by V. H. Leslie
Kirsten couldn’t have seen her from the path because she was crouched over. Among the bracken she was hardly noticeable, a diminutive figure hunched over at the water’s edge like one of the many bunches of wild flowers that dip their heads towards the surface. In her hand was a large stick, which she seemed to be using to prod the water, and Kirsten was reminded of a witch stirring a cauldron. At Kirsten’s approach the figure turned and stood, letting the stick fall from her hand.
It wasn’t the same woman Kirsten had seen from her window. This woman was older, with thin, greying hair. There was a sense that Kirsten had caught her doing something surreptitious, like a child caught playing with something it shouldn’t. The woman looked to the river as if composing herself, and when she glanced back at Kirsten, the furtive air in her countenance had gone.
‘You must be the young woman in apartment three,’ she said flatly.
‘Yes, I’ve just moved in.’
‘I saw the light in the window last night. I live above you.’ She moved towards her. ‘My name’s Manon.’
‘What a relief,’ Kirsten replied, holding out her hand. She regretted it instantly. Though Manon shook it lightly, Kirsten had the distinct impression Manon disliked personal contact. ‘I thought that I was alone here.’
Manon glanced quickly at the water and began to make her way back up the bank.
‘Are there any others?’ Kirsten pressed, following behind.
‘No, it’s just us at Wakewater. At least for the time being.’ She watched Manon look back at the water again; it was almost as if she were addressing the river instead of her.
‘But I saw a woman here, last night,’ Kirsten stopped.
‘Oh?’
‘I thought it might be another resident.’
‘It’s a public bridleway,’ Manon said, pointing to a wooden signpost. Just a rambler, I imagine.’
Kirsten stared for a while longer at the spot where she had seen the woman before following Manon back up the bank. It seemed that Manon was intent on leading her away from the river.
‘So, how long have you been here on your own?’ Kirsten continued, catching up with her.
‘A couple of months.’
‘Hasn’t it driven you crazy, being in such a big place?’
‘There’s a lot here to keep you occupied.’
‘The river?’
‘Yes, the river.’
Kirsten heard some birds cawing overhead; she could see their dark shadows in the reflection of the river. She was grasping for conversation, but Manon seemed closed off, reticent. Perhaps she’d been on her own for too long.
They walked in silence, moving further from the river. Manon led them through a small gate and into the courtyard. The river was now completely obscured by the stone façade of the main building. Manon placed her hands in her pockets and her shoulders seemed to relax.
‘Do you know what this place was?’ she asked.
‘A hospital, the estate agent told me.’
‘No, it wasn’t a hospital. It was a hydropathy establishment.’ Manon saw the confused look on Kirsten’s face. ‘A kind of retreat, a health resort,’ she explained. She began walking along the path that edged the house. She stepped over a series of puddles with care. ‘A place for administering the Water Cure. It was very popular in the nineteenth-century.’
‘Water Cure?’ Kirsten asked, following in her footsteps.
‘It was a therapy that used water to heal all types of ailments, from physical to neurological complaints. The patients would be prescribed all manner of water treatments, from being wrapped in wet sheets and cold compresses, to taking an innumerable amount of baths. Soaked, drenched and saturated for a few months, drinking only water, exercising a little and eating simply, the Victorians couldn’t get enough of it.’
‘But how could that cure people?’
‘You have to remember,’ Manon said as she skirted another puddle, ‘that this was before the birth of modern medicine. More conventional drugs at the time included the use of mercury and arsenic. More people died from the treatments than their illnesses. In comparison, the Water Cure couldn’t really do any harm. And considering what hygiene was like then, most people really did benefit from spending their days lolling about in the water. This was a time when most doctors believed that being a gentleman exempted them from washing their hands.’
‘Disgusting,’ Kirsten exclaimed. ‘You seem to know a lot about it.’
‘I’m interested in this place, what it once was.’ She looked up at the building with an expression of awe, then made her way to a side entrance and, with a movement born of experience, nudged the door with her hip.
‘What are you doing?’ Kirsten asked, incredulous.
‘I just want to show you something.’
‘But this is breaking and entering.’
‘Until the developers come back, we’re the unofficial custodians of the place. It wouldn’t do if squatters got in. Better that we check the place out from time to time.’ And with that Manon produced a torch from her coat pocket. The interior was suddenly illuminated – a kitchen or scullery from the looks of it – and Kirsten’s curiosity was similarly awoken. She found herself falling into step behind her.
‘Watch yourself,’ said Manon, shining the light on the old flagstones. ‘It’s just along this corridor. Wait till you see it.’
It was as if she’d stumbled into a dream world. When she woke that morning, Kirsten had only thought of the river, about walking beside its silent winding immensity. But now here she was, following a stranger through the vast and musty corridors of an old dilapidated house – a house probably deemed too dangerous for even the developers to tackle. Visions of the building crumbling down around her filled her mind and she made her way cautiously over the boards, ducking quickly beneath the exposed beams and the dusty chandeliers, half-expecting them to come tumbling down as if triggered by their intrusion.
