Authors: Tim Vicary
I wish I was dead!
If I was dead they couldn't do it again. Then I wouldn't have exposed Martin or Jonathan but I would be a martyr to the cause and they would have a huge funeral like they had for Emily Wilding Davison, and my death would make them stop the forced feeding and set Mrs Pankhurst free and give women the vote. And then the exploitation of children would stop with everything else. We'd have the vote. That would be worth giving my life for.
Maybe that's what Emily Davison thought when she seized the reins of the King's horse at Ascot and it killed her.
Nothing happened, though. They just said she was mad. Like me.
Sarah looked at the folded piece of paper on the table. She took a deep breath. Maybe I
am
going mad. I've never had emotions as violent as this before. They sweep through me like flash floods and I can't control them at all. It must be the starvation or maybe I'm being poisoned or perhaps it's Jonathan —
you bastard, Jonathan, if I ever see you again I'll rip your eyes out and suck the blood from their sockets . . .
No, don't. Please don't. Not again.
Why not look? It can't do any harm.
Very quietly she stretched out her hand and picked up the piece of paper and looked. She held it in her hand a little distant from her, by one corner, as though she could drop it at any time if it displeased her.
It said:
Dear Sarah,
Please trust the bearer of this absolutely. She is taking a great risk to bring it to you. I understand your doubts and that it is hard for you to abandon your fast but you must do that. It is an order from the WSPU committee. We will be waiting for you on the outside.
With all my love and admiration,
Alice Watson.
And underneath, in another hand:
Deborah Cavendish.
Sarah's hand started shaking and she let the note flutter to the floor. It lay there, upside down. But she could still read it. She considered it thoughtfully.
It was definitely Alice Watson's writing. She had seen that too many hundreds of times to be in any doubt. And almost definitely her sister's signature . . .
WSPU headed notepaper too.
The cell door opened. Ruth Harkness came in and closed it behind her. She stood carefully with her back blocking the judas hole. She saw the letter on the floor and frowned.
‘Well?’
‘I'm . . . sorry.’ Sarah looked up.
Ruth's frown remained. ‘What d'yer mean, you're sorry?’
‘Sorry . . .’ Sarah sighed, and tears started unbidden to her eyes. ‘Sorry I disbelieved you.’
Ruth took a long, deep breath. She had come into the cell angry, more than half prepared to give up the whole escape plan. It would be so easy, so safe. To pass by on the other side. To keep your conscience quiet and pretend that you had not seen, or could do nothing. Now everything would be harder.
‘You're quite sure you believe me now?’
‘Yes. Quite sure. You couldn't have forged that letter.’
‘No.’
‘What must I do, then? If I am to get out it must be soon - I can't bear this place. It's like hell, full of monsters!’
‘Sssssh! Calm yerself, Mrs Becket, please. I can't work miracles.’
‘Can't you? But I'm told to obey your orders, trust you absolutely. What are you going to do?’
If this woman's not insane she's on the edge of it, Ruth thought. The strain has been too much for her. But then what do I know of what she's going through? If I get this wrong I may find out. I'll be locked in, too.
‘The first thing, Mrs Becket, is to eat the food I'll bring you at twelve. You don't 'ave to eat all of it if there's too much, just so long as you eat some. Then I can announce your 'unger strike's off and you won't 'ave to be forcibly fed.’
‘And then? What will Dr Armstrong do?’
‘I don't know. I don't see what 'e can do at first. Just make sure you don't eat nothing unless I bring it to you. But eat as much as you can to get yer strength up.’
‘For what? Do you want me to climb the walls or something?’
‘’Course not. But the other thing is you got to obey normal prison rules. Do third division work, scrub the floors and take out laundry when I order you. That's important, you'll need your strength for that. And with luck you'll be allowed into the yard for exercise.’
‘Exercise!’ Sarah thought ruefully of miserable women walking in circles round the prison yard, heads bowed, forbidden even to speak to each other. Oddly, she felt afraid of it. It would be so strange after this cell.
‘When do I get out?’
‘On Monday, I 'ope.’
‘How?'
