Eliza gives me another rueful look but she has to follow Weeks out. They take the lamp with them.
I daren't move. The darkness presses on my eyes and ears and I listen out for footsteps. Surely they'll be back soon? All I can hear is a muffled drip drip.
I realise I'm holding my breath. I let it go, then breathe in just a little through my nose. I'm scared of swallowing the blackness.
Why have they done this to me? I've done nothing wrong.
You've made an enemy of Weeks. And you know what else you've done.
I close my eyes. Then jerk them open.
Don't fall asleep. Think. Think. Find something to focus on. How to amputate a leg? Yes. Apply a tourniquet.
I have to find a way out of here. If I write tonight, Mamma should get my letter tomorrow.
With the knife, cut through the soft tissue to the bone, leaving flaps of muscle.
I might hear from her by tomorrow night.
With the saw, cut the bone...
Or perhaps she won't write, but will come immediately.
With the forceps, trim round the edges of the bone
I might be home in a day or two. Unless Mamma is too anxious to come herself.
With artery forceps, pick up the ends of the major arteries and veins and apply ligatures to stop the bleeding.
She could send Mary.
Fold the flaps of muscle over the cut bone...
Oh Mamma, I'm sorry I was so angry with you. Please send Mary...
and sew the edges together.
Or perhaps it's Tom I should be writing to. Yes, Tom, he's much nearer. But maybe he can't get away at the moment. Would Aunt Phyllis be better?
Who? Who will come and save me?
The hot steam rises round my face. My sore mouth is throbbing. Mustn't shut my eyes. Mustn't sleep. But I'm so heavy, drowsy in the heat, drifting...
I'm in a green leafy place. Somewhere water is trickling and I can hear laughter.
I go in search of it, brushing aside branches bowed down with white blossoms. It's warm—I'm hot in my heavy gown. And then I hear a familiar lilting voice. It's Grace! She says, "Why don't you take off your clothes?"
I obey, undressing slowly as I stroll dreamily on, leaving a trail of garments behind me. Grace's voice soothes. "Isn't it lovely? Feel the cool grass under your feet..."
For a moment I'm utterly happy...
But then a different voice hisses in my ear, "You're a bad girl, a very, very bad girl, and you must be punished..."
My feet are clamped to the ground and I can't move. Long white fingers like maggots creep over my body, I'm sinking into the earth, deeper and deeper until I'm lost. The cold creeps up my body and then I know. I'm dead. I'm buried.
I open my eyes.
It's totally dark. I'm numb with cold, and fear beats in my ears. I can't move. A heavy weight is pinning me down. My mouth, my eyes, my ears are blocked with darkness. I've been buried alive. They have dug a pit and put me in it and stamped the earth down on top of me so that I can't cry out...
Drip.
I remember. I'm still in the bath. How long have I been here? Why has no one come?
I try to call but only produce a croak.
The door opens sending a bar of light across the canvas cover.
"Miss? You're still here?"
It's Eliza, with a lamp.
"Oh, Miss, are you all right? I'd have come to top up the hot water, but Weeks sent me on an errand. I thought she'd see to you."
All the time she's talking, she's unfastening the cover, helping me out. I can hardly stand. My teeth are chattering.
Eliza supports me on one arm, rubbing me vigorously with a towel.
"You're right perished! It's wicked. Can you walk?"
A nod. All I can manage.
Eliza helps me along the hallway to the dormitory, where she unlocks the door.
"You'd best get into bed, Miss. It's the only way to warm up. Here, slip under the covers, while I fetch your night gown."
She holds back the bedclothes and I climb stiffly into bed. I lie curled up with my arms wrapped round me, trying to get warm. My hands and feet are numb.
Eliza is soon back. She helps me to sit up and puts my nightgown on me, as if I were a child. My skin is blotchy, wrinkled like a prune. I try to fasten my nightgown, but my shrivelled fingers won't work. Eliza does it for me, patiently tugging at each button with her broad fingers.
She smells of milk, and almonds.
When I am tucked in, she pauses by the bed.
"I'm sorry about this, Miss. I'd say something, but it'd cost me my place, you see."
I manage another nod.
"You have a good sleep."
Don't take the lamp away. Don't leave me alone.
The light goes from the room. I'm in the dark again. The fear is waiting.
Just once I let myself think, "Grace, where are you?" Then I roll into a tight ball and tell myself, over and over again, "It will be all right, it will be all right..."
Seven Months Earlier
I didn't want any pudding and strangely, Mamma didn't insist. She was staring out of the window and seemed to have forgotten the food going cold on her plate.
Neither of us spoke. In the silence, the ticking of the clock seemed louder than usual. I wondered if Mamma, like me, was thinking of Papa, lying in bed upstairs.