Crooked Pieces (14 page)

Holloway is a vile place. The women who guard us are big and bristly – more like bulldogs than women, with foul rude voices and a joy in bringing misery.

It is very hard for some of the ladies. They feel the want of a fire and hot water greatly. Worse for me, I think, is the lack of air. Although the cells are cold, they are full of dust, so that our noses are clogged with muck and we snuffle and sneeze like hogs at a trough. We cannot see the sky and no streak of daylight enters. Just dirty yellow gloom like a fog. This is probably for the good, for the clothes we wear are too ugly to be borne if we could see them, I’m sure, and scratchier than a flea comb.

Our beds are stuck to the wall and at night we fold them down. Before I came to Park Walk I would have thought them fine and warm, but now I find I cannot rest with sheets like sand and shavings and blankets thinner than a leaf of cabbage.

We spend the day at prayer! And knitting socks. I do not know which vexes me more. I think the chapel, although there we see each other at least, and may smile and nod. Talk is quite forbidden.

The food is all brown bread and beans and soup. In the morning the soup is called ‘tea’ and in the evening ‘cocoa’. At lunch it is called ‘soup’. I wonder what Cook would make of
such a recipe! I wonder how she is; if she ever thinks of me. She would be truly angry to see what I have come to, I know, but perhaps if I could tell her the reason she would understand. She did not think a lot of men and so might fathom I was trying to make things better.

I am down on my knees thanking her for teaching me to knit. So far I have finished three pairs of socks and will be paid a shilling for each. This is fine wages, since I do not pay my lodging, and I shall give it all to Ma when I am out.

I wonder if she knows that I am here. I hope not, truly, for she would be much ashamed. Say I was no child of hers. And I am not. Not hers or anyone’s. I am so far from her now. Grown up. If I am here much longer the bleeding will start. Oh, please let me go home soon. I do not care about a vote.

I heard today that Mrs Pethick Lawrence has been freed. She was ill and taken to the hospital almost as soon as we arrived with ‘nerves’. Several of the other ladies followed, till but a few of us remained, all from working backgrounds. I suppose I must count it a blessing that poor people do not get ‘nerves’. Miss Sylvia has not had it either, although I found her very close one morning when the Butcher, as we call the wardress on our row, had shouted at her for not scrubbing her cell right, and refused to give her breakfast. As she said, she did not want the breakfast, but it hurt her so to be called ‘a useless sloven’. I told her how to do it so they would be satisfied. It is all a trick. You clean the middle and the bits under your bed, for that is where they look. They are too stupid to change their ways and, like horses, can only look sideways and down.

I also tried to teach her to knit, for none of the ladies have earned a penny so far. She took to it most skilfully and would have finished a pair of socks at least, but the governor came and said she could go free, so she was forced to give it over. Some poor prisoner must pad around, one foot bare now, I suppose.

It is not such a bad thing to be a prisoner. In fact, it is so good I would do it a hundred times over if it could all end as this has done. The Savoy! I cannot believe it. Me! Oh, what a feast we had. One of the ladies had arranged it for us, but that was just the crowning of the best day of my life, I think, so far.

We left Holloway at seven in the morning. Even at that hour there was a crowd to meet us, cheering and clapping as we came through the great oak door to freedom. There were cabs to take us home and Mrs Garrud had heated water and Mr Garrud dragged out the tin bath into the kitchen and then was sent away, that I might soak myself in private, with a great chunk of olive soap. I never had such a bath in all my life. I washed my hair till the water turned black for there was nothing but cold in Holloway and it no good for getting out the muck.

When I was done I put on my own dear precious clothes, then, clean and fresh as a princess, rushed off to the office to present myself.

As I walked up the steps I could see that the curtains were drawn which was strange for it was still early in the day. I rang the bell and Miss Lake came to let me in. She gave me the biggest smile I ever saw, which is not like her at all. ‘Come
in, Maggie. We have been waiting for you.’

