‘Bet slippers ain’t as good as this,’ he replied. And he tossed me an apple pinched from the fruit market near St Saviour’s. That apple! I’ve never forgotten it. Crisp and sweet as nectar, red and white where I had bitten into it, bright as a jewel while all about us was black and dirty. Goblin let me eat it all. He did not ask for any, but watched me, smiling.
It was hard to imagine a place crueller and more sorrowful than the Rents, but there was. Oh, there was. The time soon came when I wished with all my heart that I was back beneath my mother’s bed, my hands stopping my ears against the sound of the beast who rode her. But it is not so easy to shut out the devil once he has marked you for his own.
Chapter Three
We heard via Mrs Speedicut that Edward Eden had spent the rest of that week in the basement in a strait waistcoat. He had emerged, sullen and dejected, to a room without mice. Mrs Lunge, under strict instructions from Dr Rutherford, had supervised the removal of all animals from the patients’ care. Dr Golspie had objected, of course. Edward’s mice had been one of his ‘therapeutic innovations’ – along with a patient who had been allowed to keep a pair of canaries, and another who looked after a tank full of newts.
‘That Mrs Lunge.’ Mrs Speedicut was sitting before the stove in the apothecary, a mug of strong coffee in her hand. ‘She ‘ad Pole take everything away. She wrung the birds’ necks, she said, as a kindness. A kindness! An’ she made ‘im tip them frogs into the drain.’
‘Newts,’ I said.
Mrs Speedicut wrinkled her nose. ‘Can’t say I ever liked ‘em much, whatever they were. Nasty slimy things. But Dr Golspie were furious. Not that ‘e said much about it to anyone. Leastways not to Dr Rutherford, nor Dr Christie, not even to Mrs Lunge. ‘E’s afraid of ‘er.’ She took a swig of coffee and smacked her lips. ‘Mind you, ain’t we all? I don’t never know when she’s goin’ to appear be’ind me. She puts on all those airs and graces, driftin’ about the place like she’s royalty.’ She made an explosive sound indicative of deep disgust. ‘She ain’t no better than you an’ I.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Speedicut,’ I said. ‘I had no idea you valued me so highly.’ I filled her mug again. She had refused to follow St Saviour’s south of the river when it had moved, and instead had found herself a situation on the women’s wards at Angel Meadow. I had little affection for her, but I knew she loved to come down to us and gossip. It reminded her of how things used to be – before St Saviour’s was pulled down, before my father was hanged. She had always cared for him, in her way. I could forgive her a lot because of it. Mostly, her talk these days was of Mrs Lunge.
Mrs Lunge, it appeared, was a woman who – to Mrs Speedicut at least – possessed almost magical powers when it came to the sniffing out of laziness, pilfering, insubordination, and other forms of iniquity. For me, Mrs Lunge was little more than a purse-lipped female gaoler; a tall, upright shadow topped by a pale face, her tiny widow’s cap balanced upon her scraped-back hair like a saucerful of cinders. She did not say much, but her appearance – always heralded by ajangling of keys – was enough to make patients fall silent and attendants turn diligently to their tasks. Her thin corseted body radiated disapproval – at the muddy footprints I left on the floor, at the way I went in and out of the asylum with confident regularity, at the way Will, Dr Golspie and I talked and laughed together. And yet her face registered no emotion, so that her eyes, shifting in her colourless face, were like live things in a waxen mask. She had been handsome, once, that much was evident. Her height and bearing set her apart from the other women who worked at Angel Meadow, and her voice, when she spoke, was without the coarse edge one usually heard amongst the asylum’s attendants. Her eyes were fine, grey and intelligent. But something cruel glinted within them, and the lines about her mouth spoke of hardship and disappointment, so that I did not warm to the woman at all.
‘She’s the very devil,’ muttered Mrs Speedicut. ‘She took my gin!’
‘Then you’ll have to learn to hide it better,’ said Will. He was seated at his drawing board at the back of the apothecary, poring over Halliweli’s Principles of Modern Drainage. He tossed the book aside and ran his hands through his hair. ‘My master says we might save money if we omit drainpipe shoes and hopper heads across the new building – it’s only a prison, after all. But I cannot agree. The savings would be small and the consequences for the efficient removal of water during heavy rainfall would be disastrous.’
‘It’s Mrs Lunge what’s disastrous,’ said Mrs Speedicut, clearly unable to bear any change in the topic of conversation. ‘Disastrous to me an’ my gin.’
