The Conviction of Cora Burns

by Carolyn Kirby

  It seems that Dr Grainger is already familiar with the technique of hypnosis as a treatment for lunacy and is well versed in current thinking amongst the Continental experts. Indeed, he seemed pleased that a younger medical man with the energy to test out this new method had arrived under his supervision in the Borough Asylum.

  Dr Grainger went on to provide useful advice on the selection of patients for my experiments. His only stipulation regarding the research was that it should be done in my own time and must not distress the subjects or those around them. I thanked him for his unexpected kindness but as I rose to leave his office he was determined to have the last word. ‘I have no doubt,’ he said, ‘that you will succeed in getting them under but it remains to be seen whether, even in a trance, a monomaniac kept indoors by fear can be persuaded to exit the building, or a morbidly thin hysteric can be induced to eat.’

  I nodded (I hope sagely) and, as I made for the door, replied with some platitude about enriching scientific progress in this field regardless of the experiments’ outcomes. He chuckled and made a final attempt to dampen my spirits, ‘I am afraid to say, dear boy, that the act of talking, hypnotic or otherwise, can never on its own be a cure for insanity.’ From the curtness of my parting nod he may have inferred my determination to prove him wrong.

  I am not surprised, of course, by Dr Grainger’s scepticism. He shares the general view of the medical establishment in assuming the root causes of madness to be Biological. He looks for the origin of mental distress only in physical or chemical defects of the brain, and so the role of misfortune is ignored. Yet, every day of the week, patients are admitted to the Borough Asylum because their lives have driven them mad. Poverty, disappointment and grief may cause insanity as surely as heredity, germs or disease.

  My own exposure to new experiences here at the Asylum has reinforced my adherence to a Political theory of insanity. Can it be a coincidence that ever-larger borough and county asylums have sprouted across our towns and countryside in direct parallel to the proliferation of manufactories, collieries and mills? These monsters of industry devour the working classes and spit them out; exhausted, broken and insane. Capitalism is designed to create discontent, and despair is a tool used by the rich to keep the poor in chains.

  I will for now, however, keep this theory of the link between mental instability and social inequality to myself. Dr Grainger, for all I know, may be a true disciple of Socialism, but I doubt it. I shall await evidence from the practical application of my theory to convince him. For my (as yet undisclosed) aim is to convince each mental patient, whilst in the grip of a hypnotic trance, that the key to their recovery lies in the creation of a fairer society. Who can say whether the lunatic, once given confidence to join the swelling ranks of the labour movement and strive for a better future, may find his own Political purpose to be as good as a cure?

  Sun 11th

  I considered several patients for my first experiment but thankfully, before making my final selection, I consulted Matron. Previously I had encountered this lady only on my rounds of the women’s wards when she seemed a rather formidable personage. So after chapel this morning, I had to gather some courage to ask her if she might have any interest in assisting with a private research project into the therapeutic effects of hypnosis. Her response was instantly affirmative and her manner far more agreeable than the stiff Nightingale that I had unfairly presumed her to be.

  Mrs Abbott (for, incredibly ‘Matron’ is not her actual name!) considered the several placid inmates I suggested, then enquired whether, in my short time here, I had ever visited the asylum kitchen. I confessed that I had not and she replied that I would not then be aware of the lamentable change in the patient whom I will call Mary B. Despite her twenty-year residence here in the asylum, this inmate’s symptoms were until very recently minimal. Aphonia was the only apparent residue of whatever maladies had brought about her admission all those years ago. Some attendants were not even aware that Mary B was an actual inmate. For as long as anyone could remember, she had worked in the asylum kitchen and been so diligent and apparently content that she was allowed to sleep there (despite the proximity of sharp instruments). Then, eight days ago, without any obvious cause, the patient suffered a dramatic relapse and inflicted injury upon herself with a knife. Since then she has been in the infirmary and made a good physical recovery but her former cheerful spirits have deserted her. Matron reports that Mary B’s aphonia continues and whilst awake she is entirely silent. Once asleep, however, or when waking from the grip of medicinal stupor Mary B has, apparently for the first time in two decades, uttered spoken words. Matron Abbott could give only sketchy details but she had already fired me with optimism that a hypnotic trance could be the way to unlock Mary B’s tongue from the straitcoat of silence.

  Mon 12th

  This afternoon I spent a few hours in the asylum’s record office on a hunt for the case history of Mary B. It took a good while trawling through the cabinets, but my perseverance was repaid with her medical admission certificate. The information contained in it shocked and intrigued me in equal measure. It is here transcribed in full:

  Mary B – Age (circa)18 Admitted: 23rd June 1865 Female

  Single, Married or Widowed.................................................Single

  Previous Occupation.........................................................Prisoner

  Religious Persuasion......................................................Unknown

  If First Attack...........................................................................No

  When and where under previous care and

  treatment..........................................................Birmingham Gaol

  Duration of existing attack............................................six weeks

  Supposed cause................................................lactational insanity

  Whether suicidal.....................................................SEVERE risk

  Whether dangerous to others.....................................................Yes

  Name and abode of nearest known relative...................Unknown

  Facts upon which the opinion of Insanity is founded following observation by Medical Man:

  She has been admitted directly from the Borough Gaol and is chargeable to the Aston Union. The prison doctor reports that her condition appeared stable until mania was brought on by excessive nursing of a child. Became prone to alternate bouts of raving and taciturnity. Melancholic. Attempted to hide the child under a mattress. May also have caused it injury. She has induced bleeding by rubbing repeatedly at her breasts with a handkerchief. Was then introduced to the padded room and the strait waistcoat. Malnourished. Eats sparingly but clean in habits. Regular menstruation not yet re-established.

