Wildthorn (5 page)

Our exercise takes place in what Weeks calls the "airing ' court." After the stifling atmosphere of the gallery, it's cold and raw outside and I pull the threadbare cloak I've been given more tightly round me and stand for a moment, breathing in the fresh air.

I feel guilty about Miss Gorman—I should have given up the scissors sooner. But it's no good thinking about it ... I must think of myself and how I can get out of here. If I don't see Mr. Sneed soon, and explain this dreadful mistake, I might have to try something else.

I set off along the gravel path, my eyes darting about, scanning everything, looking for ways to escape. The airing court is square with high walls. Too high to climb over.

I walk on, passing shuffling figures. An old woman comes to a standstill and calls out, "Oh, help me, do. My legs are turned to glass. They are breaking."

I feel a pang of pity for her, but what can I do?

Across the court, a commotion breaks out. A gardener has been digging over a flowerbed, but now one of the patients is tugging at his elbow. Weeks pulls her away. I hear the patient's high voice protesting, "But it's Alfred come to visit me. Let me speak to him."

Weeks says something to the gardener. He scratches his head, shrugs and pulls his fork from the soil. As he goes past me, I smell a whiff of beer and tobacco.

At a barred iron gate in the wall, the gardener takes a key from his pocket and unfastens the padlock. I move closer, but he is already through, locking the gate behind him and walking off into the park. He nods at two attendants hurrying towards the building. They don't come to the gate but pass by, ignoring me.

Without touching it, I examine the padlock. It looks heavy, the clasp as thick as my finger. With a sigh, I stare out through the bars at the khaki-coloured grass, the bare trees. Growing up the wall close by there's an ancient wild briar, its trunk gnarled and twisted. Perhaps it's one of those that gave this house its name. Some of its branches are pressing against the iron bars, as if the thorns themselves are conspiring to hold me in here.

Despite myself, my eyes blur with tears.

A shout makes me look round. A patient with a paper crown on her head is approaching, trailing a shawl from her shoulders. She sweeps me out of her way, waving a piece of paper, and as she passes, she calls out, "A letter from Mamma. Her Majesty is quite well."

I wipe my eyes and give myself a shake. It's no good giving way: I must be strong. I look round the perimeter, examining the walls carefully; there are no other gates, but the mention of a letter has given me an idea.

A voice at my ear makes me jump. "You are not walking, Miss Childs."

It's Weeks, carrying a hand bell by its clapper, so that it makes no noise. She's standing close, too close. Her eyes narrow to splinters. She grasps my wrist. "Be careful, Miss Childs, be very careful. Remember—I'm watching you." Her
fingers are like claws of steel. Then as if nothing has happened, she releases me. "It's time to go in now." She moves away from me and starts ringing the bell.

On the threshold, I stop and take a last breath of air. I can still feel the grip of Weeks's fingers and when I turn my wrist over there are red marks on my skin.

***

After supper I'm relieved to see that it's Eliza supervising us in the washroom. After I've waited at the end of the queue a long time, she beckons me to a vacant sink, stained with a brown deposit. When I turn on the tap, black hairs float up from the outlet pipe.

What am I doing in a place like this?

Avoiding the hairs, I cup water in my hands and splash my face. A cold shock.

As I'm drying myself, Eliza says quietly, "Thank you, Miss, for handing over the scissors. Most patients would've kept them. Then I'd have been in trouble all right."

I look round. Everyone else has gone. "What would have happened?"

She shrugs. "Don't know. Weeks would've probably sent me to another gallery."

"Would you mind that?"

Her eyes go big. "Of course, Miss. Despite Her Ladyship, I wouldn't want to be anywhere but here. "'Cept the First of course but there's small chance of that."

"Eliza, do you know what's happened to Miss Gorman?"

She glances towards the door then says in a low voice. "Solitary."

"Solitary?" I don't understand.

"Till she calms down."

"Is she—is she locked in?"

Eliza nods. "Course."

I go cold at the thought of it. "Do you know when she might be back?" I feel uncomfortably responsible for what has happened to her.

Eliza shrugs. "If she comes back."

Her words send a shiver down my spine. "What do you mean?"

She looks round before saying in a low voice, "Weeks might not have her back."

"But where will she go?"

"To another gallery."

Be sure to keep your place.

I've got to get out of here.

"Eliza, I need to see Mr. Sneed urgently. Is there a way? Weeks won't listen."

