscular, the torso part-covered in curling black hairs, but his eyes seemed disconnected from the activity behind them; looking into them, Thomas understood why people in earlier times had spoken of possession: some other force did seem to own him. He made little effort to resist, until they had him sitting on the floor and Thomas uncorked the bottle; then he began to escape their grip. Neither attendant was strong or particularly willing, but eventually they managed to sit one on each arm and to hold his head. "I need him to open his mouth," said Thomas. The attendants glanced at one another. "You do it," said one. The man selected punched the patient hard in the solar plexus. He gasped, and Thomas poured the medicine into his open mouth, then clamped his hand over the man's lips. The three of them held him till they saw his Adam's apple drag reluctantly upward in his throat and heard him swallow. "Miss Whitman, please take Mr. Tyson up to Dr. Faverill to be examined. I shall stay with the patient until he is calm. Then we will take him to a padded room upstairs until whoever runs this ward arranges for his safety." "We are not allowed to use the padded ' "Please do what you are told. It is only for a short time and it is a better place for him than..." Thomas looked round about them. "Than this." Dr. Faverill invited Thomas and Sonia into his private rooms for dinner that night. He had a panelled apartment on the second floor, high enough to give him a view above the brick wall and over the Downs to the south. The food was not from the asylum kitchen but was prepared by Matilda, who joined them at the table. There was soup and lamb cutlets, then pigeon with bread sauce and leeks from the kitchen gardens. Faverill poured wine from an old ship's decanter he told them had belonged to his father, who worked for the East India Company. "I should like to apologise to you, Mrs. Prendergast," he said, filling her glass, "for the distressing scenes I understand you witnessed today' "It was my fault," said Sonia. "I ran after Thomas without thinking whether it was proper for me to be there or not." "I should not wish you take away a poor impression of our asylum. The patients in Ward 52 are those who have proved beyond our capabilities. The man in question is someone who was sent to us from prison. We have repeatedly asked for him to be transferred to Broadmoor, but so far without success. The communication between hospitals, the county councils and the Home Office is not as it should be. There is another poor wretch there who should not be with us, but in some hospice or house of God." "I understand," said Sonia. "That is very gracious of you. I wish I could say that I also understood. I believe your brother dealt with the situation very well. We shall miss him." Thomas put down his knife and fork. "Why don't you come?" he said. Faverill spluttered over his wine. "What?" "Give notice in writing to the Committee of Visitors saying that in one year you wish to retire. By that time we shall have finished our work in Paris and shall be installed in a fine clinic somewhere in the Alps. The medical staff will consist of myself and another young doctor. It would be wonderful for our venture if we were able to boast also a senior consultant, an eminence grise. You could decide how much work you would like to do, how many hours. The air will be pure, the surroundings congenial. Our patients will represent a mixture of fascinating ailments, and some of them," said Thomas, leaning forward to engage Faverill's gaze more closely, 'we expect to cure." Faverill leaned back in his chair and laughed, not bitterly, thought Sonia, but with a richly sardonic enjoyment. "Curé! My dear Midwinter, I believe you may have found a marketplace. All of Europe is crying out for a cure for its madness. The doctors of my generation have failed. By bringing so many lunatics into one place we have merely demonstrated how numerous they are. But you... Ah yes, you must find the solutions. When the snake-oil salesmen sold their bottles from the back of their wagons in Colorado it was to a population crying out for medicine. You have the demand, you have the need. Now indeed is the time to supply the cure." His renewed laughter gurgled in his throat. Thomas was flushed with indignation. Sonia was ready to lay her hand on his sleeve, but she watched with relief as he controlled himself. "The knowledge of science does go forward," he said quietly. "It does not go back. My generation will do more than yours. And my children's will do more than ours. We will never end our work because new illnesses will arise to test us. Occasionally in history, however, there are leaps. Progress is not smooth. I believe we are on the verge of such a leap, but even if not, I would be happy to contribute to a steady accumulation of knowledge. I am sincere in asking you to join us." Sonia saw tears gather at the rim of Faverill's eyes and wondered how much of his previous mirth had been genuine. "My dear Mid ' "Just let me make it clear, sir. A place in which we would take some wealthy clients, whose fees would fund the enterprise, but poor-house patients too, whom we would treat pro bono. A private clinic with a proper research facility, set in beautiful surroundings. And Dr. Faverill, the senior consultant, with the room of his choice, an Alpine view, working the hours that he chose, lending the lustre of his experience to two young men's endeavour. And the literature we should send out for our clinic, our hydro, whatever we should call