Foreword
Two patients sit on the veranda of a cottage hospital run by a local authority for females with mental problems, some of them long-term and incurable. Peggy, stoutly built, middle-aged, and with a hard set to her jaw, rises and stares down through the high railings at a bus shelter below.
‘A man in that shelter resembles someone I once knew,’ she tells her companion.
‘Really?’ says the companion, elderly and frail but known as the duchess because of her imperious manner. ‘It beats me how you can remember anything.
'I remember lots of things. That’s why I’m writing a book.’
‘A book? You never told me. What’s it about?’
‘About my life before they put me inside,’ says Peggy. She adds wistfully, ‘I had one, you know.’
‘I can hardly imagine it,’ says the older woman, whether referring to Peggy’s earlier life or the book not being clear. ‘Anyway,’ she says snappishly, ‘if you do manage to write a book who will read it? They’re all simpletons here, including the staff.’
‘I was hoping you might read it,’ says Peggy, ‘you being a highly educated woman with a superior knowledge of the frailties of the human heart.’
Her irony is lost on the duchess who says with a condescending smile, ‘I might, if I’ve nothing else to read. But wouldn’t it be better to get it published? Otherwise the whole thing could be a waste of time.’
‘What does it matter?’ asks Peggy. ‘I’ve plenty of time to waste.'
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