The walk from the hospital to the cottage at dawn took minutes only, but often she’d stop and admire the setting she’d found herself in. Like Venice, it had its own beauty. The days on the run up to Christmas were unseasonably warm; it had stopped raining and the sun had returned. So often the early morning sky took her breath away – it was such a contrast to the dark confines of the ward. Gold and red would hold sway, at least for a short while, pushing aside deepest black before blue dominated once more.
She’d finished A Tale of Two Cities and was planning to read A Christmas Carol to the patients, although, having finished a round of night shifts, she was back on days. This morning, another bright offering, she hurried to her ward, nodding courteously at other members of staff. She hardly saw Elizabetta anymore, who’d gone to work in another part of the hospital, but she was no loss, not on a personal scale. It was the patients she’d befriended. As she entered the ward, some would get excited at the sight of her, start clapping their hands in quick succession, rocking back and forth – and she was excited to see them too. My children, she thought again. Mad perhaps but not evil – surely not evil?
There’d be no time for reading, not until the afternoon. She got stuck in, fetching bowls of porridge and feeding those who weren’t capable. Not all the patients were old, far from it. There were young women on the ward too, a varied mix of ages, and she’d greet everyone individually, even those who didn’t respond to her, like Leda, a woman of middling years who looked at no one, and Luigina, no more than thirty she’d wager, who was also very insular. Having fed several patients, it was Luigina’s turn, and so, after tucking in her bib, she started lifting the spoon to her mouth, telling her as she did about the book she was going to start reading to them next – how ‘seasonal’ it was.
“I’m also going to see if I can arrange a trip into Venice tomorrow, I should love to choose some decorations, not just for the ward, but for the dining room too, it looks so cheerless.” She also wanted some ribbon for her hair – it had been an age since she’d worn anything as frivolous – as well as hand cream; hers had become so chapped. Still spooning in mouthfuls she continued chatting, telling Luigina about Christmas in England and the ancient tradition of wassailing, still popular in Somerset where she hailed from, and traditionally held on Old Christmas Eve, January the fifth. “Almost every farm in Somerset has an apple orchard,” she explained. “They use the apples to make cider, which is a drink many English people like, an alcoholic drink. To go wassailing means to go from door-to-door, singing and offering cider from the wassail bowl in exchange for a small gift. Everyone in the village does it, we all know each other you see.” Much like we do here, she thought. “Some also go into the orchards, and this is where it can get a little odd, they recite incantations and sing to the trees in order to produce a good harvest for the coming year. The ritual is designed to see off evil spirits—”
She didn’t get any further. With almost lightning speed Luigina knocked the bowl from her hand, its lumpy contents flying everywhere. As Charlotte looked in horror at the mess she’d made, she didn’t notice her lunging forwards, or her hands as they closed around her neck. Surprise gave way to shock. Luigina was one of the most docile patients on the ward. What was wrong with her? Why was she so upset? Reaching upwards, she tried to loosen the woman’s almost superhuman grip whilst at the same time staring into her eyes, in a bid to understand what was happening, to make a connection. The change in her was dramatic. Normally smooth features were contorted – her thin lips scraped back and chipped yellow teeth bared. She simply didn’t look like the Luigina she knew – she looked… Charlotte struggled to think of the right word, struggled to think at all. Terrified – that was it! Luigina was terrified! As the choking continued she registered something else – Luigina wasn’t looking at her, meeting her equally terrified gaze, she was looking at something in the distance and gibbering manically all the while.
Chapter Seventeen
“Charlotte, breathe, just breathe. We are here now. You are safe.”
We? What… who was he talking about?
As her mind swam back into focus, she sat up – aware that Luigina had been wrenched off her. She looked wildly around. “Where is she? What have you done with her?”
There was no sign of Luigina but several other patients were in obvious distress at what had just happened. Having grown used to peace and quiet, she couldn’t believe the din they were capable of, jumping up and down some of them, bashing the metal rails of their beds against the wall. Others were screaming, one was wailing, the noise as sharp as any blade. Her eyes sought Catarina. She wasn’t making a sound but her hands were pressed to her ears, her eyes screwed shut, clearly finding it intolerable too.
A voice roared behind her.
“FERMARE QUESTO!”
The harshness of it sent shock waves through her all over again. It was Dr Gritti, standing dead centre in the room, at last showing a resemblance to Stefania as he glared at the debacle he was presented with. Very rarely did she see him or Enrico during the day, the two senior doctors occupied themselves elsewhere, chasing that elusive cure for madness she presumed. Seeing him here now was an added trauma.
“FERMARE QUESTO,” he roared again, “QUESTO ISTANTE!”
Still clutching onto Enrico, she asked, “I can’t understand. What is he saying?”
“He wants them to be quiet.”
As though he’d waved a magic wand, the room did indeed fall quiet, going from mayhem to familiar silence in just a few minutes.
Satisfied, he turned his attention towards Charlotte. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice still something of a bark.
With the help of Enrico, she was on her feet now. “No, I… I seem to be all right. I’m not sure what I said to upset Luigina, one minute she was quietly eating her breakfast and the next she was frantic.” She looked around her. “Where is she? I can’t see her.”
