Free Poor Tom Is Cold by Maureen Jennings

please?”
    “Trayling.”
    “How long have I been in here?”
    “In the bath or in the asylum?”
    “The bath.”
    Trayling consulted the steel watch pinned to her grey apron. Peg noticed the swell of her large breasts which seemed soft even beneath the starched bib. Her sleeve was rolled up past the plump forearm and her skin was freckled and reddened from the water. Peg had to fight hard to keep back a rush of tears. The attendant reminded her of somebody but she couldn’t quite recover the memory. It was somebody who had appeared in herdreams many times. Familiar yet unidentifiable, like a place you know you must have visited some time in the past, but cannot name. She’d been told a neighbour had delivered her to Dr. Barnardo’s orphanage when her mother disappeared and she thought it might be her she dreamed of.
    “You were admitted this afternoon. Dr. Clark thought a bath would calm you and you’ve been in here for two hours. He wants you to stay for at least three.”
    She must have seen the fear because she picked up a sponge from a basket beside the tub, and dipping it in a bowl of cool water, she wiped Peg’s brow.
    “Best thing is not to fight so. You’ll feel better before you know it.”
    “What is going to happen to me?”
    “That’s for the doctors to decide. If you act like a good Christian woman, no cussing like you did just now, do what you’re told, and you’ll soon be allowed to go home.”
    “And if I’m not good?”
    “Then you’ll have to stay in here with all the other lunatics.”
    As if in answer, the woman who hadn’t said a word up to now burst into loud laughter. They could hear her splashing her feet in the water. Trayling clucked her tongue disapprovingly.
    “Mrs. Stratton, stop that noise. You sound like a heathen if ever I heard one.”
    She got up stiffly from her stool, rolled down her sleeve, and started to dry her hands on the piece of holland towelling on the chair. She smiled down at Peg. “I’ll leave you for now. See if you can get some rest.”
    She left, her clogs splashing against the water-splattered brick floor.
    Peg was so afraid again, she felt nauseated. Her mouth was dry and she wished she had asked for a drink of water. She didn’t want to call again, though. She couldn’t risk using up the goodwill that the attendant was showing toward her. She lay back, her eyes open wide, looking at the ceiling, which was stained with watermarks from the steam. She forced herself to be calm, to think.
    Her memories were returning and at first she wanted to shy away from them, to get lost in the fog of the drug.
    No! Think. Get it back
.
    They’d broken down the door. It had splintered when somebody, Frank probably, wielded an axe. They had all come in, Dr. Ferrier behind them with his black bag. He had talked to her, she remembered that, but she didn’t know how long that had taken. He had turned away to his bag, and when he faced her again, he was holding a syringe. She had screamed and kicked it out of his hand. Then Frank and Peter had held her in the chair and Dr. Ferrier got another syringe.
    At that moment, she had stepped out of her bodyand stood to one side, watching. The two men holding her were exerting painful pressure and Frank was cursing because she was fighting so. “I must ask you to temper your language,” said the doctor, and she thought what an old-fashioned expression that was. The woman who was struggling to get free was very strong and could easily throw them off if she wanted to but somehow she was being slowed down. She was falling asleep; she was so tired she couldn’t help herself.
    If you go to sleep now you will die
, said the separate self. She moved further away from her body as if she were actually floating near the ceiling. She saw the other Peg tied to the chair with some binding the doctor had brought with him. Then they were carrying her downstairs.
    Don’t give in. Stay awake
.
    But sleep was inviting – safe and