The Lost Bookshop(86)

I have devoted an entire lifetime to escaping the confines of this wretched place, only to find myself further entangled in its gnarled roots and oppressed by its looming towers.





Only two nurses remained. Two more than necessary, in my opinion. The only one who did anything worthwhile was Daisy, a young local girl who thought a job in this place was a step up in life. God bless the child. She was innocence personified, yet no stranger to hardship. I concluded that she was the only beauty left in the world, and for her part, she never made me feel like a hideous, frightful woman to be feared. She said she enjoyed the place, that it was quieter than the racket of living with four brothers at home. We shared a strong dislike for brothers.

One bright morning, I heard shouting and laughter and footsteps rushing along the corridor. Daisy ran into my room; I was lying prone on my bed, my head empty of thoughts. At least I stopped calling them thoughts. All I had then were images of a past life that may or may not have happened. Did I have a child?

‘I have a letter for you!’ she said, as though it were the most wonderful thing to have ever happened, and she ran off again, zig-zagging like a spring lamb. I lifted myself off the pillow and looked out through the bars on my window. The frost had created beautiful patterns on the glass. I became aware of a letter in my hand. From Jane, of course. Dear Jane, she had never given up on me. Even though I rarely replied, if ever, she was not going to abandon our friendship.

I read it in the haphazard way my eyes worked then, reading up and down rather than side to side: Your mother has passed away.

My mother has passed away, I repeated internally. I was an orphan, I realised, in some abstract way. Childless. Motherless. The world at war. My eyes began to blink.

And suddenly, I was awake.





In all the years of my incarceration, my mother never once came to visit, never wrote. I excused her behaviour because I knew she was under Lyndon’s influence and, even if by some miracle she had refused to believe his version of events, she would never openly defy him. Yet she was my mother. How could she abandon me in a way Jane could not? Her own daughter. Why hadn’t she helped? In fact, she was the only one who could have overruled my brother. Why didn’t my mother love me enough to risk everything? Those thoughts would forever haunt me. It was true that I had been closer to my father, and my mother was never affectionate towards me. But I had to assume that there was some love there. Not enough, clearly.

As I made my way to Dr Lynch’s office with a purpose I had not felt in my bones for a very long time, I thanked my mother briefly for at least giving me an excuse to get out of this place. Surely they would not refuse my request to attend my own mother’s funeral. And once I was back in the UK, I could work out my release, with Jane’s help.

I sat patiently on a hard wooden chair facing Dr Lynch, who sat in a leather chair at his walnut desk. His glasses perched on the end of his nose, he was carefully peeling an apple with a knife, as though I were not even there. The nurse had gone out to attend to someone screaming bloody murder, to which I had grown entirely immune. Satisfied that he had managed to peel it all in one go, he finally looked up at me, almost surprised to find me sitting there.

‘Miss Carlisle, you’re not due for a check-up until next month.’ He had a way of speaking that always made me feel as though I were an idiot. No matter what he said, simply his tone implied that I had all the intelligence of the piece of fruit on his plate. It was something I endured. Until today.

‘I am not here for a check-up.’ I told him that I had just been informed of my mother’s death and that I wanted to attend her funeral.

‘Ah yes, my condolences. Mr Carlisle wrote to inform us, oh, it must be a fortnight ago. Your mother has already been laid to rest, so you see, there’s no reason for you to leave St Agnes’s.’

‘I-I …’ I was so confused. I reached into my pocket and pulled out Jane’s letter. Checking the date, I saw that it was written over a week ago.

‘Why wasn’t I informed?’

‘Oh, were you not? I’m sure I told Nurse Patricia to pass the message along.’

I looked down at the letter, the words swimming in front of me. My hands began to shake with a rage that boiled inside of me. Not for my mother, but my last chance of escape. I couldn’t take it any more. I jumped up and grabbed the knife off the table, pressing it to the artery in my neck.

‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ he said, scrambling to get out of his chair.

‘Don’t move or I’ll kill myself, I swear!’ I shouted.

He froze, halfway off the chair, and raised his hands in surrender.

‘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—’