by Tim Vicary
‘All right. I understand that you respect Dr Armstrong, and I suppose your loyalty does you credit. But what if I were to tell you that I had definite evidence that he is involved in prostitution?’
‘You couldn’t.’
‘Couldn’t I? Just you listen. I had a letter, a threatening letter, telling me to stop suffragettes bothering Dr Armstrong because he was a good friend to prostitutes and my own husband was involved. I didn’t believe it, so I stood outside your precious Dr Armstrong’s consulting rooms in Kensington and saw my husband go in with my own eyes — and stay in there after the doctor had come out! Then I saw another man go in with a woman who was painted and dressed and behaved in a way that could only mean that she was a prostitute. Those rooms were directly above Dr Armstrong’s surgery — he must know what goes on there!’
‘Doesn’t prove nothing!’ Ruth Harkness looked uneasy, but her heavy face remained set, stubborn. ‘You’re making it up, Becket. You’re seeing things that ain’t there. You’re just so upset about your husband that you’ve imagined all the rest.’
‘No I haven’t. And when I was in the collecting cell at the police station before I came here, I heard two women talking about putting one of their daughters — ‘on the game’, is that whatit’s called? And one of them actually told the other to take the girl to a house in Red Lion Street, Hackney, which was owned by a doctor called Armstrong. What more proof do you want? If he can be connected with prostitution in one place, why can’t he be connected with it in another?’
‘Because he’s a decent respectable Holloway doctor, that’s why! We don’t do things like that here!’
‘Oh no? You just torture suffragettes, is it? Is that the clean, decent work you’re so proud of? Torturing innocent women who tell the truth?’
Sarah had risen to her feet. For a moment the two women faced each other, and Ruth Harkness felt her hands itching with an urge to seize the slender, skeletal woman in front of her and shake her until she saw sense. Instead she said: ‘You’re wrong! You must be! The lack of food’s gone to your head. If you carry on telling those lies he’ll carry on force feeding you and he’ll be right to do it. And I shall have to help him.’
‘That’s your choice, Miss Harkness. But I believe I am telling the truth and I cut the picture in the National Gallery precisely to draw attention to the monstrous evils that men inflict on women both inside prison and out of it. Only when we get the vote will we get decent treatment for all women, and put men like Martin Armstrong behind bars instead of me. If my death were to make that happen it would be worth it, Miss Harkness, don’t you think?’
For a long moment Ruth Harkness stared at the thin, intense woman in front of her, without speaking. The pale, almost translucent skin on Sarah Becket’s face made her dark eyes unnaturally large, haunting; and there was a seriousness in them which made it difficult to look away once one had looked into them. Ruth shuddered as she thought of the thick, heavy frame of Martin Armstrong scrunching along the corridor towards his office in his wide leather shoes, and the way he had intoned with relish to anyone within earshot: ‘Insane, definitely. I shall certify the woman as clinically mad, suffering from delusions brought on by self-inflicted absence of food. Never seen a clearer case in all my days, or a better justication for continuing forced feeding in the patient’s own interests.’ And she wondered what her conscience would make her do if for one moment she believed what the prisoner Becket had said. And what would happen to her if she did it.
She snatched up the porridge bowl and opened the cell door.
‘Like I told you, Mrs Becket,’ she said. ‘You’re a stupid, bloody-minded madwoman. And you deserve anything you’re going to get.’
But that doesn’t mean I don’t know courage too, when I see it, she thought to herself bitterly, as she strode furiously away along the corridor.
15
DEBORAH WAS glad that Jonathan had left her on her own that morning. If he had not, she would have had to find some excuse to be rid of him.
All night she had been unable to sleep. Confused images kept drifting through her mind — of Sarah, with a knife in her hand, of Holloway with its high rows of tiny, barred windows and that smarmy pompous doctor, of Jonathan coming to her bed with that dreadful charming smile, of her husband drilling an army of soldiers with wooden guns, of her son Tom riding up to Charles on his grey Connemara pony with the light of hero worship in his eyes, of herself rocking a cradle in the nursery at Glenfee . . .
And of James Rankin.
The baby in the cradle, if there ever was one, would have thick dark hair and twinkling green eyes like Rankin. It would not look like her husband Charles at all. Charles would look at it with that glacial, superior face of his and throw her out of the house. She would be on the road like a gypsy, with her baby and the clothes she stood up in and nowhere in the world to go.
No, that was wrong! Charles would throw her out long before the baby was born. As soon as he realised she was pregnant with a child that could not possibly be his.
She had wondered if she should tell Jonathan about this but she had not dared. Especially not now. There was only one person to whom she could go for help. The child’s father, James Rankin.
He was in London but she didn’t know where. He had not written to her or left an address. All she knew was that there was some kind of dispute among the dock workers, and he had come to be part of it.
So I will have to go to the docks, she thought. And what then? The docks in London must be huge, I can’t expect to just bump into him by walking about.
