No Wings to Fly (21 page)

Giving Lily added pleasure was the fact that her
relationship with Miss Balfour had blossomed. One sign of Lily’s growing status in her tutor’s esteem came with the suggestion that Lily should henceforth address her a little less formally. From now on, she said, Lily should address her as Miss Elsie. There remained in the older woman’s manner a certain bluntness, but there was no hiding the innate warmth of her nature, and as the weeks passed Lily’s admiration and respect for her grew.

Early in May came news of Tom.

Lily had heard nothing from him and nothing of him since he had vanished into the morning that past January, and she had never mentioned to anyone the fact that he had come to the house. There was no need to; the incident was over and finished with, and revelation would serve no purpose. Then, one bright spring afternoon there came a letter from her father. In the sewing room, sitting before her little table with its books and papers, she read:

Compton Wells

30th April 1867

Lily read through the letter and then set it down on the table before her. Tom, in prison. After a moment she got up from her seat and began to pace the room. She would have to go to him, she would
have
to. She could not bear to think of him languishing in some cell without any word of comfort from his family.

Miss Balfour – or Miss Elsie as Lily now thought of her – was in her study. Lily knocked on the door, waited for the response – ‘Come in,’ – and entered. She carried the letter with her. Miss Elsie sat at her desk.

‘What is it?’ she enquired, frowning. She could see from Lily’s expression that something was wrong.

Lily said at once, ‘Oh, ma’am, I have to go to Redbury.’

‘To Redbury? What for?’

‘It’s Tom – my brother. I’ve got to see him.’

Miss Elsie frowned. ‘Really, I don’t think you should consider going anywhere – not in your condition. The baby’s due in less than three weeks.’

‘But I must go. He – he’s in Wentworth prison.’

‘Oh, my dear.’ Miss Elsie lowered her glance to the letter in Lily’s hand. ‘And you’ve just learnt about it, have you?’

‘Yes. A letter from my father. It just came. He writes that Tom has been – convicted of theft. I must go to him.’

‘Well, of course – but are you sure you feel up to it?’

‘Yes, really, I shall be all right.’

‘When do you want to go?’

‘At the very earliest. Tomorrow. I must go tomorrow.’

Miss Elsie nodded. ‘We’ll get Mr Shad to drive you to the station. Would you like me to come with you? Just for the journey, I mean.’

‘Thank you so much. But no. I shall manage all right.’

It was decided that Lily would take the 11.55 from Sherrell, and she had long been ready when Mr Shad came knocking at the kitchen door to say that the trap was waiting. She was dressed simply and practically. These latter months, as her figure had changed with her advancing pregnancy, she had taken to wearing some of the clothes that Miss Elsie had kept in the house, left by the young women who had come and gone before. Now, ready for her first real journey abroad since her arrival at Rowanleigh, she cut a less than fashionable-looking figure.

In the back yard Mr Shad helped her up into the trap, and moments later they were setting off for the station.

It was fine and looked to remain so. There had been no rain in several days, so the road was firm and the horse and vehicle made good time. Before too long they reached the railway station and Mr Shad helped her down. Did she know what time she would be returning? he asked, and she replied that she could not be sure, but that she would take a fly from the station back to the house.

Not long afterwards she was on the train and bound for Corster, where she eventually made her connection for Redbury. On her arrival there she hailed a fly, a rather battered old brougham, to take her to Wentworth prison.

The prison was situated on the very outskirts of the city, and she glanced about her at the unfamiliar surroundings as the carriage made its way along the highways and byways. After a time, the larger buildings were left behind and the old carriage moved through narrower suburban streets where the houses were smaller and set further apart. And then at last she saw before her what could only be the walls of the prison.

She was not prepared for her first sight of the gaol. She had seen pictures of such institutions in books and newspapers, but she was not ready for the reality. The building was vast. Rearing up beyond high brick walls topped with metal spikes, it was a great, grim monolith of grey stone, with belching chimneys. She had little time to study it, however, for the cab had come to a halt and the driver was tapping on the door with his whip. ‘Wentworth prison, ma’am. We’re here.’

Gathering up her skirts, she got out and paid him the fare. Then, as the driver turned the vehicle to make its way back, she stepped towards the prison. Beneath a large clock showing the time at half-past-one, dark grey wooden doors loomed, forbiddingly closed. She turned her head towards a small door set in the smoke-grimed wall where a number of persons stood waiting in a line, mostly women. Many of
them were in coarse, shabby clothing, and spoke and laughed in rough accents. Others, a few of them quite well-dressed, stood quiet and grave. Many held packages or bags. Uncertain, Lily hesitated for a second and then moved to join them. A minute or so later an omnibus pulled up nearby and a number of women, children and men alighted and got in line behind Lily. While she felt tense and nervous she could not help noticing that many of the others there appeared to be quite relaxed and accepting of the grim situation.

Then, causing a stirring of interest and anticipation, came the sound of voices from behind the door, and of heavy bolts being drawn back. At once the waiting people shifted and eased forward. A moment later the door was opening and the first of the women began to pass through.

Moving with the others, Lily shuffled her way towards the door, on either side of which uniformed men stood with truncheons strapped to their wrists, their belts heavy with keys. Some of the women, clearly regular visitors, greeted the men light-heartedly as they passed by, and the guards exchanged casual greetings with them. Lily, going with the flow, went through the doorway and found herself in a vast cobbled yard.

