She dozed. When she woke, her mouth was stale. The sound of the key in the lock brought her to her feet. There was a swinging sensation inside her head. Hunger.
The wardress was carrying another jug. ‘More water.’
‘I have plenty.’
‘The governor wants to be sure you don’t run out. It’s important he can say that afterwards. Have you had a drink? Good.’
‘Why wouldn’t I drink?’
‘Some of ’em don’t. It just makes it worse.’ She turned to leave.
Mary asked quickly, ‘What time is it?’ At the same moment, a bell clanged.
‘Midday. That’s the dinner bell. Not that you care, you and your hunger strike.’
‘Me and …?’
‘The women told us how you wouldn’t touch your food last night. That’s why you’re here. The governor likes to keep hunger strikers separate. Less fuss. The other women think you’re barmy, you lot, and I for one don’t blame ’em. I can’t stand here gassing. I’ll leave you to it.’
Hunger strike.
Her knees gave way and she sat down, landing heavily on the bunk. She must set the wardress straight the next time she brought water.
Weary hours passed before that happened. She stood the moment she heard the key.
‘Please, there’s been a mistake. I’m not on hunger strike.’
‘Then what are you doing here?’
‘There’s been a mistake.’
‘I don’t see how.’
‘Please – there has.’
‘Oh.’ The woman looked at the jug in her hands, then pushed it at her. ‘Here, take this. I’ll – well, I s’pose I’d best tell someone.’
‘Thank you. And if I could have something …’
The door was already closed. She found herself speaking to musty air.
‘… to eat?’
‘The governor wants you, Maitland. Look sharp. No time for that,’ the wardress added as she tried to smooth her appearance. ‘Governor knows what prisoners look like. The posh ’uns are the exact same as the reg’lars.’
Wobblier on her feet now, or perhaps just wobblier in her head, she was aware of corridors and stairs, of doors being unlocked in front of them and locked again behind. She was brought into an office with a closed door on the far side. A man got up from behind a desk, crossed to the farther door, knocked and went in, shutting it behind him. The wardress stood ramrod-straight and silent. Mary endeavoured to do the same, but exhaustion vibrated inside her. It was all she could do not to tremble.
The door opened and they went in. There was a vast desk with a bewhiskered man seated behind it, looking stern. The man from the outer office stood at his shoulder, looking snooty. She didn’t mind the sternness, but the snooty expression made her stand up straighter.
‘Maitland, Governor,’ the wardress said.
‘So you’ve come to your senses. Good, good. Stupid females like you cause a deal of bother, silly pieces with unwomanly ideas, who think it’s clever to get sent down for knocking off a policeman’s helmet. Utter balderdash, as I said to the chief constable over dinner only last week. Much as it goes against nature to have married women working, you modern females present a compelling case to allow the employment of married women teachers. Your problem is you’ve been educated, if you can call it that, by embittered spinsters and look where it’s got you. Votes for women – I don’t know. I’d as soon give the vote to my dog. Sign that.’
There was a sheet of paper on the desk.
‘What is it?’
‘Don’t waste my time. Sign it.’
Bending forward, she inhaled sharply against the swooshing sensation inside her head. There was a pencil beside the paper. She picked it up. There was a space at the bottom for her signature.
‘For pity’s sake, woman, what’s the matter with you? Sign it. If you can’t write, put an X.’
‘I’m reading it.’
‘There’s nothing to read. It just says you won’t go on hunger strike.’
‘There’s something about—’
‘Yes, yes, you regret and renounce your unwomanly deeds and so on and so forth. Get it signed so I can send it to the Evening News.’
Mary stared. She couldn’t believe what she had heard, yet when she listened to the words over again inside her head, they said the same thing.
‘Give me strength,’ the governor muttered. ‘What’s the matter with her?’
A sharp jab in the back made her swing round to glare at the wardress before she turned back to the governor.
‘I won’t sign. And you can consider me on hunger strike.’
