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—’
‘Yes, of course you care, because as long as I live, you receive a handsome stipend from my brother. Isn’t that correct, Dr Lynch?’
‘That is to pay for your care—’
I pointed the knife as sharply as I could bear it against my skin.
‘Come now, doctor, it’s just us here. We are half-starved and barely clothed, with no heat to speak of. You pocket that money for yourself, don’t you?’
‘I resent the implic—’
‘Oh, shut up. SHUT UP!’ I screamed at him. Standing there in a ragged, stained dress, unwashed hair sticking out from my head, dark circles around my eyes and a knife at my throat, I had never felt more clarity of mind. He was scared. I could see it.
‘If I die, you stop receiving Lyndon’s payments.’
He looked rattled and his eyes searched the room. I knew I didn’t have much time to convince him.
‘We can help each other. If you let me leave, right now, I will never tell Lyndon and you can keep getting your money. You will never hear from me again. I’ll change my name, I’ll go to Europe. I have friends there.’
I could see him thinking about it.
‘No one ever has to find out.’
He wiped his face roughly with his hand, then started biting his lip. He was looking at the framed photograph on his desk of his wife and children. He looked back at me and I lifted my chin higher, showing him that I was not bluffing.
‘If not, I will cut my own throat right now and bleed out all over this rug. Then you will have nothing.’
I had succeeded. He was willing to consider it. My freedom was tantalisingly close and I was suddenly aware that I was no longer quite so free about sticking a knife in my throat. Yet I had to keep it there.
‘Oh, what does it matter now anyway?’ he said, slowly getting up.
He opened another door on the opposite side of the room. It led directly to a short passageway with an exterior door. He shouldered it open and I could see the backyard, which must have been used by the staff to come and go, as it led straight on to the road rather than the long drive. I looked back at him.
‘If your brother finds out—’
‘He won’t,’ I said, unable to keep the tremble from my voice.
‘Then get out.’
With that, I realised that he had known all along. I should never have been locked up here. It was all a lie.
A mixture of relief and revenge pulsated through me. I still had the knife in my hand. I wanted to slit his throat. Pictured it; blood spattering the walls. Whatever I lacked in physicality, I could make up for with the passion of my anger. He moved back and kept his hands aloft. I couldn’t believe my freedom was finally in front of me. I dropped the knife and ran.
Chapter Forty-Seven
MARTHA
‘You came!’ I rushed into her arms. My mother never left her house, not even to go to the shops, so I never expected to see her on the doorstep of Ha'penny Lane. ‘How did you? What happened?’ I had so many questions.
‘I found my voice.’ The words came out slow but strong.
‘Happy tears,’ I said, as she wiped them away with her fingertips.
‘I should have spoken up a long time ago, Martha. My precious girl.’
‘I’m okay, Mom, really.’
‘I know you are. You are such a capable young woman. I’m so very proud of you. I wanted to come here and tell you that, even if it’s a little late in the day.’
‘It’s never too late,’ came Madame Bowden’s voice from behind me. She had a knack for just appearing in the middle of other people’s conversations. ‘Won’t you come inside?’
It felt like a novelty having tea with my mother in the back kitchen of this grand old house. Madame Bowden suggested it as it was roomier than my flat and left us to it, thankfully. I thought she would poke her nose in, but she did have some sense of tact when it suited her. I talked cheerfully about my course in Trinity, the friends I’d made, my new-found interest in literature.
‘You’ve made a lovely life for yourself here,’ she said, placing her hand on mine.
‘I’m happy, Mom. Even living here with Madame Bowden – it’s not what I would have envisioned for myself as a young woman, but it kind of works. I think we’re good for each other.’