VII. A Day in September, 1848. London, England.
If she were to write a letter to Toby, she would have no idea where to begin.
Naturally, she would begin Dear Toby, but from there she would just stare at the paper and hope the words write themselves. It would be a hassle to send the letter anyway, and she does not even know where he is. They might have sent him to a boys' school or a prison or maybe just another asylum where they can keep an eye on him. She hopes there aren't bars. She hopes that the people know that there are just some things that he will never forget.
Tomorrow, she'll speak to someone else who is after Meeker's old position. She hasn't slept in weeks. The new inhabitant of Toby's old cell screams bloody murder every night. Rook's becoming more and more preoccupied with his wife's baby, the little bugger. She's responsible for over half the asylum now, and it's almost enough to just…
She remembers it's September. It's almost enough to make her smile again.
Every September, a man comes to keep the gate outside the asylum in a suitable condition. And she lingers at her window like a little girl because he is so full of something that she can't quite name. He whistles while he works, and he says hello to her every year. In her spare moments, she just watches him mend the fence that separates the people from the lunatics. She envies his freedom. She envies his overalls and his freckles.
And she can't help but wonder if he has a wife to go home to.
Jack said she fancied Meeker, which was beyond absurd, but she guesses she knows the feeling. No one knows, of course, and that's how it's going to stay. She only lets herself think about him in September, and once October comes, she forces it to the back of her mind. But the tune he whistles stays for years because it's a folk song she used to know by heart. Her mother used to sing it. Knitty used to hum it under her breath. Toby used to whistle it.
The paperwork can wait because he is looking at her. Of course, he always peeks into her window and waves, but it doesn't mean anything. He's simply being cordial, and if anything he only feels sorry for her. And maybe he regrets that fact that he's fixing the fence that keeps her in and everyone else out.
The fence is necessary, for safety. He is necessary. He is…
…beckoning her to join him. It would be beyond foolish of her to leave the building, especially since singing girl nearly strangled herself and people are hurling themselves against the walls. She counts to one hundred twenty three and feeds them and bathes them and keeps sane. But he has strong hands and she can see them from her window and she could start counting and forget about him and get back to the paperwork and ignore the rhythmic and giddy feeling at the pit of her stomach…
She goes. She can't help herself.
"Hello," he says fondly, almost an extension of his whistle.
"H-How can I help you?"
"Is everything here about business? I just wanted to say hello. I can never see your face from that window."
"I have work to do, and so do you," she snaps.
"Easy there, tiger. And I was scared that you were just as crazy as the rest of them."
"I'm not. And I'm not a-a tiger."
"Who says you are? Name's Ben, by the way. It's warm day for September, in't it?"
"I'm not here to discuss the weather. Is there anything important you want to say to me?"
She backs up slightly, and she is very thankful that there is a fence between them. There's a system of measurement in her head; he must be at least a meter away at all times. Him and his sandy hair and brown eyes and his smile. Otherwise, it's much too close (because she remembers Toby clutching her legs and she didn't mind it. and that scares her).
"As a matter of fact, I do. I wanted to tell you that you look much prettier with your hair down."
"I'm sorry, was I not c-clear? Is that important?"
"Oh, very. I can see your every move from here. It's a great view, climbing this fence. Do you want to try it?"
"Are you mad?"
"Wouldn't you know? Darling, you deal in madness."
"Darling? I shan't… won't tolerate this!"
"Won't you?"
Ben reaches for her hand through a hole in the fence, and he pulls her right up the fence, right up against him. The bits of wire prick into her skin. Yes, she feels the wires and not the outline of his hips against hers. And he's breathing right in her ear and it's shallow and it makes her shiver and it's like Toby sobbing. He kneads their hands together.
(Who are you?)
She is someone. She wants everyone to stop calling her ma'am. She wants to smile at someone without feeling like she's standing naked in a crowd. She wants to be able to ask a stranger about the weather. She wants a kiss.
"I live," he whispers, "in the heart of London, run a little repair shop down near Fleet Street. Ask for Ben. You'll find me, and I'll be waiting."
He releases her slowly, and his smile is so genuine that she'll listen. She can scamper away and finish her paperwork and secretly plan her escape. With the quid she has, she can get out as soon as next month. She'll collect her last dues at the end of October and leave first thing in the morning on Halloween. It will work.
If she could write Toby a letter, she would start Dear Toby, and she would tell him everything. There's Rook's wife and her baby and the promise of Ben and a new beginning. They are born to be reborn, her and Toby. He's entitled to a bunk bed in a boys' school and flowers he can water and someone he can depend on. She would write the letter and answer all of his questions, the ones he asked, the ones he didn't. And everything she didn't say would come to fruition right there on paper, her envy of his bravery, her hopes for him, her honest wish that he will be happy. And if she sent it he would read it because he would be able to.
(The paper says a boy was raped and murdered in a prison last night. It couldn't be…)
And she would sign it with her name.