The Darlings of the Asylum, page 15
They stopped when they got to where Ada and I were sitting. ‘There’s someone I think you’ll be interested in meeting,’ Dr Rastrick said. I hoped they were coming to speak with me, but it was Ada they approached. She was having one of her bad days, coherent and delusional by turns. Her upright hair was restless, vibrating constantly. The doctors paused a little distance from her, and put their heads together, the tall young man inclining his head to listen to his chief. ‘Now this lady, Mrs Meggett, is a copybook old maid type, prone to religious apparitions or hallucinations about being ravished during the night, symptoms that betray the ovarian and uterine disturbances of the menopause.’
Dr Binkes seemed distracted. He’d spotted the Bird-Girl, Jemima Penty.
‘Ah, I see you’ve spotted our Miss Penty,’ said Dr Rastrick. ‘Note the large lower jaw. I’ve measured it. It projects more than an inch beyond the contracted upper jaw and possesses an extraordinary range of anteroposterior, as well as lateral, movement.’
‘Like a beak, I suppose,’ Dr Binkes stuttered. Jemima cocked her head and uttered one of her alarming squawks, then hissed and stamped her foot. Dr Binkes took a step backwards, almost falling into the lap of Annie Weech.
‘A remarkable instance of hereditary degenerative defects, don’t you think?’ said Dr Rastrick. ‘One rarely encounters so pronounced an example.’
Dr Rastrick placed a chair in front of Ada for Dr Binkes to sit upon. I observed them out of the corner of my eye. Both men took their case notebooks out of their pockets. I smelt carbolic soap and was sure it was to do with Dr Binkes. He had a raw scrubbed look about him. His collar must have been very well starched because the skin on his long neck was pink and mottled. Ada stared blankly ahead, her forehead deeply grooved in a frown, her lips mumbling inaudibly. She was afraid of Dr Rastrick, I was sure of it, and anxious to please him.
‘And how are we this morning, Mrs Meggett?’ asked Dr Rastrick. He turned to Dr Binkes. ‘We brought her to this ward after she’d been unable to sleep for two entire weeks and became confused. She’s been treated with hyoscine, but as you see is still a little agitated.’
Ada reached forward and took the younger doctor’s hand in her own. Why was she playing up this way? It was as if she was afraid to relinquish her delusions. I wanted to shake her back into her senses.
‘Mrs Meggett’s diagnosis?’ asked Dr Binkes.
‘Religious melancholia, according to her admission certificate. Will you permit me to touch your hair, Mrs Meggett?’ Without waiting for her assent, Dr Rastrick passed his hand over the upright crinkles. ‘Ah! A slight electrical charge. Here, feel it.’
Dr Binkes followed suit, with his free hand – Ada still had a firm grip of the other. Judging by his reaction, he wasn’t quite so attuned to Ada’s electrical hair as his master.
‘We shouldn’t rule out the possibility she has an electrical condition,’ said Dr Rastrick. ‘You’ll be aware of Caton’s work on electrical currents in the brains of dogs and apes?’
‘Certainly, I’ve come across it.’
‘Good man. I strongly advise you to keep abreast of developments in this area. What we see here is physiological evidence of abnormal electrical discharges within the body, in all probability a symptom of brain lesions.’ Dr Rastrick had taken out his case book and was making notes. ‘The religious preoccupation is only an indication that the brain is overloaded and losing mental force.’
He showed Dr Binkes his notebook. ‘These are the signs and symptoms I want you to record on your rounds. Build up a complete and accurate picture.’ He tapped the page with his pencil. ‘Take down all physical evidence. Be diligent about it. As we assess the patient, we observe closely the demeanour. In relation to Mrs Meggett, her heavy and dull expression, for example.’
Ada frowned, hearing these ungallant remarks.
‘Women are particularly useful for such purposes, of course,’ said Dr Rastrick.
‘Are they?’ asked Dr Binkes.
‘Being closer to nature, the sex is more impressionable to atmospheric stimuli.’
The longer the doctors spoke, the angrier I became. Why wouldn’t Dr Rastrick refrain from talking about Ada’s hair, and instead encourage her to talk about her life before she suffered the shock that turned her mind?
