17/11/2012

ON ASYLUMS AND FAMILY SECRETS...


This is a personal story in memory of Mary, my great-grandmother, whose fate I only came to discover after writing about a Victorian asylum in my novel, Elijah's Mermaid.


Burghill Asylum ~ Herefordshire


When I was a child, whenever I happened to misbehave and my mother’s patience was pushed to its limits, sometimes she would shout at me, ‘You will send me to Burghill!’

Whatever could this Burghill be to hold such a sense of threat? Well, apparently, it was a village where the local county asylum was built, and within that asylum’s walls my maternal great-grandmother died.

Only recently did my mother confess the awful truth of our family’s past. Before that my knowledge of Burghill was a memory from my teenage years, when accompanying my stepfather on a visit one of his relatives who suffered from schizophrenia.

At that time the old Victorian asylums were being prepared for closure, their inmates to be rehomed or cared for ‘in the community’. Since 1994, when Burghill was shut down, the land has been redeveloped for homes – a far cry from 1871 when a sprawling gothic mass was built to accommodate more than 500 souls.

The institution covered ten acres, much larger than the one in my novel. There were 100 acres of gardens, farm buildings and cottages, a chapel, a brewery, a laundry, and even a gasworks in the grounds for providing all the lighting needs. With regular dances and concerts to give patients a sense of normality, the community was managed well, with no records of unusual deaths that resulted in other hospitals, where suicide or homicide were sadly an all too common event.

However, I have no idea if, in the asylum’s early days, any cruel Victorian ‘cures’ were employed, such as those described in my novel – when patients were ‘treated’ in baths of water alternately freezing cold or hot, or spun around on twirling chairs, or placed in drug-induced comas, or – horribly drastic though it sounds – forced to have clitorectomies, or the total removal of their wombs: the source of female ‘hysteria’. And what of patients not mad at all, with tuberculosis, or Down’s syndrome, or those born deaf, or dumb, or blind – there being no specialist schools back then?

Regardless of whether such barbaric acts were employed at the Burghill asylum, I cannot ignore the nagging fact that many of its inmates must have suffered confusion and misery. Looking back to the more recent time of my visit, I wonder if something deep inside had sensed my great grandmother’s presence when I clutched onto my stepfather’s hand and walked the asylum’s corridors, when I heard sighs and moans from behind closed doors and saw women who rocked back and forth on their chairs – and one who smiled and reached out her arms, thinking I was a family member.

Sadly I was not. My great-grandmother had long been dead. Now, I know that when she lived her arms were constrained by straitjackets. Her condition had been violent. But then she would have been in pain. When she died, when an autopsy was performed, a tumour was found inside her brain. Today there might be a medical cure, at the very least appropriate drugs to ease the torment that she felt.

But there her tragedy does not end. When the asylum authorities wrote to inform the family about my great-grandmother’s death, somehow that letter was lost. By the time her husband heard the news and arrived to fetch his wife back home, she was already buried, her body laid in an unmarked grave; not even given a funeral.

What anguish must the man have felt? Perhaps that, along with the shame of a family tainted by madness, is why his wife’s existence was thereafter hidden away – at least until more recently when the local county council was disposing of the asylum’s records and organised a ceremony for all who lay in the unmarked grave.

My mother was sad not to go along, only afterwards hearing about the event from a cousin who had been notified, attending the funeral service where 2,000 patients were named. Afterwards, 2,000 daffodil bulbs were placed in the soil above the mass grave, a beautiful, tribute to bloom each spring – to shine in the light, for all to see.


This article was originally published in The Bookseller/We Love This Book feature.

08/11/2012

PUBLICATION OF ELIJAH'S MERMAID...



Today is the publication date of Elijah's Mermaid, the VV's second Victorian novel - a story of love and betrayal where nothing is quite what it seems, where the realms of high art and literature mingle with the murky demi-monde.

The VV is offering a personalised, signed hardback copy to the reader who can tell her which of the lovely paintings that made up yesterday's VV post, all of which played some part in inspiring various scenes in the novel, has been printed in the book itself.

Please leave answers in the comments box below. The VV will take all correct answers and select a winner at random over this coming weekend. This competition is open to all.

Meanwhile, for more information on Elijah's Mermaid, please see www.essiefox.com

07/11/2012

VICTORIAN NYMPHS AND MERMAIDS...



Charles Kingsley has a lot to answer for. When the VV was seven years old, she joined the town library and The Water Babies was the very first book that she chanced to draw down from the shelves. From  that point on she was obsessed with stories set 'under the water' - so much so that she has now written a novel called Elijah's Mermaid, which is based on a Victorian artist who is obsessed to the point of madness with painting his muse as a mermaid or nymph.

The following lovely images have greatly inspired the story -


A Mermaid by Warehouse


Hylas and the Nymphs by Waterhouse


The Wave by Bouguereau


Nymphs and Satyr by Bouguereau

 Galatea by Louis Dorigny


Water Baby by Herbert James Draper


The Fisherman and the Siren by Leighton


Lamia by Waterhouse





For more gorgeous, watery artwork, see the VV's Mermaids and Nymphs page on Pinterest.