‘And don’t shout for the nurse.’
He shook his head and kept showing me the palms of his hands as he sat back down on the chair.
‘You see, the thing is, Dr Lynch, I no longer care if I live or die.’ I surprised myself by meaning every word I said. It would have been a sweet relief to end it all. St Agnes’s had been like entering a sort of purgatory, with no hope of redemption. All of my humanity had been stripped from me. And yet some part of me must have subconsciously kept up the search for a way out, for the words that came out of my mouth next sounded as though they had been waiting inside of me for a very long time.
‘But I think you do.’
‘Of course I care, Opaline, now put the knife down—’
‘Yes, of course you care, because as long as I live, you receive a handsome stipend from my brother. Isn’t that correct, Dr Lynch?’
‘That is to pay for your care—’
I pointed the knife as sharply as I could bear it against my skin.
‘Come now, doctor, it’s just us here. We are half-starved and barely clothed, with no heat to speak of. You pocket that money for yourself, don’t you?’
‘I resent the implic—’
‘Oh, shut up. SHUT UP!’ I screamed at him. Standing there in a ragged, stained dress, unwashed hair sticking out from my head, dark circles around my eyes and a knife at my throat, I had never felt more clarity of mind. He was scared. I could see it.
‘If I die, you stop receiving Lyndon’s payments.’
He looked rattled and his eyes searched the room. I knew I didn’t have much time to convince him.
‘We can help each other. If you let me leave, right now, I will never tell Lyndon and you can keep getting your money. You will never hear from me again. I’ll change my name, I’ll go to Europe. I have friends there.’
I could see him thinking about it.
‘No one ever has to find out.’
He wiped his face roughly with his hand, then started biting his lip. He was looking at the framed photograph on his desk of his wife and children. He looked back at me and I lifted my chin higher, showing him that I was not bluffing.
‘If not, I will cut my own throat right now and bleed out all over this rug. Then you will have nothing.’
I had succeeded. He was willing to consider it. My freedom was tantalisingly close and I was suddenly aware that I was no longer quite so free about sticking a knife in my throat. Yet I had to keep it there.
‘Oh, what does it matter now anyway?’ he said, slowly getting up.
He opened another door on the opposite side of the room. It led directly to a short passageway with an exterior door. He shouldered it open and I could see the backyard, which must have been used by the staff to come and go, as it led straight on to the road rather than the long drive. I looked back at him.
‘If your brother finds out—’
‘He won’t,’ I said, unable to keep the tremble from my voice.
‘Then get out.’
With that, I realised that he had known all along. I should never have been locked up here. It was all a lie.
A mixture of relief and revenge pulsated through me. I still had the knife in my hand. I wanted to slit his throat. Pictured it; blood spattering the walls. Whatever I lacked in physicality, I could make up for with the passion of my anger. He moved back and kept his hands aloft. I couldn’t believe my freedom was finally in front of me. I dropped the knife and ran.
Chapter Forty-Seven
MARTHA
‘You came!’ I rushed into her arms. My mother never left her house, not even to go to the shops, so I never expected to see her on the doorstep of Ha'penny Lane. ‘How did you? What happened?’ I had so many questions.
‘I found my voice.’ The words came out slow but strong.
‘Happy tears,’ I said, as she wiped them away with her fingertips.
‘I should have spoken up a long time ago, Martha. My precious girl.’
‘I’m okay, Mom, really.’
‘I know you are. You are such a capable young woman. I’m so very proud of you. I wanted to come here and tell you that, even if it’s a little late in the day.’
‘It’s never too late,’ came Madame Bowden’s voice from behind me. She had a knack for just appearing in the middle of other people’s conversations. ‘Won’t you come inside?’
It felt like a novelty having tea with my mother in the back kitchen of this grand old house. Madame Bowden suggested it as it was roomier than my flat and left us to it, thankfully. I thought she would poke her nose in, but she did have some sense of tact when it suited her. I talked cheerfully about my course in Trinity, the friends I’d made, my new-found interest in literature.
‘You’ve made a lovely life for yourself here,’ she said, placing her hand on mine.
‘I’m happy, Mom. Even living here with Madame Bowden – it’s not what I would have envisioned for myself as a young woman, but it kind of works. I think we’re good for each other.’
‘She sounds like a guardian angel.’
I wasn’t sure if that’s how I’d describe her. I poured some more tea from the pot. All my years at home, my father and my brothers took up all of the oxygen, but here, it was like we could finally breathe deeply. It’s only in something’s absence that you realise how much space it takes up.
‘There’s something I want to tell you, Martha.’
‘You’re leaving Dad?’
She gave me a double take.
‘I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it, but no. Your father is … well, he’s not perfect. But he’s dependable, and even though sometimes I wish I could change so many things about him, he has given me a home where I feel safe.’
I had never heard her speak about my father that way. Despite the fact that I still had a different opinion, I understood and respected hers.
‘What is it then?’
‘It’s not something serious … what I mean is, it won’t change anything, for you at least. But it might help you to understand the past. My past.’
She turned the teacup on the saucer, slowly choosing her words. It was strange for both of us to hear her voice like this, when we’d always communicated in silence.
‘After Shane, I began to realise that the past isn’t something we leave behind. It is living with us, every day. It isn’t simply DNA that we inherit. I think there are other things passed down through the generations. Memories, perhaps.’
She was speaking from a place of deep pain, I could see that. I moved my chair closer to hers. The atmosphere in the kitchen took on an air of intense stillness, as though it too was waiting for her story.
‘My mother was adopted as a baby.’
Of all of the things she could have said, I never would have anticipated that. Our family history was something I had seen as set in stone. How could I have been missing such a huge chunk of information?