Crooked Pieces (40 page)

Mrs Garrud says my room will be waiting for me. She has given me some breathing exercises which she says will help with the birthing pains. I did not tell her there are no pains left which can hurt me. My body is like a broken shell packed full with other people’s foulness.

She had asked that I might be allowed to stay, but it seems there are fears the press might learn of my condition and use it against Miss Christabel. ‘
Above all, suffragettes must be seen to be morally beyond reproach.’ The Suffragette. May 1912
.

So I am to go to a strange place and stay amongst strangers
and if the child lives it will be taken from me and given to other strangers and then, only then, will I be allowed to return. So be it, but I do not think there is one person in this world who is not a stranger to me now, and I to them.

The months have gone. Mr McKenna, the Home Secretary (what kind of a home must he come from?) persists in his vileness, sending dying women back to prison. He heeds no one. Not doctors, clergy, his fellow politicians. Just smirks away at the photographers like a cat that got the cream. He is the cat in this Cat and Mouse Act. But mice breed quickly and perhaps he will wake one morning to find we are too many for him and all his fur has been torn away and his claws ripped out and he is nothing but a scrap for dogs to gnaw on. Now I am hungry again. Always hungry.

How did Ma manage for she was always last to the table? Miss Kerr says such appetite is natural for she has a married sister who eats twice what her husband does when she’s expecting. And I don’t like chocolate any more. Mrs Garrud made me a special chocolate pudding when I was feeling low the other night, but though I ate it as best I could, I lost it down the sink straight after. Nothing is right about me any more. I cry, I ache, I fall asleep in the middle of the day, wake in the middle of the night, and all the time I eat and eat, as though a million hunger strikes must be repaid inside me.

I am swollen once more like a pumpkin, only this pumpkin has a steam train chugging round inside it. It is strange to lie in bed at night and place my hand across my belly and feel tiny limbs bouncing and bashing at me. Like a chick trying to break out of the egg. I say, ‘Wait till your time, little one.
There is nothing good awaits you in this world,’ but still it kicks.

Today there is to be a great march to Buckingham Palace. To petition the King! What kind of a king sits in his palace and does not know his subjects are being tortured in his name? Does not care, more like. But why should he care? He does not know us. We are as different from him as coal is from diamonds, though we come from the same beginnings. A beginning is nothing without an end.

I am forbidden to go on the march. Instead I am to catch a train into Essex.

‘Better as little fuss as possible,’
writes Miss Christabel.
‘The women have enough to worry about.’
So nothing has been said and tomorrow they will find me gone and forget all about me.

Mrs Garrud wept bitterly in parting. ‘Oh, Maggie, I wish I could keep you with me. I hate to think of you alone at such a time. Promise you will write, every week till your confinement. Promise.’

‘I promise.’

She hugged me. ‘And you have your exercises, haven’t you? I have seen it make a great difference. Just keep huffing like an elephant.’

I said I was doing that anyway, all I needed was a grey coat and I should be carted off to the zoo.

She smiled. ‘And Mr Garrud is going to paint your room while you’re away, Maggie,
and
fix that window catch which he should have made a proper job of in the first place.’

As I sat in the cab to the station I thought, that catch has seen me through a lot.

The driver was fussing and grumbling. ‘Roads closed. Sorry, ma’am. That suffragette mob are at it again. I shall have to go the long way round.’ I said I did not mind.

It was as we came up Piccadilly to Green Park I saw them. A great horde of mounted policemen marshalling behind the Ritz Hotel. It came to me at once our women would know nothing of it for they were approaching from Constitution Hill. My heart turned sick within me.

‘Looks like they’re in for a right walloping,’ the cabman chuckled. I rose in my seat. ‘Let me out. I want to get out here.’

‘Eh? What? I’m booked for Liverpool Street.’

‘I can pay. I’ll pay.’ I gave him what he asked. He lugged my bag down and dumped it on the pavement by me. People stared for I must have looked a regular sight, round, hot, angry. I did not know what I could do. I just knew I must do something.

It seemed to me that the mounted men were not yet ready to make a charge. The best I could do would be to cut across the grass and hope to warn the women what was planned. Off I chuffed, half carrying, half dragging my bag, hat clamped to my forehead, dizzy with heat and worry. My heart was beating so loud I kept fancying it the thundering of hooves and broke into a sort of run till I tripped and went hurtling headlong on the grass. A man helped me up most kindly, asking if I had hurt myself. I said no. He asked where I was bound.