Keeping up with the rest of the visitors, she moved from the yard into the prison’s interior, making her way along a low-ceilinged passage with a flagged floor. There were open doors at the end, beside which male and female prison officers were searching the visitors, smoothing and patting with practised hands over their bodies, and looking in the bags and packages they carried.

When Lily got to the door she stood still while a grim, unsmiling wardress ran her hands over her and looked at the contents of her bag.

‘All right, pass on.’

Lily moved on among the straggling throng, her way
now taking her through a wider corridor where the voices of the people echoed against the stone walls, their faces lit by flaring gaslights. Now and again she came upon some of the inmates in their garb printed with broad arrows. Usually carrying piles of sacks or other items, they passed silently by without raising their eyes to the visitors.

Another queue had formed at the end of the corridor, so Lily took her place within it, and soon found herself standing beside a long desk at which sat male officers with ledgers in front of them. Here the visitors were registering their names and the names of those they had come to see, at the same time giving up the gifts they had brought with them.

After she had waited a while, one of the officers beckoned to her and she went to him. He asked her whom she was there to see and she gave him Tom’s name.

The man turned the pages of his ledger and then, one finger moving on the page said, ‘Clair, Thomas, number 119426.’ He looked up at Lily again, his glance taking in her pregnant condition. ‘Are you related to him?’

‘I’m his sister.’

‘Name?’

She hesitated for a second and then said, ‘Clair, Miss Lily Clair.’

He made no acknowledgement of her single status and her pregnant state; dealing with the dregs of humanity, he had seen it all before, and was not one to be easily surprised. He wrote down Lily’s name in his register and then raised his pen and gestured with it along the corridor. ‘Go into the room at the end there and wait. You’ll be called when he’s been brought in.’

The room the officer had directed her to was wide and lined with plain wooden benches, on which sat the visitors who had already preceded her. The walls themselves were stained, and marked with initials and words and slogans,
some of the words obscene and to Lily very shocking. She took a seat on the bench beside a woman in her twenties who sat with a small boy. The boy’s clothes were untidy and dirty, his face and hands looking unwashed. The woman had rouged cheeks and gave off the stench of stale sweat.

Gradually every seat was taken and a number of visitors were forced to stand just within the doorway. Murmuring voices filled the room.

Suddenly a bell rang out and the voices went quiet. All eyes were directed to the officer standing there with the bell in one hand and a ledger in the other.

He then began to read out the names and numbers of prisoners, and as he did so those visiting the said prisoners went to the warder who ushered them through into the room beyond. At last Lily heard the name she had waited for and quickly stepped up to the man in the doorway.

‘Here to see Clair, Thomas, 119426?’ he said to Lily, and she nodded and said, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Go on through.’ He gestured with a movement of the ledger. ‘Seat number twenty-six.’

She passed on and found herself in a very long room with small, narrow windows, divided down the centre by a partition of wood in which were set iron bars that went up nearly to the ceiling. There was a long row of rough wooden benches set before the partition, and many of the visitors were already seated there. Lily saw that there were numbers painted on the bench seats, and she moved along until she saw twenty-six. She sat down, finding herself between a middle-aged woman and an elderly man, and waited, while more visitors came in and found their allotted seats.

The minutes ticked by and the benches became full, while the room hummed with the visitors’ voices. And then
the tone of the voices changed, and looking through the screen Lily saw a line of prisoners filing in. One by one they took seats on the other side of the partition and leant forward to talk to their visitors. In a short time the people who sat on either side of Lily were rewarded with the presence of the men they had come to see, and were soon talking to them through the bars. Lily, still waiting, kept her eyes fixed on the ones who were still coming in. And then she saw him.

‘Tom,’ she breathed, and half rose from her seat.

She saw how he hesitated halfway along the row, his eyes roaming down the line of the visitors’ faces. Then he caught sight of her, and she saw his face light up, his eyes widening as they met her own. A moment later he was there and sitting down to face her.

‘Lil – Lil.’

She could see his mouth form her name, and she leant forward on the bench. ‘Tom,’ she said softly, and then again, ‘Tom – oh, Tom.’ She wanted to reach out and touch him, but the space between them was too great, and there were the bars also, added to which there were uniformed guards standing against the walls, ready to intervene should there be any flouting of the rules.

Peering at Tom, she studied him in the gloomy light. She was shocked to see that his hair had been shorn close to his scalp. It made him look even more slight and vulnerable. And his clothing. Although she could see the uniform on every other prisoner in the place, to see it on him was too shocking, and she felt sudden tears spring to her eyes, and a lump form in her throat. Even worse, the uniform was too large for him and hung on his frame, making him look smaller than he really was. She saw too that his left eye was a little swollen and discoloured. The sight of him sitting there, so young, caused her to tighten her mouth and cling on to her resolve.

‘Tom,’ she said, her voice strained, one hand half raised, as if she would reach out to him, ‘are you all right, my dear?’

He gave the shadow of a nod. His listless eyes looked dull and hollow, and without a spark of life. His mouth was drawn down at the corners, lips tightly compressed, as if he was fighting to keep back tears. She felt that she would have done anything to have been able to hold him, to press her cheek to his own, but she could only sit there and look at him through the bars.