Wildthorn (15 page)

"I teach my little sisters and it works best that way."

Now Weeks is urging us to stand up and Mr. Sneed leads us in the National Anthem, which he sings strongly, accompanied by a ragged off-key chorus. I glance over to Beatrice but Weeks is wheeling her towards the door.

Eliza says, "I'd better go, Miss. There's supper to be sorted."

Watching her hurry across the floor, I have a sudden vision of her dancing in a cottage with her sisters.

It gives me a strange ache in my heart. But something else, too. I feel as if I've woken up from a long sleep. For the first time in a long time I feel more like my old self.

What have I been thinking of? Letting the days, the weeks drift by instead of acting sooner? I've been depressed, I have to admit it. And the chloral. That's been partly to blame, drugging me into a semi-stupor, an acceptance of my fate. But I am not Lucy Childs, a poor, mad girl. I am Louisa Cosgrove.

And I must
do
something, try to get out of here...

Today, when I enter the day room with the others, a stranger, a man with a shock of ginger hair, is standing by the fireplace talking to Mr. Sneed. The superintendent turns towards us with an insincere smile. "Come in, ladies, come in. Don't be shy."

We're huddling in the doorway, some stupefied, others suspicious. Weeks pushes her way through from the rear, saying sharply, "Come along now. Don't keep Mr. Sneed waiting."

We shuffle into the room.

"Ladies, allow me to introduce Mr. Allen." The superintendent gestures towards the ginger-haired man, who gives us a weak smile, his eyes nervously darting round.

With the air of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, Mr. Sneed announces, "I have a surprise for you, something to celebrate the New Year. Mr. Allen has come to take your
photographs.
"

His eyebrows shoot up expectantly but the response of his audience is disappointing: Miss Coles utters a moan and wrings her hands. Others stare uncomprehending.

Only Mrs. Smythe rises to the occasion, sailing forward and taking a chair near the window. "I believe this is my best side. The light catches my face to advantage here." As the nonplussed photographer fails to move, she gives him an imperious look. "I am
ready,
young man."

This is a change from sewing shirts and sheets.

I can't help watching with interest as the photographer opens a large box on the table. It's no ordinary box. Its lid opens on to the table to form a tray and an inner flap folds out to form a kind of roof. Inside I glimpse some small brown bottles, just like the medicine bottles I used to fetch for Papa. It must be a kind of travelling darkroom.

A hand falls on my arm. "Miss Childs, give the gentleman room."

Without realising it, I've come closer to the table. Weeks ushers me away, but not before I've seen gutta-percha dishes, a spirit lamp, a funnel ... What exciting experiments I could have carried out, if I'd had such a box of tricks.

The photographer proceeds to set up his camera near to the window. Mrs. Smythe bares her teeth in what I suppose is a smile and holds still. But Mr. Allen isn't ready yet. He sits down at the table and drapes a black cloth over the box and his head and shoulders. There's a sound of clinking glass and a strong smell of ether fills the room.

Mrs. Smythe is growing restive. "Young man, are you going to be much longer? I have a very important appointment with the Ambassador and I don't want to be late."

The black cloth convulses and the photographer emerges from his darkroom, red-faced, with tears streaming from his eyes from the chemicals. "Not long now," he gasps and plunges under the cloth again. He appears holding a plate of glass by its edges, which he slides into the camera.

He is ready at last. But his sitter isn't. Bored with waiting Mrs. Smythe has tipped the contents of her purse into her lap and is busy sorting through them.

"Um—" Mr. Allen looks round helplessly.

Mr. Sneed is talking to Weeks by the door. Eliza has been going round persuading everyone to take off their caps and doing her best to smooth our hair with a comb. Seeing the photographer's discomfort, she comes forward.

"Um—can you tell the—rr—lady to hold still. It'll only take ten seconds or so."

Her eyes dance. "You could tell her yourself, you know." But she relents, gets Mrs. Smythe arranged, and the photograph is taken.

More activity under the black cloth of the box follows and finally Mr. Allen emerges with the plate and places it on the table.

"Is that the photograph?" Eliza seizes the plate.

"Well, yes—but—"

"She's got a black face!"

I press forward with some of the other patients to see. A hubbub of comment breaks out, above which Mrs. Smythe is strident. "Disgraceful. He has made a mockery of me. A treasonable offence, I shouldn't wonder."