Ada began to speak in a tiny wisp of a voice, quite unlike the way she spoke to me.
‘Tell me, where am I? Where have you put me?’
‘Come now, Mrs Meggett, you know where you are,’ said Dr Rastrick. ‘We’ve talked about this.’
‘Oh yes, I remember where I am now!’ Ada cried. ‘I’m in Heaven!’ She lifted Dr Binkes’s hand to her lips, kissing the back of it as she gazed into his eyes. He had a protuberant Adam’s apple and it bobbed up and down at that moment. Ada’s hair quivered.
‘Is this Him you’ve brought with you?’ she asked Dr Rastrick. She was suddenly timorous, whispering: ‘Is this Our Lord Jesus?’
‘This is Dr Binkes, our new assistant medical officer. He’ll be coming to help me with my work, and may come to see you when I’m away.’
‘What was the cause of Mrs Meggett’s illness?’ asked Dr Binkes.
‘Her admission certificate records it as a gas explosion.’
‘And what’s your view on recording what patients say in case notes?’
‘Mostly of little use. Unless it provides useful information about their bodily functioning.’
‘And their delusions, hallucinations, memories of their past life?’
‘Environmental information tends to be extraneous, in general. We can’t make a diagnosis based on such ravings.’
Unable to endure Dr Rastrick’s pomposity and obtuseness a moment longer, I turned away. I watched a demented elderly lady hobble through the room. She spent her days pacing endlessly from end to end on some long-forgotten errand, weaving between tables and chairs. I realized Dr Rastrick’s instructive remarks had come to a close.
‘I hope you’re beginning to see the scope of what we’re about here,’ Dr Rastrick said to Dr Binkes, giving him a pat on the back. ‘I have a particular interest in researching the aetiology of moral insanity in females. There are a number of unfortunate women here in that category.’
And as he made the remark, he turned his head and smiled at me for reasons best known to himself. The muscles tightened at the back of my neck.
18
August had come and I had maintained my compliant behaviour. I’d had no opportunity to speak with Dr Rastrick, so when his summons finally came, I flew from the kitchen garden, dashed through the main building and rushed up the stairs. The attendant Mrs Clinch was hardly able to keep up with me. The consultation was to take place in the housekeeper Mrs Tuckwell’s small station on the secure ward. It was my first visit there. My breathlessness seemed out of place in the hushed stillness. Dr Rastrick didn’t look up as I entered, but continued to read his notebook which was open on the counter. The room was a narrow galley, and the walls closed in on me. Locked cupboards ranged along one wall, from which drugs were dispensed, I supposed, and opposite there was a worktop and stove with a kettle on it. I noticed a few books on a shelf, dealing with medical matters. There was a vent on the floor and I could hear the gas boilers roaring down in the basement. At last, Dr Rastrick turned and gestured for me to sit on a stool at the counter. His gaze passed over me from head to foot. The look in his eyes was disconcerting, but difficult to read.
‘You needn’t have run here,’ he said.
‘I didn’t want to waste time,’ I replied, perching myself on the stool. ‘I rarely see you.’
‘I’m sure you’re being well looked after. Now, if I could have a look at your eyes.’ He moved to stand over me, moving directly into a physical examination, with no enquiry as to how I was feeling. His time was precious, and he didn’t want to waste it in idle talk.
‘I can see perfectly well, I assure you.’
He brought his face close to mine and parted my eyelids with his thumb and forefinger so he could peer into my soul. ‘Just a little bloodshot and cloudy today,’ he concluded.
He held my wrist in his hand and took my pulse, staring at his stopwatch. When he had finished, he stepped over to the counter. ‘I need to listen to your heart, so open your dress, if you wouldn’t mind.’ I obliged, at pains to conceal my irritation. As I unbuttoned my dress, I smelled my own perspiration. He took his stethoscope out of his case and put the earplugs into his ears. With each minute that passed, the possibility of making my case was slipping away. He pressed the stethoscope against my exposed skin, close to the breastbone. Somewhere outside I could hear the squeak of a trolley wheel that needed oiling. Dr Rastrick moved the stethoscope to the same position on the other side of my breastbone. He made a humming sound as if he’d heard something untoward. My hands trembled where they rested in my lap and I saw the black soil under my fingernails. A sudden vertiginous sensation swept over me and I shut my eyes, desperate to conceal my symptoms from Dr Rastrick. He took soundings in several places on my back. When he was finished, he put his instrument away and I buttoned myself up. For a long moment he stood at the counter, silently recording his findings in his notebook.
