It seemed unthinkable at first, but the daily pattern of asylum life quickly became routine. Every morning Charlotte and the other women rose, washed and dressed themselves, then filed into the dining room for breakfast. Most days, they were given the same revolting porridge Charlotte knew from her first days at Kew; on occasion there were eggs from the asylum’s hens or a bubble and squeak made with the previous day’s leftovers.
After breakfast, the patients were sent to their separate occupations. The least able remained in the ward, making the beds and scrubbing the floors, while the others were divided among the kitchens, the laundry and the sewing rooms.
Charlotte was assigned to a sewing room, as she had been led to expect, and her days were consumed in turning up hems and attempting clumsy embroidery on cloths and runners that the asylum would later sell.
The doctors would usually make their rounds in the mornings. Sometimes they visited the wards, but they might also appear in the work rooms, or speak to the women when they were exercising in the yards. Charlotte respected Dr McKay the most. His dual roles meant that he was rarely present, but when he was he seemed genuinely interested in his patients and their progress. When he asked Charlotte questions, he listened to the answers, which was not always the case with his colleagues. She didn’t delude herself that the superintendent understood her loneliness—for a start, he was married with a brood of children, according to Kate Riley.
More importantly, he had his occupation. You could never feel cast adrift as she did, Charlotte thought, when you had a career to anchor you. She had seen her father after the death of her mother: how he had buried his grief in invoices and orders, and nearly doubled the stationery shop’s profits before the end of the first year…
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