The Walls Have Memories

Initially, I was wary about researching the history of the flats I moved into, knowing it had once been an old hospital. The outside of the building has a dreary no-longer loved exterior, so I didn’t need much encouragement to imagine that it had a long, interesting backstory. Also, after spending a lot of my youth watching horror movies, true crime and haunting stories, I didn’t want to imagine any shadows in the corners of the room or things that go bump, bump, bump in the night as more than just the heating system.

In reality, it is a charming block with ample parking, swathed in trees, coarse greens and farmland. But when you find little nooks and crannies, hidden utility meters and phone sockets that are in bizarre places like on the (exceedingly distant) ceilings, it makes you wonder about the past uses for them. The buildings are a maze of doors, mini courtyards, hallways and staircases often punctuated by a lost delivery driver scratching their head as they try to decipher the nonsensical numbering system.

I had moved in three months ago, finally getting my own place felt like a dream. I was renting so it wasn’t technically mine, but it was just right for me. I was still young in my 20s but every day I had lived under my parents’ roof made me feel like I was moving backwards not forwards. The flat was perfect. It boasted a balcony, beautiful high ceilings, pleasant country views and it was peaceful being out of earshot of any pubs or bustling shops. Don’t get me wrong, it had its quirks like all old buildings, but it suited me to a tee.

As long as I can remember, I’ve had a fascination of history. I work in a building that was black and white and some parts of it dated back to the 1500s. There was always a kind of awe when you were telling its backstory to inquisitive customers, I felt a certain pride that it had been absorbing the lives, memories and presence of its patrons for hundreds of years and would hopefully continue to do so. I guess, in some ways, it would be inevitable that my curiosity would make me holster my apprehension and investigate the past of my new abode and any mysteries that may lurk.

Well, that was it, I was unpacked with the help of my long-suffering sister. The last box. It was official, this was home. Plus, my sister refused to help me move again unless I get rid of some junk, so that settled it. I had everything I needed within such a short space of time I was at home. The landlord said about looking into the balcony doors as there was something wrong with them but I didn’t mind, they seemed fine enough. Over the next few months though with winter scraping at the glass, I saw what he meant. There was a chill and damp that crept through the cracks in the doorframe no matter if the sun was peeking through, it always whistled in. I couldn’t figure it out, I wasn’t a builder or anything don’t get me wrong, but I just couldn’t see how it came in. I played detective and researched different causes and recommendations for damp and draughts. Consequently, I bought some special damp proofing sealant tape, using it to pad the gaps in the woodwork, at first it seemed to be working but to no avail even with my new draught excluders firmly in situ. I suppose I could live with it.

As time passed, I met new neighbours here and there and knew a few by name, but there were a lot of flats in the buildings that lay empty. It was a shame but there was always a stream of people moving in or out lugging this cupboard or that. I couldn’t figure out why there were always a flat or two up for rent or sale, it seemed like a pleasant nook despite the balcony draughts and also happened to be the cheapest around. There was a strange reaction though whenever I would tell people where I lived, almost a grimace. Some raised their eyebrows, some would just say oh and others would say ‘oh aren’t they usually a bit, you know, cold?’ With my new-found loyalty for the place, I’d defend it and wondered why it had such a bad reputation, the people who lived here were friendly and polite, the building quirky but solid.     

My quest for finding the history of my new abode didn’t come to be until I saw an article about old animal remains that had been found in the area. They dated back to the war era when circuses were halted and left behind the bones of creatures that weren’t native to my quaint little town. Some were buried under the car park of a local inn that stood on its resting place, whereas some were found up on the hills near my home. It got me thinking about the history of the area and what had been here before the landscape I saw today. The article led me to the local history society from where I investigated, trying to uncover the past. I had no luck when looking for the old hospital, yet I knew it had been one as it was only recognised as such by locals. I dug further, studying archives, old hand-drawn maps and general town history until it clicked. The flats dated back almost a hundred years prior to its use as a hospital which wasn’t its intended purpose.