I wondered if I should have come sooner, for truly I had lain in my bath till I was crinkled like a prune, but when she opened the door to the office I could see that no work was being done. The lights were on and everywhere was hung with banners saying,
Welcome Home, Heroines
and on the table there was a great cake, with
Freedom and Victory
piped on it in purple icing, and lemonade, and cards from the women’s groups all over England, saying, ‘Welcome’, and ‘Well done’, and so many brave things that I thought I should weep for not having suffered worse than I did, when poor Mrs Pethick Lawrence had been brought down with nerves and so many others, also.

Miss Annie and Miss Billington (wrapped in her banner, wouldn’t you know!) were already there and they hugged me and said I was a noble sister to the Cause, and everybody clapped, and we sang, ‘Rise up, women. For the fight is hard and long’, which is my favourite, for the tune is ‘John Brown’s Body’ and quite the best in the world.

Many of the ladies quizzed me about Holloway. They said they had to ask for it was likely they, too, would suffer the same fate before long, and it was as well to be prepared. I said it was not too bad, but boring and the food was very vile. I thought to myself that my best help to them would be to start a knitting class, but durst not say it for fear they might be miffed.

I had thought we would go home at half past five, which is the usual time, but six o’clock struck and still we sat and talked. To tell true, I was tired and would have liked nothing so well as to go to my warm soft bed, but just when I was
scraping up the courage to ask if I might leave, the doorbell clanged.

‘There!’ cried Miss Lake, and was once more off at the gallop. She returned with a young woman who came bouncing in. ‘Are you ready? Mother is waiting for us there.’

If she had spoken Scottish I could not have been more confused.

Miss Annie told me to put on my coat and we all trooped downstairs and out into the street where four cabs waited, in a line. We piled into them and before I knew it, we were off down the Aldwych and on till we came to rest outside the greatest hotel you ever saw.

‘Well,’ said the bouncy girl who sat opposite me and was not much older, ‘here we are.’

‘Where?’ I asked.

‘The Savoy. We are to have dinner here. Mama has arranged it all.’

We had soup (not like the prison’s), quails’ eggs, then quails, then fish, a pheasant and a game terrine, followed by lamb and potatoes. Next a sorbet, a dish of thick chewy grass, some veal pie and, best of all, a ‘trifle’, which was not a trifle at all but custard and cake soaked in sweet wine and red jammy fruit and almonds all in a bowl, and quite beyond compare.

Some of the ladies could not eat it all, but I ate every course and though I thought I would burst at the end of it, I still managed a little plate of fancies that the waiter (looking like a penguin) brought to us as we waited for the cabs to be called.

Miss Sylvia rode with me to Argyle Place. ‘Well, Maggie,
did you enjoy that?’ she asked as I was climbing down.

‘I cannot think of words to describe it, miss.’

She smiled. ‘Nor I. How about “wondrous as the feet of Sheba”?’ I said I thought that might serve.

I have been home at last. Ma looks better than last time, though she still cannot feed the baby. My new sister is a sturdy thing, quite chubby and a tooth on the way. She seems cheerful but does not really heed when you play with her. Rather she gazes around and then sucks her fingers as she would chew them off.

Alfie is grown taller still. He likes his work and has a new waistcoat which Mrs Grant sewed for him in return for him carrying her coal home every week. It must be hard to live so high up and have no man about.

Pa seemed pleased to see me, though he is never slow to ask how much I have brought and was off down the alehouse before I had shed my coat, even. He is not a bad man, as Ma would say, but nor, to my mind, is he a very good one. He works hard, keeps his hearth, does not beat Ma as much as some men in our street do their wives. Certainly he is not as foul as the politicians, who are not like real men at all, but more the statues that they live amongst – cold, stony, dead of feeling. I wonder how it is that such men came to govern us when I have read there have been women rulers in the past, that should have sent them all away and filled their courts with such as Mrs Pankhurst and Miss Christabel, who are wise and brave and full of laughter.
Then
what a world we should live in.

Evelyn has had the scarlatina but is well again. Will cries as
much as ever and still for nothing, as far as I can tell. Lucy was not there. I did not ask after her, though I know I should have. About four o’clock she came in, just as we were setting out the dinner. I had brought a piece of pork and some dried beans and made a stew of it with carrots and an onion. Pa said it smelt like manna from heaven when he got back. I did not think it likely he would know, never having been in a wilderness, and not often in a church, but it was said with such good feeling we all agreed.

