"Better that, than too small," says Weeks, tartly.
She gives me a cap. I take it reluctantly—I hate having my hair covered, but I can see from her expression that I have no choice. When I've put it on, for the first time she gives a thin smile of approval.
***
More corridors. Through an open door comes the hiss of hot metal meeting damp cloth and I glimpse women wielding irons amongst piles of linen in a laundry. Next door, in clouds of steam, more women, red-faced and with bare arms, are thumping possers in vast coppers. The smell of carbolic follows us.
Another locked door. When Weeks opens it we are in a different world. A carpeted hallway stretches in front of me with wicker chairs set at intervals, pots of ferns between them. On one side is a row of doors, on the other a long stretch of windows overlooks the grounds. The silence is thick, as if everything is holding its breath. And then a sound shivers the air, a low keening from somewhere close by. The hairs rise on my neck but Weeks takes no notice. She beckons me towards a door. "This is where you'll sleep."
In the weak daylight I see five iron beds with neat white covers spaced out on the linoleum. They are all empty. If this is a hospital, where are the patients?
Above each bed is a shelf. Weeks gestures at the nearest bed. "Yours," she says coolly.
Mine. But I don't belong here. Now is the moment to speak.
But I don't. What is preventing me? I am caught up in events I can't control; it's like being trapped in a nightmare where you try to cry out but no sound comes out of your mouth.
With a touch on my arm, Weeks signals that we are to move on.
At the end of the hallway she opens another door. In this room, several ladies are sitting in armchairs or perch on wooden settles. It looks like a social gathering of the sort I've often attended with my mother. But something is wrong. These ladies are not talking or laughing—they are silent; their shoulders droop, their heads are bowed. Some gaze at the floor, others rest their cheeks on their hands. A feeble fire sputters in the grate and from above the mantelpiece Queen Victoria's solemn face surveys us.
Weeks beckons me forward but a woman stands in my way. Her eyes are like the glass eyes of stuffed animals. There is nothing behind them.
An icy finger traces down my spine.
Something is terribly wrong.
"This is Lucy Childs, our new resident," announces Weeks.
My voice spills out. "I am not Lucy Childs, I am Louisa Cosgrove."
Weeks doesn't react.
"I tell you, I am Louisa Cosgrove!" I grip the coins in my pocket, press their hard edges into my fingers.
Weeks frowns. "Don't get excited. Otherwise we'll have to calm you down, won't we?"
What does she mean? I look round wildly. Who can I appeal to? No one is taking the slightest notice of us apart from a strapping woman in a blue dress who has risen to her feet. She must be another attendant.
"Where am I? What is this place? Why do you insist on calling me by the wrong name?"
Weeks sighs. "Dr. Bull, the visiting physician will see you tomorrow. He will answer any questions you might have."
"Tomorrow? Why can't you tell me now?"
As if I haven't spoken, Weeks looks at her watch and announces, "Time for lunch, ladies. Miss Gorman, accompany Miss Childs and assist her, if necessary."
With a quick anxious smile, one of the ladies moves to my side. But I stand my ground. "Why won't you listen to me? There's been a dreadful mistake..."
The other attendant moves surprisingly swiftly for her bulk. She thrusts her face towards mine. "I'd be quiet, if I was you, Milady. If you know what's good fer you."
She stares into my eyes, her own unblinking, like a toad's.
***
On the threshold of the dining room, I stop. I can't take it in.
Miss Gorman tugs at my gown and I sink down on to a bench beside her, staring around.
The cavernous room is packed. A sea of dark cloth, on which white caps float like gulls. Light shines down through the glass roof, and the noise is magnified, echoing: the footsteps of the servants passing between the scrubbed tables with trays, the scrape of benches on the flags, the crash of crockery and, above all, voices—muttering, groaning, calling out, even laughing, a hard, wild sound, like the cries of seabirds.
A hand appears before me and slams down a bowl. A basket of bread is placed on the table and the others scrabble for food, tugging at the basket and squabbling. They cram their mouths with bread, crumbs falling into their laps. I have no bread and now the basket is empty, but I don't want any. My stomach muscles are clenched, my hands are clammy, I'm struggling to keep control.
Stay calm. Don't let them see your fear.