Wildthorn (22 page)

Snatching them up, I seize my blanket and the mortar and hurry from the room. It would be too dangerous here—I don't want to cause a fire and injure anyone, if I can help it. I'm heading away from the vestibule when I hear the sound I've been dreading—a bell ringing, running feet. They're after me!

I set the mortar down on the stone floor of the passage. Ideally I need a fuse, but there's no time to make one. With trembling fingers, I thrust half a dozen lucifers head down into the powder and light the ends. The sticks catch fire with a satisfying flare and within seconds, the passageway fills with thick black smoke.

I run on, into the back part of the building, where the gas lamps are turned down, trying door handles without any hope. And then one yields and I almost fall into the dark space that opens up in front of me. In a breath, I'm inside the room and have the door shut.

My heart's racing. I look about me wildly. In the dim light from the window I see a lavatory, a sink and then my eye comes back to the window.

It isn't barred.

It's some distance off the ground—a fixed sheet of glass with a narrow casement above. But can I get through it? I climb on to the lavatory seat, clutching my blanket. I lay it on the window ledge and by hauling myself up with the help of the pipe running from the cistern, I manage to get one knee on the ledge and then the other.

My perch is so narrow I'm afraid I'll topple backwards into the room. I reach up, seize the window catch and release it. With a push the window opens and night air cools my face. Still hanging on to the pipes, I get one foot on the ledge and haul myself upright. Reaching down, wobbling precariously, I untangle the blanket from around my feet, throw it through the window and try to follow.

My head fits through easily, but my shoulders wedge themselves in the gap. Tears of frustration spring into my eyes.

Clenching my teeth, I twist my body. With a desperate corkscrew movement that wrenches my back, I get first one shoulder and then the other through. For a moment I hang there, half in and half out of the window, the transom bar cutting into my waist. I can see the ground about six feet below me. Then I push off with my feet and tumble out.

Pain sears through my right shoulder, my teeth jar together and for a moment I lie winded, shocked by the impact. But fear galvanises me. I could be discovered at any moment. I feel about for the blanket.

The sky is clouded, but there's enough light for me to see. I seem to be at the back of the Infirmary, near the kitchen; I can smell rotting food, stale odours of cooking. I'm in a walled yard, with the dark humps of sheds around the perimeter. I can feel gritty cinders underfoot. There's a door in the wall and I try it, expecting it to be locked, but the latch lifts and it swings open easily. I see the park stretching in front of me. Which way should I go?

Away to the right I can see the lights of the main building shining. Not in that direction, certainly. Not so far away, probably at the front of the Infirmary, I can hear a lot of noise, shouting, bells ringing. They'll be evacuating the patients and bringing a fire hose cart.

To the left, not far off, a dark line marks the boundary of the park. And then with an intake of breath, I see that the wall round the backyard of the Infirmary joins directly to the perimeter wall. It should be easy to get over.

Retreating into the yard, I look about for something to help me climb the wall. There are some wooden crates piled near the back door. Trying not to make a noise, I carry two of them to what looks like a coal bunker. I stack one on top of the other and scramble on to the sloping roof of the bunker without too much difficulty, then I stop. From here, with a stretch, I should be able to reach the top of the wall and it's a mere four yards or so to the perimeter. But the wall is narrow. Do I dare to try?

Taking a deep breath I climb up, hampered by the blanket. Standing up, I almost lose my balance, my arms flail wildly ... then I regain control. It's a long way down. Don't look. Gingerly I inch my way along, one step at a time, horribly aware that anyone looking from the windows will instantly see me. A voice in my head is saying,
Hurry, hurry.
But I daren't hurry; instead I concentrate on where I'm putting my feet.

At last my hands clasp the rough bricks of the perimeter wall. For a moment I cling to it, trembling with relief... then I'm over it and with another wrench of my shoulder, I drop down the other side. My right leg buckles under the pain of the impact, but this time at least I land on my feet. I wrap the blanket round me. I feel safer now, a shadow among other shadows.

And here I am, outside the asylum. Free. A voice starts singing in my head,
I've done it, Eliza. I'm out.

