Authors: Janette Jenkins
‘Will I see you again?’ said Jane, reaching out her hand. ‘Will you be in court?’
‘I came yesterday, but there was such a rabble outside, and then they wouldn’t let me in.’
‘They’ll let you in. I’ll tell them you’re my sister.’
‘No, Jane, I can’t.’
Jane jumped to her feet. She had lots more to say. To ask. Where did Agnes live? Would she write to her? Visit? Agnes said nothing. She simply picked up her gloves.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ said the warden. ‘Leave the poor girl your address. She can hardly come calling unannounced now, can she?’
Agnes nodded. She pulled a calling card from her pocket. ‘Here,’ she smiled. ‘Take it.’
‘I’ll write,’ said Jane.
‘You always did like writing,’ said Agnes.
Jane had been told not to mention the real events. The deception. The boot box. Mr Henshaw said that nothing could be proved. She lowered her eyes. Not saying anything would make her feel worse. She would have to live with the guilt. A cold sharp draught wound through the courtroom. For a minute Jane looked for Agnes, in case she’d had second thoughts and had come after all. She was told to stand while they questioned her. The questions were clever. The words were said with spit and snarl. The people in the courtroom were all on the edges of their seats. Jane didn’t care anymore. Yes, she knew Mr Treble had a lady friend. Yes, the lady had taken the tincture and of course Mr Treble had known all about it. The gallery gasped and moaned. They did not want to think of their poor lost idol in cahoots with these monsters. They were sure their hero had been tricked. There were shouts and whistles. Calls for order. Jane did not hear it. All she could see was her sister in a wedding dress.
‘Court has been adjourned for the day,’ said Mr Henshaw.
‘All day?’
Mr Henshaw told her it was quite common. Judges who were fond of their port liked to rest their heads now and then, and that was always a good thing.
‘A good thing? But why, sir?’
‘Who wants to be judged by someone with a raving thirst, a headache, and a yearning for his nightshirt?’
‘He already knows I am guilty.’
Mr Henshaw nodded. ‘Still, he has to weigh up the evidence and your part in the crime. He will need a clear head to work out your sentence.’
‘Will I hang?’ she asked.
‘Not if I can help it.’
Jane asked Mr Henshaw if he had spoken with the doctor.
‘If you mean Mr Swift,’ he said, ‘yes.’
‘You see, I have been thinking about his wife. The poor woman has an affliction which means she can’t leave the house. I was wondering if someone might go to see if she’s all right.’
‘I am sure the police will have seen her,’ said Mr Henshaw. ‘She will have been taken to Bow Street. I’m surprised she isn’t in court.’
‘It would kill her,’ said Jane.
‘Perhaps it has,’ said Mr Henshaw, packing up his things. Then he saw Jane’s crumpled face. ‘It is no business of ours what Swift’s wife gets up to, but if it means that much to you, I will see what I can do.’
‘You’ve been very good to me,’ said Jane. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’
Mr Henshaw turned to her and smiled. ‘Your case has given me my life back.’
Jane asked if he liked what he did for a living. ‘After all this time,’ he said, ‘finally, I am starting to.’
‘But what did you really want to be, sir? If you could have been anything?’
‘Anything? Anything at all?’ Pushing a few stray
letters
into his case he stood thinking for a moment. He grinned at her like a boy. ‘An engine driver,’ he said. ‘I do love watching the trains, though it’s very filthy work, and I wouldn’t have the strength for it.’
Jane tried to imagine Mr Henshaw on the footplate of a great locomotive, a polka-dot kerchief tied around his neck, his cheeks blowing crimson, scorched by the fire, but all she could picture was Mr Henshaw the passenger, drinking claret, flicking pastry from his greasy shirt-front, watching the steam fogging over the window.
Jane woke early. She imagined Agnes sleeping next to her husband. He would look like the priest but with paint on his fingers. The calling card said Chelsea. Agnes would live in a tall white house. She would have friends who liked opera. China tea. Bach. How would Agnes manage? She would have to run to keep up with them.
In her head Agnes was ten years old again. She was running by the canal, her long white ribbons streaming from her hair. Arthur was holding Jane. He was saying ‘never mind’ and singing her a song. ‘She won’t wait,’ Jane had said. ‘She doesn’t know how to wait,’ he’d told her.
‘Would you like to pray this morning?’ Reverend Rutherford, his turkey neck flapping, came bustling into her cell. His mouth was twitching, his hair flying this way and that. ‘A prayer might lift your soul,’ he said.