‘That . . . I ain't going to tell you yet. For two reasons — please, Mrs Becket, listen and trust me.’ Ruth saw with alarm the light of combat leap into Sarah's eyes, saw how quickly emotion could engulf her. She ploughed on, determined. ‘In the first place I don't know yet, exactly, not all the details. And in the second, you got to admit you're in a highly emotional state just now. You might let slip something without meaning to, and give us both away. But if you don't know, you can't. Just trust me, please. And do what I say.’
Sarah stared at her blindly for a moment. She hardly saw the girl, so intent was she on fighting down the flood of resentful memories within herself. The filthy bath Ruth had forced her into when she first arrived, carrying the slop-bucket to the sluice, the brutal feeding. And now she was asked to trust and obey a girl who had done all that to her. A servant who had held her down while men thrust a tube into her body. A torturess.
‘All right.’
‘Good.’ Ruth picked up the letter from the floor and put it into her purse. ‘Don't want no one to find this now, do we?’ Then she looked at Sarah for a long moment. ‘You're a brave woman, Mrs Becket. Maybe I should have said that before but it's hard, when you're in my position. If we get out of 'ere I might even come and join you in that suffragette shop. If they'll 'ave me.’
There was a brief twitch on Sarah's face that might have been meant for a smile. She herself felt it chiefly as pain, from muscles unused for too long.
‘Don't worry,’ she said. ‘We take all sorts, you know!’
‘Mmmmm!’
‘Tastes good, does it?’
Sarah did not reply. She was overwhelmed by the number of tastes, memories, and textures that could co-exist in a single spoonful of chicken broth. For the first time in nine days her salivary glands responded willingly to food; the sensation was exquisite. For several minutes she savoured it; then took another spoonful. A third.
‘Don't overdo it, now.’
Sarah nodded. After the fifth spoonful she felt bloated, obese. She pushed the bowl away and shot an anxious glance at Ruth.
‘That's all right, Mrs Becket. You've started, that's the main thing. You'll manage some more tomorrow.’
By the next morning Sarah's body was beginning to return normal. She had slept a little better; she managed to eat most of a bowl of porridge. Ruth let her rest for three hours, then put her on light duties, cleaning the corridors.
It was odd, not to be supervised the whole time. True, there were always wardresses around, appearing from one place or another every few minutes; but no one stood over her continually. She could rest, as she needed to, for long minutes at a time, without being scolded. She could choose where to go, which areas to sweep next. It felt like freedom.
It was also exhausting. In the afternoon she was allowed outdoors for the first time, to exercise. It was as she had expected — slow silent circles round a restricted tarmac quadrangle, a regulation three yards from the other prisoners. She could not talk to them, but she could exchange glances - curious, silent glances of sympathy - which were themselves a thrilling form of human contact, after so many days alone with four walls.
And then there was the sun. She had forgotten what it was like, that unexpected caress of heat on your neck and face and arms. To bathe in warm air, breathe in light. To hear the sound of the city all around you, even if distant, over high walls topped with jagged glass. Sarah spread her arms to embrace the luxury of it all — and because Ruth was supervising the exercise, was not rebuked, the first time.
Afterwards, in her cell, she slept. At five o'clock, when the rattle of the feeding trolley had previously made her break out in cold sweat, she was sleeping the deep refreshing sleep of a child. The trolley did not come. Dr Armstrong did not disturb her.
Sunday was the same, but better. Sarah felt a little more strength return. She could sweep the floor and walk the yard for a moment or two longer without pausing. And she felt, too, a return of impatience.
When Ruth brought her evening meal she said: ‘Tomorrow's the day, isn't it?’
Ruth nodded. Sarah's decision to eat had brought a welcome interlude of calmness, of rational obedience, to her behaviour; but Ruth was acutely aware that this could change at any moment, if she said the wrong thing. And she herself had scarcely slept last night, worrying over every detail of her plan.
‘Aren't you going to tell me what I've got to do? I need to know something, or I may get it wrong.’
‘Yes, you do.’ Ruth spoke softly, her voice scarcely a murmur above the busy hum of the prison. But she had decided for herself that Sarah needed to be prepared. ‘Listen. Tomorrow morning I ain't going to ask you to do no sweeping. You've got to strip beds and carry laundry. Are you strong enough for that?’
‘Up to a point. I'm not Hercules yet, you know.’
