A realization came to her that something within her had changed. Not being able to bear her predicament had nothing to do with Harold and his seedy affair. Her love for him was dead. He could go with whomever he wished to, she didn’t care. But what she did care about, and couldn’t bear, was not being with her father in his dying hours, and the thought of spending her life in here. That can’t happen, can it?

But even as the thought settled in her, she knew it could. It was always being said that those brought in here never came out. No! No, God, please – please help me.

With her head pounding and her eyes hurting with a pain she’d never experienced before, Mags decided that she would help her own cause. She would do whatever she could to get out. If she behaved, and showed no signs of being in a poor mental state – maybe even engaged the nurses in conversation and tried to be cheerful – but how she was going to do that, she didn’t know. She’d tried wailing and fighting, and protesting that she wasn’t ill, and that had only worsened her situation.

As her eyes hurt less and she could look around her, she noted in more detail the small, dingy room she was in. Not that there was anything to note about it, but she counted the bricks and where the paint had dripped before it had dried; then the bars at the little window. Through this she could see that it was a lovely day. The sky was patched with blue amidst thick white, fluffy clouds. A spring day. Probably with a slight chill in the air, but a lovely day for a walk. She let her mind drift to her favourite walk around the perimeter of the woods that bordered the back edge of their beautiful garden.

Such thoughts didn’t help, as her despair deepened. Somehow she must keep herself sane. She’d ask what day it was, and by knowing this, she could keep track of time, by adding on every waking day. Then she could use this knowledge to help them see that she had her wits about her.

All of this working through a plan made her tired. Mags drifted off to sleep, praying that soon everything would be sorted out.

‘Margaret, Margaret.’ The voice calling her sounded soft and caring. Mags felt lulled into thinking everything had been a horrible dream. On opening her eyes, she knew it wasn’t. Her temper flared, but just in time she remembered her new-found resolve. So she lay still and let the woman who’d been in earlier do whatever she had to.

A stout woman, with prominent hairs on her chin, she looked to Mags to be in her forties. Her teeth were bad and her hands grubby, but her grey uniform frock and the apron that covered it were pristinely clean and didn’t have a crease in them. Mags guessed she was an orderly, as her uniform was different from that of the nurses, who wore caps on their heads, with a cloth veil hanging down to their necks.