“She is being taken care of,” Dr Gritti replied, scrutinising her, as though unsure she was telling him the truth when she’d said she was fine.
Immediately she started worrying. “I should hate for her to be punished on my behalf. Maybe what I said upset her.”
Dr Gritti narrowed his eyes and peered closer. “What was it you said?”
She had to work hard to keep meeting his gaze. Despite the fact she’d been at the asylum for a number of weeks now, she barely knew the man standing before her. When work was done for the day there was no socialising with him or any other member of staff for that matter, no cosy dinners during which more personal issues might be discussed. Life was all about work on the island. The fact that it was Christmas made no difference. There was still no social interaction. She loved this time ordinarily; it was a time spent with friends and family, her family. Not spent here, being attacked.
“Charlotte,” Dr Gritti prompted.
“I… mentioned Christmas,” a sob escaped her as she said it – impossible to stifle she was feeling so upset. “I was talking about an ancient tradition in my village at this time of year, wassailing. It’s a ritual carried out to protect apple crops, to keep evil spirits away.”
The look on his face changed, went from one of curiosity to fury. “Evil…? Enough! We cannot talk about such matters here. Enrico, remove her, take her home.”
“Wh—?”
“I said no more! It is little wonder the patient got upset with you talking such nonsense.”
“I had no idea she could understand me!”
“These people are not here to be talked to! And now I must deal with the consequences of your actions. Get out of my sight!”
Fresh tears erupted as Enrico led her away, what his uncle had done, how he’d admonished her, made her feel so ashamed. These people are not here to be talked to? But surely it wasn’t a crime to treat them as human beings? And yet she’d upset Luigina. Her words, whether understood or not, had had an effect, a terrible one. Glancing at Enrico, noting how grave his expression was, she reg
istered how he’d kept his eyes averted when Dr Gritti had banished her from the ward. Yet again he’d failed to defend her, but right now she didn’t have the energy to blame him. She only blamed herself.
As they exited the hospital building and walked the short distance to their cottage, she was more homesick than ever.
It was Christmas Eve when Charlotte returned to work, two days later. It wasn’t ideal working over Christmas but day staff had apparently refused to accept extra hours. In Italy, Enrico explained, spending time with family during the festive season was of paramount importance. ‘We could insist they work,’ he’d said, ‘but why cause anger and upset? It is hard enough to retain staff as it is.’
Seeing his logic she’d asked him if they were seeing his parents at any point soon.
Enrico had said no. “My parents understand I have to work, that the patients need to be looked after. They realise the importance of my job.”
A flash of irritation rose up in her – was he trying to say that she didn’t? Perhaps he’d like to acknowledge the importance of her job for a change? “Personal matters need addressing, Enrico, I agree, feeding the patients, tending to them, cleaning the ward. Are you going to do that, get your hands dirty, like I do every day?”
Enrico pulled her to him. “Yes, amore, I am. I intend to help you on the wards.”
His answer nonplussed her. “You will? You’re going to help me instead of your uncle?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s agreed?”
“He is happy with the arrangement.”
“I… ” She was lost for words.
Enrico wrapped his arms tighter around her. “Of course I am going to help you, it is Christmas, it would be unfair not to.”
Her earlier irritation quashed, she breathed him in, caught a hint of musk from the balm he used after shaving. This wasn’t their first Christmas together. Their first was spent in England, with her parents, who, she supposed, on retrospect, were as suspicious of him as Enrico’s mother was of her, although certainly not as obtrusive. Nonetheless there’d been a slight abrasiveness to them, which he’d met with good humour. In the end, seeing how much their daughter adored him, they’d relaxed and an enjoyable time had been had.
She would love to spend this Christmas with her family too, but part of her was torn over the matter. Even if it were possible to leave, how could she knowing that so few staff remained? The patients deserved to have a nice time as much as anyone, even Luigina, whom she held no grudge against. Perhaps her talk of Christmas cheer had been insensitive. Who knew what she’d suffered in her life prior to Poveglia, memories concerning the festive season might have triggered something. When she saw her today she’d apologise, just say it, one word, one simple word, keep it short and sweet and then move on. If Enrico was helping, he could feed her at least and perhaps whoever else was on duty would tend to her hygiene. Before she went to the ward she’d make her usual detour to the post room. Mail could take some time to travel between countries – especially if the world outside was preoccupied with the threat of war – but she was surprised she hadn’t received even one letter from Albert yet. She longed for his humour.
As she returned Enrico’s hug, an idea formed. Dr Gritti had a telephone in his office, could she use it to call home? Not her parents, they didn’t have a telephone, but her previous place of work – a colleague might be able to pass on a message, and, in turn, get one back to her. She knew transatlantic calls were possible via an operator, also that they were expensive, but she worked hard, didn’t receive an individual wage and perhaps if the doctor was tactfully reminded of that, he might be persuaded. Enrico could at least ask on her behalf. How she wished her parents had a telephone. She’d love to wish them a happy Christmas and find out what the political situation was; she was so removed from it all here. How ironic if Albert wasn’t at home, if, like her, he’d already taken up a post abroad. If so, that would explain his lack of correspondence. But her parents could have written, they knew where she was, she’d told them.