Lucy, too, is grown tall, but very thin. Her hair is like string and she has dark rings under her eyes so that she looks quite old and witchy. I remembered how she had teased me with my spots, but I am grown up now and do not feel the urge to twit her. Truth was, I felt quite sorry for her, at least I did until she spoke!

First, she did not like the stew, saying it tasted of nothing but salt, which was not true. I thought she was lucky to be eating such good food, and all paid for by me, and would have told her about the stuff in Holloway, but that I did not want Ma and Pa to know where I had been.

Next she moaned that she had no warm coat to wear. I could see where this was going. She had seen mine hanging in the hall. It was not new, having been given to me by one of the ladies, but it is wool throughout and truly I have need of it when we go on night meetings, and I must stand outside for hours on end in any weather.

I had brought a treacle tart for our pudding. She liked that but complained when Ma gave the last spare slice to Pa. I was surprised he did not belt her, but he merely shrugged and shovelled it down, faster than a steam train.

After dinner she went out again, not stopping to help clear or to wash Will down or anything. Ma was busy with the baby’s milk so I had it all to do myself, although Evelyn, who is a sweet thing, came and stood by me and recited the
twenty-ninth
psalm to me which Mrs Beckett had given her to learn. She had it all by heart and I gave her a kiss and told her I was proud of her, though listening to her, it struck me what strange things there be in the Bible, and how she would be better to learn how to write to the Parliament and to knit than to skip like a young unicorn.

When little Ann was settled Ma came down and said she would make a cup of tea before I went for it was a long walk home, and bitter cold outside. I said I had come on the omnibus and would return so. She raised her eyebrows.

‘Well, still, you would like the tea?’

‘Yes, if that is all right?’ She brought me a cup and one for herself although I saw it had only water. We sat in silence for a while. Alfie was off out playing in the street. Evelyn was showing Will her picture book which I had bought her for her birthday. I thought she was brave to let him near it, for he is the stickiest boy I ever knew, but she is a kind little soul and does not seem to care much for herself.

I asked Ma if she was recovered now from the baby. She said her strength was much improved. There was still a problem with the milk, but Ann was so hardy she thought she could move her on to potato soon and some bread dipped in water.

‘Lucy is much grown.’

Ma looked away. ‘Yes.’

‘Is she a trouble to you, Ma? I saw she does not help you in
the house. Do you want me to speak to her? I can, you know. She will listen to me.’

‘She will not listen to anyone, save your brother Frank.’

I heard my voice begin to shake. ‘Well then, why cannot he speak to her? Tell her she must help you?’

Ma clasped her knees and rocked a little back and forth as though a pain ran through her. ‘Because he cares only for his own pleasure and leads others to do the same. You know that well enough.’

I remembered how ill I had behaved towards her when I was Lucy’s age – so long ago, as now it seemed, and how Frank had laughed. I was ashamed that I had caused her so much grief.

‘I will speak to her. I will tell her that if she does not mend her ways there will be no more presents. She will not like that.’

Ma raised her head and looked me full in the eyes. ‘Frank brings her presents,’ she said.

My heart sank like lead. ‘Why? He never did when I was home.’

Ma plucked a loose thread from her sleeve. ‘Frank does nothing for nothing,’ was all she said.

There was a great crash as someone slammed the kitchen door. It was Lucy, red and sullen. She stamped right past us, through the parlour and up the stairs.

I called to her, ‘Do you not fear to wake the baby, Lucy?’ For answer came another slam. She has my nan’s room now, and a great mess she makes of it. I ran up the stairs after her. She was lying on the bed, muddy shoes on the blanket, and not for the first time, either, by the looks.

‘This is my room,’ she said as I closed the door behind me.

‘And a fine sight it is.’

She said nothing but stared at me so coldly I could not think that we were flesh and blood. ‘Why do you not help Ma with the house?’

‘Why should I?’

‘It is your house, too. It’s where you live. Ma cannot do everything. She has the little ones to care for.’

‘Yes and she does not care for me.’