‘The palace’, for there was no time to think of a clever answer. He nodded and said if I wished he would follow behind me with my bag as it was such a hot day, and a woman
in my state should not be carrying heavy weights. This seemed like the answer to my prayers.

‘I shall head straight for the main gates,’ I told him. ‘I only wish to look at something. It will not take long.’ He smiled and tipped his hat. I rushed off, wheezing and puffing like a locomotive.

As I got to the other side I could see our women massing before the gates. Great crowds had gathered. I fought my way through, desperate for a face I knew. At last I spotted Miss Lake. I thrust my way towards her.

‘Miss Lake.’

She swung round, startled and seeing me, positively gaped.

‘Maggie? You must get away. There is terrible fighting going on. Get away. Hurry. Into the park. Get away from here. They have seized Mrs Pankhurst. Ripped her from the railings and just hurled her into the van. And it is getting worse all the time.’

I shook my head. ‘It will get worse than this, Miss Lake. The horse police are assembling in Piccadilly. Dozens of them, and they will have the hill to their advantage. Please, please warn the women. Tell them to flee. It will be murder, else. Oh, please tell them, Miss Lake.’

Her face was like ash. ‘I shall try, Maggie. But please save yourself. You can do no more.’ I watched her struggling through the crowd. I knew, too, that she was right. I had done what I could. Of course it was not enough.

I watched from inside the park as the police came galloping, batons swinging, eyes burning, slicing and slashing through the soft summer colours. I saw the women crawl away, bleeding, sobbing, terrified. And when I looked
for the man with my bag, he was nowhere.

I took a bus to the Euston Road. Already word was spreading of the mounted charge. Newsvendors sang on every corner, ‘Bloodshed outside the palace. Many injured. Mrs Pankhurst detained and near to death’, flapping their headlines in the faces of passers-by. I found a penny and gave it to a boy. A hand reached out and whipped the paper away. ‘Oi, guv, that’s the lady’s.’

‘Ladies don’t read newspapers, lad. Return her her penny and take mine instead. I’ve got a train to catch.’ The boy shrugged and did as he was bid. The man bounced away, sure, confident, bloodless. The prison doctor. I bounced after him.

I saw him go down the steps to the lavatories. For all my exertions I felt suddenly calm. I knew that this moment had been given to me and that I must use it, for there would never be another.

Slowly, slowly he mounted the steps. Neat, oiled, consulting his pocket-watch, adjusting his neckerchief. As his head came level I struck him, first with my purse, coins cracking against his bloodless skull and sending his hat flying. Then as he turned, trying to steady himself, I launched myself at him like a cannon ball, kicking, scratching, biting, tearing at his hair. He sunk to his knees, his arms across his face. He was crying out some weird helpless sob like a stuck pig. I kicked him where he crouched. Kicked him and kicked him.

‘That is for the women you tortured. That is for Mrs Pankhurst. That is for Lady Constance. That is for all the women in the world. And that is for me. And me. And me.’

Feet came running. Hands dragged me off him. ‘Get her. Get her. She’s mad, they all are,’ he was squawking.

The newsboy stood gawping. ‘Blimey, ma’am. I’d’ve given you a paper if I’d known you were that fussed.’

I was struggling for breath. ‘This man calls himself a doctor. Do you know what he does? He pushes rubber piping down helpless women’s throats and chokes them half to death. He pours filth into their stomachs and if they’re sick he scoops it up and pours that in as well. Sometimes it goes into their lungs and gives them pneumonia. He drinks brandy while he’s doing it. And when he has finished he slaps them across the face and goes on to the next cell to start again. And he tells them it does not hurt. Does no harm. Serves them right.’

The men all stared at me. Bloodless was trying to get up. ‘Call the police. What’s the matter with you? Call the police. The woman’s mad. She tried to kill me.’