‘Keep up, dear,’ she heard in the distance. ‘Nothing to be afraid of, I’ve been here hundreds of times.’
The light disappeared around the bend and for a moment Kirsten was left in the darkness. There was a faint chemical smell, reminiscent of hospital wards, and beneath it the stronger odour of damp. She heard a splash beneath her feet and as she moved towards the light she could see a thin sheet of water pooling from the open door.
‘Watch you don’t slip,’ Manon said as Kirsten entered the room.
It was surprisingly light compared to the dark passages they’d just been through. Though the bottom windows were boarded up, the top ones had been left untouched and light flooded in from above, sparkling against the reflective surfaces.
‘Well, what do you think?’
Kirsten hardly knew what to make of it. In the centre of the room was an enormous ornamental fountain. Though now defunct, she could imagine how impressive it would have been in its day. Scattered around the room were mildewed couches, and what appeared to be smaller enclosures like dressing rooms were separated by panelling and the frayed remains of curtains. The room was flamboyantly lavish, despite its neglect. From the double-height ceiling hung an enormous chandelier and beneath it the dispersed remnants of a large mosaic. The rest of the walls were covered with intricately patterned Victorian tiles, finished off with mahogany wainscoting. It was an overwhelmingly decorative space, especially considering the austere appearance of the rest of the building she’d seen so far.
‘It’s a wonder so much of it has remained intact,’ she said moving further into the room.
‘The developers have been pretty unforthcoming about the history of Wakewater, though clearly it’s been in private hands until fairly recently.’
‘I wonder why there were no attempts to renovate it before?’
‘Maybe there were.’
Kirsten wove her way deeper in the room, noticing a handfu
l of smaller drinking fountains set in niches. She moved closer to the central fountain, ignoring the stagnant green water that filled the basin, marvelling instead at the intricate waves carved into the marble. It emitted a low gurgling sound and a bubble burst on the surface. Evelyn instinctively took a step back and sank ankle-deep into water.
‘Sorry, I should have warned you,’ Manon said as Kirsten edged her way slowly back to the periphery of the room.
Kirsten shrugged and began to wring the water from her trouser legs. ‘Don’t be silly, it’s only a little water.’
6
Evelyn
‘What do you think?’
Dr Porter was stood at the centre of large, light room, flanked by an impressive decorative fountain. Chandeliers glinted overhead, held aloft by sculptured mermaids and nereids. A mosaic on the far wall depicted Neptune with his trident riding a shell-clad chariot drawn by dolphins and seahorses. Even the tiling represented the water, their blue-green current broken up by the occasional piece of decorative seaweed. Staring at it for too long gave you the uncanny feeling of being underwater.
Evelyn wasn’t sure what she made of it. She wasn’t really sure of what she made of the whole morning with Dr Porter. What had begun as her consultation had turned into a guided tour of Wakewater. And she’d hardly spent any time in Dr Porter’s office discussing her condition. After diagnosing her with nervous tension and prescribing a routine that excluding reading or intellectual stimulation of any kind, he seemed eager to relinquish his medical mantle and show her around.
‘Only a few people have seen this room.’ He went on, ‘You’ll be among the first of our guests to sample its splendour.’
‘Well, it’s very grand.’ Evelyn smiled. It certainly was sumptuous. Like the solarium, it seemed at odds with the pared down décor of the rest of the house. Dr Cardew clearly provided the financial investment in this partnership; perhaps he was explicit about how Wakewater should be decorated. At dinner he had certainly talked a great deal about progress; perhaps Dr Porter’s simple living wasn’t to his liking. And this room certainly exhibited an expensive kind of taste. Clearly there were two personalities in conflict at Wakewater.
‘Turkish baths are quite the rage right now,’ Dr Porter continued. ‘This is the cooling room, where you can relax after your treatments.’
Evelyn looked around at the room, at the private enclosures where you could recline on couches, gazing up at the bright sky. Or sit beside the fountain, watching the water cascading incessantly into the wave-rimmed pool. But it was far from relaxing, with the sound of the water disrupting your peace.
‘We have many other innovations in the pipeline, so to speak, that will undoubtedly set us apart from other Water Cure establishments.’
Evelyn murmured her approval and Dr Porter pushed on to show her the series of hot rooms, where she’d be gradually heated by degrees, before plunged into cold water. She tried not to think of the treatments as a kind of punishment. Dr Porter led her back out towards the fountain and, standing beneath Neptune, looked at her expectantly, perhaps slightly dejected that she wasn’t more impressed by his vision.
‘It’s quite large,’ she managed. ‘Do you hope to expand?’
‘Certainly. We need to share the miracle of water with everyone.’
Evelyn had wondered if he summoned his faith in the Water Cure for the benefit of his guests and dinner speeches, but now she saw that he was a complete believer.
Dr Porter led her to back to the entrance. ‘We’ll begin your treatment this afternoon, so until then, why don’t you enjoy the grounds.’
