The morning the others are due to leave, Jacob walks in and stands by the bed. He speaks to Francis but looks at the wall.
‘I don’t suppose you’re going anywhere, but if you do, I’ll come after you and break the other leg. Do you understand?’
Francis nods, thinking of the knife scar Donald showed him.
‘So I don’t need to sit in here all day.’
Francis shakes his head.
So he is surprised when Jacob comes back. Jacob has found a piece of wood in the store; it is straight and strong–the trunk of a young birch, and will be just the right length. He strips off the bark and whittles away any irregularities, and rounds off the forked top into a smooth Y. Francis watches his hands with reluctant fascination; it is amazing how fast the tree takes on the qualities associated with a crutch. Jacob pads the top with strips of old blanket, which he winds round the wood like a bandage.
‘I should do this with leather, or it will get wet.’
‘During my escape, you mean.’
At first, when Francis said reckless or stupid things, not caring what he thought of him, Jacob didn’t seem sure whether Francis was joking or not; he would glance doubtfully at him, his face impassive. This time, though, he smiles. Francis thinks, he’s not much older than I am.
*
It will be a relief–to both of them, he thinks–to be free of the tense and anxious Moody. And a relief to himself, although he feels guilty for admitting it, to be free of his mother. Whenever she is in the room there is such a weight of unspoken words pressing on them both he can hardly breathe. It would take years to say them all, just to get them out of the way.
Just before leaving, his mother comes into his room and looks at Jacob, who gets up and leaves without a word. She sits by his bed and folds her hands together.
‘We are leaving. We will follow the trail you followed–Mr Parker knows where it goes. It’s a pity you can’t come, in case we see the man, but … at least we can look.’
Francis nods. His mother’s face is grim and determined, but she looks tired, and the lines round her eyes are more noticeable than usual. He feels a sudden surge of gratitude to her, for doing what he meant to do, when she is so afraid of the wilderness.
‘Thank you. You’re brave to do this.’
She twitches her shoulders, as if annoyed. But she isn’t; she’s pleased. She touches her hand to his face, running her fingers along his jaw. Someone else did a very similar thing, from time to time. Francis tries not to think about that.
‘Don’t be silly. I’ll be with Parker and Moody; there’s nothing brave about it.’
They share shy, wintry smiles. Francis fights an almost overwhelming urge to tell her the truth. It would be such a relief to tell someone, to put down the burden. But even in the second he allows himself to imagine such a luxury, he knows he will say nothing.
Then she says, to his surprise, ‘You know I love you, don’t you?’
Francis is embarrassed. He nods, unable for some reason to meet her eyes.
‘Your father loves you too.’
No he doesn’t, Francis thinks. You have no idea how much he hates me. But he says nothing.
‘Is there nothing else you can tell me?’
Francis sighs. There are so many things she doesn’t know.
‘Mr Moody thinks the bone tablet may be important. If it is valuable, it might have been a … reason. Will you let me take it?’
Francis doesn’t want to give it up, but can’t think of a good reason not to, so he hands his mother the leather bag with the tablet in it. She takes it out and looks at it. She has read a lot, and knows a lot, but she stares at the tiny angular markings with a frown of incomprehension.
‘Be careful with it,’ he mumbles.
She gives him a look: she who is always careful with things.
The previous summer, before school broke up, which it did early to allow the boys to help short-handed fathers, something unprecedented had happened to him. Never having thought too much about such things, Francis, like every other boy within a ten-mile radius, fell in love with Susannah Knox.
