The institutionalised tr.., p.90
The Institutionalised Trilogy, page 90
The elderly pastor took a deep breath - rattling and asthmatic - and stifling a cough, he began: “The Children of Jesus Christ, Scientist is the charitable and more public face - the outreach arm if you will - of an enclosed order and run largely under the generous patronage of Lady Marchment. Of course you will already have made her acquaintance; else we wouldn’t be having this conversation.
“Yes, of course. Please go on - Father Althrop?”
“Thank you Ms Bartlett: It’s Reverend Althrop by the way; Right Reverend to be more precise - but no matter. Well, now... how to put it... Our church runs a program, under the auspices of this little community of ours, which has proved itself time and again to be of great utility in dealing with many a recalcitrant, wayward young lady.
Through simple observation and long experience, spanning many years, from before the turn of the century as a matter of fact - by which I mean to infer the latter years of the Victorians, with their firm moral foundation - we have evolved, based on those fine values, a means by which to deal with those young adults who might otherwise be tempted from the Lord’s teachings’. Whether it be through disrupting the community, poor personal behaviour - for example the drunkenness and drug abuse that is seemingly and increasingly so prevalent among the young of today - or simply a lack of respect for authority and for her elders, those failings can be dealt with; and in no uncertain terms, I might add. Do you follow, Ms Bartlett?”
“Yes, of course; though I cannot help but question whether you might have to some degree misconstrued the situation, Reverend Althrop. In reality the situation we are discussing here is nothing like as grievous as you suggest. Don’t get me wrong; I am a woman of the world, like any other, I haven’t lived my life in total isolation you know, despite the remoteness of this place. I keep my eyes open, and I can tell you; I am no innocent. Indeed, I have seen things in recent years that have fairly made my toenails curl - if you get my meaning, Reverend. Yes, of course I recognise exactly the type of girl to which you refer - young trollops, all - chewing gum, skimpy skirts and plastered makeup.” Madison Bartlett smiled condescendingly, sweeping a slender arm around her in a broad arc, indicating the plush surroundings as she went on: “But the girl we are discussing here is no product of tower-block estate culture.
Just glance about you; this was the seat of her upbringing; it can be described as nothing if not privileged. She has never known any kind of deprivation, she has wanted for nothing. As much as it pains me to say, so; I can assure you that our lovely young thing is nothing like you describe - it is just that she is a little... how shall we say?...headstrong, I suppose. Legally she is under my guardianship and for the time being I hold the purse strings, but only for the time being - and she knows it. She is a young lady in line to eventually take control over a quite a substantial inheritance, an insolent young thing full of herself and her dreams and petulant in temperament.” Ms Bartlett laughed awkwardly, shrugging her shapely tanned shoulders almost coquettishly. “In days gone by I guess one in my position and in a house like this would have employed a governess.”
“But isn’t that just a relative matter of subjective interpretation, Mrs Bartlett? A matter of degree, if you will? Have you not made it quite clear yourself, that she suffers certain...failings, in respect of what you desire - a lack of deference to your wishes, a certain petulance when she does submit? Acceptable behaviour, for sure - acceptable to some perhaps...” The old man suddenly coughed, a congested, phlegmy bark that brought his fist to his mouth, apologising before continuing. “...And yet - and I am at something of a loss as to how to best put this to you - I get the distinct impression that she is, in a certain way, far from being the young lady that you would like to see. Acceptable behaviour is one thing, yet I feel that you find it just marginally so...perhaps frustratingly so, if I may be so bold.? Would that be a fair assessment? But, on the other hand, if you were to place her firmly in our hands, give us cart blanch over her, that behaviour could be perfected. Under our care I can promise you would see fostered and flowering from within her an altogether more submissive, sweetly docile and - dare I say it - dependent disposition, one far more conducive to achieving what ultimately I believe to be your true desire, if you were to be honest with yourself. Given sufficient time I can assure you that you would find her to be most tractable and quite pliant to your will.” He paused, waiting for some token of agreement, then having received a nod of comprehension from his increasingly fascinated listener he went on, expanding on his theme with near evangelical zeal.