Jane nodded. She wanted to tell the man to go away. To say she could pray very well without him, but she
couldn’t
find the words. As the Reverend bowed his head, Jane looked at the window. The bars were glistening with raindrops. A thin vein of sunlight fell onto the folded hammock and the Reverend’s polished shoes.
‘Today the judge will decide your future,’ he said, lifting his head and loosening his hands. ‘Let us hope he’s feeling merciful.’
Waiting in the yard she felt a strange sense of calm. The sky was dark and the air smelled of winter. The crowds were quieter today. More shuffling than jeering. She saw a man in a thick red muffler hold up his hand. It was the beggar’s friend, Digger, she was sure of it.
In a room at the Old Bailey, she was given a cup of tea. The china was so fine she could see the light coming through it. She remembered the teacup the doctor had caught from the sky. The chinking cups and saucers of Mrs Niven’s ladies.
Walking into the court, the warden pressed her hand gently on Jane’s shoulder. ‘He’s a bastard,’ she whispered.
‘The judge?’ asked Jane.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Swift.’
The courtroom was packed. She could hear the rumble before she ascended the stairs. She could feel their eyes boring into every part of her. Heads were nudged together. Hands were cupped around mouths, which were pressed to warm ears. Handkerchiefs were raised and held against noses and mouths, in case her crime or her deformity could be transmitted like a disease. There was an insect-like whispering which seemed to move in all directions. Looking up into the
gallery
, she saw Mr Beam, alone this time. She could see the brim of his velvet top hat moving in his hands. A few seconds later, she could hear the thud of Swift’s shoes, and could feel him standing near her, his breath heavy. For a minute there was silence, until the judge decided to break it.
As he spoke, Jane nodded. His voice seemed to be unfurling her past, like a carpet. Beside her, the doctor was shaking his head, and she wanted to say,
Why shake your head? Can’t you see that he’s right? We did all those things, and worse. Can’t you remember it?
Afterwards, the judge focused his attention on Swift, who had already started blubbing. The judge looked grave and Jane’s head was swimming, until all she had heard was, ‘Take the prisoner down.’ She looked at the warden. ‘Twenty-five years,’ she mouthed.
Jane made herself look at the doctor. A quarter of a century. It was such a long time. Would he die in gaol? She imagined his old life. The doves flying free from his hands. His top hat and cloak.
Pick a card, any card
. She imagined Mrs Swift, Mamie, gesturing beside him. She was slim. Beautiful. Young.
‘Prisoner at the bar, please rise.’ Standing, Jane looked into the judge’s solemn eyes. It was, she thought, the least she could do. ‘Prisoner at the bar, you stand convicted of felony. Is there any reason why the court should not give you judgement according to law?’
‘No, my lord,’ she said.
‘Jane Stretch, you have committed a grievous crime. I have heard from your counsel how Mr Swift used your youth, position and innocence to lure you into
collusion
, yet you still had your faculties and your own free will. The law is very clear, and you have broken that law. I have taken into account your plea of guilty and the notes from your counsel. I have no choice but to pass a custodial sentence. Jane Stretch, you are hereby sentenced to serve five years in prison. Is there anything you wish to say to this court?’
She nodded. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, as Mr Henshaw lifted his head and smiled at her. ‘And thanks to you, too.’ One or two of the gallery tittered, but most remained as sombre as they should have been.
STARING AT THE
small barred window and the snow, Jane sometimes dares to think about her life outside, which will come around eventually. She has been taken to Holloway. The prison is a cruel place, but there are days when good things happen. The girls she works with in the kitchen are always nice enough. Mrs Niven has lent Jane a book of short stories set in India. ‘The author has made it sound very romantic,’ she warns. ‘Please don’t be fooled by the sweet frangipani and the elephants.’
She has not heard from her parents. A girl in the prison who fashions herself as a spiritualist tells Jane they are dead. Jane does not believe her. Her mother and father are happy in their booze-addled way. Life in Kent is slow-moving. Measured. The cows cannot lead them astray
.
She likes to write letters. She writes to Agnes. To Mrs Swift, though who’s to say if the poor woman is still living, and Jane wouldn’t know because as yet she has received no reply, but then perhaps the poor woman can’t make it to the post box. She writes to Mr Henshaw, who tells her he is to be married in the spring. To a girl she hasn’t met, but who writes just the same
.
Time passes
.
Another Christmas Eve. Tomorrow the bells will be ringing. In the large prison chapel there will be carolling and candles. An orange each. A card has arrived saying
‘Joyeux Noël’.
The postmark reads Chelsea. There are white geese and robins. The glitter comes off in her hands
.
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Copyright © Janette Jenkins 2012
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First published in Great Britain in 2012 by
Chatto & Windus
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780701181949