One of them, a porter, stepped forward. ‘Women don’t act like that for nothing, guv. Specially not in her condition.’ He reached out his hand to him. The doctor grasped at it, calling him every name under the sun as he did so. As he straightened up the man, with hardly a flicker of his eyelid, brought up his knee. The doctor sank like a sack of stones onto the ground, clutching his stomach, his eyes rolling in agony. The man glanced around him. ‘Looks like this gentleman’s been the victim of a robbery. Happens a lot round here. One of you best call a policeman while I help this young lady to her train.’

I never caught the train. As we walked towards the ticket barrier I heard a great popping like a balloon bursting inside me. When I looked down there was water all over my shoes.

They took me to the workhouse infirmary. No one asked my name or where I had been bound. They just propped me
up on an iron bed with a rubber sheet beneath me and brought towels and bandages and bowls of water and told me to breathe as deep as I could and grip the rails when the pain came.

At first it was not too bad and I tried to remember Mrs Garrud’s instructions and huffed and snorted so much I gave the nurse the giggles. She asked if it was helping but I did not know because I had never given birth before.

She sat with me awhile and told me it was not so bad and would all be over soon and then my husband could come and collect me. I showed her my hands. She gave a little sigh and crossed herself. ‘So it’ll be for the orphanage, poor mite?’

I shook my head. ‘It is arranged that a couple will care for it. I do not know who.’

She patted my hand. ‘It’s as well not to know. Otherwise you’d be forever wanting to see how it was going on. You’re young. God will forgive you.’

Then the pains started. Like a rolling blade inside me turning and turning till it had scraped the baby down into my belly, then lower and lower till I felt that my legs would split apart. They gave me a sponge soaked in laudanum to suck but nothing could halt the endless rolling, grating, crushing. I begged them to stop it just for a moment so that I could catch my breath, but they said it was impossible and that it would soon be over. I closed my eyes and clutched the iron rails of my bed. I could not cry out even, for I had not the strength. At last when I could bear it no more the nurse took firm hold of my hand and whispered to me, ‘When I squeeze your hand you’re to push.’ She squeezed and I pushed and pushed till I felt as though my body would burst.

‘
Push
,’ she shouted. ‘
Push
.’ And suddenly I remembered the day I met Fred on the demonstration and how the police had lined up against us and somewhere close by I had heard Mrs Drummond shout, ‘
Push
.
Push
for freedom and a new and better life’. So I pushed, and the baby shot out like a fat red sausage, roaring louder than a lion.

I said I would not see it. They understood and took it to another room where the orphanage babies were laid. Then the nurse came and washed me and brought me a drink of warm milk and told me to rest. I asked if I might write a letter. I felt I must send word to Mrs Garrud and ask if she would tell the office. She brought me some paper. I wrote, ‘Baby born. I am still in London. Maggie.’ It was the best I could manage.

The next day Miss Lake arrived with a lady I did not know. ‘How are you, Maggie? You’re looking very well.’

I said I was fine.

‘We have been in touch with Miss Christabel. She was most surprised that you had got your dates so wrong, but you are not to worry. She has arranged for you to spend a few days at our Hornchurch branch. The country air will revive you. Miss Clements here is to take the baby.’

‘Are you to keep it?’ I asked the lady. She looked quite horrified.

‘Goodness, no. I’m just the delivery boy, as you might say. No, it’s a very nice couple. Not too bright, but kindly. They lost a child to diphtheria so yours has come along just at the right time. They really wanted a boy but beggars can’t be choosers and she’s a healthy enough little thing. I’m sure she’ll do just fine. Have you seen her?’

I said no.

‘Probably just as well. It can be a bit of a wrench, especially when you’re feeling a bit – you know.’

It was arranged that they would come back next day, Miss Lake to drive me to Hornchurch and Miss Clements to take my daughter away forever.

That night my milk came in. The nurse told me not to worry and that it would dry up soon as I wasn’t feeding. I asked what the baby would have instead.

‘Oh, we have a few wet nurses come in, and if that’s not enough we give them cow’s milk boiled. It gives them colic, poor mites, but at least they don’t starve.’

So I lay on my bed with milk leaking out of me onto the cold dead sheets, and next door my child, my daughter, cried and howled for want of it. I thought, one night won’t harm.

She was in a little iron crib under the window. There were four in all, two sleeping, one wailing and mine, lying on her back just gazing up at the light. They each had a card stuck on the wall behind them. Hers said, ‘Robins. Girl. For adoption.’