The bruises had faded, from Greg’s face at least. His body still bore marks, but, hidden beneath his clothes, they didn’t matter. What mattered was, could he move freely, with no hint of a wince to betray him? Not only that, but could he keep it up into the night? You had to be prepared to stay at the poker table for hours to accrue the sort of sum that would loosen Mr Jonas’s hold.
Oh well, he would find out soon enough on the journey to London. He had sent a telegram giving instructions to have his rooms opened and the drinks cabinet restocked. What more did a fellow need? He didn’t tell Helen he was going. He was sick to death of her. She had probably hoped to get on his good side by taking care of him, but it would take more than that. The only way for her to get on his good side would be by dropping dead.
Since the old bat didn’t look like obliging, he must resume his old habits – and while that was an absolute bugger, part of him responded to the challenge. It felt like coming alive again.
The journey wasn’t bad to start with, but by the time the train pulled into Euston, he was aching all over and there was a fire roaring below his ribs. Christ, if he looked as rough as he felt, he was done for. He climbed into the vehicle at the head of the taxi rank, pulling hard on a cigarette while the porter dealt with his luggage.
When he arrived at his rooms, he reached for the whisky decanter. The heat washed down his throat, simultaneously soothing and invigorating. He threw himself on the bed and slept.
It was evening when he woke. His body was stiff, but that never killed anyone. He drew a bath, letting the hot water do its healing. Later, clad in his dressing gown, he investigated the kitchen, where the woman who did for him had left a covered plate of cheddar and ham with pickles and tomatoes, and a generous helping of lemon pudding.
With the tang of lemon-laced custard still ringing on his tongue, he prepared for his night out, dressing as carefully as a warrior going into battle. Well, he was facing battle, wasn’t he? He didn’t play cards for the hell of it and neither did the men he played with. Do well, live well. Do badly and you might as well do everyone a favour and chuck yourself off the nearest bridge.
He was going to do well tonight. He felt lucky. No such thing as luck. But he still felt lucky.
After all, how hard could it be? She had already begun a hunger strike, albeit without meaning to, so she had a head start. If she held out for a couple of days, which meant only until the day after tomorrow, she would have struck her blow on behalf of women everywhere, honour would be satisfied, and she could resume eating without losing face.
Mary lay down for the rest of the day, lurching to her feet from time to time to pour some water, though moving made her feel woozy. Drinking water helped, but only up to a point. The day stretched interminably.
Through the long hours of the night, she dozed on and off. Her stomach burnt and her body ached.
The morning brought another jug of water. It was unexpectedly heavy, making her fingers fumble and clutch. How petty, filling it fuller to catch her out, but when she looked, it was no more full than before.
Later there was another jug. There was a message too.
‘Thought you’d like to know your father’s here to see you,’ said the wardress, ‘but your sort aren’t allowed visitors.’
It was surprising how much it hurt. Even knowing Dadda would have no truck with the hunger strike,
she would have given anything to see him. Misery speared through her. Were the pains in her stomach hunger-pangs or homesickness? She eased her body onto the bed and curled up, wondering how in heaven’s name she had ended up like this.
But she wouldn’t give in. She had to hold out only until tomorrow. Afterwards she would tell Angela and Josephine about the hunger strike. They would organise a meeting and spread the word. When would Charlie return? Would he be proud? Horrified?
She slept, then woke again. She needed to use the bucket. That was the worst part, worse than the pains in her gut, worse than being muzzy-headed, worse than the slackness in her muscles or the trembling in her bones. The bucket had stood unemptied since her arrival in this cell – a punishment for the hunger strike? The only mercy was that it had a lid, though the stench that was going to spew out when she lifted it would set her guts heaving.
Needs must. She held her breath.
The door opened, but instead of a wardress, it was a man – a frock-coated doctor. Thank goodness she wasn’t squatting over the bucket. Two wardresses came in behind.
