Creative Non Fiction
Delirium
The true story of Lilian Loosemore
27th November, 1906. Late Evening. St Ives
Lilian Loosemore stands on the shore just above the seaweed strewn tide-line. The sun is low on the horizon. Unsure what to do, she does nothing. If someone were to observe me now, she wonders, what would they see?
What would they see? Those, whose cruel tongues have driven her to the edge of madness, to these wild and ragged boundaries of her narrow world.
Lilian has her umbrella, the ivory handle is as cold to her touch as the tangy late autumn air is to her throat. She remembers taking the umbrella from the stand as she left the house, but she can’t think why. As always in November, an impish westerly whips the waves from the Atlantic onto the swathe of golden sand that is Porthminster beach, but there is no rain, none was forecast. The seaweed hanging outside the boathouse this morning remained dry and brittle. The fishing boats went out on the tide and came safely home, baskets overflowing with mackerel, whiting and cod. Lilian had waited on the jetty for the boats to dock, fish for supper tonight. A fleeting smile softens her face as she remembers dark-eyed Jacob Dunn doffing his cap and remarking on the weather as he chose her the best cod from the catch.
Lilian grips the umbrella’s crook handle so hard her frozen fingers hurt. She pulls on her woollen gloves and brushes stray blonde hairs from her pinched cheeks. Her fingers alert her to the absence of her hat forgotten in her hurry to leave the house. She feels under-dressed without it. What would Clara, her foster mother, think if she should see her in this state? Out in public with gloves, but no hat…alone…in the dark? Even a servant has standards Clara would remind her.
What will poor Clara think when she hears the sorry news?
The waxing crescent moon is cloaked by thickening clouds. There’s a fog in Lilian’s brain too. The sky is as dark as Lilian’s thoughts, as black as her mood.
Lilian wants to scream, but that will be unseemly, besides it will give her presence away. She needs to be alone. She needs calm. Lilian feels unwell. She is far from calm.
The wind has picked up, noisily driving swelling waves onto the beach. Lilian has a severe cough, she has suffered it for several weeks now. The syrup of sweet Oil of Almonds and Violets prescribed by Green, the fat chemist, has offered little relief. Oh, to be in bed, snug between lavender scented sheets, naive and unsullied, dreaming sweet dreams.
What’s to be done? This nightmare is no dream. The scandal not of her doing, she is helpless as to its undoing. She has no control. The consequence, she cannot countenance. Her pleading prayers unheard, or unanswered — the Devil rides on her back.
Lilian is exhausted.
There’s a noise in her head that won’t be silenced, a clammer of disordered thoughts, a dozen conversations driving her mad. Her brain clatters as it goes through it all again, revisiting each anxious day one after the other. She tries to reason her circumstances. She is emotional. Of course she is, who wouldn’t be when accused of something of which they were innocent. Emotions are what makes us human, they give us life but they also make us weak and vulnerable. If we stop feeling, stop caring, then we become dead to the world…and to those around us. Without emotion we are nothing. Perhaps, Lilian thinks, I care too much what others perceive of me. What to do, Mother?
It was just four days ago that Grace Hollow came to confront Lilian at her workplace. Mr Fooks, her employer, arrived home late Saturday afternoon just as the raised voice of the spinster accused Lilian of stealing a cloth bag from her shop containing the amount of £5 in coins. Lilian vehemently denied the accusation. Of course she was innocent of it. She had not touched the money. Fetch the police, she’d said. Let them search my boxes. I am desirous that you do so. Why pick on me? I wasn’t the only servant in your shop when I came, as always, to order milk and purchase a basket of vegetables and fruit. Yes, I noticed your sister give a girl a half-penny out of a velvet bag that sat on a shelf, but I didn’t touch it when Miss Hollow turned her back. No, I did not go back later, when the shop was empty, and help myself to the bag and its contents. Grace Hollow, unsatisfied with Lilian’s protestations, had stropped off to report the crime to the police with her suspicion as to who the thief might be.
Lilian, beside herself with worry, fretted for the rest of the weekend. She did not want her employers to think badly of her. Her position, one which just a short time ago was a place of comfort, contentment and security, was now blighted, threatened, uncertain.