‘Everything is all right, I take it?’ I asked.
‘Both your heartbeat and pulse are higher than I would like.’
‘Well, I’ve just rushed up the stairs from the gardens. On the whole, I’ve been feeling much better.’
‘The wonder of the stethoscope is it allows one to detect irregularities even when there are no visible symptoms. I see in the notes that you experienced some nocturnal palpitations when you first arrived. Has there been any recurrence?’
I hesitated. I was inclined to lie and say there hadn’t been, but I’d mentioned it to the attendants. ‘A little. But no more than I’d expect after such a wretched change of circumstances.’
He looked down at his notes. ‘The records show your menses are irregular, a recognized symptom of want of nervous force. And, just so you know, I’ve notified Mrs Tuckwell that your stools and urine are to be inspected.’
‘As you see fit. But I hope you’re also noting down that I’m improving day by day. In fact, there’s something I wanted to ask. I wondered if I might be permitted to do some drawing, or ideally painting. It would distract me from morbid thoughts and soothe my nerves. I might draw flowers from the garden, or views of the pleasant hospital grounds perhaps – as you deemed appropriate.’
Dr Rastrick frowned. ‘Painting is a harmless enough pastime for someone with robust health. But that’s not the case here. And I fear there is a pathological aspect to your drawing and painting. You yourself refer to morbid thoughts.’ He paused, studying me intently with his pencil poised. His gaze was cold and searching. ‘Tell me, Miss Pring, have you had any disturbing thoughts recently, or visions?’
‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean. Thoughts of what nature?’
‘Anything that has troubled your conscience. Perhaps at night, when alone.’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ I said, avoiding his gaze.
‘You have not found yourself dwelling on your visit to Mr Lilley, for example?’
I experienced a confusion of emotions at this unexpected mention of Mr Lilley, and grew uncomfortably hot under my clothes. My hands were wringing in my lap and it took an effort to compose myself.
‘I haven’t been constantly thinking about Mr Lilley, I can assure you,’ I said. ‘And at any rate, what business is that of yours?’
‘It is important that I record any disturbing thoughts or other evidence of emotional lability. Anything that might pertain to physical degeneration.’
‘Physical degeneration! Can’t you see how hard we work in the garden?’
‘I was referring to the mind, the likelihood of lesions in the brain. But I think it’s best if we leave it there, for now. I recommend that you comply to the letter with our rules, or face the consequences. Rest assured, every effort is being made on your behalf. You may go now, Miss Pring.’
Mrs Clinch escorted me back to the garden. This time she marched ahead while I tarried, all my spirit drained from me. The sun had gone in, and a grey and dreary mood had fallen over all. Mrs Clinch parted with me at the arch in the wall that led into the garden, and hurried back to the ward. My workmates and their guards had left the vegetable plots and were gathered some distance away, outside the shed, putting away the tools for the night. They were too distant for me to hear their voices. I made my way slowly along the path under the wall towards them. I passed a row of cold frames where cabbages, spinach and radishes were growing under glass. Ahead was a field of chard, ready for picking. After a quick glance around me to make sure I couldn’t be seen, I walked through the chard, trampling as much of it underfoot as I could.
19
It was dinner time and, as always, I sat next to Ada Meggett. She was lapping up a plate of Irish stew. I spooned some into my own mouth and forced the greasy broth and gristle down. Poor Peggy Paynter, who had murdered her own infant, sat across the table. She had pulled out all but the few last tufts of her sandy hair. She seemed to be fading away, with her white eyelashes and pale eyes, her puffy complexion and dull expression. Every so often, she sighed heavily. Wall-Eye, whose actual name was Judith Wicks, was next to her, talking intensely to one of her mates, their heads together. She noticed me gazing at her, and turned to me.