She was a year above him at school and was without doubt the outstanding beauty of that year; slender, rounded, happy, with a sweet, exquisite face. He dreamt of Susannah by night, and by day imagined her and him together–in various vague but romantic scenarios, such as rowing a boat on the bay, or him showing her his secret hiding places in the woods. The sight of her walking past the classroom, or laughing with friends in the schoolyard, would send an exquisite, thrilling shock through his body; skin prickled, breath caught, head thrummed with blood. He would turn his head away, feigning disinterest, and since he had no close friends, his secret was well hidden. He was well aware that he was not alone in this passion, and that she could take her pick of older and more popular candidates, but she did not seem to bestow special favours on any of them. It probably wouldn’t have mattered if she had; it wasn’t as though he actually expected anything to happen. It was enough that he could annex her in his dreams.
There was an occasion–the annual summer picnic, which took place every year at the end of term, when the entire school trekked down to a slim stretch of sandy beach on the bay. Under the indolent eyes of two bored teachers they ate sandwiches, drank ginger beer and swam, shrieking and splashing, until it got dark. Francis, who generally hated such occasions of enforced jollity and had considered avoiding it, ended up going, because Susannah would be there, and as she was about to leave school, he did not know how he was going to catch the quick, sweet glimpses of her that fed his passion.
He found a spot not far from where Susannah and some of the other senior girls had sat down, only to be joined about a minute later by Ida Pretty. Ida was two years younger than Francis, and his next-door neighbour. He liked her, alone of her large family; she was sharp-tongued and funny, but she could be something of a pain. She liked Francis and was always pestering him; had been watching him as assiduously (but not as covertly) as he was watching Susannah.
Now she sat down with her basket and shaded her eyes, looking over the water.
‘I reckon it’s gonna rain later. Look at that cloud. They coulda chosen a better day for it, doncha think?’
She sounded hopeful. A malcontent and a loner like him, she shared his horror of events that were supposed to be both communal and fun.
‘I don’t know. I guess.’
Francis hoped that, if he didn’t speak to her too much, Ida would take the hint and wander off. He debated the question of whether it was less desirable to be seen sitting moodily alone, or with an annoying junior member of the school, but from Susannah’s intense whispered conversations with her girlfriends, it didn’t seem likely that she would notice whatever he did. And there were various senior boys circling, ostentatiously minding their own business, but doing so within eyeshot of the senior girls; larking about, whooping and competing to throw stones furthest into the water.
As the sun beat down, levels of activity declined: sandwiches were eaten, flies were swatted, clothes shed. Susannah’s group had split off into threesomes and twosomes, and she herself had gone for a walk with Marion Mackay. Francis lay back with his head against a slab of rock and pulled his hat over his eyes. The sun pierced the loose weave, dazzling him pleasantly. Ida had lapsed into a grumpy silence, and was pretending to read Puddenhead Wilson.
By turning his head minutely from side to side, he was making the sunlight flare into his eyes and disappear, when Ida said, ‘Whatcha think of Susannah Knox?’
‘Huh?’
He had of course been thinking of her. Guiltily he tried to banish her from his mind.
‘Susannah Knox. Whatcha think of her?’
‘She’s all right, I guess.’
‘Everyone in school seems to think she’s about the prettiest girl they’ve ever seen.’
‘Do they?’
‘Well, yeah.’
He couldn’t tell whether Ida was looking at him or not. H
is heart was thumping, but his voice sounded suitably bored.
‘She’s pretty enough.’
‘You think so?’
‘I guess.’
This was getting irritating. He pulled the hat from his face and squinted at her. She was sitting with her knees hunched up, shoulders round her ears. Her small face was scrunched up against the sun and she looked miserable and angry.
‘Why?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Does what matter? That she’s pretty?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I don’t know. Depends, I suppose.’
‘On what?’
‘On who you’re talking to. I guess it matters to her. Geez, Ida.’
He pulled the hat back over his eyes and a moment later heard her get up and walk huffily away. He must have fallen asleep, because he woke up when she sat down again, slightly startled and wondering where he was, and why he was so hot. The hat had slipped off his face and he was dazzled, red rockets bursting in front of his eyes. The skin of his face felt tight and tender. He was going to have a sunburn.
‘Do you mind if I sit here a minute?’
