The institutionalised tr.., p.12
The Institutionalised Trilogy, page 12
Reassured by the faintly familiar patterning, embossed into the glossy paper and catching the light in rhythmic ripples, gently rocking to and fro, to and fro, she gazed from behind the safety of soulless glazed eyes, her thumb-sucking innocent comfort a gauge of her acceptance. A woman, corrupted, yet made innocent.
Interactions: A Lady, A Doctor, And A Prospective Employee?
A Historic Correspondence
It was an old correspondence; it had been kicking around her office for several months. Somehow it had found its way between the pages of a journal she had been using; she made a mental note to be more careful in future. The doctor read it through for the second time that day; it was not so much what it said, more what it alluded to.
“Alison has interviewed dozens of candidates. For what seems like months now she has been bemoaning the demise of the once traditional governess. Frankly I am not at all sure what her expectations truly are, whether they are ever likely to be fulfilled, even in principle. I blame myself in some ways for ever mentioning it but one tries one’s best to help, even though it so often seems to rebound in one’s direction. The fact is, I had thought that I had a good grasp of the scope of her aspirations in that direction, now I am not at all sure what she is after and I don’t think that she really is. To be honest, I really don’t think she quite understands the extent and limitations that were traditionally associated with the role. And the girl’s age, she could be married! Probably should be too, perhaps that is her problem. It all seems a little ridiculous to me now, in the cold light of day.”
The writer continued:
“... Apparently many of them have had one thing or another in their favour but none of them seems to have been quite what she was looking for, not that she really knows, exactly, what it is she is after, as I have said. In some way their views did not quite seem to fit in with her expectations, whatever they are, your guess is as good as mine...”
The bespectacled woman screwed up the letter, intending it for the waste basket, then, pausing to think, unfolded it again; it went into the shredder. It was better to avoid a paper-trail in today’s atmosphere, not that there was anything particularly incriminating about the contents, at least to the casual reader.
She well understood the writer’s consternation but was struck by the diverse facets, intricacies and coincidences woven between those lines. She knew the writer well but not so Alison of whom, up until recently, she had been only privy to hearsay. However she had understood enough to realise that the girl, of who’s care there had been so much correspondence and concern, was of no familial relation whatsoever to this Alison Stringer. Oddly enough, though, the woman’s only living relative appeared to be the writer’s step daughter, Susan, of whom she was cousin. The self-same Susan Stringer presently resident in this very institution, their latest recruit in fact, registered as a clinical research subject although yet to be assigned to a researcher.
But this woman, this Alison Stringer had never had children nor even married.
She had been suspicious when she had first received the letter, not of the writer but of Alison Stringer herself. Much had occurred since that letter had been written though. She now had a better grasp of the influences in, and drives behind, Alison’s life and relationships. The surprise was not so much the woman’s sexual orientation, that much was written clearly between the lines of so much she had learnt, no, rather it was the type and enormity of the relationship in which she was so obviously embroiled. Her psychological profile indicated her to be possessed of one of the most dominant personalities that she had come across and suggested an almost sociopathic moral stance. More, coincidently and incredibly, she held a master’s degree in behavioural psychology.
She wondered how Alison’s quest had gone; she had heard no more mention of it. The woman’s relationship with some young woman was of no concern of hers, how could she ever presume to be so judgmental. But to have denied an interest, whether professional or personal would have been hypocritical.
Was it really a governess that the woman had been after? Probably not, and if not, if her assumptions were correct, then the time might be right to make a suitably discreet, surreptitious, approach, she had the ideal candidate in mind. There might or might not be some opportunity inherent in the woman’s relationship but there certainly seemed scope for the woman within her organisation.
She made another mental note; she would write as soon as she had some free time, perhaps at lunch, after the seminar. There was no risk, she knew too much about the woman for her ever to be able to blow the whistle and, besides, she was never wrong, she knew a good bet when she saw one; the woman would be an invaluable addition to the staff.
Idly she wondered just how much the woman knew of her cousin, Susan’s, situation. Was she aware, was she perhaps involved in some way? She doubted that she was, certainly Julia had made no mention of meeting her at any point and Julia was always most diligent in her reporting.
“Well, we’ll soon see” she remarked to no one in particular “let’s have Julia make the first contact and we’ll go on from there.” Rising to leave her office for the morning rounds she couldn’t resist a faint smile, the thought had struck her; how often life revealed these cyclical patterns, they seemed to underpin the whole concept that some people might term, fate.
Alison Stringer
Alison Stringer leaned back, interlocking her fingers comfortably behind her head she sighed deeply. This last candidate, the one she had interviewed this morning had come the closest. Without being too explicit she seemed to share many of her views and really appeared to grasp her requirements. She had said that she had heard of the position through a mutual friend. Alison had been surprised but a quick ‘phone call had soon confirmed the woman’s story. Julia Soames, what was it about that name? Something familiar, perhaps shared with some minor celebrity? Well, the woman, herself, had clearly realised that she was not absolutely perfect for the position but at least she understood the requirements.
