Mercy put aside her untouched breakfast tray and slipped on her peignoir. Today, she’d go down to breakfast with Cornelius. She sat at her dressing table and brushed her hair. She’d leave it down for now – Cornelius so loved her hair. Golden silk, he called it. She held it back with two tortoiseshell combs at the sides and smiled.
She’d been surprised, last night, to find him returned – he wasn’t meant to be back until today. And he’d been so cross, demanding to know where she’d been, where she’d stayed. He’d stood before her, stern and angry, awaiting an answer she would not give. So she’d started to cry, knowing he couldn’t stand to see her weep, knowing it tore him apart. But this time her tears had not had their usual effect, and he’d still demanded an answer. She’d quickly changed tactics then, and told him Bessie’s appearance so suddenly all those weeks ago had reminded her of her past, of the struggles she’d endured when widowed with a small child. And how a new fear had come with these memories, a fear something could happen to Cornelius. She knew she couldn’t bear to live without him, and this possibility haunted her every single day. And when he left on his business trip, his absence caused this fear to consume her so completely she’d panicked, unable to stay in the house without him.Read More
He’d become remorseful then, taking her in his arms and stroking her hair, saying it was his fault. He hadn’t given thought to how the child’s presence could affect her – he’d only wanted to make her happy and of course nothing would ever happen to him. And in his remorse, he’d forgotten to ask again exactly where she’d been, so she had forgiven him his anger then, and rewarded him by allowing him in her bed that night.
But this morning, Mercy wanted to reinforce her position. She was worried about the effect Bessie was having on him, the way she gazed at him with those big eyes of hers, taking in every word as if he was the most intelligent man on earth. And Cornelius was enjoying her admiration – never had she seen him so patient, so gentle with anyone. It wouldn’t be long before the child had him wrapped around her little finger, and that, Mercy couldn’t allow. It wasn’t that she disliked the girl, as such, but she’d worked too hard to now have it all taken away.
She stood and looked at herself sideways in the mirror. Ran her hands down her flat belly, then cupped her breasts and smiled. Yes, she was doing the right thing – she’d been so young when she’d had Bessie that she’d quickly regained her figure, but she knew what multiple pregnancies did to a woman, and she had no intention of letting that happen to her. And if it meant risking imprisonment, or pain at the hands of that vile old woman and her whale bones and hooks, then so be it. As long as she remained the only one in Cornelius’ life.
Except she wasn’t the only one in his life any more…
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As soon as Quong’s buggy drew up to the steps at the front entrance of the hospital, Matron and two attendants came to meet them; they were expected. Unlike the visits of the well-to-do, who would pay an admission fee to visit the asylum in the same way they visited the zoo or the theatre, Quong’s visits were unusual in that he never paid an admission fee, and always came outside of visiting hours with cakes, sandwiches and scones for the inmates, which he insisted be served in the ward’s dining room during his visit, no matter what time he arrived. This disrupted the routine of the ward and the patients’ work, and once, Bessie had questioned whether Matron would be so willing to do so if his visits didn’t also include a very generous donation to the hospital each time, but Quong had merely laughed.
Stepping down from the buggy, he pointed out the two large picnic baskets sitting on the back seat to the attendants, then came around to help Bessie alight.
‘The women this time, Mister Tart?’ asked Matron.
‘Aye, the women. One time the men, next time the women, each time a different ward. That’ll be fair, wouldn’t ye say?’
‘Very fair, Mister Tart,’ Matron smiled.
Though it was cooler inside the sandstone building, the large lofty day room was stuffy and smelt of unwashed bodies. Before Matron even had time to lock the door behind them, some of the sixty or so women in the room recognised Quong and crowded around him, some serious, others laughing and clapping their hands.
