Beyond the Veil of Tears (21 page)

The minutes ticked by and Hector was aware of the porter watching him, from behind his partly glazed cubbyhole. The chill of the place began to seep into Hector’s bones, but it was a chill
of the spirit rather than the body. And then, after more than ten minutes, a door at the far end of the hall opened and a tall, well-built woman dressed entirely in black walked purposefully
towards him, her austere face unsmiling.

Hector stood up, holding out his hand as she reached him. ‘Good afternoon. I am Hector Stewart, an uncle of Mrs Golding, and I understand she has been admitted here today
and—’

‘I am Matron Craggs, Mr Stewart,’ the matron interrupted coldly. ‘I have not been informed that you have permission to visit Mrs Golding.’

She did not shake his hand and after a moment Hector let it fall by his side. ‘Permission? Of whom?’

‘Mrs Golding’s doctor, or her husband.’

‘I wasn’t aware that was necessary.’

‘I’m afraid so. Particularly with new admissions, and ones that are as troubled and distressed as Mrs Golding.’

‘Look, I just want to see my niece for a minute or two. Her parents died and she was my ward until she married Mr Golding. I won’t stay long.’

‘I’m afraid that is not possible.’ Then, seeing his stricken face, the matron’s manner softened slightly. ‘Come along to my office, Mr Stewart. We can talk
there.’

Feeling as though he had been offered a huge privilege, Hector found himself scurrying after the commanding figure of the matron as she led the way out of the hall and into the wide, high
corridor with tiled walls and a stone floor. Pausing for a moment, the matron said, ‘We have two identical wings that house the two sexes, with a dividing corridor right through the middle of
the building, and within each social class the violent and the non-violent are segregated. We have mostly private patients here, but at the bottom of the scale there are a number of paupers who
are, of course, kept quite separate from the other classes. Rest assured, Mr Stewart, your niece will not have to socialize with those beneath her. We pride ourselves that Earlswood is a hospital
for the curable and a retreat for the incurable, but at all times the niceties of society are maintained.’

Hector didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing as the matron continued walking and talking over her shoulder.

‘We follow the new guidelines here, and the patients are split into different categories depending on their condition. There are those persons of unsound mind, or whose balance of mind has
been temporarily unhinged, and who require care and control. Then there are those who are mentally infirm and have become permanently incapable of managing their own affairs. Then there are the
idiots who are defective in mind since birth, along with the imbeciles who are capable of guarding themselves against common physical dangers, but have no moral understanding. Then the
feeble-minded, who may be capable of earning their own living under favourable circumstances and are on the whole non-violent – unlike the moral imbeciles, who are the most dangerous category
and display some mental defect, with vicious or criminal propensities. And finally the epileptics, the inebriates and the deaf, dumb and blind.’

They had reached the end of the corridor and the matron opened a door that led into a large square, with more corridors leading from it. The smell that Hector had detected faintly in the
entrance hall was stronger here and he found himself swallowing hard. Sounds filtered through, shouts and screams, and the matron turned briefly to say, ‘Do not be alarmed. The restraint
wards are kept locked at all times. You are quite safe. Here is my office, Mr Stewart. Would you care for a cup of tea?’

The matron’s office was warm and well furnished, a coal fire burning in the grate and a comfortable chair for visitors opposite the large desk, but Hector didn’t notice the creature
comforts. Clearing his throat, he said, ‘The restraint wards?’

‘For those who may injure themselves or others.’

‘When you say “restraint”?’ He cleared his throat again, for the matron’s face was not encouraging questions.

The matron was clearly finding his persistence annoying. In a clipped voice she said, ‘When necessary we use straitjackets, muzzles to stop people biting, chains to fasten hands together,
and so on. Each of these wards has a padded cell with restraining harnesses. It is necessary, Mr Stewart. We cannot have the staff harmed, or other inmates – or even the patients themselves.
Safety for all is paramount.’

Hector found that a separate part of his mind was saying over and over again, ‘Oh dear God, oh dear God. Angeline, Angeline!’ But out loud he said, ‘And my niece? I trust she
is not in one of the restraint wards?’

‘Mrs Golding is in the Admissions Block at present.’

