The Quickening Maze (4 page)

‘Have you seen him again?’ she asked.

‘He’s been to the house, to see my father, but I missed him.’

‘Shame.’ Annabella smiled. ‘Tell me what he’s like again.’

Hannah laughed. ‘Like a poet, I think.’

‘What, little and plump like that Mr Clare?’

‘No,’ Hannah responded vehemently. ‘No. Anyway, Mr Clare was a peasant poet, and Alfred Tennyson,’ Hannah loved unfurling the long banner of his name, ‘isn’t that. I mean to say that he’s pensive, brooding you might say. Tall.’

‘How tall is he?’

‘Tall. Six feet or more.’

‘And handsome?’

‘Annabella.’

‘Well, is he?’

‘Yes, he is. Dark. Strong shoulders. Clean-shaven. He wears a cape and a wide-brimmed hat. He looks rather like a Spaniard.’

‘You’ve never seen a Spaniard.’

‘I’ve read. Everyone is familiar with the colouring of the typical Spaniard.’

‘Everybody’s familiar with the colouring of the typical Spaniard,’ Annabella repeated. The girls were at an age of hectic imitation, mimicking people’s phrases and gestures to each other, mostly satirically, sometimes attempting to carry them off.When no one else was around, they mirrored each other.

‘Now is he married or engaged?’

Hannah shrieked. ‘Annabella!’

‘Do not, please, feign a scandalised tone. We are seventeen. We have to be thinking of these things. What we need to do is plan how to draw his attention to you.’

‘It can be a little difficult to command attention when surrounded by lunatics.’

‘Oh, no, but that’s perfect.There he is with all those people around him and who is that still, pale figure so dignified amidst it all? Why, it’s the doctor’s lovely daughter.’

‘Don’t,’ Hannah blushed.‘I do need to do something, though. I think he’s short-sighted. He doesn’t seem to notice much and looks very closely at certain things.’

‘Maybe that’s being a poet: the distracted air.’

‘Maybe. I don’t think so, though. Sometimes he wears a monocle.’

‘What we need to do,’ Annabella said brightly, ‘is arrange it so that I can see him, or meet him. I think that will help my assessment.’

Hannah looked at her smiling, excited friend and thought over the alarming idea. But before she could respond, Mademoiselle Leclair bustled in.The drawing - which Annabella briefly held up and which looked disappointingly accurate - was put aside.

‘Bonjour, les filles,’ Mademoiselle Leclair greeted them.

‘Bonjour,Mademoiselle,’they both replied and opened their grammars.

 

William Stockdale the attendant was a taller man than the doctor, but he had to walk quickly to keep up with his master as they headed towards Leopard’s Hill Lodge and the severe cases. Fulton Allen, the doctor’s son, occasionally had to run to keep up.This was a general condition for Fulton, only just sixteen. His triumph, unknown to him, was not many months away. Before long he would be running the whole establishment alone. Presently he felt himself struggling, as always, in the turbulent wake of his father’s surging energy. He strove to keep pace, to gain his father’s mastery, to know what he knew, which, unfortunately for Fulton, was always expanding. This determination to match his father’s stride and certainty felt particularly urgent when visiting the Lodge because it terrified him. Fairmead House was full of gentle disorder, idiocy and convalescence, even some, like Charles Seymour, who were not ill at all. Leopard’s Hill Lodge was full of real madness, of agony, people lost to themselves. They were fierce and unpredictable. They smelled rank. They were obscene. They made sudden noises. Their suffering was bottomless. It was an abyss of contorted humanity, a circle of hell. All of Fulton’s nightmares were set there as were his sexual dreams, which he also classified as nightmares no matter what the evidence of his sheets. Even the building looked mad: plain, square and tight, with regular small barred windows that emitted shrieks.

They marched towards it now, the forest a corridor of flickering light and shade.

Stockdale explained the case. ‘He hasn’t evacuated for three weeks now, I believe.’

‘Suppression of evacuation will only render his mania worse. It’s a cause. And the delusion hasn’t left him?’

‘What is his delusion?’ Fulton asked.

Stockdale laughed. ‘That if he does evacuate, he will poison the water, destroy the forest, and that it will permeate down and everyone in London will be killed.’

‘Let’s hope he’s mistaken,’ Fulton joked.

‘Fulton,’ Allen reproved. ‘You cannot be facetious, certainly not with the patient. Madness has no sense of humour. How many people are there now? We’ll need four at least to restrain him while I administer the clyster.’