Better still, she had been able to recommend a woman with whom she had had some dealings in the past and who, apparently, had a most admirable record of dealing with troublesome adolescent girls. Indeed the woman actually specialised in working with such young women. Apparently she was currently working for a Lady Marchment, based, she thought, in Gloucestershire or possibly Devon, but thought that something could possibly be worked out.
Miss Julia Soames had sauntered out with a cheery smile, promising to stay in touch and to set up a dialogue with her West Country acquaintance.
“Well, we’ll see” Alison muttered to no one in particular; her dog looked up and she smiled at him, only to see the poodle yawn and stroll off out to the garden.
“Typical, no one listens” she muttered, involuntarily yawning and finding herself unexpectedly overtaken by fatigue.
“The power of suggestion” she thought to herself idly.
The Doctor
Dr Ecclestone leant back into the plush brown leather chair, the back semi-reclining in response. For while she just simply relaxed, her arms resting on the softly padded rests, her head supported comfortably by the headrest. Behind her the afternoon sun painted impressionistic clouds and shadowed ivy through the arched stained glass window. Before her those very same images danced in the white spaces between bookshelves and above dark oak panelling; the shadowed ivy animated by the late afternoon summer breeze brushing past its exterior counterpart.
The Technicolor display had begun its infiltration innocently enough, gently burnishing the gold-leaf titling and red leather binding of the psychology tomes, piled patiently awaiting her attention at the left of the dark mahogany desktop. Its advance had proceeded without response, crossing the leather guarded perimeter of the green blotter without incident. Now, though, its incursion threatened the large screen positioned just beyond the blotter, diamond patterns of light and shade and the reflections of bookshelves had begun to replace the uniformed girl knelt in prayer. With a sigh the psychologist leant forward to retrieve her glasses from where they lay on the blotter, her sumptuous executive chair moving with her.
Rising she turned towards the window, absentmindedly smoothing down her exclusively-styled knee length brown leather skirt. Her hand on the shutter she paused, taking in the ornate gardens laid out two floors below, watching appreciatively as two nurses traversed the bowling green-flat lawn, each wearing the clinic’ s conventional light-blue long-sleeved uniform dress with its white cuffs and rounded white collar both trimmed with blue piping to match that of their white caps. She noted that, despite the late afternoon sunshine, both nurses were wearing a neatly buttoned long-sleeved navy blue cardigan over their dress, not any indication of the air’s chill but rather a reflection of the strict standards enforced by the clinic’s management. For a moment she found herself reflecting on the differences between a private clinic, such as this, and the public sector. The two women having now reached the path to the main entrance, directly below her window, she could make out the gold and red embroidery of the hospital insignia that she knew would be echoed on the dress beneath.
Not some shapeless public sector nurse’s dress or, worse still, ‘scrubs’, but one carefully tailored, fitted and made to measure; the elasticated webbing belt more a detail of styling than of any real necessity to form.
With yet another sigh she pulled the hinged rosewood shutters across the ornate stone-surround window and returned to her work; the Sun’s disruption reduced to a few surreptitiously intruding fingers slipping down between narrow slats to paint dusty mottled stripes of gold along the dark ruby silken edge of the Marian Dorn rug lying below.
There was something about one of the messages in her email that caught her attention, dragged her away from her notes. She opened it and her smile broadened; good she’s coming, she thought. She couldn’t refrain from reading the principle point out aloud. “She has been vetted and is amenable to the ideas behind our work here.”
The doctor leaned forward, simultaneously and habitually repositioning her glasses with the fore finger of her right hand. Of the six white squares comprising the grid on the screen before her five were occupied by a vaguely humanoid green outline. One view had been selected and the window, having expanded out to occupy half the screen, was filled by the head and shoulders of a green-stripe attired girl. Her small snub nose and over-large soft blue eyes, framed within the confines of her green and white striped Victorian-styled bonnet, retained their prettiness despite the absence of eyebrows that bestowed a de-personalised doll-like appearance upon her. Her skin possessed the pallid complexion of one long hid from the sun; on close inspection one might just have made out the long-faded remnants of the freckles that had once bridged that pretty child-like nose yet did so no more. Her eyes were wide, innocent, yet more than innocent, expressionless and yet not quite, they had a doe-eyed glazed quality about them, a lack of any real focus as if deep in daydream. But there was something else there, despair? Not really, at least not in isolation. No, it was more a combination of defeat, resignation and hopelessness.
The girl’s mouth full lipped and once known for its pout as much as for its come-hither flirtatiousness was now devoid of either; devoid of tone, the muscles totally relaxed, the pretty Cupid bow lips hung slightly parted, her jaw slack. Her lower lip attracted the light to glisten at its centre whereupon a small trickle of saliva was slowly growing and an elongating droplet threatened to join the fate of its predecessors as the glistening darkening rivulet flowing and pooling on the girl’s dress front, just above the second button, at the point at which the fabric began to press out and forward around her breasts. There was no attempt to wipe her mouth nor the trickling dribble that was slowly working its way down her gracile chin. Nor had there been, as was attested to by her drool-stained bodice. Not that she seemed restrained in any way, either in a physical sense or by the restriction of discipline - neither struggle nor turmoil were evidenced in that face, merely a docile acceptance. A faint twitch of a smile quivered in the corners of the doctor’s mouth, novice thespians, hovering uncertain in the wings as if awaiting some unseen prompt. Leaning forward, her slender fingers ran across the keyboard in a staccato burst of rattling plastic and the knitting-needle clack of long, expensively manicured, nails. On the screen the focus pulled back to a full-length shot, the image simultaneously expending to fill the screen.