Hector had noticed the slight hesitation before she had replied. ‘And does this block have a restraint ward?’

‘Of course.’

‘And my niece?’

‘I am sorry, Mr Stewart, but I cannot discuss Mrs Golding’s treatment with anyone other than her husband or doctor. Suffice to say that we will have her best interests at heart in
everything we do. Now, let me ring for a cup of tea before you leave.’

Hector wanted to shout that he didn’t want a cup of tea. He wanted to get the woman by the throat and demand that she take him to Angeline. He wanted to get Philip’s daughter out of
this place, with its smells and sounds and nightmarish corridors. He wanted – he wanted to go back to the day of Philip’s funeral and start again.

Instead he drank his tea when it came and made polite conversation with the matron in the five minutes she allotted him. When a big, buxom nurse knocked on the door and opened it, the matron
rose to her feet. ‘Nurse Skelton will see you to the entrance hall, Mr Stewart.’

‘Will you tell my niece I came, and that I am thinking of her? I’m sure this is a mistake and—’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Stewart, but I would have to check with Mr Golding before I agreed to that. We find reminders of the world outside can be upsetting for the patients, particularly
those who have not been with us long.’

‘I doubt Mr Golding would object. I am her uncle, after all.’

‘That is not for me to say, but perhaps it would save you a fruitless journey in the future if you obtained Mr Golding’s permission first?’

Hector stared into the cold, phlegmatic face and then looked at the nurse, who was equally detached. These were the kind of women who would be dealing with Angeline. Angeline, who had always
been too sensitive and emotional and warm-hearted, if anything. She would feel utterly bereft. If her mind wasn’t already unbalanced, it would be after a few days in this place.

He tried one last time. ‘Mr Golding is not an ideal husband, Matron. My niece has recently lost a baby and needs to be in familiar surroundings with those she knows. I would be quite
prepared to take her home with me and take full responsibility for her. I will sign anything you want me to sign and—’

‘
Mr Stewart!
’ This time the interruption was sharp and frosty. ‘I see that I have failed to make the situation clear. Mr Golding is next of kin. He has full rights,
and you have none. Nurse, see Mr Stewart out.’

The nurse said nothing as she led the way to the entrance hall. She opened the front door and stood aside for him to leave and, as Hector stepped out of the building, the door immediately closed
behind him. He stood for a moment in the falling snow, breathing in the fresh, clean air to rid his nostrils of the faintly fetid smell of the asylum. It wasn’t until he untied the reins and
climbed up into the driving seat of the carriage that he realized tears were streaming down his cheeks. The words Albert had thrown at him were drumming in his mind as he left the asylum grounds.
It was true, he
had
handed Angeline to Golding on a plate – and this was the result. What was she going to be like when she came out of that place? If she came out?

Only last week Hector had read a report in the paper which suggested that the somewhat ‘mysterious disappearances’ of certain people, who had become an inconvenience to their
relatives or spouses, might well have become engulfments in the madhouse oubliette; forced into an existence which mirrors that of a prisoner in a dungeon. ‘The number of sane men and women
confined in lunatic asylums under the easy facilities of the Lunacy Act is a disgrace,’ the article had gone on, giving an instance of one physician’s statement, which apparently read:
‘She had certain impressions with regard to certain other persons which are not accurate or true.’

He groaned out loud, staring ahead as the horses clip-clopped their way down the drive and out through the gates, which the gatekeeper had opened, obviously having been warned of Hector’s
departure.

He had thought Golding would be kind to Angeline, that she would have a life of ease in the higher ranks of society; he had acted for the best. He told himself the same thing over and over
again, but tonight, in the heavy twilight that had fallen while he had been in the asylum, it was no good. He had been fully aware all along of the kind of man Oswald Golding was – the still
small voice of his conscience accused him relentlessly – but the bait Golding had dangled, the promise of money to pay off his debts and wipe a number of slates clean, had been too great.
Hector had been tempted and he had taken the apple.

