Free The FitzOsbornes in Exile by Michelle Cooper Page B

tossed aside, to have been taken up again by one’s lover when he’d been abandoned by everyone and everything, even his sanity—and then to be forsaken again, this time for eternity. Contemplating Rebecca’s life was like peering into a bottomless coal pit. But imagine being in the pit, peering up at an impossibly distant speck of daylight! Poor Rebecca! No wonder she spoke to people who weren’t there and lashed out viciously at those who were—and I suddenly recalled that Saint Jude was the patron saint of lost causes. It was all so disheartening that I was relieved when she said an abrupt farewell and stomped out.
    The therapist then insisted on giving me a tour and outlining the clinic’s philosophies (all of which sounded very impressive, although now I come to write them down, I can’t remember a word). I had the distinct impression that she had mistaken me for a member of the British royal family, or at least for someone far more important than I actually am. In the recreation room, we came across Rebecca and a tall, ferocious-looking woman, presumably her roommate, standing by a barred window. They were looking out towards the road, where Parker was pointing out bits of the car engine to Veronica. Rebecca was muttering in a low voice, no doubt pouring vitriol into her roommate’s ear (I could almost see it, a poisonous blue-green stream). Which did make me feel slightly less sympathetic towards Rebecca. But at least she seemed to be enjoying herself, in a Rebecca-ish sort of way. The therapist and I moved on to the music room and the dining room, and then finally, after a cup of milky tea and a digestive biscuit, I was able to make my escape.
    “About time,” Veronica said. “We were just about to storm the barricades and rescue you. So they haven’t thrown her out yet?”
    “No,” I said. “And the place is very nice.”
    “It ought to be, with the fees they charge,” said Veronica. Then we drove home, Parker letting Veronica steer in the flat areas, while I thought about the human mind. I wondered whether mad people would be better off if their memories could be neatened up, or taken off the shelves on which they were stored and replaced with nicer ones, and if they’d be the same people then or completely different ones, and whether dreams were like a vandal rampaging through a library of memories, tearing out random pages and turning them into paper boats … and then I fell asleep and dreamed of the sea, and when I woke up, we were home.

23rd January 1937
    It was Veronica’s birthday today. The cook made a chocolate cake, decorated with sugar roses and eighteen pink candles, and Julia and Anthony came over for tea. Julia brought a gorgeous black silk evening gown, which she claimed she’d snapped up for a bargain in the sales, then taken home before realizing it was the wrong size, “so please, Veronica, do take it off my hands.” Anthony gave her a book by Karl Marx, and Lady Astley sent hothouse roses and an enormous box of chocolates. Henry’s present turned out to be a magnifying glass, “because you’ve probably got eyestrain from too much reading, although when you’re not using it, can I borrow it?” And Veronica insisted that Toby’s and my newspaper subscription was “perfect,” exactly what she’d wanted, although I must say it didn’t look very impressive next to the other presents (especially as the actual newspapers won’t start being delivered until next week, so it was just an invoice from the newspaper office).
    But I think the parcel she was most pleased about was Daniel’s, which arrived in the morning post, wrapped up in brown paper. He sent a thick letter and a couple of books about politics, one of which he’d actually written himself. Anthony was a bit condescending over Daniel’s book, because it was about Socialism rather than Communism. I’d thought they were pretty much the same, and Anthony’s explanation didn’t really clear up matters. I’d