The voice was not Ida’s. Francis pulled himself up, to see Susannah Knox smiling down at him. Shock slid down his spine like ice water.
‘No. No, not at all.’
He looked round. The beach seemed much emptier than before, the group of girls she had been sitting with nowhere in sight.
‘Guess I was asleep.’
‘I’m sorry. I woke you up.’
‘It’s okay. A good thing. Think I’m going to have a sunburn.’
He touched his forehead gently. Susannah leant towards him, peering at him from what seemed a very close distance. He could see each curved, individual eyelash; the tiny blond hairs on her cheek.
‘Yeah, it looks a little red. It’s not too bad, though. You’re lucky, you’ve got that skin that, well it’s quite dark, you know what I mean? Me, I just get freckles and look like a beetroot.’
She smiled her enchanting smile. The sun was partially behind her and cast a radiant halo around her head, her light brown hair turned to strands of gold and platinum. Francis was finding it difficult to breathe. At least if he blushed now, she wouldn’t notice.
‘So, are you having a good time?’ he managed to say at last, having failed to think of anything cleverer.
‘What, here? I guess it’s okay. Some of those boys are being a pain. Emlyn Pretty pushed Matthew into the water with all his clothes on and laughed for about an hour. It was kind of mean.’
‘Yeah?’
Francis was secretly exultant. He had an unfortunate past with Emlyn. Lucky it wasn’t him pushed into the water.
Then, try as he might, he could not come up with anything else to say. He stared out at the water for a long time, praying for inspiration. Susannah didn’t seem to mind; she picked at the ends of her hair, apparently deep in thought.
‘Is Ida your girlfriend?’
This came so out of the blue that Francis could hardly speak for astonishment. Then he laughed. What an extraordinary idea. An extraordinary question.
‘No! I mean, she’s just a friend. She lives next door, you know. Just upriver. She’s two years younger than me,’ he added, for good measure.
‘Oh … You live next door to the Prettys, huh?’
She must have known, as everyone knew where everyone else lived. She busied herself even more with her hair. What she was doing to it, he couldn’t tell; obviously something fiddly that required immense concentration.
‘You know’–at last she tossed the piece of hair aside with a decisive movement, and shook it back from her face–‘we’re going to have a picnic next Saturday, just a few of us, up by the dipping pool. You can come, if you like. It’ll just be Maria, you know, my sister, and Marion and Emma, maybe Joe …’
She was looking at him, finally, her eyes unreadable. Francis saw her as a dark shape blocking the sun, her features misty and dazzled, like a Sunday School angel.
‘Saturday? Um …’ He couldn’t quite believe what was happening. But it appeared that Susannah–the one and only Susannah Knox–was inviting him to a picnic; an exclusive picnic, to which only her nearest friends were invited (and Joe Bell, but he was well known to go around with Emma Spence). Then suddenly it crossed his mind that maybe it was all a terrible joke. What if she had come to ask him to a picnic that didn’t exist? If he turned up next Saturday, there would be no one there, or, worse, hordes of seniors watching and laughing their heads off at his presumption. She didn’t look like she was joking, though. She was still looking at him, and then she let out a short, nervous laugh.
‘Geez. Keep a girl waiting, why don’t you!’
‘Sorry. Um … it’s just that, I’ll have to speak to my dad, to see if he wants me to work … first. Thanks, though. It sounds nice.’
His heart was hammering its consternation. Did he really just say that?
‘Well, okay. Let me know, if you can, huh?’ Uncertainly, she stood up.
‘Yeah, I will. Thanks.’
She looked more beautiful than usual at that moment, her face serious and lovely, smoothing down her hair. She gave a little smile and turned away. He thought she looked sad. He lay back and tipped the hat back over his eyes, so that he could secretly watch her wander back over to another part of the beach, where she rejoined some other seniors. Suddenly he felt a sense of wonder sweep over him. She had asked him to a picnic. She, who had never spoken more than ten words to him before, ever: she had asked him to a picnic!