He brought the carriage to a halt on a rise, and there, far away down in the valley, lay a small village. Smoke was rising into the snowy air from a number of chimneys and the spire of a small
church rose into the white sky. His gaze became transfixed, as the remorse that he had held at bay for so long would no longer be denied. His gambling had become a curse, and God demanded
retribution. He was ruined, financially and socially, but that day he had gone to see Angeline after the miscarriage had been his spiritual ruin. He had looked down into the bruised, swollen face
and had known what he should do. If he had acted then, Angeline would not be in that living tomb and he would have retained some measure of self-respect. She was his one and only relative in this
world – the same blood ran in their veins – and Philip had trusted his most precious thing into his care, and he had let his brother down.

Philip. Oh, Philip! What am I going to do?
Hector looked around him wildly as though seeking an answer, but there was only the lengthening twilight and the silent snow falling in fat,
feathery flakes.

The horses were breathing clouds and moving restlessly in the icy-cold air, shaking their heads now and again as the snow settled on their eyelashes. After a while Hector jerked the reins and
they trundled off down the road that led to the hamlet, one of several he’d passed through on his way to the asylum after leaving the outskirts of Newcastle. He had seen an inn on the main
road through the village and it was here that he stopped, securing the horses outside before walking into the warmth. He would need a drink – more than one – for what he was about to
do.

An hour later he emerged into a night made light by its mantle of white, walking past the horses and carriage towards the end of the village, where the road led over a bridge with a fast-flowing
river beneath. Walking to the middle of the bridge, he stared down into the black water.

He had never been able to master the art of swimming. Philip had tried to teach him; many summers they had gone out for the day together with their fishing rods and a packed lunch, and he had
watched Philip swimming like an eel, but Hector had always sunk like a stone, despite his brother’s help and encouragement. Those were the only happy times he had known – days spent
alone with Philip, away from the oppressive atmosphere at home and the hatred in his father’s eyes when they fastened on him.

He appealed to something outside himself now, unspoken words of remorse and self-loathing causing his lips to move. And then he climbed over the wooden side of the bridge and plunged into the
icy depths below.

It was morning. She had twelve hours to get through before she could return to the relative safety of this room. Long, slow, soul-destroying hours. That was how she viewed each
day now, Angeline thought, as the grey light of dawn encroached upon the shadows. Hour by hour. It was the only way.

She glanced at the tiny marks on the wall next to her bed, which she had made with her fingernail and were a record of how many days she had been incarcerated in the asylum. Today’s mark
would make thirty in all. She used her fingernail because they were not allowed any hairpins or sharp objects in case they tried to harm themselves, or others.

Oh, God. God, help me!
She found she was praying almost constantly now, asking God to keep her sane amid the madness.
Help me get stronger, so I can find a way out of here.
It
was the only thing that anchored her reason: the desire to escape from Earlswood.

She had spent only two hours confined in the straitjacket in the padded cell in the Admissions Block. Then apparently she had had some kind of collapse – she remembered little of it
– and had been rushed to the hospital wing because the bleeding that had followed the miscarriage had begun again. When the haemorrhaging had been brought under control she had lain for days
too exhausted to do more than eat and sleep, but gradually, as some semblance of strength had returned, the horror of where she was had taken hold. She had been in a separate room off the main ward
in the hospital wing and for this she had been grateful. Sometimes the sounds coming from outside her door had been terrifying.

The nurse assigned to her had been a brisk, no-nonsense type, but not unkind, and she had explained exactly where the asylum was located, the rules and regulations that were enforced at all
times and the day-to-day routine, but in a manner that attempted to be sympathetic. Through these conversations Angeline discovered that the asylum was practically a small village in itself;
besides housing staff and patients, the main building had kitchens, a laundry, a bakery and a large central meeting hall where, on special occasions, dances were held and the annual Christmas
party. In the grounds of the asylum the nurse told her there was a chapel close to the main building, and some way from that a carpentry shed, a dairy, a brewery and the stables. Cows and sheep,
along with pigs and chickens, were kept in the surrounding fields and looked after by the asylum’s farm manager and his workers, many of whom were pauper patients. The ground-floor wards in
both wings were reserved for the upper-class, non-violent patients and these led out to airing courts, which held lawns and flowerbeds and seating, surrounded by walls or ten-foot-high
railings.