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Title Page
Front
Part One
The carriage jolts and splashes along the rutted lanes flooded by the heavy November rains. Through its grimy window, all I can see of the unfamiliar Essex countryside are bare hedgerows, the skeletons of trees, looming out of the morning mist. I shiver and clutch my travelling wrap around me more tightly—the familiar roughness of its wool collar on my neck is comforting.
Weeks ushers me into a high-ceilinged, narrow room with a stone floor. It has a row of windows like slits, high up in one wall, and along the opposite wall are shelves stacked with linen. A musty smell pricks my nose, a smell of unwashed clothes and damp.
As soon as lunch is over, I look for Weeks. I won't stay's here a minute longer. She must take me to the superintendent immediately.
Our exercise takes place in what Weeks calls the "airing ' court." After the stifling atmosphere of the gallery, it's cold and raw outside and I pull the threadbare cloak I've been given more tightly round me and stand for a moment, breathing in the fresh air.
After breakfast the following morning, Weeks makes us stand by our beds with Eliza stationed at the door to watch over us. As soon as Weeks goes out, the old woman, Miss Coles, collapses on to her bed, weeping.
We haven't been out today: rain has been falling continuously. Looking out of the window at the end of the gallery, all I can see are dark clouds and bare trees whipped by the wind, patches of wet leaves on the muddy ground. It's so gloomy the gas jets have been lit already.
Steam is rising from the surface of the water in the bath. I hunch into myself, but I can't cover my nakedness.
All night, fear has fluttered under my ribs.
Drops of rain cling to the windowpane. They gather weight, shift, catch, then slide in a trail down the glass, like tears. I stare beyond the drops. Nothing moves in the desolate park.
Mr. Sneed has sent for me! At last.
Eliza is hurrying me back to the gallery. My legs don't seem to belong to me, but they are carrying me along. My breath rasps, my ears ring, my heart hammers to the beat of one question: Why? Why?
Part Two
The thumping of the out-of-tune piano and the scraping of the fiddle are giving me a headache. I don't want to be here. But we all have to attend the Christmas dance, whether we want to or not.
Today, when I enter the day room with the others, a stranger, a man with a shock of ginger hair, is standing by the fireplace talking to Mr. Sneed. The superintendent turns towards us with an insincere smile. "Come in, ladies, come in. Don't be shy."
After lunch, the room still smells of chemicals, but the photographer has departed. Roberts is poring over our photographs, laid out on the table, and she looks up as we enter.
Every day I watch the careful unlocking and locking of doors, on the lookout for someone to slip up, waiting for my chance.
I've decided our only chance is at night. During the day we are watched too closely. Tonight I'll watch carefully—I will find a way.
Lunch is over and it's raining too hard for us to go out.
I'm poised, waiting for my moment.
Part Three
Dark. A dank smell.
Grey now. A faint light.
I don't know how long I've been in here. The light fades... returns ... they come with the mug and the plate.
I still feel weak and lethargic, even though I've been trying to eat a little. But I don't feel as lightheaded or confused and my hands aren't shaking as much now.
I've looked out for Eliza every day, even though I've known it's too soon—she won't have another afternoon off yet. As time passes, I've begun to believe she won't come again. Why would she? I'm not anything to her, just as I wasn't anything to Beatrice, I realise that now.
I've hidden the Fowler's Solution under my pillow—I don't need it now. Talking to Eliza has given me hope. I've been trying to eat more and I've taken to marching up and down the whole length of the gallery. Each day I can go farther, feel stronger. And I'm looking for ways out of here...
I can't believe it! Eliza was here only two days ago and here she is again! I see her coming in at the door and Scratton, who's dealing with a screaming patient, puts out a hand as if to detain her. Eliza ignores them both and comes rapidly down the gallery. I'm grinning like an idiot and then I see her face and I go cold.
I make myself eat as much as I can for supper, draining the bowl of greasy stew, cramming my mouth with bread until my stomach feels tight and uncomfortable.
I've done it. I'm still alive and I'm in the Infirmary!
Luckily it's a fairly mild night, but even so I'm shivering, perhaps more from excitement and fear than the shock of being outside in the fresh air. I take a deep breath, smelling damp earth and leaf-mould.
I am back in the Fifth Gallery and an attendant is prodding me. I groan. I don't want to get up yet—my whole body aches, my shoulder throbs...
Part Four
I'm lying on something soft, and I half-open my eyes and see a brown curtain hanging beside me. My eye-lids close, I drift ... and then I hear a slight noise, smell a dear, familiar smell. Eliza is here. Everything is all right. I sleep again.
Louisa, my dear."
My voice falters into silence. I can't look at Eliza.
Grace, here in the Shaw's kitchen! A vision in pale blue-grey silk that shimmers like opals, her flounced skirts draped in elegant curves.
While I've been shut inside, the world has turned green, that fresh lovely green that comes at the very beginning of summer. All along the hedgerow, the may trees are clothed in a froth of white blossom.
After a while I open my eyes to find Grace watching me. We exchange rueful smiles.
Feeling numb, I gaze at the trees sliding past.
Miss Louisa!" Mary positively beams, as she opens the door to me.
On my way to Tom's lodging, I can't help thinking about the last time I was here.
Lily and Arthur are in the lane watching for the carriage.
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