‘I can help,’ Fulton offered meekly, angry at his father’s humourless reproof.

‘You can hold his head, maybe an arm. If you try to take a leg he’ll kick you across the room. Unfortunately, he’s a powerful and large man.’

That smell was there when they went through the door, just as Fulton had remembered, but always stronger, more shocking than he could anticipate.There were noises, but only two patients were in the large central space overlooked by the balcony and other rooms. The others were shut away. One of the loose ones stood still and rubbed a patch of scalp already rubbed bald. The other, a woman, ran towards them, staring at Stockdale, and began lifting her soiled dress. Fulton stared, horrified, but unable to look away. Before she’d revealed more than her dirty, folded knees, Stockdale took her arms firmly and tugged down her dress. ‘She shouldn’t be allowed to mix with men if she’s subject to this . . .’ Allen said.

Saunders, the attendant who’d opened the door to them, apologised. ‘She hasn’t behaved that poorly. I think it’s you, doctor, or you, William. Perhaps she expects an examination.’

The woman writhed, growing quieter in Stockdale’s grasp. ‘Don’t want to do that,’ she muttered. ‘Don’t want to do that.’

‘That’s quite right,’ Allen told her. ‘You don’t.’

‘Just let her go,’ Saunders said. ‘She’ll be fine now, little outburst over.’

Saunders was short and strong and cheerful with blunt, capable hands that Fulton stared at. His fingertips were wide, the nails thick and yellow; his thumbs were jointed at two right angles, turning parallel to the palms. His eyes were bright among pleats of aged skin. Beneath one eyebrow hung two small growths, smaller than berries. He seemed to take his work easily. He smiled and hummed as he handled his charges, who were frantic with fear and pain. ‘At eleven-thirty,’ Saunders said, ‘we’ll let a few more out to exercise. These two have had bad nights is why they’re out having a breather. But we’ll address Mr Francombe first. I’ve two lads up by his door, plucking up courage.’

‘Very good. Shall we go up?’

Saunders led the way up the stairs to the cells behind the balcony. From there Fulton looked down on the two freed patients, shuffling, drowsy as smoked bees.

‘Morning, gentlemen,’ Allen greeted the waiting attendants.

They replied and stepped away from the door. Allen looked through the grille at the big man sat leaning against a wall, grey-faced, holding his hard belly.

‘Good morning, Mr Francombe,’ Allen shouted through the door.

Dull eyes looked back at him, looked away.

Matthew Allen turned to his men. ‘Very good. You four, I want you to get in, seize hold of him, and get him out of there. It will be best if he’s in a bath, or on one of the tables, when I force the evacuation. Fulton, you stay here. Stockdale, Saunders, you take the legs.You other two, grab his arms. Do we all know what we’re doing?’

‘Yes, doctor,’ Saunders answered.The others nodded.

‘Very good. In you go.’

Saunders unlocked the door, lifted the latch.‘Ready?’ he asked, and then the four of them strode in.

Fulton stood behind his father’s shoulder and watched the struggle. Mr Francombe, after a volley of oaths, began roaring and bleating as he fought. His effort of violence was extraordinary. Saunders and Stockdale were flung back and forth as he kicked.The other two twisted and wrestled with his arms. He raised himself up off the ground between them, then sank down pulling his four limbs together so that the attendants bumped each other. From his face hung wisps of drool. He tried biting one of the men holding his arms. The attendant had to release the other arm and push back on Mr Francombe’s forehead as hard as he could.

‘Fulton, if you want to take part,’ Allen said, in a surprisingly weary voice, ‘you might usefully go in now. Go in behind him and get hold of his head. Get hold of his ears.’

‘Really?’

‘Fine. Hold this.’ Allen handed his son his bag and went in himself. Fulton, shamed, followed him in.

Allen did as he’d instructed Fulton, circled quickly behind the five panting men, squatted down and tried to get a firm grip of Francombe’s head. He thrashed so hard, though, and greasy hair covered his ears. Allen tried just pushing it down against the floor for a moment and saw the throat curdling with rage, the reddened knob of his Adam’s apple and thick veins. He placed his knee on Francombe’s forehead, pressed down with his body weight, scraped the hair away and got hold of the slimy gristle of his ears.

Slowly Francombe began to relent, throbbing, but as they lifted him to carry him out, he began to thrash again, and the five of them staggered as on a stormy deck.