Mr. Allen snatches the plate from Eliza, clutching it protectively to his chest. "This is the negative. I haven't finished processing it yet." Sweat has broken out on his brow and he mops at it with a large spotted handkerchief.

Weeks comes to his rescue, shooing us back and the process of capturing our images proceeds.

I wish I could see what he was doing in his box. I would like to know how it works. We never had our photographs taken at home. Perhaps Mamma thought it was frivolous or a waste of money.

One Christmas—it seems a long time ago but it can't have been—Aunt Phyllis sent us a leather case that opened like a concertina, containing six photographs: single portraits of herself, Uncle Bertram, William, Grace, Maud, and one of the whole family sitting in the garden. In this, Maud was blurred—she must have moved—and Grace's face was in shadow. But in the single portrait, Grace was herself, so vivid and alive, my pulse raced every time I looked at it. I wanted to take out the photograph and keep it for myself, but Mamma would have noticed it was missing.

Remembering it now, my heart aches.

Grace, Grace ... what are you doing? Do you know where I am? Do you ever think of me?

I shake my head at my own foolishness. Of course she won't be thinking of me. Her life is full. No room for thoughts of me in it. And perhaps it's best, that she doesn't think of me at all, rather than think of me and shudder.

"Miss!" Eliza is calling me. It's my turn.

The photographer has grown bolder. He comes up to me and tilts my head slightly. His fingers are stained yellow and smell of chemicals. "Keep looking straight ahead. Hold still."

I stare at the eye of the camera, keeping still. But the next moment there's a commotion over on the other side of the room and I turn my head to look. It's Beatrice Hill. Weeks must have just wheeled her in. She's staring at the photographer, her body rigid, her face chalk-white and she's uttering a high-pitched wail that sends shivers down my spine.

For a moment everyone in the room is frozen into stillness, staring.

Then Weeks bends over Beatrice and speaks to her, but the wailing doesn't stop. Mr. Sneed says something to Weeks, who seizes the chair and wheels it from the room. The sound echoes down the corridor, grows fainter, ceases.

In the day room the silence is broken by Mr. Sneed, who clears his throat and assuming a jovial smile, says to the photographer, "Nothing to worry about. Carry on, my good man."

For a moment it appears Mr. Allen will not be able to carry on, his hands are shaking so much as he carries the plate with my image on it over to the table. He dives under his tent and there is a crash of bottles falling.

I haven't moved from the seat. What was it that made Beatrice so distressed? I haven't had a chance to see her again. I must try, even if I only manage to see her once before I go. She seems so vulnerable, I want to help her. I can't do anything for her, but perhaps talking to me would comfort her.

Eliza's hand is on my elbow. "Come on, Miss, it's Mrs. Thorpe's turn." As if she can read my mind, she says quietly in my ear, "Weeks has this afternoon off. And Roberts is on duty."

After lunch, the room still smells of chemicals, but the photographer has departed. Roberts is poring over our photographs, laid out on the table, and she looks up as we enter.

"Come and see, Eliza," she squawks. "Frights, ain't they!"

Jostling with some of the other patients, I look for the one of me.

At first I can't see it, can't distinguish anyone in this collection of dingy, grey images. Then I catch sight of my nose, caught in unflattering profile as I turned my head at the last minute; it can't be anyone else. But if it weren't for that, I wouldn't recognise myself. The girl in the photograph has unkempt hair, a gaunt face and, startled by Beatrice's cry, her eyes stare wildly. She looks quite, quite mad.

With a small cry, I toss the photograph face down on the table. This is what my brother has done to me. Was this his intention?

"Careful, Miss, you'll break it." Eliza picks up my image and studies it.

"Does it—is that what I look like?"

She doesn't hesitate. "No, it's rubbish, that."

I'm sure she's not telling the truth, but I feel better.

She turns to Roberts. "Mr. Sneed's going to put these on the walls?"

She sounds doubtful and I'm not surprised. Who'd want these dismal ghosts haunting them?

Roberts laughs, a short snorting laugh. "Garn! I dunno what the Chief Loony wants 'em for but trust me, it'll be for somethin' that lines 'is own pockets." She claps her hands. "Now then, me beauties, put yer pitchers down, and find yerselves somethin' to do."