If there’s a union it must have a headquarters somewhere, a place where the leaders meet. He’ll have gone there. But if he’s not there when I arrive, will anyone know who he is?
A big black-haired Irishman with a green silk scarf round his throat, who can make some of the most electrifying speeches I’ve ever heard?
They’ll know him all right. If Rankin’s there, they can’t possibly have missed him.
Cheered by this thought, Deborah waited until Jonathan had gone, then went up to her room to dress. It was difficult to decide what to wear. She was going to the docks, so she did not want to dress too well, or she would look out of place. On the other hand, she had to look attractive to Rankin. The whole purpose of going was to appeal to him to care for her, take her back. He wouldn’t do that if she looked a fright.
In the end she put on a long pale cream skirt, with a white blouse buttoned up to her neck, and a waist-length navy blue jacket over the top. She wore a small round hat with two silk roses in it. The effect was smart, attractive without being unnecessarily feminine. There’s no point trying to look like a working-class woman because I’m not that, she thought. I look like a pleasant, self-contained middle-class lady who won’t stand any nonsense and knows her own mind.
Oh but I don’t, she thought. I don’t know what I want at all. I want James to help me but he’s right, I don’t want to live in a slum.
As she went downstairs Jonathan’s butler, Reeves, looked at her with respect and approval.
`Would you call me a cab, Reeves,’ she said. ‘I’ll wait in the morning room.’
`Yes, of course, madam.’
That’s the trouble, she thought. I belong in houses like this.
The only thing that doesn’t belong is the way I behave. And my baby, which belongs to Rankin . . .
She did not find him until the evening. All day she had searched from one dock to another — she had not realised London had so many. St Katherine’s Dock, Rotherhithe, Princess Elizabeth Dock, Albert Dock, Grosvenor Wharf, Battersea, Wapping, the Isle of Dogs; in each one she visited, someone had heard of Rankin, or a man that sounded like her description of him, but he was not here today. He was always in another dock, further along the river, upstream or down; and when she got to that place he was not there either, but someone thought he had been seen in yet another dock, a further weary distance away.
She travelled by cab at first, then
tram, then hired a waterman to row her on the river. The hem of her cream skirt became splashed with mud, the seat stained with tar from the boat. In the morning she felt hot as the sun blazed down out of a clear sky. In the afternoon a spring storm blew up and she huddled in doorways as sleet lashed the streets. When the storm had passed she shivered as an east wind blew cold across the muddy Thames water, and swirled grit into her eyes.
The docks themselves were busy, loud, dirty places, full of huge ships and cranes and coal and iron and timber and crates and carts and lorries and big, dirty men in heavy boots and dusty work shirts with tattoos on their massive forearms. They stared at her in surprise. Several whistled or laughed or turned their backs but most, thank God, were decent and polite to her. They could see she was a lady, too old to tempt the young lads, too plainly dressed and straightforward to have come here to lord it over them as a shipowner’s wife might do. They directed her to the union office or their gaffer, the foreman, and here mostly a man would take his flat cap off his head, scratch thoughtfully with thick dirty fingers at the greasy hair behind his ear, and say ‘Rankin, eh? Yes, lady, that rings a bell now. Wot’s ‘e look like? Tall, dark, ‘andsome, Irish, wiv a green silk scarf round ‘is throat? Yeah, I seen ‘im, but not in this dock. Try Rotherhithe.’ Or Queen Elizabeth’s, Angel Wharf, St Katharine’s . . .
She found him at last at five o’clock that evening. He was in a little street outside St Katharine’s Dock, standing on a soapbox, talking to a crowd of about fifty men. Others streamed past on their way home from work. A few were curious, standing for a moment to listen before carrying on. One or two shouted catcalls. Most marched stolidly past, weighed down with weariness, casting a curious eye in her direction before hurrying on to home or pub.
Deborah stood at the back of the crowd, quietly watching. There were maybe three or four other women in the whole crowd, all in drab black or brown dresses, their faces heavy with weariness and work. Each seemed to know some man in the crowd and one, with a baby on her arm and two youngsters tugging at her skirts, was obviously trying to persuade her man to leave the meeting and come home. He ignored her at first, then pushed her away and when she would not go, smacked her back-handed around the face. She walked out of reach, weeping, but stood defiantly in the doorway of a nearby pub, waiting until the meeting should be over.
Rankin’s eloquence, Deborah saw, was as compelling as ever. He had already been speaking for some time when she arrived, and the crowd was quiet, fascinated, entranced. He was talking of the struggle they had had in Dublin, the poverty of families there and how it had been reflected in his own childhood. Of the way that, if they all combined, they would have the strength to make things better for the next generation of children . . .
Then he saw Deborah.
She was standing on a doorstep to see over the heads of the big men in front of her. His eyes, constantly roving through the crowd in front of him to compel their attention, suddenly caught hers. He faltered in mid-sentence, stopped, repeated himself, and continued to stare at her over the heads of the crowd as though he had completely forgotten what he was saying or where he was.
