Radvansky Syndrome Study: Appendix 33c
Title: Transcript of interview with Lucy Emberton – Author unknown.
“Lucy Emberton” likely Emma Luciton: declared missing June, 17th, 1823.
It was the 277th time I’d brought him a meal. I started up the stairs and remembered the “interview”. The friend, who had helped me flee London, had sent me to an associate of theirs in Lighbough. Once the worst of my bruises had faded, they’d set up an interview for work. Told me to expect something unusual.
I arrived at the Hannings’ expansive country house. They were waiting in the comfortable drawing room. A wood fire and two dim oil lamps the only light in the room. Mrs Hanning sat lost in gloom and the big three-seater. Mr Hanning easily filled his armchair. I sat down in the vacant one opposite.
“You,” Mr Hanning said, “will never open that door. You will deliver meals three times a day.” His jowls jiggled when he spoke.
“Do not,” he continued, “look through the slot or talk to the occupant. Any transgression will result in immediate dismissal and criminal charges. Do not discuss this work with anyone.
“The Reverend tells me you are to be trusted. You will be provided board and paid handsomely for three hours work a day. Providing,” Mr Hanning had a taste for dramatic pauses, “you follow directions and are discrete. Questions?”
Mrs Hanning tried not to look at me, but I caught her peeking from beneath a heavy brow.
“Umm . . . no,” I said. “Sir.”
“Exactly,” he said.
And that was it. It would not have been good for me to encourage questions, anyway. I’d never worked, but the next day I was shown a flight of stairs. I carried a meal to the top, placed it in the slot in a door and walked away. This was better paid, cleaner, safer and more respectable than any I could have hoped for. It was easy work, too; until the 42nd time.
The meal was lunch; fresh cut bread, cold beef from last night’s dinner, fresh vegetables from the gardener, a hardboiled egg, some cheese and a carefully matched glass of red wine.
Long, tall, narrow stairs, bent in the middle like an old lady’s elbow. They ran straight from the ground, three floors, to the attic room. There were no windows in the stairway. I’d become used to the creaks and groans by then. But not how the candlelight seemed to cause the walls to breathe in and out. I’d always think of the steadier light from the house’s oil lamps, but I’d never have managed one alongside the tray.
The top of the stairs opened into a small landing. A single door led to what I assumed must be a spacious attic room. I stopped there. Swapped to carry the tray one-handed, like always. Opened the slot and slid the tray forwards, like I always did. Sunlight poured out through the opening. I took the candle and walked away, just like always.
But that time, for no reason I could give; I blew out the candle and paused on the stairs. Instead of a plain room to fit the punishment of its prisoner, through that small opening, I saw a well-stocked bookcase, a comfortable armchair and embroidered hangings.
I waited maybe a minute before the hand came. I’d expected the hand of a monster, but it was plainly a man’s hand, gentle and unhurried. It lifted the tray out of sight. The panel slid closed.
That was the first time I thought about opening the door. Thought about finding the key that now sat in my pocket. I continued to climb the stairs for the 277th time.
After I had seen the hand, I waited for the Hannings to discover I had broken the rules. I didn’t see them much, but they allowed me to use certain rooms quite freely; I suspected in an attempt to keep me from gossiping around Lighbough. My second find in their library had been a recent anonymous publication, Frankenstein. After reading that book, I started to imagine the attic room’s occupant to be a misunderstood monster.
Following the violent familiarity acquired at my previous residence, I had no desire to associate further with monsters or men; however, by the 123rd meal, I fear I had become quite lonely.
The 123rd meal was eggs for breakfast. I climbed the stairs, candle on the tray, tray in hand. After setting it down, I picked up the candle but stayed by the door.
“Hello,” I said. I watched the candle and waited. The wax melted. My heart beat loud.
“Hello.” It was a clear, confident gentleman’s voice. Not a guttural voice from a monster or the stuttering words of someone who rarely spoke as I had expected. “What’s your name?”
I considered telling this stranger my name; instead, I said, “Lucy,” the new name I’d picked not long before arriving in Lighbough. I went back down the stairs, and composed myself before opening the lower door. The steward of the house – a man only loud and unreserved in his ample facial hair – waited outside the lower door. I walked out of that peculiar staircase, as I always did. He pocketed his watch and locked the door, as he always did.
Each time after that, we spoke through the attic door when I brought a meal. John – for that’s the name he gave on my 227th visit – had never been outside the room in all his memories. His mother and father used to bring all his meals and they ate together; they had said they would not be able to come again for a while, and that he must not speak to the person who brings his meals.
We snatched our conversations. I was always aware of the steward at the bottom of the stairs, ever dutiful, timing my delivery of the meals.
Yet despite our strange relationship, I found John fascinating and his company uplifting. We talked and shared stories through that slot made for a meal tray. I was physically well healed from my experience of marriage in London, but much of the damage remained. I did not fear John, safe behind his door, but I fear it was that security which led me to do something foolish the 227th time.
In between these quick, intense exchanges, I daydreamed and began to conceive the notion of a rescue. I was lucky to have a friend help me to escape London, I convinced myself it was my duty to pass that good fortune forward.
On my 248th visit, I asked John if he would like to leave.
“Yes,” he said, “but Mother and Father have told me it’s not safe.”
I left the stairs and stood on the landing, the 277th meal in my hand. I’d watched Mr Hanning leave for the town several weeks earlier, found the small compartment in his writing desk in one of the rooms I wasn’t supposed to be in. I had that key in my hand, now. It turned.
I opened the door. John was standing. Tall, twenty something dressed in clean, well-presented formal clothes. He seemed troubled.
“Lucy, I’ve thought about this. I’ve never had the desire to leave, except in passing,” he said. “This room has been everything. Except for my parents and what I’ve read in my books. But for some reason I don’t fully understand, I want to go with you. You’re sure this will be safe?”
“Yes. I promise,” I said. “Here.” I reached across the threshold into his room. He took my hand. I led him gently forward. The moment his body passed through the door, I saw that I had made a mistake.
His face changed like a heat haze crossing in front of an abstract painting. Moments ago he had presented a composed, oddly calm face. Then his eyes had clouded. A moment later and he seemed to see me again.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“It’s me,” I said. “Lucy. John, what’s the matter?”
“John,” he said, sounding it out. “Is that me?”
Then I heard the lower door opening. Hurried footsteps followed. Mrs Hanning struck me before I even knew someone was on the stairs. She was speaking, shouting but I can’t remember the words, just the shaking.
Then John was there and Mr Hanning. And then I was seated in that spacious attic room; I didn’t know when I’d started crying.
The Hannings were talking. John seemed to be accepting their words with blank eyes. He smiled an unconvincing smile when he caught me watching. Mr Hanning saw this and crossed the room.
“Lucy,” he said, “Did you think I wouldn’t notice the key was gone? I see that this was our mistake now. I’m sorry. We won’t speak anymore about this, if you don’t, but I think you should go.”
“What happened?” I said.
Mr Hanning breathed through his nose. “Our son is cursed,” he said.
“He’s not bloody cursed. He’s sick,” Mrs Hanning said, “and thanks to her we’ve lost everything since he was six.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Have you ever gone to a room only to forget what you went there for?” Mr Hanning asked.
“Yes.”
“John,’ he said, “his affliction is like that, but increased a hundred fold. When he leaves a room he forgets everything that happened in that room.”
I felt a pit open. I’d erased everything I’d sought to rescue. I swallowed twice before I could speak again.
“We must be able to do something?”
“Nothing, Lucy. Except, start again from the beginning.”
I breathed deep and said, “I’m sorry. I’ve lied to you. My real name is Emma.”