She scribbled a few notes, some ideas, she felt inspired; Alison Stringer was coming, she was going to have to arrange a suitably impressive tour of the facilities and some sort of demonstration. By all accounts the woman was the key to a potentially interesting test subject; a broad demographic cross-section was essential to the work.
Alison’s Arrival
The previous few weeks had seen Alison Stringer tied up with company affairs, business meetings and seminars; she really hadn’t had time to think more on the subject of her ‘little domestic problem’. Still, she had been surprised and delighted when the letter had appeared on her desk; it had been written in a rather regal but un-mistakenly feminine hand and on the finest and most expensive paper she had seen in a long time. She remembered thinking at the time how rare such attention to detail was in the modern world; there was something reminiscent of a past-gone age about it, a more cultured, refined, time, a time of standards and manners and of sharply-delineated social strata. These were things for which she hankered most; a return to a time wherein all had their station, aspirations were simple and limited and exemplary service was the norm, only to be expected.
She had brought the letter with her. She couldn’t resist reading through it again, besides she had already worked her way through practically all of the day’s papers and halfway through a paper back, that she had bought on impulse on the platform at Paddington, and there was still the taxi to come.
The first page was headed with a family crest and coat of arms and introduced Lady Marchment who then went on to explain that she had had some correspondence with Julia Soames and that she felt that she understood Alison’s situation. She explained that she did, indeed, employ a governess for her two nieces and that the woman had proved highly efficacious in the performance of her duties. Her employment, however, was on-going and would continue for the foreseeable future. Alison recalled how her heart had dropped somewhat; it had appeared as if her hopes were about to be dashed.
However, in the letter Lady Marchment went on to say that under the right circumstances, if Alison would have no objection to her stepdaughter taking up residence at her establishment, it might be possible for her governess to take charge of her alongside her nieces, both of whom were young women of around Alison’s stepdaughter’s age. Alison Stringer’s spirits had soared, this sounded perfect, almost too good to be true; the girl would be out from under her feet at for a while, dissuaded from medalling further in her affairs and yet she would still wield control over her, albeit by proxy via a, presumably strict, governess.
Somehow it still all seemed too perfect, despite having since learnt more. It seemed that Lady Marchment’s ‘establishment’ consisted of more than merely her place of residence; she ran a highly successful business, apparently some sort of health spa and retreat with a discreet but highly respected reputation amongst those to whom ‘rehab’ was as habitual as was their weakness. Then there was her philanthropic work; therein lay another story, clearly there was more to that than met the eye.
The final page was peculiarly enigmatic and vague. Without being critically explicit Lady Marchment had gone on with a caution; Alison should understand that Lady Marchment’s nieces suffered certain behavioural and psychological issues that required an approach beyond the guidance usually included within a governess’ remit. She went on to point out that the woman she employed was uniquely qualified to handle such problems but that she was uncertain as to whether her, rather unorthodox, approach would be appropriate for Alison’s charge or, indeed, acceptable to Alison.
It appeared that Lady Marchmont had had spoken with the woman who, in her turn, had stated that she would be prepared to take on Alison’s charge but had indicated that the girl would be required to undergo the selfsame treatment as her other charges so as not to disrupt the day-to-day running of the home. In closing Lady Marchmont had invited Alison to visit, to meet with her and her governess and to witness, first-hand, the efficacy of their regime.
Alison stringer carefully replaced the letter in its envelope and slipped it into her handbag; she might need to show it on arrival, she had heard that the security was pretty tight. The train was slowing now, the sloping platform apron passing the window. She piled the discarded newspapers at the rear of the table beneath the window and got to her feet, reaching across to retrieve her handbag from the adjacent seat she made her way to the end of the carriage, the door hissing open at her approach. They had said on the ‘phone that a taxi would be waiting; a 20 minute ride and she would be able to see for herself.
Marion Marchment
The iron gates were imposing, standing perhaps 5 metres or more and being even more ornate than she had expected. Beyond, a gravel road meandered through pine forest before opening out on to manicured lawns and landscaped gardens and then finally the house itself.
She had expected, perhaps, a country mansion or large house and had pictured Palladian columns and wide staircases. Instead the buildings looming ahead possessed the neo-gothic architectural feel of a Victorian hospital or asylum.
Her taxi was met by the imposing figure of Lady Marion Marchment herself. Tall, aristocratically English yet with a certain Nordic air. With silver-blonde hair piled high above fine high-cheek-boned features, delicately contoured nose and piercing dark blue eyes she was ‘power dressed’ to an almost 1980s excess in a tight-skirted business suit, the whole screaming authority, authority, authority.
