The Unravelling of Mary Reddish: author David Whitfield talks about his novel which draws from the history of asylums in Notts

The Unravelling of Mary Reddish suggests that madness can be as much a social judgement as a medical one. What research or real historical cases most shaped your understanding of how Georgian society used mental illness as a form of control?

Anyone researching Georgian mental health provision would be hard-pressed not to be influenced by the conditions in charitable asylums such as Bethlem (or ‘Bedlam’) in London, where tourists paid a penny to look at the ‘lunatics’. But asylums like this were few and far between, and most people with mental illnesses, who were not in the family home, were in prisons, houses of correction, or workhouses. 

These were also all places where lives could be controlled, patients had little-to-no chance of receiving proper treatment. But I do believe that attitudes began to change at the start of the nineteenth century, and that there was a movement towards attempting to cure patients.

Did researching Nottingham’s Georgian mental health provision, or charitable institutions, change the direction of Mary’s story in any unexpected ways?

Yes – in fact, it determined that I should write about Mary. In 2020, some patient records from the ‘General Lunatic Asylum’ came into the public domain, and my initial idea had been to write about the first ten patients there – who they were, why they had been admitted, what happened to them, and so on. 

But the more that I looked through the records, the more I kept being drawn back to these two women – Mary Reddish and Catherine Mills – who had received the treatment known as the rotatory chair. Although Mary became the focus, I would like to think that the stories of some of the other patients also come through.  

Many readers may find themselves unconsciously assessing Mary – looking for proof of her sanity or instability. Were you deliberately inviting that judgement, and what do you hope readers learn about themselves in the process?

I would hope that the reader doesn’t have any real doubts about Mary’s sanity throughout the course of the novel. We see enough of her – with her family, in her working environment, and undergoing treatment in the asylum – to appreciate that she acts and reacts as a sane person would do. Any uncertainty about the state of her mind that does exist is put there by the deliberate actions of some of the other characters. 

So, in a sense I would like to think that readers would instead put themselves in the shoes of those within Mary’s orbit and ask themselves how they would react to her.  The doctors treating Mary never reported a formal diagnosis for her, so our judgements have to be made on her actions, and the actions of those treating her.  

What did you want to communicate about asylums and confinement – particularly in terms of fear and obedience?

I imagine that most of us will have asked ourselves how we would deal with incarceration, especially when it is unjustified. Would we have the strength of character to do what is necessary to free ourselves, or would we fall apart under the regime of confinement? 

I think the same questions apply whether we are talking about nineteenth-century asylums, twentieth-century prisons, or 21st-century detention centres. One would always like to think that one would push back against both the fear and the obedience, but I think the reality would be very different.

How did the reality of nineteenth-century Nottingham in particular – its institutions, its social hierarchies, its sense of watchfulness – shape the way Mary is observed, judged, and ultimately unmade?

There was significant crossover within the institutions of Nottingham – a landowner or businessman might also be a magistrate, a councilman, a governor of the asylum, or a combination of these. There were a relatively small number of people who had fingers in a lot of pies. 

This wasn’t necessarily problematic in itself, but it did mean that those in positions of power could utilise a range of resources to get what they wanted. And, of course, even within the asylum, there was a strict hierarchy, with patients categorised from first class to third (‘pauper’) class, and with significant differences in the resulting accommodation and facilities. 

Mary’s struggle is deeply personal, yet it also feels political. To what extent did you see The Unravelling of Mary Reddish as a feminist novel, and was that intention present from the start or something that emerged as you wrote?

It would be impossible to read the patient notes from the asylum and not conclude that men and women were treated differently. Consider, for example, the way in which women are described upon admission – ‘flighty’ and ‘disposed to mischief’. These are not descriptions that are used about the male patients, and they appear to be potential personality traits, rather than evidence of mental illness. 

Then there are the numerous women admitted because of causes specific to their sex. For example, menstruation is held responsible for all manner of ills. One comes away with the firm impression of male doctors diagnosing and treating female patients about whom they know very little. That’s why I felt it was important to have a strong female character, in the form of the asylum’s matron.

Although set over 200 years ago, the book feels unsettlingly relevant. What parallels do you see between Georgian attitudes to mental health and the ways we talk about credibility and illness today?

I’m not sure that I feel qualified to speak about the way in which these issues are treated today. What I would say, though, is that a society’s treatment of people with mental health issues is necessarily a reflection of the values held within that wider society. 

It’s very easy to look back and throw our arms up in horror at the reality of life within an asylum, but I think it has to be considered within the context of a society where life was shorter and often more brutal than it is today. 

When you finished writing Mary’s story, what questions did you most hope would stay with readers after the final page?

The question of whether (some of) those who were taking care of Mary did actually have her best interests at heart, despite everything that she went through. The question is whether women could ever be treated properly, given the medical attitudes of the time. 

I’d like to think that readers might want to find out more about Nottingham and some of its historical institutions – for decades it really did lead the way in so many areas, the asylum being just one; the more attention given to this the better. 

The Unravelling of Mary Reddish is available to buy online and at selected bookshops.