Mrs. Smythe is parted with difficulty from her photograph, which she insists on showing everyone. "It's not such a good portrait as the one taken with the Archduke, but it's not a bad likeness."

I approach Roberts. "Is it all right if I walk in the hallway?"

Out of the corner of my eye I see Eliza's head lift.

Roberts exaggerates her surprise. "Oh, you want some exercise, do yer? Go on then. Don't wear yerself out."

***

I tap on the door. No answer. I turn the handle slowly so it doesn't make a noise and peer inside. The curtains are drawn; in the gloom I make out the figure on the bed. No movement. I should go ... I hesitate. Then I draw closer.

She is curled up on her side, like a child. Her face is partly obscured by her hair, but in the line of her cheek, I see that resemblance again. Without thinking, I put out my hand, about to touch her, when she opens her eyes and looks directly at me. Instantly I draw my hand back. This isn't Grace, this is Beatrice, a stranger.

"Sorry," I whisper. "Sorry to wake you."

Her eyes focus. "Louisa?"

"Yes."

In a quiet voice she says, "I was dreaming. I was walking down a lane picking primroses from under the hedge."

I've never seen her smile before. It lights up her face. She seems totally relaxed. Maybe it's the aftereffects of a sedative.

She starts to sit up but then stops suddenly, her body stiff, her eyes wide. She stares past me. Involuntarily, I glance over my shoulder, but there's no one there.

She starts to shake, making small whimpering sounds.

Drawing a chair to the bedside, I take her hand in mine. She is trembling, staring off into the distance. I should leave her in peace.

"Were you a good child?" she asks suddenly.

I'm so surprised at the question I laugh, and Beatrice's eyes widen.
Was
I good child? Papa was proud of me, but as for Mamma ... I never meant to be bad, but I was always upsetting her. Has she put me here as a punishment? No, I can't believe it.

Beatrice is still waiting for an answer. "I tried to be, but Mamma was always in despair over me. I don't think I was the sort of little girl she expected so she didn't think I was very good. Why do you ask?"

She regards me seriously for a moment; then turns her head away. "Mamma said I was a good child." Tears run down her face.

"What is it? What's the matter?"

She turns her violet eyes towards me. "My stepfather—he's a photographer."

"Oh." I don't like seeing her so upset, but I have to admit I'm curious. I don't have to pry, though—Beatrice seems ready to talk.

Her words spill out. "His studio is a glass house on the roof. It makes a great noise when it rains. But when the sun comes out, it's like a house of light. I used to like it then. But my stepfather"—she breaks off and swallows—"he said it was better when it was cloudy—too much light spoilt the photographs."

She looks away again and adds, "It's yellow, the dark room, yellow, with yellow-shaded lamps." A tremor goes through her.

With an intake of breath, I remember the photographer this morning—his yellow fingers straightening my head.

Her hand in mine begins to tremble again. "We'd only just gone to live with him, Mamma and I. We were so poor after Papa died, my little brothers and sisters were sent away to live with various relatives, but Mamma let me stay, because she said I was good and helped her.

"My stepfather said I was a pretty child and he wanted to take photographs of me. At first it was easy—just standing still. And he gave me sixpence." A pause. "But then—" She swallows again. "Then he wanted me take off my clothes."

I gasp, I can't help it. "Did you?"

Shamefaced, she nods. "I didn't want to, truly I didn't, but I thought he might complain to Mamma about me. Afterwards he gave me a pretty glass paperweight and said
Don't tell Mamma.
" Tears spill down her face. She brushes them away.

"How old were you?"

"Eleven, when it started."

"You mean, it went on?" I can't imagine it.

She nods. "He took lots of photographs. Lots and lots of photographs. He said I was a good girl to make so much money for him."

I don't understand. "Money? What did he mean?"

In a voice like a ghost's, she says, "He sold the photographs."

"Sold them? To whom?"

She shrugs. "To the gentlemen who came when the shop was closed."

A horrible cold sensation slides down my back.

I don't think I want to hear any more, but her thin voice continues, "I carried on posing for him, even though I didn't want to, because he said if I didn't Mamma would send me away like the others. At first I felt hot ... as if his eyes could look right into me. But he'd say, 'Don't fidget, Bella'—that was his name for me—and I learnt the trick of keeping my body quite still while my mind went away far away to somewhere else."