Upon its construction in 1836 it was a workhouse, hence explaining its cruciform shape intending to separate men, women, the frail or aged and children. This seemed bleaker to me than thinking of my home as a nice little community hospital, even though I was ignorant of the true nature of workhouses at the time. It had been built after the Poor Law Amendment Act 1984 which meant that nearby parishes had to form a union and build a union workhouse to meet the needs of these constituencies. There were articles of deaths in and around the workhouse that seemed to be a regular occurrence for inmates and staff alike, with grim accounts of accidents, uprisings and punishments. Eventually, the story of a young lady named Jane captured my interest, barely older than myself she kept a diary of her gruelling life. As I searched deeper into the archives, her story began to unfold.

‘Worst part of my day, looking out this blasted window. Makes me think of all I miss, being stuck in here. Not that I had a choice, mind you, once my parents kicked the bucket. With them gone, they took the house and everything I had so I didn’t have anything left except two choices. Work the streets and roam looking for business or change the two things that made me miserable, being poor and an orphan into a ticket to the workhouse. I wasn’t stupid, I knew what they were like but with lots of the local farmers moving on to bigger towns to follow the money, there wasn’t any work to be had on my own. So, the Union workhouse it was, whatever they called it for all intents and purposes it’s harsh reprimands, segregated wings and yards made it what it was, a prison. At least it was a roof over my head, however cramped in my bunk for eight of us, I got food and money, pittance though it was.

The women’s ward were my new quarters, it was crowded and loud but nothing compared to what the other wings sounded like. You could hear the yells from the malingerers who were ill in the head but as the master says, a good beating will sort them out soon enough. The vagrants were the loudest, though, so thankfully my window faced the men’s quarters. From here, there was just a vague whisper of screams that came from punishment cells near the master’s study. It was 6AM which meant going down for breakfast and prayers. Well, a new kind of breakfast for me, a measly helping of bread and gruel. Everyone knew the men were given the spare bread on account of their manual work, but it’d be nice to have just a smidge more. Meals weren’t a highlight in this place, for lunch it’d be more gruel or soup and bread, or potatoes and bacon if we were lucky. But I knew not to utter a complaint, matron would be only too happy to remove the luxury of food for a day or two.

After less than an hour’s exercise in the yards we were shuffling back into the building for work. I looked up to soak up the sun’s morning warmth when a window in the men’s wing caught my eye, there was a young man pressed up against the glass. He smiled, something that had been strange to me since I came to this God-fearing place, and slowly lifted a hand before I was ushered inside. Picturing his face in every floor I scrubbed and every hemp robe I picked, I realised that I recognised him. Or at least a younger, less gaunt and more kempt version of him. He had worked with my father for a time many years ago, he was always rough round the edges but was a friendly fellow. My mother would tease that he had a soft spot for me but I’d always brushed it off, fearing she was wrong.

As time went on, we would look out for each other more and more. It had soon become a new ritual, every morning when we rose we would gaze across to each other, we knew each other’s window so well by now. It was the only chance we got to lay eyes on each other, but it felt like an escape from the despair that seeped through every wall in this place. Almost like a beacon, a glimmer of a life before this new hell and a reminder that they may have taken our clothes, our possessions, our freedom and sometimes our voice but they couldn’t take our memories. Whenever there was a turn up for the books and they were short a woman or two to collect vegetables from the food patch I would try and volunteer. This way if he was cutting wood, crushing up the bones for fertiliser or breaking stones, we could see each other for a brief moment. Discreetly of course, neither of us wanted lashings or worse, but was he a sight for sore eyes.  

For a few weeks I was shunted into the kitchen for my thrice daily work stints, it was easier work but it put distance between us. By spring though, there was an illness that spread from the filthy vagrants and didn’t stop at anyone. We went through three porters, and some men were drafted to repair the cottage down the dusty lane, which would be needed to isolate those with the smallpox. This didn’t bother me much, there was more work but I was accustomed to it by now, until one morning. I rose before the others in the dormitory to rush to the window without being watched, but he wasn’t waiting. He didn’t appear for days, at first I thought he may be in trouble and locked up alone for his penalty. But once it had been two days – the normal sentence- I knew something else was going on. My monotonous days now seemed as empty as the grimy window I hopelessly checked day after day.