  Attached to the top of the certificate was a photographic likeness showing an interesting-looking young woman with striking eyes. Sadly, as was often the case during this era of more rudimentary care for the insane, the most salient fact about Mary B, namely her crime, has been omitted from the record.

  Matron Abbott was as shocked as I to discover this patient’s history. When I told her of the details, she replied; ‘Blow me!’ at which I gave a laugh (I hope she did not find any disrespect in my reaction, for none was meant). I must say that I was impressed with Mrs Abbott’s refusal to jump to any opinionated conclusion about Mary B’s youthful predicament. Instead she showed a sisterly sympathy which warmed my faith in humanity. Later today Mrs Abbott reported that she had (very kindly) spoken on my behalf to the most long-standing attendants here. Their reaction was the same as ours; none knew of Mary B’s criminal past nor of her child, and all were dismayed.

  More time in the record office will be needed to scour the casebooks for information about Mary B’s subsequent treatment and the likely cause of her muteness. Given the lack of reference to aphonia on her admissio
n certificate, she must have had the power of speech at this time and I am unable to ascertain when this ended. A full medical examination may be required to rule out physical damage to her vocal chords or respiratory tract but, in view of her nocturnal outbursts, I think I am safe to conclude that her mute state results solely from the pathology of mania. I am extremely hopeful that my curative suggestions to this unfortunate woman under hypnosis will allow her voice once again to be heard.

  Nine

  October 1885

  a trick of the light

  Her own clothes were as near as Cora could get to Sunday best. Once breakfast was cleared, Ellen went into the pantry to change and was transformed by a pale blue Holland jacket, cut tight across her hips over draped skirts. No one on the street would guess her a scullery maid.

  When Cora asked if she was going to the church, Ellen laughed. ‘I know Sunday is meant to be for chapel or church but I don’t think many go. Except Mrs Dix. As long as you’re back by dark no one will bother about where you’ve been.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Home, of course.’

  Queasiness rippled through Cora’s stomach. Home was not a word she could ever imagine herself saying.

  Cora waited at the scullery window until she could see Ellen’s petite blue bonnet and big silk bow bobbing towards the lane. Then, Cora wrapped herself in her plaid shawl and went to the stables.

  Samuel was in the tack room scooping grain from a barrel. Through a haze of bran dust, she could not help admiring the muscular confidence of his movements. When she stepped through the doorway and said his name, he froze briefly before turning around. Cora could not quite read his face. He might have been alarmed, eager or ashamed. Perhaps all three.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘You said you’d take me out in the pony trap.’

  He folded his arms and leaned a shoulder against the wall. His eyes seemed to sparkle but he did not smile. ‘Aye.’

  ‘Will you take me now? To town?’

  He snorted and shook his head, running a hand through straw-like hair. ‘I only said to the shops on Stratford Road.’

  She took a step towards him. ‘Well, take me there, then. I can walk the rest.’

  ‘You’ll not be back in time if you walk.’

  ‘Take me anyway.’

  He smiled lazily. ‘What’s the rush? We can take a bit of leisure here.’

  ‘You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.’

  Samuel’s face darkened. He stood straight, his arms falling to his sides.

  ‘It wasn’t a promise, just a friendly invite. And I will take you, but not today.’

  Red warmth began to curdle in Cora’s throat. Why should he have the say in what they did? He wasn’t her better. Her fists clenched on to the wool of her skirt and she took another step towards him lifting her petticoat above the top of her boot. Samuel’s eye dropped, as she knew it would, to the lick of black stocking. She took a breath full of saddle soap and horse.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to get you to take me?’

  His face coloured, but he didn’t move. ‘Maybe next Sunday.’

  ‘No, now.’

  ‘What’s the rush?’

  ‘I’m looking for someone.’

  One side of his mouth raised into a smile. ‘A sweetheart, eh?’

  In her next heartbeat, Cora went for him. And she didn’t know whether it was to lash his face with her nails or to kiss him until her tongue was inside his mouth. He tasted warm and sour as beer. One of her hands slipped beneath his jacket. His skin radiated heat through the damp shirt. She felt her limbs begin to soften and mould to his tensed body. His lips slackened against hers.

  Then, he reeled back. ‘Cora… Not here. Anyone might see us.’

  ‘Ellen has gone.’

  ‘But at any rate… not here.’

  ‘Will you help me though? I have to get into town.’

  He stepped back from her, his face crimson, and began to fumble into the pocket of his trousers.

  ‘Aye, aye. Have this.’