“Did you not opine recently to one of our ‘outreach team’ - another close acquaintance of yours I am given to understand - something along the lines of how young people today are growing up before their time, missing out on much of the simplicities of childhood? Well, along with Dr Anne Ecclestone, our medical director and semi-resident psychologist - whom you have yet to meet - our Ms Soames, is key within the Children of Jesus Christ, Scientist organisation through her vocation as social-worker bringing her in contact with many... worthy... yes, worthy cases. In so many ways - ways you are yet to fully appreciate, Ms Bartlett - you are fortunate indeed in sharing such an intimate relationship with her; if not for that I can assure you that you would have known nothing of the work our group. I am not at liberty to disclose as yet exactly what her role entails and what that role would imply for your charge, but I can tell you that few know better just how, for those cloistered within our institution, the situation you so eloquently outlined is soon enough rectified; the clock, as it were, can be - and is, I might add - so easily reset.”
For a moment Madison Bartlett pondered, a deliberately non-committal smile playing around her full lips, then her other guest, the smartly uniformed woman, cleared her throat, interjecting on her thoughts.
“Ms Bartlett, if you don’t mind me asking; have you ever considered the possibility of your one day gaining enduring power of attorney over your charge and her dealings’, with all that implies? I also understand, from our mutual acquaintance, that your sister may well find herself placed in a similar situation to your good self in the not too distant future”. The woman reached out, proffering a bunch of photographs, each its own plastic pocket as if recently retrieved from a portfolio or archive. “Perhaps an example: the ‘finished article’, so to speak - our Pauline. That one was something of a tearaway - once.”
Of Wayward Girls and Immoral Women
In the first photograph she had been handed, this ‘Pauline’ of theirs - she felt sure it was not the girl’s true name - appeared somewhat younger than the seventeen years that she had been assured that the girl in fact was. A dark-haired girl, her long chestnut mane had been tightly braided each side before being coiled and then pinned up so as to form a plaited whirl on either side of her head, each fastidiously tied off in the centre by a large bow formed from a length of gloriously shiny broad pink and blue candy-striped satin ribbon. The effect managed to be somehow both severe and childish at the same time and was obviously not a style the girl would likely have chosen by choice off her own back. No, somebody had lavished time and imagination in devising that style for the girl and undoubtedly an element of humiliation had been at the forefront of his or her mind.
It made for a very disciplined look, an impression that was underlined by the high Eton-style blouse collar that buttoned tightly beneath the girl’s chin and that seemed as if designed to cause her to carry her head tilted ever so slightly to the rear. The latter collar was tightened still further around her neck by a neatly knotted school tie that was in a soft pastel blue, diagonally striped by bars of baby pink so as to match the ribbons in her hair. The potential masculine severity of the blouse itself was softened by its pink and white vertical candy striping and by the overwhelming femininity of the - perhaps somewhat overstated - puffball shoulders, which along with the outdated styling of the collar, tended to give the impression of the garment owing more to the Victorian era than the present.
The fabric itself tended to add further to that impression of strangely-restrained childish femininity; the blouse had a definite sheen of satin about it, catching the light with a gloss to rival that of her hair ribbons, and yet at the same time gave the impression of smart crisp stiffness, as if starched in the traditional manner. Some sort of horrid man-made fibre was Madison guess; functional but hardly likely to be comfortable if worn for any extended period. Then again it was also Madison’s guess that some degree of physical discomfort was the intention, to counterbalance the psychological discomfort the uniform was undoubtedly intended to create in the young girl.
No, clearly comfort didn’t come into this equation at all - it was only a head and shoulders shot but already she had seen enough to realise that every detail had been worked out with one aim in mind; the imposition of a regime of the strictest discipline. The result could be seen in the girl’s pretty sea-green eyes, washed clear of defiance almost as if brainwashed, and by the embarrassment painted on her cheeks as vividly as applied blusher. The girl possessed the sort of pretty, yet childish, oval face which, as devoid of makeup and well-scrubbed with carbolic as it was, appeared ageless.