Eliza snorts. "You're wasting your time, talking to her. The best thing to do is to ask Dr. Bull tomorrow."

"I see. And there's another thing—can you tell me how I can send a letter?"

"Ask Weeks for paper and an envelope tomorrow. You'll have to pay for it."

It's all right. The coins are safe in my pocket.

Eliza leans closer to me and says quietly, "You'd better give me the letter to post."

We both jump as Weeks's face appears at the door. At the sight of us, she scowls. "Hurry up, Eliza. It's time Miss Childs was in the dormitory."

***

I'm just about to get into bed when Weeks comes with a glass containing a colourless liquid. Before I drink it, I smell it. "Chloral!"

Weeks's brows lift in surprise, but her black eyes give nothing away.

It's like recognizing an old friend. Immediately I'm back in Papa's study, hearing his voice:
You need to be careful with this one, Louisa, it's a powerful sedative. Four drachms to half a tumbler of water ...
" My throat constricts...

But Weeks is growing impatient. "Take it, Miss Childs," she orders.

Obediently I swallow the draught down, and Weeks moves on.

Perhaps it's just as well to have a good night's sleep, ready for my meeting with Dr. Bull.

I was overcome by shock today, but it will be different tomorrow. I will insist that Dr. Bull arranges for me to see Mr. Sneed. And if that doesn't work, there's always the letter. I'm sure Eliza was warning me not to give it to Weeks to post. But if I ask Weeks for paper, she'll expect a letter. I'll have to work this out.

Six Years Earlier

I was on my way from the kitchen, where I'd been to borrow some more things I needed, when I caught my name. I pressed my ear to the dining room door and I heard Mamma say, "I'm worried about Louisa, Edward."

I heard a "Hmm?" from Papa and I knew he was reading the newspaper.

"She's getting out of hand."

I suppressed an "Oh" of outrage. What had I done? Lately I'd been trying very hard to be good.

"She's untidy, careless, but the worst of it is that she keeps taking things from the kitchen without asking. Cook has been complaining. And I don't know what she does in her room but the result is shocking disorder for poor Mary to clean up. You shouldn't encourage her to do these experiments."

I held my breath. Would Papa tell me to stop?

"Why shouldn't I encourage her? She's so keen to learn. You know how eagerly she asks questions and she understands my explanations so readily. You've got admit she shows far more initiative than Tom did at her age. Her incendiary experiments were most enterprising."

I breathed again. I knew he would understand. These days he made more time for me and he seemed to enjoy our sessions together as much as I did.

"How can you take it so lightly, Edward! It's a miracle she didn't burn the house down."

Mamma always exaggerated so. The match had only made a small hole in the oilcloth.

I was pressing so hard on the door, my ear was beginning to hurt. Swapping to the other ear I heard Mamma say, with a sigh, "I thought having a girl would be a pleasure. And easier, too ... but Louisa's turning into such a tomboy. If she doesn't grow out of it, I'm afraid she might—" Mamma didn't finish her sentence, and I wondered what it was that "I might." But then she said, "Perhaps if she had another little girl to play with, an example to follow, she might learn more becoming ways."

I gritted my teeth. I wasn't a little girl, I was nearly eleven, which was very nearly grown-up. And I didn't play anymore; I had too many important things to do. Papa had recently given me my very own copy of "Science for Boys" and it was giving me lots of ideas.

"Perhaps she
is
too much on her own, now that Tom's away ... I'll speak to Mitchell. He has a daughter about the same age as Lou." Papa's voice was suddenly louder as if he was coming towards the door. I fled upstairs, wondering about this girl. Would she be like Grace? I hoped so.

***

The first thing I noticed about Charlotte Mitchell was her hat: a perfect miniature replica of the pork pie hats, made of felt and trimmed with a feather, that I had seen ladies wear in church. The second thing was her hair which fell to her shoulders in a cascade of perfect blonde ringlets. I couldn't think who she reminded me of and then I remembered the doll Evelina, long since consigned to the dustbin.

I had asked Mary to show Charlotte to my room when she arrived. I knew that ladies received visitors in their best rooms and as far as I was concerned mine was the best room in the house because it had my own things in it. Mary raised her eyebrows at my request but she complied, even going so far as to announce, "Miss Charlotte, Miss Louisa." Then she spoilt it by biting her lip to stop herself smiling and I had to glare at her.