Her mind was made up. If there were no letter waiting for her when she had time to check, not even a Christmas greeting card, she’d ask Enrico to ask his uncle about the telephone. How wonderful if he did permit her to use it! It would make up for the way he’d admonished her in front of everyone. She’d forgive him.
Pleased with her plan, she kissed Enrico on the lips before declaring she’d better hurry – she’d be late for her shift if she didn’t.
“I will be along soon,” Enrico called out. “After I have met with my uncle.”
There was no post for her and, when she got to the ward, there was no Luigina either. Her bed was empty. Disappointed on both counts, she walked over to Roberta, the ward nurse, and asked where Luigina was.
“With Dr Gritti,” Roberta replied.
“Where with Dr Gritti? Has she been transferred to another ward?”
Roberta held up both hands. “Non capisco,” she said – I don’t understand – before returning to her paperwork, effectively dismissing Charlotte.
Sighing in frustration, she decided to get on with her duties, trying hard not to mind how bleak it all looked with no festive decorations. She’d been too upset to visit Venice after what had happened with Luigina, but she should have made the effort – not hidden away. After much deliberation, she’d brought A Christmas Carol with her onto the ward, she wanted at least a nod towards the time of the year and the book was the only way in which she could achieve that. She wasn’t going against Dr Gritti’s will, not really, she wasn’t communicating directly with the patients, but she was still communicating – something she refused to think of as wrong. Regarding the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future, she’d play them down of course, skip any paragraphs she deemed too dark or frightening and concentrate on the more benign content, in particular the descriptions of Old London – although she acknowledged that was for her own sake more than theirs. Looking at the amount of work that needed to be done, she wondered if she’d even get a chance to read. If Enrico hurried and they worked efficiently as a team, she might find time this afternoon. Luigina’s case was isolated, no one had ever attacked her before and she doubted it would happen again. You had to have trust and she did, she trusted these people, almost more than she trusted the staff.
An hour passed, then another and another. She kept glancing at the clock that hung over the entrance to the ward, noticing the minutes, the seconds, passing. Where was he? He said he’d come and help. It’s Christmas Eve! Was he becoming unreliable? Did his promises mean nothing? Was his uncle to blame, changing his mind about allowing Enrico to help, and insisting he help him instead? Clearly that was the case.
Despair threatened to overwhelm her – she felt abandoned – but before it could take over she forced herself to look at her patients; either lying in their beds, or sitting up and staring ahead, eyes wide and hardly blinking. One was pacing backwards and forwards – Gabriela – a habit of hers she’d carry on all day if you let her, the tiles beneath her feet becoming worn. Their obvious plight moved her. Only rarely had she seen post delivered to them too, and, as for relatives visiting, she’d not caught sight of any. Admittedly she was not with her patients all the time, only during certain shifts but if anyone did visit, surely she’d notice them arriving by boat. Their very presence would inject a new energy. She fancied she’d be able to feel such energy. Instead it was all so… stale, days fading into one another with nothing to mark them as different, not even Christmas.
No, the only people to visit the island were those who had to, those who delivered correspondence and provisions, and they made sure not to linger. They’d turn their boats around and disappear, the ever-present mist swallowing them as the ground once wanted to swallow her. The day staff would follow suit, downing tools the minute their shifts were over. They were the forgotten, her patients. Out of sight and out of mind, with mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, and offspring shunning them. She might tend towards glo
om on occasion but it was nothing in comparison. Their despair consumed them.
Squaring her shoulders, her hands brushing imaginary creases from her dress, she resolved not to lose herself in self-pity but to do what she’d intended, which was to read to them, her way of showing she cared. And, because it was Christmas Eve, she’d stay until every last one of them was asleep.
As she approached Catarina’s bed, the old woman smiled. It seemed like such a gift – precious – and her heart lifted. Others might be content to abandon these poor souls but she wouldn’t stoop so low. They needed her. She was only glad someone did.
Chapter Eighteen
Pulling up one of the chairs to sit beside Catarina, Charlotte opened her book and started to read. As she did her earlier upset diminished. Already she’d set the scene: turning off the main lights and switching on sidelights. She knew if she were outside she’d be able to hear church bells calling devoted parishioners to prayer. There was a chapel here too but as far as she knew it was never used, certainly no priest had been asked to come and say mass on Christmas morning – religion all but forgotten as well, surprisingly.
As she always did whilst reading, she spoke slowly, annunciating each word clearly – using her voice as a calming tool. Turning the pages it wasn’t just Catarina that was enraptured. As they’d done before – even Luigina when she’d been here – other patients relaxed too. Gabriela stopped pacing and stood still for a while before padding silently to her bed. There was a slight chill in the air, but inside she felt warmth. Not only that, but a relevance. There was meaning in what she was doing, she was sure of it. It helped.
This Haunted World Book One: The Venetian: A Chilling New Supernatural Thriller Page 11