The next photograph was a full length shot. The girl’s uniform was well-fitting, neat and pressed, her collar starched and her tie tightly and correctly knotted and placed. Madison’s practiced eye was instantly drawn to the creases at the elbow of the girl’s pink and white candy-striped cotton blouse. As sharp as if the blouse had been new-on that very day, the crisp delineation of those wrinkles was matched, as if in deliberate opposition, by the featureless smoothness of the fairy-pink perfection that constituted the juvenile-styled school pinafore the girl had on over it, with its panelled flared skirt and square-topped, yet narrow-waisted, yoke.
The fabric making up the latter - at least as identified by Madison Bartlett’s fairly-expert eye - was almost guaranteed to crease at the drop of a hat, yet it was as perfect as if freshly ironed. Taken together with what she had been told regarding the chronology of this shot, those two features - the steam iron-fresh smoothness of the dress and the hardly-worn crispness of the blouse - spoke of a young spirit curbed and wayward behaviour constrained. Together it all implied one thing: Here was a young lady well-bowed under the heavy yoke of the strictest of discipline - Madison found herself having to take care so as not to give away her shortness of breath, having been quite overcome merely at the thought.
As the intriguing multi-way conversation played out further, it slowly emerged that this girl had originally been taken along by her stepmother to a well renowned psychiatrist, the woman citing various instances of the girl’s ‘intractable, refractory and incorrigible behaviour’ in obtaining the appointment. Reading between the lines, this seemed more accurately to translate to the girl simply having been a pain in the neck - not to mention standing between the stepmother and complete control of the household, a situation Ms Madison Bartlett could relate to only too well. Apparently, in interview the stepmother had made vague references intimating that she believed her stepdaughter’s ill behaviour was the outcome of her association with another girl of a similar age living close by. As a result of this ‘evidence’ her stepdaughter had been diagnosed as ‘displaying homosexual tendencies’.
To Madison Bartlett it beggared belief that the strength of one woman’s word alone should have been enough to result in such a diagnosis, let alone the word of one having such an obvious vested interest in the situation. But that was the truth of the matter, for it was clear, from what she was being told, that the girl had displayed very little by way of pathological symptoms in interview other than a certain degree of agitation and even that seemed likely to have been due to the girl’s irritation over having allowed herself to have been persuaded, or coerced or whatever, to attend in the first place. What seemed even more incredible was that in this day and age - whatever the strength of the allegation - a young woman’s sexual orientation should be considered indicative of a pathological condition, let alone one deemed amenable to treatment.
A hundred years ago or so, under certain circumstances a diagnosis might have been formed indicating something then quaintly termed ‘feeble mindedness’. But this, more often than not, had been a trumped-up, catch-all definition of mental illness. Ill informed and naive at best, at its worst it was a lever applied by the more disreputable practitioner more concerned with personal financial gain than the validity of his conclusions. It was not unknown for an intractable wife or disgruntled lover, seeking redress through the courts, to find herself instead remanded to the asylum through that route - so much cheaper than a divorce settlement, far preferable than a damaged reputation or even criminal charges. A simple diagnosis of ‘derangement’ and not only would the testimony of a lowly maid or serving girl be dismissed out of hand but the girl could well have found herself incarcerated beyond further contact with any who might lend an ear to her complaint - merely for having had the temerity to have levelled the allegation in the first place.
What It amounted to was a route to incarceration, brushed clear of any judicial formality or written documentation necessary, beyond that of a doctor’s declaration. The thought struck Madison: surely a similar situation could not possibly arise within the modern day health system, with all its safeguards, peer-monitoring and so on - could it? The possibility was unthinkable, the implications unspeakable. It was horrifying and yet... somehow... intriguing - she couldn’t deny that.