Luckily it's a fairly mild night, but even so I'm shivering, perhaps more from excitement and fear than the shock of being outside in the fresh air. I take a deep breath, smelling damp earth and leaf-mould.

What now?

I must try to find Eliza's village, I suppose. Small something, wasn't it? But what shall I do when I get there? I don't know where she lives. If I find her cottage, she might not be there. And if she is, will she be pleased to see me? What will she say to her family? They'll hardly welcome an escaped lunatic.

Stop worrying. One step at a time. But I must hurry. How long before they send someone after me?

I set off hobbling down the lane, stumbling in the ruts, wincing as sharp stones dig into my bare feet. I can see more than I expected. But the trees at the side of the lane are looming at me, threatening silhouettes; the ground seems to be rising and falling, causing me to stagger. I've never been out at night before, certainly not by myself in the countryside. It gives me a strange, lonely feeling. I tell myself there's nothing to be afraid of, but I still jump at every rustle in the undergrowth.

A ghostly shape detaches itself from the darkness, glides in front of me and I stop dead, my hand at my throat. Only a barn owl. But it's a long time before the rapid patter of my heart slows down.

It seems so far. My feet are cut and bruised, my legs don't want to do this any more. I come to a crossroads. Which way? A signpost glimmers, half buried in the hedgerow. I have to strain to read it:
SMALCOTE,
3
MILES
. That's Eliza's village! But the finger points back the way I have come.

I could weep. It's too far. Everything hurts: my feet, my shoulder, my knee. I just want to give up, sink down into sleep. They can discover me by the roadside, take me back. I'm too weary to care.

"
Don't give up.
" I jump. I know the voice is in my head, but it's just as if Eliza has spoken to me. Gritting my teeth, I turn and begin to trudge back the way I have come.

Eventually I reach the asylum wall. At the end of the lane a signpost tells me I have to turn left, past the main gate. I am certain there will be men out in the lane looking for me, dogs rushing snarling from the shadows. Wearily I drag myself on, resigned now to failure.

But, miraculously, none of this happens. By the lodge I shrink into the hedge in case someone is looking out. There are lights at the windows, and I can hear voices in the distance, but nobody shouts after me. When I have gone a good way beyond the wall, I let out my breath.

On and on. I move in a dream, one foot in front of the other, again and again. I feel faint now. I mustn't faint. But I've no strength left. I come to a straggle of cottages. Is this Smalcote? Even if it isn't, I can't go any farther. But I can't sleep here by the roadside. I must find somewhere.

At the back of the first cottage there are dark shapes of outbuildings. Holding my breath, I tiptoe past the cottage and make for them. At every step I expect furious barking, but everything remains silent. The first shed seems to be a henhouse, shut up for the night. Then something that must be the privy. Beside it, a ramshackle construction, from which a strong smell emerges. A pigsty.

Enter the pen. Slip-slide in the mud. Careful, careful. Here's the door. No lock. Take a deep breath, push open the door, stoop under the roof. A shadow detaches itself from the darkness and lumbers forward. Stand still, keep your fingers out of the way. The pig snuffles at my nightgown, pushing me so firmly I nearly fall over. It chews at the material then with an "ouff," it flops on to its bed.

Straw. Too exhausted to think ... I sleep.

I am back in the Fifth Gallery and an attendant is prodding me. I groan. I don't want to get up yet—my whole body aches, my shoulder throbs...

I open my eyes. The pig is nudging me. As soon as I move out of the way, it goes and stands with its snout pressing against the door. Someone may come to feed it soon. I mustn't be found here.

With a painful effort, I rise, wincing as I put my feet down on the floor. Picking up the blanket, I squeeze past the pig and open the door a crack. Nothing stirs in the garden but dawn is already well over the horizon. Slipping out, I shut the door behind me quickly and crouch in the pen. What shall I do? I daren't go past the cottage now. Someone might be up.

I creep through the gate and scramble round the back of the sty. I wait a moment, but no one shouts. From here it's a short step to the boundary—a bank, a sparse hedge of hawthorn trees. But to reach it means crossing open ground and I might be seen from the neighbouring cottages. I haven't any choice though. I can't stay where I am.

