I dip the wooden spoon gingerly into my bowl. Thin, greasy soup with lumps in it. I try a spoonful. The lump turns out to be a piece of gristle. I spit out the gristle discreetly and slip it back into the bowl. I put down my spoon.
My head is starting to ring with the noise. I try to block out my surroundings, shut my ears to the unfamiliar voices I hear all around me, ignore the sucking and gulping noises.
A soft voice in my ear makes me jump. "Are you ill?"
It's Miss Gorman.
"You're not eating your lunch." She puts her fingers to her mouth and her eyes widen. "I hope I haven't offended you by mentioning it."
"I'm not hungry."
"You'll feel strange at first. Everyone does. Then you'll get used to it."
She gazes at me earnestly. Close up, her watery twitching eyes make me want to look away.
"I won't get used to it. I won't be here long."
She gives me a strange look then but doesn't say anything.
"What kind of hospital is this?"
"Don't you know?"
I think I do know now. But I want to be sure.
"It's an asylum. For the insane."
My heart seems to stop, even though I think I have known it since the moment the carriage stopped at the door.
Suddenly Miss Gorman grasps my wrist and whispers, "We are in one of the best wards. Be sure to keep your place there." She nods several times as if to underline her point.
I stare at her, my spine going cold.
"Don't you want your soup, dearie?" The voice comes from my other side. Bright eyes at my elbow, a leering smile, a hand reaching across me. I let her take it, and, guzzling it in a trice, she tries the same trick on someone else. But this patient, a plump woman, holds on to her bowl with both hands.
"Mine! Mine!"
The thief lets go, but the plump woman continues to roar. Others join in, banging their mugs on the table. Two attendants arrive and hurry the plump woman out of the room. Gradually the noise subsides.
My neighbour winks at me. Her hands are filthy, the bitten nails black. Her teeth are yellowed stumps, her breath smells foul.
I shut my eyes. This is a nightmare, it must be. Soon I'll wake up and everything will be all right.
Ten Years Earlier
It was Sunday morning, and Mamma was testing us on our scripture.
Normally I hated being in the parlour in the daytime: it was dark and stuffy, with its heavy velvet curtains and crimson walls. But today we had an audience: our aunt was visiting us. I was sorry that Grace hadn't been able to come—she had a cold—but she had sent me a letter.
While we recited the Commandments, Aunt Phyllis lounged on the sofa, the skirt of her lilac gown spread round her. Even in the gloom, her face was bright: she always seemed on the verge of speaking or laughing. She was such a contrast to Mamma, who sat stiffly on a hard chair, her pale face still and watchful.
I had just repeated the seventh Commandment, and now it was Tom's turn again.
There was a pause. Tom flushed and shuffled his feet.
I felt a bit sorry for him, but also excited. He didn't know what came next, but I did!
"What is adultery, Mamma?" Tom asked.
He was playing for time.
Mamma shifted in her seat and glanced towards the sofa. Aunt Phyllis raised her eyebrows and the corners of her mouth twitched.
Mamma said, "It's not something you need to worry yourself about now, Tom. When you are older, you may ask your father. Now, the next Commandment?"
I burst in, "Thou shalt not steal," and looked at Aunt Phyllis to see if she was impressed. She rewarded me with a smile.
Mamma, however, was frowning at me. "Yes, that's right," she said. "You shouldn't have interrupted Tom, though." She looked at Aunt Phyllis again, almost apologetically.
Tom's elbow dug me in the ribs and I glanced sideways. He was glowering at me, but I shot him a defiant look. It wasn't my fault he hadn't learnt his scripture properly...
When we had finished, Mamma stood up. "Have you both got clean pocket handkerchiefs and a penny for the Collection?"
With one eye on Aunt Phyllis, I showed Mamma my handkerchief and collection money, proud that I'd remembered to ask Mary for them.
Mamma sighed. "Oh, Louisa, look at you."
I put my hand over the dirty smudge on the frill of my best white dress. I'd been trying to teach myself to juggle, using my rolled-up stockings as balls, and they would keep getting under the bed.
But Mamma wasn't looking at my dress; she was frowning at my hair. Several strands were tickling my cheek; they must have escaped my ribbon, as usual. However tightly Mary screwed my hair up in rags at night, it had a will of its own and would never form the perfect ringlets I saw on other little girls at church.
Before Mamma could attack me with the hair brush, Aunt Phyllis said, "Come here, darling."
She pulled me close, in a rustle of silk. "You're tall for six. You'll be catching up with Grace soon."
As her hand smoothed my hair, I breathed in her scent. "You smell nice."
"Louisa!"
Mamma was shocked, but Aunt Phyllis's eyes crinkled with amusement. "It's jasmine," she explained.
She finished retying my ribbon. "There," she said, smiling.