‘Long time since you came, Mister Tart!’ ‘God bless you, Mister Tart.’ ‘Mister Tart, I want to tell you something. They hit me, Mister Tart. All the time!’ ‘Is Mrs Tart coming, Mister Tart?’ ‘Did you bring us cakes, Mister Tart?’ ‘I don’t want no water treatment, Mister Tart. They leave me there ever so long! Tell them, Mister Tart. Tell them!’ ‘God bless you and yours, Mister Tart…’
Quong smiled and moved easily amongst them, joking and raising his hat to the women, showing each as much respect as he would have the most esteemed woman in Sydney. ‘How are ye today, Nellie?’ ‘Now, Gladys, I dinnae think the nurses would do that.’ ‘Glad ye’re well enough to join us, Bella.’ ‘I have no say in yer treatment, Mary, ye know that. T’is the doctor ye want to be telling.’ ‘Winnie, I’ll swear ye’re getting younger every day.’
The women didn’t act in this way with Bessie – perhaps sensing her hesitation, or perhaps she was too ‘new’. They smiled at her, and answered if she spoke to them, but didn’t approach her voluntarily, all except one everyone called Mother Baxter, who’d waddle up to her with a big, toothless smile, her long grey hair a tangled mane around pale, hollow cheeks. She’d stand, grinning, so close Bessie could smell her fetid breath, never saying anything, content to just stand there until Bessie gently moved her aside.Read More
Bessie stood by Matron, waiting for the attendant to come tell them the cakes and scones had been distributed along the long tables in the ward’s dining room, and watched Quong interact with the women. The constant murmur of desperate lives – laments, arguments, complaints and pleas. An occasional burst of laughter, another of anger. Whilst some women surrounded Quong, others sat along the benches and chairs lining the walls, either staring blankly into space or looking around nervously like small frightened animals, whilst others still rocked to and fro. Some walked the perimeter of the room, or strode back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, never passing some imaginary lines. All were clothed in identical dresses made of thick galatea fabric and aprons; a few wore bonnets. Many argued with themselves or imaginary companions.
Tragic, tragic women, Bessie thought each time she came to the hospital. Louisa maintained not all in this hospital were insane. That incarceration was a convenient way for a husband to rid himself of an inconvenient wife, or one he considered lazy, or no longer suitable, and as she observed these women Bessie wondered if such a thing was really possible. If Bertram hadn’t died of smallpox – if Bessie hadn’t been able to forever hold her tongue – would he too have eventually thought her ‘inconvenient’? She was no alienist, but surely the doctors would know whether one was mad or not. She also wondered, as she listened to the different languages spoken in this room, how doctors could possibly diagnose someone who spoke no English. How lonely would these women feel if unable to make themselves understood? How could they ever argue their sanity?
An attendant arrived and told Matron the dining room was ready. ‘If you could help the nurses move everyone along, please, Mrs Griggs,’ Matron said, and Bessie went to the women sitting along the walls.
‘Come along,’ she said, coaxing them to join those following Quong. ‘Come have a cup of tea and one of Mister Tart’s cakes – or would you prefer a scone today?’
At a window three women stared out into the extensive gardens, ignoring everyone. ‘Come along, ladies…’ The women turned and joined the others. In a corner of the room, another woman sat slumped forward, gently rocking from side to side with her arms curled over her head as if to protect herself from imaginary blows. Bessie moved to her and gently patted her arm.
‘Come along, dear, or you’ll miss out on Mister Tart’s cakes.’
For a moment it seemed the woman wouldn’t respond, then she slowly raised her head to look at Bessie. ‘Tell Tale Tit, Your tongue shall be slit, And all the dogs in the town, Shall have a little bit!’
Mother? Bessie felt the blood drain from her face.
‘Tell Tale Tee-eet!’ Time flickered. Mercy stared at Bessie, smiling, tilting her head one way, then the other, like a dog hearing an unfamiliar sound. Loose strands of hair fell over her features as she moved. Then she pointed a finger at Bessie. ‘Your tongue shall be slee-eet!’ she giggled. She rose and joined the other women. ‘Tell Tale Tee-eet!’