I make a dash for it and scramble through the hedge, twigs scratching my face. On the other side I crouch down in a ditch edging the field. What now? From here I have a good view of the backs of the cottages. I can also see the lane. If this is Smallcote and Eliza passes there or comes into the garden, I might see her. But she may still be at Wildthorn...

Don't think about it. Keep hoping.

I huddle in the ditch, wincing with spasms of cramps. I daren't move too much in case I draw attention to myself and I don't want to lose sight of the lane. My mind drifts...

Every now and then a noise rouses me—a woman comes to feed the pig and let the hens out, I hear children's voices, the sounds of the cottagers going about their business ... but none of them is Eliza. Each time I hear a noise, I shrink down, holding my breath...

The sun has come out with a brightness that dazzles me. The sky is too blue, overwhelming. I'm tormented by thirst now. My head aches, my tongue feels swollen in my mouth. I shake myself, stretch my eyes, but my lids keep closing...

The sound of hooves jerks me awake, my heart pounding. Spying out from my hiding place, I watch the lane. Two horses appear. My muscles tense—I know the riders—the lodge-keeper from Wildthorn and one of the servants, a burly man. They must be searching for me.

I flatten myself to the ground, not daring to raise my head to look. The hoofbeats stop, I hear voices. I shut my eyes, expecting at any moment to hear a shout, feel a rough hand on my arm...

I hear a wonderful sound—the clop of the hooves moving off. But then I realise—the cottagers will know about me. They'll come looking for me. I must get away from here now. Now.

I drag myself to my knees and start crawling along the ditch. One yard. Another. My vision blurs, my head swims with dizziness. A few more inches ... but suddenly my arms and legs fold under me, my cheek hits the ground. I can't move.

I will be found, I know it. After all my effort, I will be found.

Tears of frustration trickle down my face.

Somewhere a voice calls. "Joe! It's dinnertime." A pause and then the voice again, nearer now. "Joe, are you there?"

With an effort, I lift my head. My crawling has brought me to the back of a different cottage. Coming down the path is a girl with corn-coloured hair.

Eliza.

I blink, look again. Not Eliza. A younger girl.

I try to call out, croak feebly. Clenching my teeth, I pull myself to my knees. I manage to raise my arm and wave it.

A shocked face in a gap in the hedge. Round blue eyes staring at me. Then the gap is empty and I hear running footsteps, an urgent voice calling, "Mother! Come quick!"

I'm lying on something soft, and I half-open my eyes and see a brown curtain hanging beside me. My eye-lids close, I drift ... and then I hear a slight noise, smell a dear, familiar smell. Eliza is here. Everything is all right. I sleep again.

I drift in and out of sleep, and when I open my eyes, Eliza is here again. She brings warm water and a cloth and washes me, avoiding my injuries. Her hands on my bare skin are skilful, soothing, and I don't want her to stop. Once, she lifts her head and catches my eye. I feel a sudden heat in my face and I'm glad when she bows her head again.

Another time she brings me soup and feeds it to me, the savoury taste fanning out over my tongue, like a blessing. All I have to do is lie here, which is just as well, because my body doesn't want to move...

At some point in this floating timeless dream, I have a thought, like a sudden stab of toothache. Eliza is at home all the time, not at Wildthorn. I fumble for the words to ask her why.

"I've been dismissed." She says it lightly, but immediately I'm full of guilt.

"Because of me!"

She doesn't answer, busies herself tidying my covers.

"Tell me."

"They thought I'd helped you to escape."

"But that's not fair! You didn't."

"I would've if I could. Saved you sleeping in a pigsty." She laughs.

But I'm not laughing. "What if they come looking for me? Won't that make more trouble for you?"

"They've been back since you've been here and Mother sent them packing. They won't come again."

She sounds very certain. Perhaps she's right. Perhaps they don't trouble themselves about one lunatic more or less. And there are other things to think about besides being captured. "What will happen now?"

But she won't discuss it. "Wait till you're better."

***

After a few days, I do feel better. Well enough to sit in a chair while Eliza combs through my hair, cutting out the worst tangles, and then washes it and towels it dry. Wonderful to have clean hair at last! Well enough to dress, in clothes borrowed from Eliza, and come out from my alcove and meet some of the family.