‘Well, you got to do your best. You'll be taking dirty clothes and sheets down to the laundry room. Most third division prisoners will be doing it. I'll only give you one load, two at the most. When you're there you stuff 'em into baskets, and when the baskets are full, the laundry company takes them away.’
The thin whisper of a smile flickered across Sarah's lips. ‘That sounds exciting.’
‘It will be for you.’ Ruth watched her carefully. This was the first crucial point. She thought of Sarah as a courageous woman but people could be bold in one way and finicky in others. ‘You're going out in one of them baskets.’
Sarah's eyes sparkled. She drank a spoonful of soup and rested her elbows on the table, staring at Ruth.
‘In a basket. How amusing! But how?’
‘Exactly 'ow, you'll 'ave to leave to me. When one of the baskets is fairly full and there's no one around, you hop in and I'll fasten it down. Make yerself a space to breathe somewhere near the top, I should. Then keep mum until you reach the laundry.’
‘But what then? They'll find me there, won't they? I’ll come back washed and ironed.’
‘Not if your Mrs Watson can do what she promises. She tells me most of them women what work in that laundry are suffragettes. They've been urging her to try this trick for some time.’
Sarah thought for a moment. ‘How long shall I be in the basket, do you think?’
‘An hour or two, probably. No more. We usually pack the baskets before ten and the wagon comes at 'alf past.’
‘And if I can't breathe?’
‘Don't worry about that. I'll check you can before I close the lid.’
‘It'll be a triumph if it comes off.’ There was a definite smile in that haggard, intense face now. I could like her, like this, Ruth, thought. Then Sarah frowned. ‘What about you?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘When I'm gone, won't they suspect you? If you were in charge and you've lost me?’
‘If I'm lucky, they won't know.’
‘What on earth do you mean, they won't know? We're counted all the time in here, like coins in a bank.’
‘Yes, but I do the counting on this floor, don't I? Mostly. So before we start we'll bring some of the laundry in 'ere, and make it up into a roll to look like you're lying in your bed. If anyone asks I'll say you're tired and resting after straining yourself with the unaccustomed work. Them bundles of sheets can be 'eavy, you know. Specially for fine ladies what ain't used to work, an prefer starving theirselves instead.’
Sarah ignored the jibe and frowned thoughtfully. 'I'm not sure I like that part of the plan so much. I mean, any wardress come in here at any time. And if they find out you're lying . . .’
‘That's for me to worry about, Mrs Becket. I've said I'll get you out and I'll do it, but I ain't about to get meself caught either if . . .’
The cell door crashed open behind Ruth, catching her between the shoulder blades. As she stumbled forwards and turned she saw a man in the doorway. Big, burly, in respectable tweed suit. Heavy jowls, thick sensual lips, a solid fleshy face.
Martin Armstrong.
Behind him, an older wardress, carrying a tray. On the tray a jug, a glass with a spoon in it, and a glass jar.
When both of them had come into the room there was scarcely room to move.
Martin Armstrong smiled. It was a confident, patronising, avuncular smile. The sort of smile many doctors affect when going from bed to bed in hospital. But the smile did not quite reach the cold grey eyes in the flabby overfed face. There was a ghost of fear in them, Sarah thought. Fear and hatred. Or was that just a reflection of her own eyes in his?
‘So, I am pleased to see our patient eating at last. It was a wise decision, Mrs Becket, very wise. I am sure you will find that your mental faculties return to you soon, if you persevere with this course.’
As soon as he had come in, Sarah had stood up, with her back to the wall beside her small table. She grasped her spoon in her right hand like a weapon.
‘There is nothing wrong with my mind, Dr Armstrong, as you very well know.’
‘You will allow
me
to be the judge of that, madam.’ He turned away from her and took the tray from the wardress who had come in with him. He put it down on Sarah's table by the bowl of soup. ‘Thank you, Mrs Canning. Since Miss Harkness is here I think I can manage. We can hardly move with the four of us.’
As the older woman left, Sarah said: ‘I suppose you ask her to go so she won't hear my description of your abysmal character. Of how you pimp to middle-aged lechers and supply them with poor under-aged girls from charity homes for children.’
Despite herself she found she was trembling. I thought I had stopped the violence of these emotions, she thought. The spoon rattled against the wall beside her as she gripped it in her hand.