it, decorated with your name and the initials of your many honours." Faverill resumed his humorous manner. "Now you flatter me too much, though I am indeed honoured by your words. Deeply honoured, sir." He raised his wineglass towards Thomas and inclined his head. "However, I must make it plain to you that I shall not be tempted into leaving England. I doubt whether I shall leave the grounds of this asylum." "Why?" said Thomas. Faverill breathed in deeply. "Love," he said. "Love?" said Thomas. "Of country? Of place?" "Oh no." Faverill sighed and bowed his head in the direction of the fourth person at the table. "Of Matilda." "In-deed." Sonia noticed how Thomas managed to control the degree of surprise with which he had begun the word. "Indeed," said Faverill. "We cannot be wed because she is married to another, but I have pledged my life to her, most excellent woman." Sonia looked at Matilda, who smiled back at her beneath her white bonnet, and ground her fingers into the palm of her hand with unusual force. She spoke, and her voice was thin and high, with a hard edge to the brogue of the county. "Good Billy," she said. "Good boy, Billy." "Yes," said Faverill. "Thank you. It would take me a long time to explain the circumstances and I do not wish to breach any confidences. I hope it is enough to say that I admire Matilda more than any woman alive. I have the very highest opinion of her character, formed from a long and intimate acquaintance. She was once, as you may have surmised, a patient in this asylum. The county council records still have her as such. She was never my patient, but was treated by my predecessor. All I have shown towards her is concern. She is a lovely creature, I think, quick as a little thrush on the lawn, lively as a sparrow. She has shown me great kindness, for which I shall be for ever grateful. As for love.. We know it comes unbidden, blind. So it was for me. A day without Matilda is for me a day not worth living." Thomas opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Sonia, feeling one of them should respond, said, "What a charming story, Dr. Faverill. I am so pleased for you... Both." She smiled at Matilda, but what she said did not sound adequate to her ears. "Alas," said Faverill, 'my devotion to Matilda prevents me from travelling. She is the most intelligent of women, thoughtful and percipient, but she is sensitive to change. Her life before she came here was one of extreme difficulty. She has found her sanctuary here, inside these walls. She has her own room in the tower, a little box room with a view, nothing more, but it is a world to her." Matilda nodded vigorously. "That's my home," she said. Faverill smiled at Thomas, who was still speechless. "We all acknowledge the random power of love," he said, 'but we do not quite believe it, do we? Men and women are drawn to those of their own age and station. Their marriages are negotiations. Even in the poets we see no more than lip service paid to the idea. Ophelia is in love with... Not the grave digger, nor even Fortinbras, but of course with Prince Hamlet. Romeo's love may be star-crossed but it is inevitable, is it not? The family feud only makes it more so. And as for Miranda... Had she fallen in love with Trinculo no, had she fallen in love with Caliban ah, what a play that might have been!" Even on the subject of his favourite playwright, Thomas could find no words to contribute and Faverill looked amused by his discomfort. "Come, Midwinter," he said, 'you look as though you had seen a ghost. You look like Marcellus on the night watch. Have another glass of wine. At least it will bring some colour back to your cheeks. Is that not right, Matilda?" In her room that night, Sonia sat down to write to Jacques. This was something she enjoyed because it allowed her legitimately to indulge herself in thinking about him. At other times she tried to stop herself from picturing the dark brows, the anxious eyes with the sudden dilatation she had taken for evidence of steel but knew now was no more than a reflex of self-defence that covered his gentler feelings the emotions that now included love for her. Several months had passed since his visit to Torrington and she had no photograph of him, no sure way of knowing that she had not imagined the episode beneath the cedar tree, except on the rare days in between that she had spent with Thomas, who, she and Jacques agreed, must be included in the secret. The plan was that Jacques should return in the summer and that they should have a marriage ceremony in England before returning to Paris. Thomas had been thrilled by the news of his sister's engagement to his best friend; he told her it was the happiest day of his life and served to underline the fact that their joint venture (what he now called their 'folie a trois") was predestined. Sonia was touched that Thomas was so unaffectedly pleased, but a little put out that he was not more surprised; she did not altogether enjoy the feeling that a passion which had crept up behind her in the dark and filled her with joy and awe at the mysterious movement of providence should, to her younger brother, have been obvious all along. She kept a ring that Jacques had sent her in a small velvet purse. She took it out and slipped it on her finger as she wrote to him, but even the unbroken circle did not quite convince her that she was truly loved that she existed permanently and luminously in the mind of a young French doctor in the Latin Quarter. She did not feel she had the right to presume such a thing; it was a