Chapter Four

Marianne

Three years previously

T he Trustees of the institution located in the Scottish borders where I had been confined for almost four years were extremely proud of their forward-thinking reputation. In addition to gardening, the inmates here could contribute to the monthly magazine, read in the library, and even on occasion attend theatrical performances. The Physician Superintendent was a pioneer in his field, a revered and respected man in the community with a genuine vocation—or so he believed. He was much admired by the other staff, and held in great awe by many of the other inmates. Though not by me.

In the first institution where I had been held, I defied them and tried to escape. I was moved here after that, and kept confined. I experimented with compliance in the hope of release, but they kept setting the bar higher, so I resumed my former tactics, and returned to my former defiance. I was intent on one thing only, and that was freedom.

The price I paid form my lack of co-operation became increasingly high, for they don't like to fail in these places. They ensure that all dissenting voices are kept from their precious trustees and benefactors, so I was forbidden access to the privileges of the library, the theatrical performances, the garden. After my first attempt at escape, I was placed in isolation. But they did not break me. The punishments they inflicted fed my burning sense of injustice. I would not give in. I would not even pretend to be the woman they proclaimed me to be. I would be myself.

It was a beautiful spring morning, that momentous day. I could see the cloudless pale blue sky from my tiny window. Those fortunate inmates considered to be low risk were working outside in the fresh air. I was inside, in one of the locked cells at the rear of the building, the wing to which none of the trustees or benefactors were given access. Perhaps they didn't even know it existed. More likely they did not ask, content to tell themselves that carpeted, panelled rooms and corniced ceilings, the wide staircase that swept upwards from the light-filled atrium, reflected the full extent of the building. It did not.

In this particular wing the institution was laid bare to the bones, making no pretence of being other than what it was. We were isolated, but we were never alone, we, the most problematic and troublesome of the inmates. Screams and moans seeped through the walls of the cells. Smells oozed under the doors. Footsteps echoed in the corridors. At night, shadows danced menacingly and ghosts haunted the halls.

When the bell began to sound, I thought I had confused the day, and that it was the call to Sunday service, but the jangling, clanging peels were too frantic and irregular for church bells. The rush of staff outside my door made it clear what was happening. An escape! I closed my eyes, focusing my entire being on that other person fleeing, wishing them well, urging them on, even though I knew that this was well beyond my powers. I can sense things, but I cannot change them. When my cell door was flung open I was deep in my thoughts, so that the hand roughly shaking my shoulder made me cry out, jump up, arms raised in defence.

‘Marianne! Marianne! You must hurry.' The woman grabbed at the rough cotton shift that was my only permitted clothing. ‘Take this off. Quickly.'

My troubled mind could make no sense of this demand, for the woman was one of my few allies. Was a new form of treatment about to be inflicted on me? Cold water dousing, which they called hydrotherapy, presumably to make it sound less barbaric, was the latest innovation here. I clutched at my shift, retreating from her.

‘Marianne! There's been an escape. They are all rushing after him, do you understand? There's a little time, only a little, if you want to risk it.'

‘Risk it?' Understanding came fast, and with it I acted, grabbing the bundle she was holding out. Not towels and a robe, but a uniform, like hers. Fumbling, heart thumping, my breathing shallow and rapid, as was hers, between us we got me into the clothes and boots. Outside, the corridor was deserted but not silent, the cries of the others locked behind those doors making an unearthly din.

I turned to bid my saviour farewell, but she grabbed my hand. ‘This way.'

‘You cannot risk...'

She pulled me forward. ‘Keep your head down and follow me. If anyone stops us, let me do the talking.'

Her livelihood was at stake, I knew how much she needed the work that the institution provided her with, but there was already no going back for me, so I did as she asked me, hurrying after her along the corridor, through locked door after locked door, down unfamiliar passageways and staircases smelling of urine and cabbage and bleach and fear, until we emerged suddenly into the bright sunlight at the rear of the building. The alarm bell was still peeling insistently.

‘He was in the market garden. He'll have gone over the wall to the east—or tried to,' my saviour said. ‘I doubt he'll make it. Come on. Don't run, just walk purposefully, as if you are one of the staff like me, as if you have a right to be here, do you understand?'

Without waiting, she set off. I followed, my heart thumping so hard I thought I was going to be sick. My feet were not used to wearing boots. The heels rubbed, they felt heavy, awkward, as I made my way along the gravel paths, past stables and outhouses, past the macabre carriage we all dreaded seeing, the one they used to cart us on the final journey from the institution to the church crypt, an open coffin on four wheels. I shuddered, thinking of the man who was even now perhaps over the wall, fleeing in a bid for freedom.

On we went, on a seemingly endless, roundabout journey towards another gate in the high stone wall.

Make haste. Freedom. Make haste. Freedom.

I repeated the words like a litany, a prayer, with every painful step, struggling to keep pace, struggling not to break into a run.

At the gate, she fumbled for the key, struggling to turn it, cursing under her breath. Her cheeks were bright red. I felt my own face, pale, damp, with shaking hands. At last the lock turned. She pushed me through. ‘Good luck, Marianne.'

I paused for a moment to take her hands. ‘What if they find out you helped me?'

‘They won't. I'll join the search party as soon as I've locked the gate.'

‘Thank you,' I said fervently. ‘Truly, I cannot thank you enough.'

‘I owe you, Marianne. You literally saved my life. One good turn, and all that.' She pulled a scrap of paper and a bundle of coins from her apron pocket. ‘Go there, as quickly as you can.' She pushed me forcefully through the gate. I heard the lock turning. I fled.

I don't recall much of the journey to Scotland's capital city from the Borders, which I made by stealth, not daring to travel to the nearest town and the nearest railway, but walking for days, sleeping in barns, sending heartfelt gratitude to my saviour, though I knew she would not sense it. I owe you, she had said. I had saved her life. The one time since my incarceration when I had revealed what my instincts were screaming at me. It had been a huge risk, given her position of authority, but now it seemed it had paid off.

I walked and I walked, until I deemed myself far away enough to risk a train to Edinburgh. There, hungry and bedraggled, I sought out the address my saviour had given me. An employment agency. It took the last reserves of my courage to make myself cross the threshold. I was braced for immediate rejection given my appearance. Mrs White studied me for a long moment before she ushered me into a back room and gave me tea. I had no references, but Mrs White didn't ask for any, nor did she question where I had come from, what or who I was running from, who I was. She asked me what I could do to earn my keep and I answered honestly. My love of children and the pleasure I took in looking after them was genuine.

Mrs White took me at my word. Later, when I was settled in lodgings, and had taken up my first assignment, I asked her why had she taken such a chance on me, a complete stranger.

‘Because once, a long time ago, when I was seeking refuge and a fresh start, another woman helped me. We need to stick together, we refugees from the injustice the world heaps upon our sex, Mrs Crawford,' she said, using the name I had taken in tribute to my saviour.

‘I promise you,' I told her most earnestly, ‘that I will never give you cause to regret it.'