Whether or not the girl herself had been informed of the diagnosis remained unclear as the story unfolded, but suffice it to say that the doctor’s suggestion that the girl be distanced from her present situation for her own benefit had been accepted as the right one. Madison couldn’t help but wonder how the stepmother had reacted when the subject had arisen of the possibility of the girl benefiting from a period in residential care. She decided that the woman must have been hard-pressed to disguise her enthusiasm. Silently, keeping her thoughts to herself, she wondered as to whether the woman had feigned misgivings, had she endeavoured to appear concerned? Somehow, given the hypocritical glee with which the account was being related, she doubted it. She knew well enough how, historically, the institutions of the Catholic Church - such as the Magdalene homes - happily incarcerated wayward girls; taming refractory girls with demonic efficiency while remaining comfortably unaccountable to public scrutiny in any way whatsoever. But, in this day and age - and with mutual links to the research department of a well known private psychiatric hospital? Well, it beggared belief - but if true....
Madison Daisy Bartlett reclined in her chair, the plush upholstery creaking softly as it shifted, stretched and moulded itself to her contours - she had been daydreaming. A fabric swatch book lay open on her lap. Another, filled with various heavyweight manmade satins in suitably subdued dowdy hues lay discarded at her feet, next to the patent stilettos she had kicked off when she had flopped down. The third, the silk-satin book, she hadn’t even opened and its black leatherette cover presently served as a mat beneath her sherry glass on the side table by the fire.
The sample presently uppermost on her lap, a hardwearing heavy-duty polyester blend in a dense lilac weave pencil-striped with white, was marked with an oval gold sticker on one corner stating in an antique-looking printed script: “eminently suitable for inclusion in workwear dresses where practicality is key, such as housekeeping and servant’s uniforms for those day-to-day menial tasks”. She ran the stiff, slightly plasticy material between her fingers and thumb thoughtfully and her mind again ran back to that meeting, all that time ago.
Even back then she had felt the sweat break out in her palms at the mere thought of the possibilities. Now, as far as her sweet young legal ward was concerned, through the intermediary involvement of the girl’s aunt that imagined conjecture had been made concrete - not directly through the auspices of ‘The Children of Christ Scientist’ but through the ‘research’ project they supported; and benefited from, it must be said. Lavinia’s ‘aunt’ - the thought made her smile - Ms Julia Soames, had been there from the very start of the project, her influence present at so many levels, though she doubted even her actions were entirely free of influence.
There was Julia’s friend and, later, colleague, Dr Anne Ecclestone, the psychotherapist, for instance, not to mention a minor host of other well-connected individuals - a small but influential network of mutually motivated individuals, all with their own personal, if mutually beneficial, agenda. But Madison, through her connections knew them all - even the woman at the top of that elite little pile, the figurehead that had to some extent instigated the whole affair. That woman’s company owned the hospital itself, so that part had been easy enough, she imagined. The church-run home had already existed of course; an overlooked and unreformed legacy of The Church’s darker exploitative past that dated back to the times of the Magdalene Laundries and the Sisters of Mercy in Ireland.
True all had not proceeded at exactly breakneck speed as far as her young ward had been concerned, but the wait and the trouble had all been well worthwhile in the end. In the fullness of time young Lavinia Vitesse had fallen into her Aunt Julia’s hands - and the progress that would one day lead her into the clutches of the institution had begun. The rest was already history and the latest details lay in the dossier that waited by the fireside next to her tipple - the latest psychiatric report from the hospital, laid aside so that the anticipation might ferment a sweeter wine.
Antiquities, Quackery, Authority And Tradition
A lengthy period has now passed since that meeting of minds in Madison Daisy Bartlett’s home; a time of mutual strife, frustration and anger between the girl and her guardian. All those bitter disputes over all and sundry that had hung in the background have long been resolved, overshadowed by Lavinia Vitesse’s move to her aunt’s home.