phenomenon for which she daily needed new evidence, even though his letters were as frequent and disbelieving as her own. She wondered if she should tell Jacques about her glimpse into Ward 52, but decided that it might worry him, that he might think she had been needlessly upset and blame Thomas for it. She felt a churning of fear and pity when she thought of the iron stable in the basement; it was worse than anything she had seen or imagined, but she presumed that Jacques and Thomas understood the philosophical and religious questions it provoked; indeed, that understanding must be the source of the urgency behind their medical ambition. It was not just scientific curiosity that drove them on, there was a deeper philanthropic motive, and therefore it was unnecessary for her to share her thoughts or to tell her story to Jacques. Instead, she told him how Thomas had offered Faverill a position at their new clinic, and how he had already mentioned one or two patients he would like to take. "Are you quite sure, my dear, that Thomas is allowed to hire all your staff in this way? Are there not one or two brilliant young men at the Salpetriere? And what about me? As the partnership manager was that my title? surely I should have a stake in these matters. There is a girl here called Daisy, a patient, whom Thomas seems keen for us to take (I think perhaps he is a little sweet on her). She has not been able to convince the Committee of Visitors that she is sane enough to be released, so Thomas is proposing that she escape! If a lunatic stays at large for more than fourteen days, she is deemed to be free. Thomas tells me that he and this girl have escaped before and that she intends to follow him when he leaves. He is still not quite the responsible man of science that he would have us take him for; a little of the night reveller persists..." In May, a few days before he was due to depart from the asylum, Thomas asked Faverill if he could take one of the many days of leave that were owing to him, so that he could make his farewells. He put on his strongest shoes and went to the farm to watch the lunatics milking the cows and hoeing the rows of vegetables in the kitchen gardens. The spring breeze brought the smell of malt and hops drifting down from the brewery on the hill, and he glanced up to see the chimney of the laundry puffing away behind it, like the funnel of a stalled brick engine. Thomas was surprised by how much he had come to tolerate, even to like, the asylum. The vast lateral folly was hidden from his view by the elms at the edge of the cow pastures, and he could briefly view it with detachment. The things he had seen inside the walls had seared his soul. But 'sear' was perhaps the word, he thought, like 'cauterise': he was burned, but he did not bleed. He dreaded becoming 'a doctor', like old Meadowes, someone who examined a patient and
diagnosed by elimination, checking symptoms against the remembered student textbook, then, knowing the rudiments of pharmaceutical science, prescribed. Or in so many cases said there was yet no cure. He passionately hoped that he had not become such a mechanical practitioner, such a clock maker such a cobbler of the human. It was time for him to go, and his mind was full of Paris. He had estimated, before Tyson gave him the exact figure, that in the male wing of the asylum there were ten thousand epileptic fits a year. Most of these people were not even mentally unwell, but their tendency to choke at dinner time meant that the piece of medical equipment he had used most was not a stethoscope or a thermometer but a probang, an instrument for pushing stuck food down the oesophagus, something he had been instructed to carry at all times. He sucked deeply on the fresh May morning and sighed. He had solved nothing by his stay at the asylum; all he had done was shine a clear light on his ignorance. The trials of tube-feeding, the stench in 'dirty school' where the negligent were drilled, the candle-lit struggle to bring the case books up to date... How glad he would be to leave those all behind, to enter into private practice with a chance of making someone well. And in case he should become detached from the scale of the task, there were still the wards of the Salpetriere to visit, notebook and stethoscope in hand. He began to loop back towards the circular ice-house, which made him think of Daisy. He had agreed to meet her at an inn outside the town in three weeks' time. Her appeals to the Committee of Visitors had been rejected, and his word alone was not enough to have her discharged. He told her he would help her find a job in a factory or farm (perhaps even in a counting-house now that she could read), until he had set up his clinic with Jacques, when she could come and work for them. Daisy was confident she could escape by the brewery gate, as they had done before. Thomas had also entered into negotiation about the case of the blind girl, Mary, and had successfully persuaded the Committee that in the absence of any symptom of lunacy she could be released when he found accommodation for her. He decided that he would not tell Mary until he was ready to look after her; he feared that she might otherwise prefer to stay. As he made his way back to the building, he hoped that his time at the asylum would be thought worthwhile by the patients. He had cured not a single soul, but he had laid kind hands on them. He had been compelled to protect himself from looking too long into the gulf, because to do so, he feared, would make him lose his own mind. He