Women of Courage (42 page)

So?

The world won’t see it like that. The man’s world. The world of prosperous, urbane gentlemen who were educated in the Inns of Court and sit in Parliament and live in Belgrave Square. What was it Jonathan told me the other night? The law allows a man to divorce his wife for one single instance of adultery, but she cannot divorce him unless his adultery is aggravated by something more serious such as — what was it? Cruelty, desertion, sodomy.

Nothing about paying to go to a whore, or seducing under-age children. That’s normal, civilised, male behaviour, then? If I have a baby girl she’ll grow up in a world like this.

Poor, poor Sarah. Deborah clutched the curtains so tight, she felt her fingernails coming through the thick damask cloth into her palm That’s why she slashed the picture, I’m sure. She probably stood all alone in this room just like this, knowing what I know about her own husband.

With a letter in her hand from a prostitute. That’s what that Miss Harkness said, wasn’t it? Sarah had received some kind of blackmail letter from a prostitute, telling her that her husband wasn’t going to Dr Armstrong because he was ill, but because he was morally sick. She probably stood right here in this room and read it.

If I had that letter it would be conclusive proof, Deborah thought suddenly. What did she do with it? What would I do?

Deborah glanced around the room. Sarah’s writing desk was at the far side of the room, in a corner next to a side window and a small table cluttered with books and pamphlets. Deborah went over and started to rummage curiously through the clutter on the table. Old copies of
The Suffragette,
pamphlets about sweatshops and socialism and suffrage in New Zealand . . . No letters though — they would be in Sarah’s desk. It was a roll-top desk, closed, but the key was still in the lock. Deborah opened it. It was fairly tidy inside, with everything stuffed into its little pigeon-hole or drawer. Writing paper, envelopes, ink, nibs, stamps, paper clips, postcards, blotting paper . . . She felt a little like a thief, rifling through someone’s private possessions. But there was nothing here, no secrets.

She sighed, moved her elbow clumsily, and knocked the blotter on the floor.

When she bent to pick it up, she saw the corner of a letter sticking out from under the blotting paper. She took it out and read it.

Dear Mrs Becket,

I suppose you know that your friends in the WSPU have recently been poking their noses into things which concern them even less than the vote. They have been troubling several of us young ladies and asking for the names of our gentlemen friends, which is none of their business at all, especially when they stand outside the house where we live and work and try to put men off, so we have to move house. This does no one any good and makes us all poorer. In particular, they have been troubling Dr Armstrong too, who is a decent man and a good help to us.

Well, all this has got to stop. Tell your friends to stay away from our houses and Dr Armstrong or you will be sorry. Your husband gets the same treatment as other men and whose fault is that? If you don’t want to read about him in all the newspapers tell your friends to STAY AWAY. That’s all.

Deborah shuddered. It was what she had expected but it still made her feel ill. She held the letter a little away from her, between finger and thumb, as though it might contaminate her.

‘Ahem.’

‘What?’ She whirled round and saw Reeves, standing discreetly just inside the door. How long had he been there? She had been so busy with her thoughts, it could have been ages. He was such a quiet, unobtrusive man.

‘Yes, Reeves, what is it?’

‘A letter has arrived, madam. From Mr Jonathan.’

She saw he had a silver tray in his hand. ‘I see. Thank you.’

She took the note, waited until the man had padded noiselessly out of the door, then walked across to Jonathan’s desk to pick up the engraved paperknife to open it. It was on House of Commons notepaper, with a small portcullis at the top.

My dear Debbie,

A quick note in haste. A trial in which I am defending has come to the boil more quickly than I had anticipated, and I shall have to spend most of tomorrow in Lewes sorting matters out, so I am taking the train down to Sussex tonight. It is only a brief matter but it concerns a promise made to an old friend of mine. I had thought of inviting you but in all likelihood it will be a tedious round of dull business and the womenfolk are dreary, so I hope you will forgive me for deserting you. I will probably stay over on Sunday but hope to see you some time Monday.

Yours,

Jonathan
.

She read it twice, incredulously, and then crumpled it slowly in her hand. So he could just walk away for the weekend like that, could he, while his wife was being force fed in prison? Does he really have a court case so pressing it had to be discussed over the weekend, or has he got some whore down there that he doesn’t want his wife’s sister to meet?

And not a word in the letter about Sarah.

How
could
he?

Quite deliberately, she picked up the paper knife and jabbed it into the polished leather surface of Jonathan’s writing-desk. Then, fiercely, she dragged it sideways, six inches, a foot, two. The leather parted with a steady ripping sound, like the opening of a wound. Reeves isn’t going to like this, she thought. He’ll probably want to mend it before his master comes home on Monday. To make that harder she took the knife out and jabbed it in at the opposite corner, tearing across the surface of the desk again until it was split by a cross.

There, Johnny, she thought.

I am a savage too, beneath the surface.

Perhaps we all are . . .

‘‘Ere. Go on, read it.’

‘Get out! I don’t want to see you!’

‘I’ll go when you’ve read this. Not before. You owe me that at least.’

‘I owe you nothing. Leave me alone!’

Sarah had her back turned to Ruth. Her arms were folded and she was staring at the corner of her cell. Like a child who had been punished in school, Ruth thought. But this woman is punishing herself. Refusing deliberately to see what has to be done. She looked at the short dark hair, the thin, determined shoulders under the arrow-striped grey prison dress, and said: ‘I’m riskin’ my job for you, you know.’

‘Go away!’

Ruth sighed. I should shake her, she thought. I should pick her up and shake her until her teeth chatter, to bring her to her senses. Instead she said: ‘All right. I’ll leave the note on the table ‘ere and come back in five minutes. If you’ve read it and want to change yer mind, fine. Otherwise I’m giving this up. The children can stay in them brothels for all I care.’

She went out and closed the heavy door. When she had gone Sarah stood for a long time unmoving, staring unseeing at the wall. I hope you die, Ruth Harkness, she thought. I hope you trip at the top of the stone stairs and fall and smash your head and the brains come out and . . .
Stop it!

Stop this, for heaven’s sake, and come to your senses, woman!

She turned round abruptly and sat on her bed and began to cry. Harsh dry sobs that shook her frame and brought no tears. They didn’t last long; they hurt too much. Her throat was raw from the forced feeding and the inside of her mouth had ulcers everywhere and her tongue was swollen and her lips cracked but that wasn’t the worst. There was an ache deep inside her ribs that never let up, and whenever she moved too quickly it stopped her dead with a jab that brought bile into her mouth. She’d had it for two days now. She was sure they had put too much tube into her stomach, too roughly and fast — and it was that Ruth Harkness who did it. She held the tube while Dr Armstrong shoved it in through the gag with his big butcher’s hands. And he’ll do it again today . . .

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.