The Down and Out King - 9

EMILY

One day as I was walking though streets

not knowing where to go,

My eyes fell on a little boy,

Close to the workhouse door;

He was crying, so I went to him,

And scarcely could speak.

And I thought that every moment,

His little heart would break.

I was anxious to speak to our medical officer, Doctor Campbell, when he called today, as I was sure there was something that we could do for those poor unfortunates virtually locked away.

We chatted about pleasantries for a few minutes, and then I walked with him to the infirmary, and there we met up with the nurse, Mrs. Ponkin. As I was leaving I said, “Doctor, when you finish your
rounds will you join me for a cup of tea in the Governors' room. There is something that I wish to discuss with you.”

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Stanley,” he said. “I shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes here. I will see you as soon as I am done.”

When he arrived, somewhat later than he had anticipated, I had the tea all ready to pour, and offered one of cook’s homemade cakes.

“Dr. Campbell,” I started, somewhat hesitantly as I didn’t want it to seem as if I were criticising him, “I was looking in at the idiots' and imbeciles' ward the other day, and I realised that I don’t
know what those words imply - and what is the difference between the two.”

“Very straightforward, Mrs. Stanley. An idiot is a person with a very severe mental retardation so as not to be capable of any ordinary reasoning. They are little better than animals. An imbecile, on the
other hand, is someone who has a mental age of up to about seven, and can communicate to some degree, and can undertake certain tasks under supervision. Usually they are both inherited predispositions, but occasionally, someone becomes an imbecile as a result of some physical process - a blow to the head, a severe fever, something of that order.”

“Thank you doctor, for clearing that up for me. I was rather shocked to see them all together, doing nothing, in that ward the other day. You say the imbeciles are capable of work. Perhaps we should provide some sort of simple activity for them. Would they be capable, for instance, of peeling potatoes?”

“They should not be in charge of anything that could cause harm - and in that I would certainly classify a knife such as you would need for peeling potatoes, and even a needle for sewing. And they would have to be continually supervised. The amount of work you would get out of them would not be of a sufficient amount or quality to justify using an able-bodied person to attend to them. I know it is sad, but such is life. If they had had different sorts of mental illnesses, they would have been transferred to the asylum and had some sort of supervised treatment.”

“But would you not think that some sort of stimulation would be better for them than just sitting and doing nothing for hours with only meals and bed as alternatives.”

“What do you suggest?”

“When the weather becomes better, perhaps they could sit in the yard, and those that are capable of it, perhaps could have a task of shelling peas. No implements are required for that.”

“I can see no harm in that sort of undertaking, but you must make sure they are kept from the other inmates. They can be dangerous - and they often have no idea of their own physical strength. But, as I say, from my point of view, the supervision would be taking an able bodied person from a much more useful job. You asked my opinion, so now you have it. By the way, I give lectures on mental issues occasionally and one Sunday afternoon soon I am giving one that might well be of interest to you and your husband.”

“Oh yes?”

“I presume you are familiar with Don Quixote?”

“Cervantes' character who jousts with windmills? Oh, yes. That is one of my favourite books.”

“Well, there is a whole train of thought which shows that Don Quixote was suffering from depression and mania, as shown by his various illusions. And Cervantes is pointing out ways of treating himin the book. That is the theory anyway, and a very interesting one, I think. And the poor man was sane when he died, so perhaps he was cured.”

“I should very much like to hear you speak on that. What was the date and time and place?”

“It is Sunday the 24th of April, at 3 p.m. at the Town Hall.”

“We shall certainly try to be there, and of course, I will see you again next Friday, when you come to do your rounds.”

“Thank you for your hospitality. Until next week, then,” he said with a deep bow. I showed him to the door.

After he left, I thought long and hard about how we could safely and without incurring extra labour time make our idiots' and imbeciles’ lives a bit more interesting. I decided that to start with, I would
make a point of going to see them at their feeding time, which I ascertained was just before the rest of us normally eat, at 4.30 p.m. And I shall take a small treat with me for them. I wonder how often
anyone does anything nice for them. But what can I take? They presumably, at least some of them will need to be fed. Perhaps some raisins - that’s it. I will go and get a cupful now, and then I
will have it to hand when I go up to see them later.

I certainly liked the idea of going out to hear the Doctor’s lecture - and how interesting it sounds. We need to make an effort to meet some more of the local people too. It is somewhat difficult to
invite them here, although I don’t know why not. Perhaps I will send “At Home” cards out for the Sunday after the lecture - and see how many come to call on us. I will get the Miss Nurse and Mrs.
Ponkin to help me think of whom we might invite. I will run the idea past John tonight and see if he is in favour.

It seems like we have been here a long time, and although the changes we have made have been small ones, I do think that there is a change in the atmosphere of the place. I even occasionally see someone smile. I do wish we could do more.

I often think about that Mr. William King, the aristocratic man that we were introduced to when we were at the Stanwell Workhouse. He seemed to be out of place, and yet so content somehow with where he was. I wonder if it would be too much of an impertinence to send him a note. I can use the excuse that knowing he is in charge of the food section of that place, I wished to ask his advice about our new porridge. It does seem a far fetched thing to do, but why not? He might reply, and
if he does not, nothing lost. And at the same time, perhaps I should drop a note to Mr. and Mrs. Saunders thanking them for showing us around and having us for a meal. I should have done that earlier, but with all this new excitement about this job, I completely forgot my manners. And perhaps it would be sensible to mention that I am also writing to Mr. King to ask his advice on something - as she will no doubt be aware that he has some post, and wonder about it - and even ascertain that it is my hand that is writing it - if she compares it to her own note. Again, nothing ventured, nothing gained. And if nothing else, I will have done something to stop my insatiable curiosity about that man.