Woodvilles, what will they feel at home? I know we parted on bad terms, but they'll be worried. They'll all think something awful has happened to me. And they'll be right. But it'll never occur to them that I'm somewhere like this.
I look about me, seeing things I didn't notice this morning: heavy drapes at the windows; a piano in the corner, with some tattered sheets of music on it.
A piano
...
A face flashes before me, a fall of red-gold hair.
No, don't think about her.
Look at the room: china shepherdesses on the mantelpiece, a canary singing in a cage. Homely things.
But this isn't a home. The shadows of bars fall across the carpet.
"
An asylum for the insane.
"
But I'm not insane. So why am I here?
It's a terrible mistake. But as soon as I can speak to Mr. Sneed, it'll be cleared up and I can leave.
The door bursts open and a girl wearing the blue attendant's uniform rushes in, breathless and red in the face as if she's been running.
"You're very late, Eliza," Weeks barks.
The girl goes to speak but Weeks silences her with a wave of her hand. "No excuses. If it happens again, I shall tell Matron."
The girl, Eliza, gnaws her lip. She doesn't look very contrite.
She goes over to the table where an old woman with her grey hair trailing over her shoulders like a child's, is sitting staring vacantly.
Eliza starts encouraging the woman to sort beads into their different colours. The old woman keeps sighing and wringing her hands but she finally achieves this simple task and Eliza claps her hands saying, "There now, look how clever you are."
Weeks glowers across the room. "Too much noise, Eliza. Come and supervise the sewing. And straighten your collar."
Eliza chews her lip again and frowns, grudgingly adjusting her collar as she changes places with Weeks. She seems about my age and hers is the first cheerful face I've seen here.
But it doesn't matter what the staff are like. I shan't be here much longer.
***
The shadow of the bars has crept into my lap when Weeks looks at her watch and says, "It's time for your exercise now."
We can't go till the other attendant, Eliza, has counted the scissors. She frowns, glances at Weeks, who is putting the beads away, and counts again.
"What's the matter?" Weeks's voice is quiet, chilling.
"There's a pair of scissors missing."
Weeks is across the room in a second.
"How could you have let this happen! You're so careless."
A flush creeps up Eliza's neck.
Weeks interrogates each of us in turn. With each denial, her expression hardens.
"Have you taken the scissors, Miss Gorman?"
Miss Gorman's face turns white then pink, her eyes blink rapidly. She seems unable to speak.
Weeks barks, "Don't deny it. I see your guilt. Give them to me at once."
I can't watch this. I look down and there's the glint of the scissors lying half-hidden under a chair.
They could be useful, but dare I?
For a second I hold my breath, then I cover them with my foot. No one has seen me; they're all looking at Weeks.
Miss Gorman's mouth is a frozen "o." Weeks puts out her hand and Miss Gorman shrieks, a tearing sound that jangles my nerves. She starts darting round the room, bumping into furniture, uttering wild cries, like a trapped bird trying to escape.
Eliza goes after her, catches hold of her and then puts her arms right around her. For a moment they struggle, then Miss Gorman sinks to the ground.
"There now, see what your carelessness has led to," Weeks hisses at Eliza as she tugs on the bell-pull.
We stand round watching Miss Gorman, who gibbers and jerks like a puppet whose strings have tangled. Eliza chews her finger, looking miserable.
I can't bear it. "The scissors are here, look. They fell on the floor."
Weeks swings round. Her black eyes narrow suspiciously. "You hid them."
My legs are shaking, but I make myself look her in the eye. "I didn't. I found them."
At that moment the door opens and another attendant comes in, diverting Weeks's attention.
She makes Eliza and the
I look about me, seeing things I didn't notice this morning: heavy drapes at the windows; a piano in the corner, with some tattered sheets of music on it.
A piano
...
A face flashes before me, a fall of red-gold hair.
No, don't think about her.
Look at the room: china shepherdesses on the mantelpiece, a canary singing in a cage. Homely things.
But this isn't a home. The shadows of bars fall across the carpet.
"
An asylum for the insane.
"
But I'm not insane. So why am I here?
It's a terrible mistake. But as soon as I can speak to Mr. Sneed, it'll be cleared up and I can leave.
The door bursts open and a girl wearing the blue attendant's uniform rushes in, breathless and red in the face as if she's been running.
"You're very late, Eliza," Weeks barks.
The girl goes to speak but Weeks silences her with a wave of her hand. "No excuses. If it happens again, I shall tell Matron."
The girl, Eliza, gnaws her lip. She doesn't look very contrite.
She goes over to the table where an old woman with her grey hair trailing over her shoulders like a child's, is sitting staring vacantly.
Eliza starts encouraging the woman to sort beads into their different colours. The old woman keeps sighing and wringing her hands but she finally achieves this simple task and Eliza claps her hands saying, "There now, look how clever you are."
Weeks glowers across the room. "Too much noise, Eliza. Come and supervise the sewing. And straighten your collar."
Eliza chews her lip again and frowns, grudgingly adjusting her collar as she changes places with Weeks. She seems about my age and hers is the first cheerful face I've seen here.
But it doesn't matter what the staff are like. I shan't be here much longer.
***
The shadow of the bars has crept into my lap when Weeks looks at her watch and says, "It's time for your exercise now."
We can't go till the other attendant, Eliza, has counted the scissors. She frowns, glances at Weeks, who is putting the beads away, and counts again.
"What's the matter?" Weeks's voice is quiet, chilling.
"There's a pair of scissors missing."
Weeks is across the room in a second.
"How could you have let this happen! You're so careless."
A flush creeps up Eliza's neck.
Weeks interrogates each of us in turn. With each denial, her expression hardens.
"Have you taken the scissors, Miss Gorman?"
Miss Gorman's face turns white then pink, her eyes blink rapidly. She seems unable to speak.
Weeks barks, "Don't deny it. I see your guilt. Give them to me at once."
I can't watch this. I look down and there's the glint of the scissors lying half-hidden under a chair.
They could be useful, but dare I?
For a second I hold my breath, then I cover them with my foot. No one has seen me; they're all looking at Weeks.
Miss Gorman's mouth is a frozen "o." Weeks puts out her hand and Miss Gorman shrieks, a tearing sound that jangles my nerves. She starts darting round the room, bumping into furniture, uttering wild cries, like a trapped bird trying to escape.
Eliza goes after her, catches hold of her and then puts her arms right around her. For a moment they struggle, then Miss Gorman sinks to the ground.
"There now, see what your carelessness has led to," Weeks hisses at Eliza as she tugs on the bell-pull.
We stand round watching Miss Gorman, who gibbers and jerks like a puppet whose strings have tangled. Eliza chews her finger, looking miserable.
I can't bear it. "The scissors are here, look. They fell on the floor."
Weeks swings round. Her black eyes narrow suspiciously. "You hid them."
My legs are shaking, but I make myself look her in the eye. "I didn't. I found them."
At that moment the door opens and another attendant comes in, diverting Weeks's attention.
She makes Eliza and the
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