‘What can be done?’ I said, hoping the question might meet the needs of both of them, for I was hard-pressed to decide whether drains or cheap spirits was the more tedious subject.
‘My dear Mrs Speedicut,’ said Will. ‘Can you think of nothing but your bottle of Mother’s Ruin? Hide it in the coal scuttle, woman. Or under the floorboards. Use your imagination.’
‘I ain’t got no imagination.’ Mrs Speedicut’s teeth champed down hard on the stem of her pipe. ‘Can’t hide nothin’ from Mrs Lunge. She knows where everythin’ is. Always creepin’ an’ spyin’ – it’s no wonder there ain’t no secrets about the place. They say she’s made peep’oles – ‘er and Dr Rutherford. If you asks me I’d say she were sweet on ‘im, though Gawd knows why.’
‘Peepholes?’ said Will. ‘To spy on you? I can’t imagine the woman has the stomach for such an undertaking.’
‘Peep’oles in the walls. In the doors! ‘Ow else would she know?’ She produced a bottle from her apron pocket and glugged a measure of gin into her coffee. ‘That’s why I keeps it in me pocket now.’ She sighed heavily, blowing a blast of tobacco- and gin-sour breath into my face. ‘She wants to get rid o’ me. I can feel it. That Mrs Lunge!’
‘Surely not,’ I said. ‘Your experience is invaluable. Any institution would be delighted to have you and I know for a fact that St Saviour’s was sorry to see you go.’
‘Mrs Lunge wouldn’t be. She’s sorry to see me stay.’
I murmured soothingly. It was a long time since Mrs Speedicut had knowingly taken orders from a woman and it was bound to rankle. At St Saviour’s, once the ward rounds were done and the medical men had left, the place had been her kingdom. Things were very different now; at Angel Meadow the locked doors alone had taken her a while to get used to.
Mrs Speedicut sniffed, and commenced a lavish throatclearing. I laid my pipe down on the mantel. Sometimes, the sight and sound of the woman – the long brown teeth, the constant coughing and hawking – made me wonder at the wisdom of tobacco.
Mrs Speedicut spat a lump of brown phlegm into the coal. ‘Things ain’t what they were,’ she said. ‘Even at Angel Meadow.’
‘How so?’
‘It were better with Dr ‘Awkins in charge. That Mrs Lunge! She didn’t used to follow ‘im round like she does Dr Rutherford. Now it’s all Dr Rutherford said this an’ Dr Rutherford said that . . . It’s not even like she’s ‘appy about it – I’ve ‘eard her, crying at night when everyone’s abed, though she said it were just Letty when I asked ‘er about it.’ Mrs Speedicut snorted. ‘Letty!’ she said, witheringly. ‘Letty don’t say mithin’.’
‘No,’ I said.
‘An’ it’s not even like the place is better because of it, neither. The patients is all at sixes and sevens, ‘specially since Mr Eden’s mice was got rid of.’ She leaned forward, and added, ‘It were Mrs Lunge what told Dr Rutherford about them mice. Mrs Lunge what got Mr Eden locked up and Dr Golspie into trouble.’ She sucked on her pipe, her expression one of satisfaction. ‘Well, Dr ‘Awkins is back soon enough and things is bound to be different. Won’t she get a surprise then?’
In fact, we all got a surprise when Dr Hawkins came back, because he came home with something no one – not even Mrs Lunge – could have guessed: he came home with a wife.
I had to confess I was rather taken aback. Dr Hawkins had always appeared uninterested
in women. He claimed none of them as acquaintances, avoided the asylum’s Ladies’ Committee, and as far as I was aware had never frequented Mrs Roseplucker’s brothel nor any other similar establishment. But if I had learned anything from my experiences during those final days at St Saviour’s Infirmary it was that everyone has secrets, and that people behave in the most unexpected ways, especially when they think no one is watching.
I was keen to see him again, and to meet his new wife, and we did not have to wait long, for Dr and Mrs Hawkins had scarcely been back a week when Mrs Speedicut came down to the apothecary with an invitation for all of us – Will, my apprentice Gabriel, and myself – to attend the asylum the following evening.
‘A soirée?’ said Gabriel, peering at the invitation in alarm. He pronounced it ‘SOY-ree’. ‘What’s that?’
‘An evening of music, singing and dancing,’ I said.
Gabriel looked appalled. ‘Like a . . . a ball?’