Each sorry hour of the days after Miss Hollow’s visit dragged by, Lilian was distracted for most of it. She is distracted still. The events of each day invade Lilian’s head, she recalls the moments of each hour as they parade by, like slides in a glass lantern. A tortuous timeline of accusations, and questions, and denials. Sleep, when it came was fitful, periods of insomnia punctuated with fretful naps and curious dreams.
On Monday afternoon, Police Sergeant Drew called at the house. Lilian expected his arrival. The sergeant repeated Grace Hollow’s accusation, asked probing questions. Lilian persisted in her denial. When he left, Lilian’s mood became low. Mrs Fooks observed Lilian to be thinking deeply, and somewhat depressed. She enquired after her health. Lilian apprised her mistress of the situation. She had not a leg to stand on with connection to the trouble, she said. Things were very black against her. She had no hope of getting out of it. Would ma’am lend her the money? She would rather pay it than be charged.
It is now Tuesday. Lilian was surprised when Sergeant Drew called on her again this morning, she did not expect him back so soon. She hoped the news was good, the culprit found, that she was cleared of all charges.
When the sergeant left, Mrs Fooks noticed Lilian’s head seemed in a whirl, the girl preoccupied, in a sort of dream. Later, when Lilian laid the table for tea, Mrs Fooks observed her servant was very pale, and her demeanour considerably altered. Tea was half an hour late. Mrs Fooks rebuked Lilian on her tardiness. Lilian’s mind wasn’t on the job. Mr Fooks spoke nothing of the sorry affair to Lilian, but remarked to his wife they had no reason to believe the charges against her and, as Lilian denied them, he was of the opinion a mistake had been made. Mrs Fooks agreed but suggested the accusation preyed very much upon their servant’s mind. Perhaps it best if he locked his drugs away tonight.
At five o’clock, Eldred Bunn the handyman, comes in from the garden to take some refreshment before heading home. He’s heard the rumours, senses Lilian is ill at ease, notices she is clutching a photograph of her long dead mother. Eldred sips from his mug, nibbles his saffron bun, and watches as, for several minutes, Lilian silently paces the length of the kitchen, then sits beside the washroom furnace to write a postcard.
November, 27th 1906
Dear Clara,
Whatever you hear about me, don’t believe me guilty.
I know you won’t. It’s killing me. l am sure my brain will turn.
1 shall soon see mother.
Much love, Lilian
Lilian affixes a halfpenny stamp to the postcard, and asks Eldred to post it. At half-past five, she fetches her umbrella from the stand, picks up her gloves, tucks a handkerchief into her sleeve, and without a word, walks out into the evening chill.
Mr. Fooks arrives at St Ives Police Station a little after seven. He reports his servant missing. He answers the police sergeant’s questions thoughtfully and with precision: No, I did not see her leave. My man, Bunn, alerted me to the fact. Last seen after tea, around five-fifteen to five-thirty. No, it is not her evening out. No, no one in the house has seen her since. The postman, though, has found this note in the Royal Mail letter-box, folded, no envelope, nor stamp, and fetched it to me.
Dear Mrs Fooks,
I have left a line, just to wish you and all friends good-bye, because of what you have been to me. I cannot stand it; my mind seems almost gone. But shall, I hope, be before my Maker soon. Let my friends in Falmouth have my things. They are not much. I will take my mother’s face with me in my bosom, and die with her, innocent of all. It is cruel, people’s tongues. I cannot bear this trial, but I am going before my Maker innocent.
Surely a letter written by a woman in great stress of mind. Does the sergeant not think a search-party in order?
It is half-past eleven, Lilian is as cold as the Celtic Sea stretching before her. She inhales a long, deep, breath. The saltiness of the icy sea air burns her chest. She holds the breath, tries not to cough. She wonders what it is like to not breathe — to not feel her chest rise and fall. She closes her eyes. She senses nothing save her heart beating fast beneath her bodice. Lilian is giddy, her lithe limbs numb.
Time stands still. Lilian is somewhere else, somewhere safe, somewhere peaceful, far away from poisonous, wagging tongues and accusing eyes.
It is an hour later, just after midnight, the darkest hour of the night. The search-party arrives at Porthminster beach. The men fan out. P.C. Burrows’ light falls on an umbrella on the sand. Ten yards further down the shore he sees what he thinks to be a women’s footprints. He follows them as far as the low water mark after which, they become invisible. The men call off the search. There will be nothing more to see until the tide comes back in.