When finally they had him tethered to a table, Francombe was whimpering with rage and humiliation. His trousers and underthings had been removed. Matthew Allen, with trembling hands, wiped the sweat from his face.

‘Now, Mr Francombe.You know that what you fear is not rational, is not true. We each of us must void our waste. We each of us do void our wastes, and forests do not die. Cities are not poisoned.’

‘Oh, aren’t they?’ Francombe snapped back. ‘Aren’t they?’

‘Your waste is no more noxious than anyone else’s. It is not sin, you know. It isn’t. It’s nothing you’ve done. It is the by-product of alimentation. Do you understand? It is waste food.’

Francombe was quiet, then strained all at once at his straps. They creaked as he pulled, exhaling slowly through his widely spaced teeth. Fulton wondered if they would definitely hold.

‘Oh, let’s just get on with it,’ Allen muttered. He had the clyster ready, in one hand the pipe, in the other the bag full of warm salted water. ‘Fulton, you don’t have to watch, you know. It won’t be pleasant.’

Fulton vacillated only briefly.‘I hadn’t been expecting pleasantness,’ he said. ‘And one day I’ll have to face these procedures.’

‘Very good. If you are to stay, perhaps you could massage the abdomen for me.’

Allen then bent and inserted the nozzle into the dark, crimped entrance of Mr Francombe’s rectum. He pushed it several inches in, apparently oblivious to the manhood that flopped from side to side within a foot of his face as he did so.

Allen started squeezing in the fluid. ‘Now, pressure from the top of the abdomen down, please. And hard.’

Fulton did as he was told, pushing against what he took to be the compacted shit inside Mr Francombe. The attendants stood apart, arms folded, and chatted.

Warm clear liquid washed out of Mr Francombe. ‘Harder, please,’ Allen called over the man’s moans. ‘And you too, Mr Francombe. You can push.’

Mr Francombe struggled to resist, but the warm water, the pushing on his belly, the pain, all made it very difficult not to let go. Before too long Dr Allen was rewarded with numerous stuttering farts followed by the emergence of a tiny hard stool, folded like a sea shell. ‘Very good.’ He squeezed in more water.

‘Whore,’ Mr Francombe said. ‘Bugger. Dirty bugger. Shit licker.’

Another small turd emerged, then a massive fart, then another. They were getting larger, almost the size of sheep’s droppings. ‘Good, Fulton.’

‘Dirty bugger! Ow!’

Francombe now wept with disappointment as an astonishing quantity of shit bloomed from him across the table. Allen stayed there, squeezing still on the clyster, despite the spoiling of his shoes by falling clumps.

‘Hoo, hoo,’ exclaimed Saunders, flapping at the air in front of his face. ‘And you call us dirty buggers.’

‘Thank you, Mr Saunders,’ Allen chastised. ‘I expect Mr Francombe will be very upset by this experience. Mr Stockdale, I suggest you take him out to the clearing in the forest afterwards and let him vent a while. Perhaps, Mr Saunders, you could go with him.’

‘Certainly, doctor.’

‘I’ll apply leeches to his feet later when you get back and we can all look forward to a less sanguine, restored Mr Francombe.’

‘Very good, doctor.’

With his shoes scraped roughly clean, the ordure worked from under his fingernails with the blade of a penknife, Matthew Allen walked out of Leopard’s Hill Lodge. Fulton carried his bag for him. They returned to the gentle distresses and confusions of Fairmead House. Allen was happy to return, but only relatively. He was tired, very tired of the mad and their squalor, and the stubborn resistance to cure of the majority. His mind strained for an idea of something else to do, some expansion.

Crossing the lawn where George Laidlaw stood in a fever of mental arithmetic, where one idiot chased another but stopped at the sight of the approaching doctor, and the patients with the axe were again filling the barrow, John Clare approached.

‘John, John, how are you feeling today?’

‘Perfectly well, doctor, perfectly well. And that’s just it, you see.’

‘Is it now?’

‘I was wondering, you see, given how trustworthy I have been and so forth, if I might be allowed to join those who have a pass key.’

‘To ramble and rhyme?’ Of course, John Clare.There was a thought.

John winced at that, then nodded. ‘To walk. To botanise and so forth.’

‘You are still writing poems, aren’t you?’ Allen asked. ‘Those I read a little while ago I thought effusions of great beauty. And your reputation is surely not sunk to oblivion. When did you last seek publication?’