‘Don’t worry, Gabriel,’ said Will. ‘Mrs Speedicut can run you up a gown and a crinoline in no time.’
Of course, it was nothing like a ball. Instead it was more like a gathering, with music, of those who wished to welcome the doctor home and congratulate the couple on their happiness. It turned out that the patients had also been told they were to meet the doctor’s new wife – Dr Hawkins asked that they dress in their best clothes and be brought down to the atrium at the entrance to the asylum, where the auspicious encounter would take place, for eight o’clock that evening. The atrium was illuminated by pale lanterns, its panelled walls hung with paintings of various asylum worthies. I could see that a number of the patients were alarmed at the sight – the stern portraits, the great orbs of light – and their voices grew loud. Only those least likely to cause offence had been permitted to attend. I observed Edward Eden amongst their ranks, along with Letty, the silent girl whose brain Dr Rutherford had sliced up. Her gaze was vacant, her stitches hidden beneath her cap. Edward’s face wore its usual expression of benignity, and I was glad to see he was looking calm. In my pocket I had a box containing a single white mouse – bought for a shilling from a boy out on St Saviour’s Street. Perhaps, now that Dr Hawkins was back, Edward might be permitted to keep at least one. I beckoned him over, and pressed the box into his hands.
‘Look after him for me,’ I whispered. ‘Every mouse needs a house.’ I gave a wink, and put my finger to my lips. Edward’s face lit up.
The patients grew excited as Mrs Hawkins passed amongst them. Some stood rocking from side to side, grinning and plucking at their lips, clearly with very little idea of what was going on. Others laughed and clapped, reacting to the celebratory atmosphere but completely uninterested in the tall dark-haired woman who was trying to shake their hand. Many appeared quite normal and behaved impeccably. As for Mrs Hawkins, not once did she flinch or look disgusted at the motley collection of individuals who had been chosen to represent her husband’s professional interests. She smiled and murmured greetings to them all as Dr Hawkins escorted her from one patient to the next. In the background, the attendants prowled up and down. I saw Mrs Speedicut, starched, ironed and corseted into a semblance of respectability. Her bulldog face was set in an expression of controlled pain – she hated to stand, and I could tell that her stays were too tight and her shoes pinched. On the other side of the room was Mrs Lunge. She looked no different to usual, tall and slim, one hand pressed to the high collar at her throat. Her face was impassive, her lips pressed together in a thin line. She watched Mrs Hawkins passing amongst the assembled multitude with grave indifference. The dim light accentuated the hollows and lines on her face giving her a weary, unhappy appearance. Beside her, Pole waited in silence, his one good eye fixed upon Mrs Hawkins. It was watering horribly, and I saw him dab at it with the edge of his filthy cuff, his giant bunch of keys swinging in his fist.
After the patients completed their welcome we made our way up to the Governors’ Hall. A handful of the most quiescent inmates were permitted to follow, though the majority were herded back to their rooms. Upstairs was crowded with benefactors and subscribers, friends of Dr Hawkins and others associated with the asylum. There were some faces that I knew, but many I did not. I was not feeling particularly sociable, and hoped I might simply saunter through the crowd with Will, observing and eavesdropping on different conversations. I was about to suggest as much when a man stepped out of the crowd.
‘Jem,’ he said. ‘My dear fellow, how delightful to see you! Don’t you recognise me? Surely you do! Has it been so long?’ He shook his head. ‘I fear it is. But you must remember me—’
‘I do, sir,’ I said, pumping his hand up and down. ‘Of course I do. How could I possibly forget?’
It was impossible to forget Dr Stiven. I first met him when I was little more than a child. For the most part, my upbringing had been a joyless one: my mother died at my birth, and my father was unable to forgive me for it. Born a daughter but raised a son, heir to an illness that had left my father mad, my life was bounded by secrets and silence. I was a serious child, duty-bound to conceal my true nature from the world even as I hid my ugly blighted face behindjars and beakers and books on physic.