One of my dormitory mates said she’d heard news via the children she helped in the classroom. A little bird told her half of the men’s ward were down with the pox and had been taken to the matron’s ward after recovering. There was only one thing for it. I needed to plan a way to see if he was there. On my next kitchen duty, I ‘slipped’ carrying the hot water and the burn that resulted got me into the ward, I had to see if he had survived. Spying across the beds as the wounded, ill or infirm lay there, some suffering the effects of the opium and some motionless, I looked for him. It wasn’t until matron had left the ward for the night that I eventually discovered him. This was the first time I’d seen him face to face in years, but I knew that mug instantly. “Jane,” he whispered as he tried to lift his head weakly. He remembered my name! Then it came back to me, “Yes, Robert isn’t it, you remember me?” He gripped my hand and we both smiled, we’ been waiting for the chance to share a true moment together. In his eyes I saw the kind of charming optimism this workhouse had always been devoid of. Then, I thought he was confused as he held out his other hand, but he pressed something into my palm. A noise from the hallway startled me and I hurried back to my bed to avoid the matron’s brutal wrath.

When I was under the thin scratchy sheet and the coast was clear, I looked into my hand. There lay a slither of wood scarcely bigger than a potato with rounded edges that had been chiselled by hand over time. In the centre were two lengths of rope hammered into the flat surface with rusty nails. The pieces were contorted and wound to make two letters. J and R. Jane and Robert. I liked the sound of that, it was like hope, a future life almost. I knew I hadn’t been foolish longing for someone who didn’t return my sentiments. We hadn’t escaped unnoticed though, another patient looking to move up the ladder had told matron of our meeting. We were branded under article 34 and I was hauled away for confinement for a day or maybe two. With the hunger I even missed my beloved gruel, but that didn’t stifle my adoration for Robert and I clung to the concealed treasure he had crafted for me.

Following our punishments, we relied on our daily sightings through the glass. It was once again the best part of my routine, meaning I could bear any task I was assigned, however menial. By the end of the month the opening of the new railway line into town brought new hope. There was more work available for men and women alike, to prepare the station and consequently more chance to catch Robert’s eye outside the prison. He was laying and repairing tracks while we hung banners and cleaned the station. Robert made the excuse of checking the joinery in the station doors while the porter was distracted. He found me inside and we started to scheme. He told me this would be our chance to be free from the workhouse, we needed to keep our wage, sell some of our food rations if we must so we can afford a train ticket and enough to start over somewhere. The railway preparations meant there was more money to be made, so we both took every extra shift we could to assist in our scheme for freedom.   

 Then, one day, Robert didn’t show at the window anymore. There was no reason, no explanation. No rumours were passed as to where he’d gone. He had vanished. Had he become ill again? Had he left without me? Had he been moved to another wing? I was unsure. My hope dwindled slowly but I did the only thing I could. I would check every morning to see when he would be back.’

I scrolled to the bottom of the article needing to know what happened to Robert and Jane. But that was it. There was nothing else. On the next page however, there was a map of the building and a comment below. It read, “unbeknownst to Jane, Robert had been repairing the railroad in the evening light when the train had been hurtling down the same line. He was killed quickly and never returned to the workhouse; his body was buried on the grounds as the local cemetery was full after the smallpox epidemic. Only the porter and master were told, the workhouse didn’t want bad publicity for the new railroad. Jane was to spend everyday at the window waiting for him to return for 15 years. Eventually, her madness became too intense and she was moved to the mentally infirm ward until the end of her days.” I was dumbstruck, how can this happen. But the eeriest thing was the map. I investigated further, tracing their movements from her descriptions and other articles to get the layout of the building.

Jane may not have had her answer about Robert, but unfortunately my mystery may have been solved. The patio doors were in the exact spot that the women ward’s window would have been. The unexplained draught now wasn’t so, it wasn’t woodworm or faulty rendering. It was simply a not so young woman called Jane still waiting to this day for her happy ending. Still gazing out onto the yard longing for freedom and a life with her beloved Robert.