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'm even getting used to the violence. The attendants are worse than the patients, especially the big one with the deep voice—Scratton, I think she's called. She likes to taunt patients until they lash out. Then she knocks her victims down, saying, "Look what you've done to yourself, you clumsy!" Lots of the patients have bruises on their faces, but no one's been to check on us; I haven't seen the matron or Dr. Bull since I arrived on the Fifth.
So far I've been lucky. As long as I stay on my bed out of the way no one pays any attention to me. But all the time, inside, I'm terrified. Not of being hit. The most fearful thing is seeing in the other patients what I might become if I give up, if I let myself sink into despair. I've tried to make myself believe I won't be here forever. I have vivid, troubled dreams, often about escaping: I climb over the gate, or disguise myself as an attendant, or, best of all, glide through the walls like a ghost...
But then I wake up and I'm still here and the long day drags on—so many hours to fill with only my own thoughts for company. If I let it, my mind runs wild, ideas and feelings whirling round till I feel dizzy. I've tried to control it by concentrating on something clear and calm. I recall mathematical formulae, I recite the symptoms of diseases and medical procedures, the discipline of it helping me to keep hold of a sense of myself. I am still me. I am Louisa Cosgrove.
But I can't keep it up.
Even if I'm moved to a better ward, I'm still going to be imprisoned. Tom won't sign my release. I won't get another chance to escape. If I did, where could I go? What could I do? I've no money now, I'd be destitute.
I'll never see Mamma again. I'll never know if Grace is happy...
Every day I feel myself sinking lower, as if I'm sliding slowly into a dark sea, knowing I'm going to drown...
There is a way out of course. If I still had my glass sliver...
Could I do it though? I don't know whether I have the courage. But if I had the means...
That would give me a kind of freedom, knowing I could choose.
***
Sometimes if I shut my eyes and relax, I can slip away...
I'm in my room at home. I'm pleased with myself because I've just translated a difficult piece of Xenophon and Papa calls up the stairs, "Lou, are you coming?"
I run down and there in the street is the gig and the whiskery horse, who rolls his eyes at being kept waiting. But Papa speaks to him and calms him and then he trots off docilely, taking us on our visits. I enjoy the breeze and the jingle of the horse's harness as Papa tells me who we are going to see.
We're nearly at the church and I hear the bell ringing, the slow single notes of the death knell. I climb down from the carriage and watch as men with blank faces lift the coffin on to their shoulders. I look for Papa but he's not there. I follow the coffin through the churchyard and watch as it is lowered into the black hole. Then the men start shovelling earth into the hole, spadeful after spadeful. But, however much earth they throw into the hole, they can't stop the terrible smell...
It's the smell that brings me back.
Papa is dead and I am here. But I still keep my eyes closed. For a little while longer, I can try to pretend.
Something touches my hand. Instantly I open my eyes, afraid of Scratton.
No, I'm still dreaming. Someone in a yellow dress is sitting on my bed. A yellow dress like butter, like sunshine.
I close my eyes, open them again. The vision is still here.
"Miss?"
My mind is playing tricks. "Eliza?"
"Yes, Miss, it's me."
I gaze at her face, that familiar freckled face.
"There now, there's no need to cry. Here." She holds something out.
It's this small cambric square that convinces me it isn't a dream.
"Keep it. I've plenty more."
I dab at my eyes with the handkerchief which smells of soap, of almonds, Eliza's smell.
When at last I look at her, I see the shock in her eyes. I'm suddenly aware of how I must appear to her, of how I must smell. I'm not aware of it because I'm used to it.
When did I last wash properly? Every morning, we're allowed to go to the washroom, if we want, but it's a damp, dark place with cockroaches scuttling across the floor. There's no soap and only one grimy, frayed towel between us. I've given up trying to be clean.
Now, ashamed, I bury my face in my hands.
"What's wrong?"
"I—I hate you seeing me like this." I sense her sitting down on the bed next to me. "Don't. You'll spoil your dress."
"It doesn't matter. Don't upset yourself, Miss."
And then I feel her arm around me. The hug only lasts a minute, but I can still feel the comfort of it even after she lets go.
I look into her blue eyes. "I didn't expect to see you."
"I wanted to know how you were, like. Sorry I couldn't come sooner. I couldn't see you, you know, in Solitary." She seems embarrassed at mentioning it.