Into this life of silent rebuke came Dr Stiven. He was a friend of my father’s, though how they were acquainted I had never been told. I was recovering from scarlet fever, in bed for over a week and looked after by my father and Mrs Speedicut, then the matron of St Saviour’s. One afternoon, after the fever broke, I awoke to find a man sitting on the end of my bed. He said that my father had gone out to a meeting of the St Saviour’s Medical Committee, but had asked him to look in on me to make sure I was comfortable. He was one of the most unusual men I had ever seen. I was used to a world where men dressed in drab colours, as befitted the ominous nature of their profession – a physician was just as likely to kill as to cure. And yet here was a man in a waistcoat of turquoise watered silk beneath a topcoat of midnight blue. His shoes were black patent leather with gold buckles, his legs sheathed in navy britches and white stockings. He carried a walking stick topped with a silver knob in the shape of a cat’s head. Most unexpected of all was his wig, a grey mass of tight curls. Beneath this his cheeks were powdered like a doxy’s above a regency-style neckerchief as pale and thick as clotted cream. He called his head of false hair ‘a peruke’, and stroked it fondly with the flat of his hand, as though it were an old family pet. It was of the very highest quality, he said, and made from real human hair.
‘Which humans?’ I asked, intrigued.
‘I don’t know them personally,’ replied Dr Stiven. ‘One can only hope they were sufficiently hirsute to bear the loss with dignity.’
Dr Stiven came to see me every day for the rest of the week. He never stayed longer than fifteen minutes – a length of time accurately measured by the gold pocket watch he set out on the counterpane where he sat. On the first day he reeked strongly of lavender and witch hazel – two smells with which I was comfortingly familiar. The lavender came from Norfolk, he said, the witch hazel from Kent.
The following day he abandoned these homely aromas in favour of something more exotic: a heavy mixture of attar of roses, sandalwood, and lemon verbena. ‘These,’ he said, ‘are the perfumes of the East, the costly scents of kings and princes from mysterious and faraway lands – Persia, Babylon, Arabia. D’you know,’ he added, ‘it takes one hundred freshly picked rose petals to form a drop of rose oil. The oil is squeezed out by the trunks of elephants. The rose bushes grow in fields, stretching out beneath the azure skies as far as the eye can see. They are tended by teams of rose-men, each in charge of a particular group of bushes. The colour of a rose-man’s turban is precisely matched to the colour of the flowers he tends.’
‘Have you seen them?’ I said. ‘Have you seen the endless fields and the elephants and the rose-men in their coloured turbans?’
‘Oh no,’ replied Dr Stiven. ‘But I have read about them.’ He sighed. ‘And yet, you are right to ask, for the whole thing m
ay well be a fairy tale, and reading is not quite enough for you and me, is it, Jem?’
I shook my head, uncertain where my acquiescence might lead. ‘No,’ I said.
‘No indeed. For one must see for oneself, one must observe, Master Flockhart, to know the truth.’
The following day Dr Stiven smelled of cherry pie. He told me that the cherry pie smell was ‘heliotrope’, and that he did not wear it often because its aroma made him want to nibble his own shirt sleeves. He showed me where a button was missing from his coat, and said that he had eaten it during a meeting with the Lunacy Commission that very morning.
I laughed. I loved his talk of Persia and princes and pies, even though I knew it was nothing but fancy. I peeped at the watch as it ticked off the seconds, and asked him to tell me again about the rose fields, and the elephants that squeezed out the oil with their trunks.
And then, he was gone. I knew straight away that he had made me see life in a more colourful and fascinating way. I had discovered my imagination, but, as befitted the rational daughter of a punctilious apothecary, I applied it in the most scientific manner. I began to look at the commonplace happenings around me and consider what desires, what motivations and ambitions might lie behind them. I tried to think beyond the obvious; to evaluate the possibilities of the singular, to hazard a guess at what I did not know based on what might be probable or improbable. It was a means of observing and interpreting the world that was to stay with me for ever.
I did not see Mr Stiven again for a long time after that first week. Then, one day, I came back from out-patients to find him sitting in the wing-backed chair before the apothecary fire.
He took me to the pleasure gardens down by the river. Ahead, at the heart of the crowd, I saw vast diamonds of green and red and yellow, girdled by a tasselled fringe of gold. I caught sight of a roaring flame. Before it, a man in a red coat and a tall black hat was shouting to the crowd. No man has ever attempted such a feat . . . five thousand feet above your heads . . . I alone am so valiant, so daring . . . I alone am the Great Goddard . . . The spectators cheered as the balloon, and the basket, inched into the air. The man made a sweeping gesture with his arms and the golden ropes that tethered the thing miraculously fell away, dropping to the ground like burning snakes. In no time at all the Great Goddard and his hot air balloon had become a tiny blot of colour on a blue sheet of sky.
Dark Asylum Page 4