remembered God's visitation to King Solomon, and His offer to grant any wish the king might have. Solomon had asked for 'an understanding heart'. When he read the story as a boy, Thomas had been disappointed and indignant. Solomon, having already made a dutiful marriage to the Pharaoh's daughter, had surely merited some self-indulgence castles, gold and dancing girls. Now, as he plodded back towards the asylum, he found that he could not recall the story without tears flooding his eyes. Being a man who liked, where possible, to see things through to their natural end, Thomas decided he would visit the only part of the building he had not seen in his time there. Nodding to Grogan in his glass-panelled box in the main hall, he began to mount the main staircase. Lesser corridors, higher and lighter than the one on the ground floor, led off to wards on the right and left; but a narrower staircase led up, into the heart of the Tuscan bell tower And here, he had never before had cause to go. Through windows on the top landing he was able to look north towards the main gates and Patterson's lodge, or south over the Downs towards the river. A spiral staircase led up to a locked trapdoor, beyond which was presumably the bell itself. To the east and west sides were green wooden doors, on one of which was stencilled the word 'archive'. Thomas tried the brass handle and found that the door opened easily. He felt unaccountably frightened when he stepped inside. The room was a library, with free-standing bookshelves, a metal door into what appeared to be a strongroom, and many rows of boxes, books and files. Seated at a table in the western window, was an elderly man in a dark velvet jacket and a smoking cap; he had a reddish-grey beard and reading glasses, which he removed as Thomas approached him. "I am sorry to disturb you. I am Dr. Midwinter. I do not believe that we have met." "Indeed not," said the man, standing up and offering his hand. "You are not disturbing me. I have all the time in the world." "I was just looking round. I am to leave the asylum shortly and I was just..." How odd it was, thought Thomas, that Faverill had never mentioned that they had an archivist. "Saying goodbye?" "Exactly. Saying goodbye. "Thomas coughed. "And these are all the records of the asylum?" "Since it began. The building was opened in 1851. Here we have all the case books the daybooks, the minutes of the meetings of the Committee, the reports of the Commissioners in Lunacy and so on." The man stood up and walked to a shelf. He was about Thomas's height. "This one is signed by Lord Shaftesbury himself. Do you see?" His voice was educated and kindly; there was something of the scholar in it, Thomas thought. "On these shelves we have the farm records, all beautifully done. Until a few years ago, at least. Food is so important for lunatics, is it not? Do you see this? "Provisions consumed during the Year ending Dec 31st 1858. Beef and mutton, 198,285 lbs. For the Sick: Porter and Ale, 34,400 pints." Goodness, they were well looked after. It was quite a different place in those days." "Did you know it then?" said Thomas. "Oh yes," said the man. "I have been here since the first day. The building was opened by the mayor, of course. It was a fine occasion. The local press was well represented. Everything in the building was quite new." "And were you.. What was your.. Thomas found it difficult to phrase the question. "A resident," said the man in his fussy voice. "I have always been a resident." "I imagine the asylum must have been very different then," said Thomas, anxious to move the conversation onwards. "Yes, Dr. Midwinter. Yes, indeed. Those were the days of hope." He walked back to his table. Thomas, for no reason he could explain, affected a rather languid manner. "I have been concerned with the case books myself. It is a little like the Augean Stables no, like Sisyphus, I should say. I am for ever rolling my stone to the top of the hill. But the next day.. ." "I am aware of your work. Some of the books have already been sent up and stored here. You have an elegant hand. Not a doctor's hand, I should say' "Thank you." "Perhaps I should continue with my work." "I am sorry. I had not meant to ' "Do stay. But forgive me if I write." He took his place at the table again and bent over the open volume, in which were pasted case notes written on individual pieces of paper. He appeared to be copying them out into a different book on his right hand. "From what year are these?" said Thomas. "These are from I860." Thomas smiled. "The year of my birth." "Is that so?" The western light was strong behind the man's head, and lit the wisps of reddish-grey hair above his ears. Thomas tried to read upside down what he was writing; it appeared that he was merely copying out the doctor's original notes into a more legible copperplate. "Are you... Transcribing? Or..." "These words are so bare. "Believes the devil is in his abdomen. Says voices come to him through the walls of the church." I try not merely to transcribe, but to redeem. Is that not the duty of the man with the pen?" "Perhaps." Thomas looked once more round the room, then began to take his leave, seeing that the man was bent to his work. "I have enjoyed talking to you," he said. The man stood up. "It has been a profound pleasure to meet you," he said. "I seldom have visitors up here. I have admired your work and I did hope that one day I should have the pleasure of meeting you face to face. It is a remarkable coincidence. My name, too, you see, is Midwinter."