Francis watched some younger boys hurtling a piece of driftwood into the shallow water, spinning it across the surface dangerously close to one another’s legs, skittering out of the way of the bright splashes. Their howls of laughter were strangely distant. He thought of the next Saturday. His father had long ago given up asking him to help out at weekends; he certainly wasn’t expecting him to. He thought of the picnic by the dipping pool on the river, where oaks and willows dappled the sun on water the colour of tea; and girls in light summer dresses would sit in pools of pale cotton.
And he knew he would not go.
THE WINTER PARTNERS
Dr Watson was the go-ahead kind of asylum superintendent. He wanted to make a name for himself, to write monographs and be invited to give lectures, where he would be surrounded by admiring young women. In the meantime however, the only young women in the vicinity were to a greater or lesser degree insane, and of them he picked me to while away the time until he was famous enough to leave.
I had been in the public asylum a few months when he arrived and all that time the place buzzed with rumours of a new director. Life in an asylum is on the whole tremendously boring, and any change of circumstance is the subject of furious debate, such as a change of porridge oats at breakfast, or moving the sewing hour from three to four in the p.m. So a new superintendent was a major occurrence: fuel for weeks of gossip and speculation. And when he arrived, he wasn’t a disappointment. Young and handsome, he had a sunny, kindly face and a pleasant baritone voice. Every woman in the place fell in love overnight. I won’t say I was completely indifferent, but it was amusing to see some of the women decorate themselves with ribbons and flowers to try and snare his attention. Watson was always gallant and charming, taking their hands and paying compliments, causing them to giggle and blush. That summer, the nights in the female dormitory were full of sighs.
Since I had held back from the general idol-worship, I was surprised to get a summons to Watson’s office and wondered what I had done wrong. I found him hovering around a vast contraption set up in the middle of the room. I immediately assumed it was a machine along the lines of the douche, designed to deliver to the insane some alarming sensation or other, but I couldn’t work out what it was, and felt rather nervous.
‘Ah, good morning Miss Hay.’ Watson looked up and smiled. He seemed very pleased with himself. I was more stunned, actually, by the change in the room, which under the previous
incumbent had been dark and depressing, as well as smelling slightly off. It was a beautiful room (the whole asylum was impressive in a neo-classical way); high-ceilinged, with a wide bow window that looked out over the grounds. Watson had done away with the heavy curtains from the windows and it was full of southern light. The walls had been painted primrose, there were flowers on the table, and a picturesque arrangement of rocks and ferns stood against one wall.
‘Good morning,’ I said, unable to stop smiling.
‘You like my office?’
‘Yes, very much.’
‘Good. Your tastes are like my own. I think it is important to make one’s surroundings attractive. If one is surrounded by ugliness, how can one be happy?’
I thought he was not entirely serious, and muttered something meaningless in reply, thinking he was fortunate to have the power to change his surroundings to suit himself.
‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘the room is even more attractive with you in it.’
Despite knowing his ways, I felt a hint of a blush then, but tried to hide it by looking out of the window at some of the inmates, who were at that moment strolling or being led around the gardens.
We talked idly for some time, and I guessed he was trying to form an idea of my mental frailties and whether I was prone to violent outbursts. What I said seemed to please him, because he then began to explain the machine. It was in essence a box for making pictures, and he wanted, he said, to make studies of the inmates. He thought this might advance the understanding of madness and the treatment of it, although I was never very clear about how this was supposed to happen. In particular, it seemed, he wanted to make pictures of me.
‘You have a very suitable face for the camera, clear and expressive, and that is exactly what is needed.’
I was flattered at the thought that he had noticed me and singled me out for attention, and it presented a welcome diversion from the daily routine. As I said, life in the asylum, apart from the odd convulsion or attempted suicide, was tedious in the extreme.