  ‘Sixpence? What for?’

  ‘The steam tram. The stop’s not far.’

  Cora stood for a moment, breathing hard. The skin around her mouth stung from the irritation of his bristles. She snatched the coin.

  ‘I’ll pay you back. When I see some wages.’

  He opened his mouth but she made sure not to hear his reply as she stamped out into the stableyard then hurried along the drive.

  He was right. At a fast walk in good boots, it didn’t take long to the stark new church and the terminus. Steam hummed from the engine tram as it waited. On account of the mild weather they’d pulled back the canvas roof. The passenger car rocked and creaked as Cora climbed the spindly staircase to the top deck. She had expected to be terrified by the wobbling height of the upper floor and the brushing of tree branches into the open sides but as a whistle tooted and they set off, she found herself filled with a white-hot impatience to go faster.

  The engine tram, hooked on behind, belched black smoke as it pushed the passenger car up the hill. Tar and sulphur laced the warm air. They picked up speed past the parade of shops; the butcher’s, counters swathed in grey sheets, was not nearly so grand as Ellen had made out and the confectioners’ display was pasteboard.

  As the road flattened, Cora closed her eyes into the howl of noise and air. It helped to blank an inner gnaw of reproach for getting what she’d wanted out of Samuel Shepherd like a Bordesley Street whore. Except that now she was beholden to him, not just because she owed him sixpence but because he’d stirred a ripple of heat inside her that she thought she was finished with for good.

  Houses thickened into long straight streets. Weak sunlight glinted off slate. The tram slowed to a huff past a recreation ground where men in white shirts rolled heavy balls over grass as flat and glossy as linoleum. Cora realised that she must have passed this way only last Sunday but she’d been too blinded by desperation and gin-dregs to notice anything except her rag-bound feet. She flexed her toes inside the button boots, and put a hand into her newly made pocket to reassure herself that the return ticket was safe inside.

  The tram clipped along between the red-brick houses. The air grew sooty. She must have breathed that bad air every day of her life until last week. Then they were into Deritend with its iron-barred warehouses and gated foundries that buzzed and clanked even on a Sunday. They passed enamel works and rolling mills. Cora craned her head looking for a painted sign that might say Salt & Co but factory gates and archways rattled past in a blur.

  Up ahead, a lone figure in a narrow grey skirt and perched bonnet leaned against the bridge over the canal. Something about the slope of the woman’s shoulders and the way her face was turned to the sun made Cora hold on to the bar of the upper deck and lean over. As the tram approached the bridge, the engine gave a blast of the steam whistle and the woman looked up. Briefly, her eyes met Cora’s in a hard blue stare that turned into a smirk.

  Cora pushed herself up to half-standing then cleared her throat. She waited until she was level with the woman then spat over the side of the tram. The gob of phlegm almost made it on to the hard-eyed woman’s dress but she’d deserved it; the coarse shout of whore! that followed the tram showed that. Cora slumped down vexed with herself, not just for missing her target but for allowing her hopes to be raised with every trick of the light.

  stereoscope

  Corporation Street’s pavements thrummed with the sturdy boots of housemaids and factory apprentices out for a Sunday jaunt. Cora hurried through the throng and, as she neared the photographer’s shop, her stomach twisted at the sight of what seemed to be her likeness against the dark backcloth. But it was a cabinet portrait of some woman, much older, in a high-necked gown. Only their stance was the same.

  Cora put her fingertips against the glass.
She should have known, as soon as she saw Bordesley Street, that Mr Thripp was not to be trusted. The two shillings she’d paid him might as well have been posted into a storm drain. It was no use trying to tell herself that the coins would have gone anyway into the thieving hand of an Irish sweeper. Vexation still simmered in her throat. Then, the velvet backcloth quivered and her fury boiled.

  ‘Oi! You swindler. Open up!’ She hammered on the window then flew at the door. The CLOSED sign shuddered behind it. ‘Let me in, you bastard! Give me back my shillings.’

  A crowd was gathering on the pavement. Cora stepped backwards into the road and peered at the curtained windows above the shopfront. Putting her hands to each side of her mouth, she bellowed up.

  ‘I’ll have the police on you, Thripp, if you don’t open this door. I want my money back!’

  The throng on the pavement began to join in. There were shouts of Open up! and Constable! A couple of lads came up behind Cora, asking if she wanted them to fetch an officer. They all crowded around the door. Then Cora heard the handle rattle and the lock turn.

  ‘Come in then, come in. Not you lot. Just the young lady.’

  A man’s hand grabbed her elbow and pulled her forward. The boys’ faces pressed up against the glass as the door closed. Cora shook herself and straightened her shawl as her eyes adjusted to the shaded light.

  ‘I want to see Mr Thripp.’

  ‘I am Mr Thripp.’

  But the man was young and slight, a reddish beard trimmed close to his face.

  ‘Not you. The old one.’

  His face relaxed into a slight smile. ‘I hardly dare ask what it might be about.’

  ‘It’s about my money that I gave him. Two shillings to put my likeness in your window. He said he would.’

  ‘A photograph? Of you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why would you pay to put it in our window?’