The Mysterious Death of Charles Bravo by Tim Vicary. Part 2.
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Chapter 3 | Dr James Gully’s story
My name is Dr James Gully. I am 68 years old. I live at Orwell Lodge, in Balham. In January 1871 I was living in Malvern, near Wales. That’s where I first met Florence – Florence Ricardo, as she was called then …
I remember the day when I first met Florence. It was a cold January morning. There was snow on the hills, but the sun was shining. Florence’s mother brought her to my hospital in Malvern. Florence was not ill, but she was very unhappy. She had run away from her husband, Alexander Ricardo. Her father had told her to go back to him.
But I won’t go!’ she said. ‘I’m never going back to him, never!’
I looked at her carefully. She was crying, and there was a dark bruise on her face. She was a young woman, twenty-five years old, and she had been married for six years.
Does your husband hit you, my dear?’ I asked.
Yes, he does. He often hits me. I hate him!’
But you’re his wife, Florence,’ her mother said. ‘So you have to live with him. That’s what wives do.’
No!’ Florence screamed at her mother. ‘You don’t understand. When he’s drunk, he’s dangerous, he hurts me! I’ll kill myself if you make me go back!’
She got up and hit her hand against the window.
This young woman is ill,’ I told her mother. ‘She needs a quiet, safe place where she can rest and be calm. We have a small house in the hospital gardens. She can stay there until she is better.’
So Florence stayed, and I visited her every day. We walked in the hospital gardens, and she told me about her husband, Alexander.
I was just a young girl when I married him,’ she said. ‘I didn’t understand anything. It doesn’t matter what a man looks like – what matters is how he behaves.’
And how does Alexander behave?’ I asked.
Well, he left the army after we married,’ she said. ‘And that made him unhappy. He doesn’t know what to do all day. We live in a big country house – Gatcombe Park – but he is always in London with his friends. He sees other women too, I think. When he comes home, he drinks. Two or three bottles of wine every day.’
Don’t you try to stop him?’ I asked.
Of course I do. I try. Once or twice I’ve put a little antimony in his wine, to make it taste bad. It made him sick, but he didn’t stop drinking.’
I’d heard of this before. Antimony is a dangerous poison – it can kill you, if you take a lot. But some wives put a little of it in their husband’s wine. It makes the man feel sick, so he doesn’t drink so much. Some men do that to their wives, too. I think it’s a bad idea.
There were tears in her eyes. ‘When he’s drunk, he hits me. Don’t send me back to him, Dr Gully! Please don’t send me back!’
Of course I won’t, my dear,’ I said quietly. ‘Don’t worry. No woman should live with a man like that.’