Now Charlotte stood just inside the doorway as if wary of venturing farther. I had risen to my feet as I had seen Mamma do when a guest arrived but now I hesitated, not knowing what to do next.

After some minutes of mutual silence, I remembered my manners. "Would you like to take off your hat? And your gloves?"

She looked at me as if I had uttered the most shocking suggestion in the world.

"Mamma says it's the mark of the truly genteel lady that she never removes her hat and gloves in company."

I stared at her in amazement. I'd never heard anything so silly. And I was already tired of playing at ladies and wanted to do something interesting. A hat and gloves could only get in the way. But I knew one had to make a guest feel comfortable so I didn't say anything.

I thought she would like to see my treasures, and I started with my most precious possession, a gift from Grace, in pride of place on my chest of drawers.

She stared in incomprehension. "Why did your cousin give you a ship?"

I thought it was obvious. This creation in blue and white glass seemed like a miracle to me. "Look how delicate it is—the
ropes are as fine as hairs. The pennant seems to be flying in the wind and see, there are even tiny sailors in the rigging."

Charlotte shrugged. "Ships are for boys."

I searched about the room for something else to show her. "This is Annabel."

She gave poor Annabel one disdainful glance. "Is she your only doll?"

I frowned—Annabel wasn't a doll—she was my companion, my confidante.

Charlotte tossed her ringlets. "I have ten dolls and four sets of dolls' chairs and tables and five little china tea sets and a doll's house this big." She raised one gloved hand to shoulder height.

She was obviously proud of these things so I tried to look impressed.

Searching for something to impress her in my turn, I said, "Would you like to see my collection?"

This seemed to provoke a spark of interest. "Oh do you have a collection? I have three drawers of shells my sister gave me."

I thought the whole point of collecting was that you did it yourself, but it seemed rude to say this so I didn't. "My collection isn't one thing—it's more of a variety," I explained, rummaging under the bed for the box.

Smoothing her skirts, Charlotte sat down on the bed and I proceeded to lay out my collection on the counterpane: beginning with a handful of leaves I had picked up because I liked their colour and shape. The original reds and golds had faded now, but I liked to trace the pattern of veins and to hear their crisp rustle. I had five big shiny conkers from the tree down the
street, several feathers from different kinds of birds, and a dead beetle in a matchbox. I couldn't tell what Charlotte was thinking. She regarded everything with a small frown but she shuddered at the beetle.

I had saved the best till last and brought it forth with a flourish. "And this is my mouse!"

Charlotte's reaction was disappointing. She shrieked and put her hands to her mouth.

"Don't worry, it's dead," I reassured her. "And it's not rotting because it's in formalin. Papa showed me how to do it." I regarded the contents of the glass jar fondly.

"Take it away. It's disgusting. Ugh, I'm going to be sick."

I was disconcerted. "But look, you can see everything—the pink lining inside its ears and its little claws."

Charlotte wailed.

I obviously wasn't going to be able to interest her in the finer points of my specimen so I put it back in the box, together with the rest of my collection, and stowed it under the bed.

Charlotte leapt up as if she'd been stung.

I tried not to let my exasperation show. I knew from observing Mamma that a polite hostess hid her true feelings from her guests, but I was finding it very hard indeed. Charlotte wasn't anything like Grace. The long afternoon stretched before us interminably.

But then I noticed her legs, and I cheered up. Surely this would interest her. "I see you're wearing green stockings."

She looked affronted. "That's a very personal remark. Why do you comment?"

"Would you like me to test them for arsenic?"

"What?"

"Arsenic. Green clothes often have it in them. It's quite easy to test for it, Papa showed me how." I felt under the bed again and pulled out the old case I kept my equipment in.

I took a phial from it and removed the stopper. My eyes immediately started watering but I pressed on. "What you do is drop liquid ammonia on the stocking and if they've used arsenite of copper for the green colour, it turns blue. Isn't that exciting! It means your stocking is poisonous."

I held out the phial towards Charlotte. "Do you want to have a go?"

She backed away, staring at me with eyes as round as pennies. Then she let out a sigh, as if she had been holding her breath. In a voice as small as a pin she said, "I think I would like to go home now."

Glee filled me at her words.

"All right. I'll go and ask Mamma."

As I went towards the door, Charlotte shrank away from me, pressing herself against the wall, as if she was frightened of me.

Well, I didn't care. As long as I could continue with my experiments, which Papa approved of, I didn't care what Charlotte Mitchell or anyone else thought of me.