‘Sit,’ the doctor commanded.
For an insane moment, she could think only of sitting on the bucket. One of the women pushed her onto the bunk.
‘Top buttons,’ said the doctor.
He made an impatient movement with his hand and the women stepped forward. One grabbed her shoulders while the other batted away her protesting hands, hands that were frighteningly weak, and pulled open her top buttons.
‘Hold still,’ rapped the doctor. He pressed the end of a stethoscope to her chest, a small, cold circle on her skin. He lifted her wrist and took her pulse. ‘She’ll do,’ he decreed and the three of them left.
She pressed her fingers where the stethoscope had been. Were all inmates given this rudimentary check?
Later, the key turned and the door banged open. Were they trained to bang the doors? Was it done to make the inmates feel even more locked in?
People entered the cell, filling it, six of them, two doctors, four wardresses. Instinct told her to hide, to disappear. There was a wardress either side of her; they heaved her into a sitting position, propped her up, holding her fast as she struggled. The bunk sagged as a doctor knelt behind her. A muscular forearm fastened across her chest and throat, an elbow dug into one shoulder, a fist clamped round the other.
She tried to wriggle away, but more hands yanked her head back. The face of the man behind her was close beside her own; she caught a whiff of mulligatawny on his breath. She strained to pull her head away, but his hand was there, thumb and fingers digging into the flesh around her mouth. She fought to keep her mouth tight shut, but a jabbing sensation to either side of it parted her teeth and then he had her mouth wide open.
The other doctor bore down upon her. She saw a tube and a funnel, cloudy with filth. Next moment, the tube was inside her mouth, grazing her palate, butting her tongue. She whimpered as her tongue worked frantically to force the thing out. Her heart was pounding, her nose was running.
Her tongue lost the battle and the tube – her eyes popped open – ploughed into her throat. Her larynx flicked open, shut, open, then the doctor fiddled with the tube, muttered, ‘That’s it,’ and pushed it straight inside her body.
Her mouth burnt. She started to choke, only she couldn’t because her gullet was stuffed full. She arched her body, half in resistance, half in an instinctive attempt to accommodate the tube less painfully, but hands shoved her back, forced her back, all those people crowding against her, all those hands and arms containing her, controlling her.
Her breathing erupted through her nostrils in frantic little bursts of air and liquid snot. The animal inside her let loose a guttural moan of protest that reverberated from somewhere high in the back of her mouth, filling her ears and vibrating down her nostrils. The noise elongated, then faded to nothing as she lost the power to move.
The tube went on scraping its way down. Eyes frozen wide, she watched the dirty funnel jerking closer. Finally, the tube jabbed inside her belly, the sour-smelling funnel looming in front of her tear-spattered face.
A chunk of cork was pushed into her mouth and manipulated this way and that, prising her teeth further apart until she expected her jaw to crack. The doctor behind her at last let go, leaving the cork to hold her mouth agonisingly wide.
The jug came closer to the funnel. Her insides convulsed with panic. The jug tilted and some sort of slop glugged into the funnel. Stodgy semi-liquid edged down her throat towards her heaving stomach. Even before the first jugful arrived in her belly, another was poured.
When at last the jug was empty, the doctor waggled the funnel, helping the final portion on its way, then he pulled the tube out so fast that her eyes almost burst out of their sockets. The tube flew before her, coated with phlegm.
‘Lie down now, lie down.’ One of the wardresses laid her back.
‘How’s her pulse?’
‘It’ll do.’
‘Give her a blanket.’
Her insides were raw. Her brain was stunned and spinning at the same time.
‘Spit. Lots of spitting. It helps.’
There was no bowl. When she gathered sufficient strength to roll over, she hung off the edge of the bed and eased her battered, itching throat by spitting weakly onto the floor.