Dr Porter’s passion was commendable, but Evelyn found herself relieved to be out of his company. She walked from the dark interior into the sunlight, then through the grounds that wound their way towards to the distant hills. She knew she was parallel with the river, but she had walked far enough inland that it was out of sight. When she felt a considerable distance from the house, she sat down on the grass.
It was quite overwhelming, this new place, these new people. Evelyn was used to being in charge of her own affairs, but here she was in the care of someone else, with a timetable and a routine devised without any of her say so. She lay back in the grass and considered how hard it is to give into someone’s better judgement. What made Dr Porter’s judgement better than hers anyway? That he was a qualified, that he was a man?
Evelyn wondered if that’s how the women she tried to save felt about her. When she arrived at their door with a bible in her hand, passing judgement on how they should live their lives, did they think she was better than them, because she happened to be born in the right district of London, to a superior class, that she spoke and dressed with more refinement? She was certainly told so by indignant madams who felt they were the real ones looking out for the girls, giving them an income, a roof over their heads. It was a shame they had to work, of course, they would say, but every woman not born with a lady’s privileges has to work, and the body is a commodity like everything else. If they learnt the trade and were smart, they might one day ascend to owning an establishment of their very own.
But too many of them died along the way. Evelyn had seen her share of death in the London back streets and in the refuge where fallen women came to escape their former lives. The tragedy there was that these women wanted to relinquish their old ways, they wanted to make the climb back into civilised society. They’d listened to Evelyn’s words and had realised how far they had fallen.
That was why there had to be more change. What was the point patching up the wounded, rescuing a few souls here and there – many of whom would return to their old ways when they ran out of money – when the most the world could offer them was life as a scullery maid. For the more ambitious and the more intelligent, perhaps being a brothel owner was a better prospect.
Evelyn sat up. She could see a figure walking towards her. A slim figure, with hair that glinted gold in the sun. It was Blanche, and Evelyn felt an anxious fluttering in her stomach. She shouldn’t have spoken so passionately about her work the night before. She remembered Blanche laughing at her when she suggested men were the problem. It was the attitude she was all too used to. When the government declared that one in three men in the armed forces had venereal disease, what did they do to the men? Nothing. But any woman suspected of prostitution could be stopped by police and forced to an internal examination. Violated with speculums and medical equipment against their will. The Rescue Society had been very busy since that particular piece of legislation.
‘Mrs Arden,’ Evelyn said standing. ‘How nice to see you.’
‘Blanche, please.’ She smiled back. ‘So how drenched are you today? That’s how you’ll find you’ll interact with the rest of us from now on. Conversations don’t begin with the weather but how many volumes of water you’ve been submerged in.’
‘You appear dry enough.’
‘Oh no, when you come to Wakewater you have to accept your amphibious existence.’ She reached for Evelyn’s hand and brought it to her stomach. It was spongy beneath her touch.
‘It’s a water girdle. Neptune’s girdle, though I don’t know how I feel about the god of the sea sitting across my naval. Better to be named after his wife, don’t you think.’
‘Salacia.’
‘Exactly. Salacia’s girdle.’
‘My goodness.’ Evelyn’s hand lingered on Blanche’s waist. She seemed to incite physical contact between them.
‘You’ll find that all of us apparent land mammals are actually wearing the water upon us in one way or another. Hidden beneath our dresses or petticoats. Only at dinner can we take the damn things off.’ Blanche linked arms with Evelyn as if they had known each other a long time and began walking across the field.
‘I was thinking about your work with the Rescue Society,’ Blanche continued.
‘I’m sorry I was so forthright.’
&
nbsp; ‘Not at all, it was exhilarating to hear you so impassioned. But I wanted to ask something.’
They had approached a copse of trees and they wove through the boughs single file.
‘Of course.’
‘What is a fallen woman like?’
‘Why, they are just like us.’
‘Evelyn!’
‘What I mean to say is that they could be any of us in reduced circumstances.’
Blanche shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Death would be kinder.’
Women of her class always thought so. They’d rather die a martyr’s death than lose their virtue. In Evelyn’s opinion, it was a privilege of the rich to place such a high price on virtue. When you are starving, when you have dependents, you’d do whatever is necessary to stay alive. Besides which, so many of these women were only girls when they fell in the first place. Forced into the life by circumstance, or tricked by seemingly benevolent matrons on their arrival into the capital. They could hardly be accountable for their actions at such a young age.
‘Perhaps so.’
Evelyn ducked to avoid a cluster of crab apples. The trees had begun to gradually disperse revealing the river in the distance. Through the branches she could just make out a woman at the water’s edge, a woman with long black hair.
She could feel Blanche moving behind her, flapping at the branches to move them aside.
‘I’m entangled,’ she called.
Evelyn turned to free her and when she turned back, the woman was gone.
7
Kirsten
Kirsten woke with the strange feeling of having been submerged. She felt relaxed, her limbs loose and warm, her skin supple and soft. She could almost fancy the tips of her fingertips were wrinkled. She got out of bed with a sense of lightness, an airy quality to her movements, akin to walking through water. Buoyed along the hallway and into the kitchen, she switched on the coffee machine with a numb detachment, a feeling not unlike having been in the water for too long.
