Signs for Lost Children by Sarah Moss (top ten ebook reader TXT) 📕

‘No, my dear. Perhaps your parents are away from home.’

She nods. She was foolish to hope. She believes she has ceased to look for approbation and is yet repeatedly surprised, hurt, by Mamma’s lack of interest. But Aubrey would like to know, and she must write this morning to Mrs. Lewis and Miss Johnson. And then call on Dr. Stratton to discuss her future.

The doorbell rings.

S

ALE OR

R

ETURN

At first he had thought of taking her to choose a ring. She is not, after all, a young girl before whom he will kneel, and nor has he asked her uncle’s consent. She will not pretend to be surprised, and she is not to be bought with shiny stones. But then it occurred to him that the infliction of awkwardness is no gift, that he would not enjoy the experience if she were take him to a shop and ask him to choose a present for her to buy. Perhaps she will not want to wear a ring at all, perhaps she would see it as a badge of ownership. Perhaps this is all too soon, too fast. But he is returning to Falmouth next week, and soon after that he is to leave the country. It is six months since they met. He does not want to leave her unpromised, unclaimed, nor even, really, in the no-man’s-land of an engagement, adrift between her aunt and uncle in London and her parents in Manchester, perhaps taking a job in a place he has never seen. Marry me, he wants to say, live with me, not be engaged to me. They are both old enough to know what they are about. It is not the time for half-measures; if she says no, well, he is leaving anyway, will take his bruises off to wherever it is that Penvenick wants to send him. He is no boy to die of a broken heart. He had one of the merchants with whom he has business escort him around the jewellers of Hatton Gardens. A emerald to match her hazel eyes, small to match his limited means. Sale or return. He will offer it, that’s all. He fingers the box in his pocket as he approaches the house.

P

RETTY

L

ITTLE

W

EAPONS

She returns to the asylum.

The woman with the maggots in her head is not here. She has been moved to the back ward, Dr. Camberwell explains, after attempting to remove the maggots via her ear with a crochet hook. There is a new young doctor, someone Ally might like to meet, who is keen to provide occupation even for the private female patients. He believes that they would be less intent on self-destruction had they other ways of passing the time, but of course—as Dr. Camberwell himself predicted—providing further pastimes only provides more opportunities for ingenious self-harm. It is all very well for the pauper patients, who are accustomed to labour and would doubtless be quite unmanageable if they were not allowed to wash and scrub. It is strangely difficult, is it not, to conceive of a ladies’ occupation that does not entail the use of some sharp or pointed implement? Almost inclines one to see the drawing room in quite a new light, what, all those pretty little weapons in fine white hands? No, it is quite impossible for Miss Moberley—oh, but she is far too pretty to be called Dr.—to see the back wards. A distressing sight, most unfit for fair eyes, and in any case the presence of strangers only upsets patients who are already in extremis. Allow him instead to conduct her through the women’s parlour, and then perhaps into the gardens? The roses, if he does say so himself, are really rather delightful at the moment.

Most of the patients stand as Dr. Camberwell and Dr. Moberley enter the room. It reminds Ally more of school than of the hospital, with a dulled parquet floor, wooden chairs set against the walls and an occasional table before each of the two windows, although there are no plants here, no pictures or bookshelves. There is an odour as the patients gather around, as how indeed, she thinks, in this weather should there not be, from those denied clean linen and a daily bath? Their clothes are ill-fitting, in some cases so much so that dresses cannot be fastened and feet shuffle, and she wonders how much more sane these women might feel and appear to be were they allowed their own clothes and shoes.

‘Dr. Camberwell—’

‘Excuse me, doctor—’

‘Please, sir, when am I to be released?’

‘Doctor, I must speak to you. I cannot sleep.’

Dr. Camberwell steps back. ‘Now, now, ladies. See, I have brought you a visitor. Are you not lucky? This is Miss Moberley. She is taking an interest in establishments such as this.’

A tall woman, standing behind the others and wearing a skirt made for a short one, laughs. ‘Lunatic asylums, Dr. Camberwell. Establishments such as this are lunatic asylums.’

‘Monomania,’ murmurs Dr. Camberwell to Ally. ‘Seems as sane as you or me until she starts to think she’s shedding her skin like a snake.’

And does it harm her, Ally wants to ask, to think that she is shedding her skin like a snake? Does her delusion threaten anyone? An older woman in a stained jersey, too hot for the time of year, plucks his sleeve with a grimy hand. There is a crescent of dirt under each fingernail. ‘Please, doctor. Please.’

Please what? He pushes her hand off. ‘This way, Miss Moberley, this way. A sad case, episodes of terrible profanity and the most violent rages.’

She has been devoting herself to the literature of insanity these last weeks. She knows there are other doctors in Britain at this moment also wondering about the relationships between madness and incarceration. There are those, writes Professor Matthews, who, despite appearing sane while within the asylum, are quite unable to function when returned to the world outside, but there are