‘Dr Rastrick has jars of pickled brains in a cupboard, all in a row, all of maids that was locked up here,’ she said, with a blast of her demented cackle. ‘As soon as they draws their last breath, they be wheeled down to the lab so that he can slice off the top of their noddles and take out their brains.’
‘Zactly so!’ said one of her friends.
Judith leaned toward me to make herself heard. ‘There be doors here that ain’t never opened. Secret chambers where wicked things is done to us in the name of learning.’
For a moment all that could be heard was the clinking of spoons in metal bowls. I nibbled a slice of stoneground bread that had been dipped in lard.
‘Rastrick do have his darlings, of course,’ said Judith.
I put the bread down. ‘His darlings? What do you mean?’
‘Them ladies his junior men must keep notes on, them he’s forever fiddling about with, them he picks on for his tests.’ As she spoke, several of the women around her nodded their heads.
‘And who are these darlings? Can you name any of them?’
‘Well, who can rightly say?’ said Wall-Eye. ‘But one thing I do know. They’ll never leave Hellwood. Not alive, dear me, no.’ She cackled again at the thought.
Ada touched my arm. ‘Are you going to eat that suet pudding, dear?’
I shook my head. ‘You may have it, Ada.’
Another day, a number of women were told they were to have their photographic likeness taken. When it was my turn, Miss Nettleship escorted me down the central staircase all the way to the bottom, and into the part of the building where the male wards were situated, an area unfamiliar to me. I had to sit on a bench outside the room for some time. There was a sign on the door: ‘Neuroanatomical Laboratory.’ From time to time, I heard Dr Rastrick’s muffled voice behind the door.
The door opened, and a patient walked out, looking dazed. ‘Next, please!’ cried Dr Rastrick. I stepped inside and saw Dr Rastrick’s laboratory was a large airy room, with windows along one side looking out over pastures where cows grazed, with the woods in the distance. Dr Rastrick was standing beside the new man, Dr Binkes, at the side of the room, their backs to me. Neither of them turned as I entered. They were looking down at a photograph on top of a cabinet.
‘The point is we can create a taxonomy of different symptoms, so specimens can be compared across other hospitals and clinics,’ said Dr Rastrick. ‘I intend to publish some of the photographs in book form, with an accompanying monograph.’
A camera waited on its stand in the centre of the room, the lens facing a grey sheet slung over a line a few yards in front of it.
Dr Rastrick turned. ‘Ah, Miss Pring. This way, please.’ He directed me to a chair between the camera and the grey sheet. Stooping to pin a square of paper with the number seventeen scrawled upon it to the front of my dress, he said, ‘I need you to keep your face as still as possible for the second or two required to make the exposure.’ Without another word, he buried his head and shoulders under the black tent behind the camera. I did my best to keep my face motionless, as instructed. Dr Rastrick emerged and slid a glass plate out of the camera.
‘You may wait here, Miss Pring,’ he said. ‘It’ll take a few minutes at most.’ He rushed into what looked like a storeroom in the corner of the room.
When he was gone, Dr Binkes wandered up and down by the window that looked out over the lawns, his arms folded. Through the glass, I heard the faint rasps of crows. A framed photograph on the wall showed a view of grey rolling hills culminating in a ridge, set against a sky which was cloudless and flat in an unearthly way, as if all the light and hues of nature had been drained from the world. A metal panel on the bottom of the frame stated: ‘A View of Firle Beacon, Sussex. Dr Harold A. Rastrick. Silver Medal in the Landscape Category, 1879. East Sussex Photographic Society.’
I looked about the room. There were gleaming metal cabinets along the walls, with labels on the drawers: ‘Dispensary’, ‘Specimens’, ‘Electrical’, ‘Surgical’ and so on. Instruments of various sorts were laid out on top in orderly fashion. In a corner there was what appeared to be an operating table, and near it a sink and faucet and weighing scales. It was unnerving. What took place there, when it wasn’t in use as a photographic studio? What did Dr Rastrick do on that operating table? What were the specimens in his cupboard? Could they by any chance be the rumoured pickled human brains?