Chapter Eighteen
Mary tried to open her eyes. It took a couple of goes. Her lashes brushed her cheeks; a final flicker and they opened. Her head felt muzzy and she was covered in bruises – no, not covered. Filled with bruises. The aches and twinges were on the inside. She swallowed and had to shut her eyes against a shooting pain. Her gullet was a raw, itching line.
‘You’re awake.’ A well-built woman with thick arms stood over her. ‘This is the prison infirmary and I’m Sister Wardress. You’ve had an infection.’
Memory returned. The hours following the forcible feeding – hot, sweaty, breathless, tearful hours. Her stomach churned at the thought of the filthy funnel and tube. Were they the source of the infection? She breathed steadily through her nose, trying to settle her insides. She couldn’t be sick. Her gullet would explode.
A hand slid beneath her head and the edge of a beaker grazed her cracked lips.
‘You must drink.’
The water was cool. She imagined it soothing the prickling sensation. Instead it set it on fire. She spluttered and pushed the beaker away.
‘Pull yourself together. A few sips, then you can rest.’
Afterwards she slumped back. Not for long, though. Sister Wardress and another wardress each grasped her beneath an armpit and hauled her into a lying-up position. Her head swam. When the queasiness subsided, she took in her surroundings, a long room with green-tiled walls and a row of beds, each with a chain dangling from the bedhead. The hairs lifted on her flesh. Would Sister Wardress clamp a chain round her wrist?
But Sister Wardress merely folded her arms.
‘Governor is frightened to death of hunger strikers. They all are, all the prisons. They’re under orders that no women campaigners must die incarcerated.’
She remembered conversations at agency meetings about hunger-striking campaigners, discussions laced by an accompanying worry about forcible feeding. Was it real, was it happening, was it a rumour? Yes, yes and no. She felt fierce and shaky at the same time. No, it bally well wasn’t a rumour.
Dadda came to take her home. He helped her into the cab and she half collapsed onto the seat. It was frightening to be so weak and the look on Dadda’s face didn’t help. His eyes were anxious, but his jaw was set.
He said, ‘We’ve been so worried,’ and he said, ‘How could you, Mary?’ but she couldn’t afterwards recall which he had said first. Which was uppermost in his mind?
At home, Lilian put her to bed. Sheer relief plunged her into sleep and she woke feeling stronger.
Dadda came to sit beside the bed.
‘I’ve promised Mother not to take you to task … yet. But I will tell you
you’ve lost your job. One of the doctors came round to explain that they can’t afford adverse publicity, so they can’t have you back.’
‘Which doctor?’
‘Does it matter? I tell you you’ve lost your job and all you care about is who delivered the news.’ He pressed his lips together. ‘That’s not the only job you’ve lost. After your public announcement about your interview, I found the letter about it.’
‘You searched my things?’
‘I’ve written to Mr Gladwin to refuse the position. How could you think of leaving home?’ He held up his hands as if in surrender. ‘Now is not the time. Recovery first. When you’re up to it, I’m sending you and Mother on holiday. Do you good.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘There’s every need. I’m your father.’ He replaced the chair by the wall. ‘I’m back at work now, but even if it had taken every last shilling of my savings, I’d have spent it to help you get better.’
Her heart swelled with love. She was sorry to have let him down, yet she couldn’t regret anything she had done.
‘Dadda, please will you go to the agency and tell them about the forcible feeding?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Please. They need to know it’s happening.’
‘Well, if it stops another girl doing something stupid.’
It was a day or two before he went, by which time she was no longer bed-fast.
‘They wanted to visit you,’ he said, ‘but I refused. I blame them for this and I told them so. You’re not to see them again, do you hear?’
‘They’re my friends.’
‘No, they’re not. They’re your former employers, who didn’t even make good their promise of a lasting job, and who led you astray. Friends is the last thing they’ve been to you.’
‘He isn’t really angry, not with you, anyroad,’ Lilian murmured later on. ‘He’s all shaken up because of you being in this state, that’s all.’
The Poor Relation Page 19