One or two men looked back over their shoulders, puzzled. They saw a strange middle-class lady, in a stained cream skirt, blue jacket and flowered hat, standing silently on a doorstep, watching. They nodded knowingly, muttered among themselves, and nudged their friends. More men turned to look.
With an effort, Rankin dragged his eyes from hers and refocused his mind on his speech. But the fire had gone from it. He stumbled to a lame, mechanical conclusion. Men had started to leave before he finished speaking. As they walked away up the road, their boots sparking on the cobbles, they glanced her appraisingly. Several laughed or whistled. Two tall young lads began to sing: ‘When Irish eyes are smiling . . .’
‘Deborah! Dear Lord, is it really you?’
He was there, in front of her. The same lean, dark gypsy face that she had loved. The sparkling green eyes searched hers and he flicked a long black lock of hair away from his forehead. He was looking slightly up at her because she was above him on the doorstep. She longed to lean forwards and fling her arms around his neck. But she dared not, because of the eyes that were watching them.
‘Still the same James,’ she said softly. She reached out and fumbled with the green silk scarf, setting it more neatly in place inside the worn cloth jacket. It was an oddly domestic, wifely gesture.
‘Why have you come?’ Was there pain in his voice, she wondered, or was he just embarrassed, because she had spoilt his meeting?
‘I couldn’t stay away. You’re a hard man to find, though.’
‘Am I? I thought all of London knew where I was by now. I must try harder.’
‘I’m sorry I spoilt your speech.’
‘What does that matter?’ He glanced over his shoulder, where the remaining dockers were leaving in dribs and drabs, watching them curiously. ‘Half of them have heard it already and, if they haven’t, they’ll hear it again. It doesn’t change so much.’
‘Still the same old agitator, then?’
‘Surely. You know me.’
He looked at her quietly and she thought, for a moment, he’s going to reach up and kiss me now. But instead he stepped back and offered his arm as a gentleman might.
‘Well, now you’re here, will you take a walk with me at least? I don’t know about you, but my belly’s cleaving to my backbone. Can I find you a bite to eat?’
‘You can indeed.’
She stepped down off the doorstep and took his arm. How courteous he can be when he wants to, she thought. When I am on his arm like this I feel honoured . . .
What will he say when I tell him?
That will have to wait, she decided. Just for the moment she felt so proud, like a young girl again, walking along this grubby London street on the arm of her handsome Irish lover. I wish I had been born poor, she thought, then I could have had a man like this of my own, without having to give up anything.
But that’s nonsense. Poverty’s not a blessing, it’s a curse. Look at those men pouring into that pub to drink away their wages. Think of the blow that man gave his wife in the meeting a minute ago. Remember all the miserable abandoned girls I saw in my work for the Irish Women’s Guild. My problems with Charles are nothing to theirs.
To me they’re overwhelming.
‘Where do you live, James?’
‘Me? In a terrace in Battersea, just now.’
‘Take me there.’
‘What? No, darlin’, that’s not a place for you. There’s four of us fellers in it. Dirty plates and washing everywhere, no carpets or wallpaper and rats sifting through the rubbish in the back garden.’
‘But I want to see it.’
‘What? No, I tell you. Holy Mary, are you trying to make me ashamed?’
She felt the tension in his arm, and she wondered if he would pull away from her. She did not cling on, but he relaxed and they continued up the street, arm in arm like man and wife or lovers.
Almost.
His other hand was fumbling in his jacket pocket. She heard the clink of coins. He said: ‘There’s a fish restaurant in a little street behind the Tower. It’s cheap but it’s better than anything round here. I’ll take you there, shall I?’
‘All right. Don’t worry about the money, James. I can pay.’
‘I said I’d take you, madam. Act like a lady, now.’
‘I am. An independent one, James. Have you forgotten that?’
‘I’ve forgotten nothing.’
He stopped for a minute at the corner of the street, and turned her to face him. His eyes searched hers, unsmiling. She looked back at him. It might have been seconds, or half an hour, she did not know. All those nights in Mrs McCafferty’s, the long walks along the quays beside the Liffey. The passion, the beauty of him — my Gaelic prince. And the laughter.
Hesitantly, she tried a smile. He shook his head, in wonder. ‘My fine English lady, Deborah — why did you come?
’
‘To see you, my lover. What else?’
‘And your husband? The Unionist soldier. You were to go back to him?’
‘I did. But I missed you. And — there were other things. It’s a long story. Come on. You said you were starving.’
‘I am that.’
They crossed the road, went down a few side streets, found the restaurant. He was right, it was cheap. Run, as far as she could tell, by a family of Greeks, whose chubby brown children played around a handcart on the pavement. An older boy, eleven perhaps, came to take their order. He had smooth olive skin, serious dark eyes, and a sudden gleaming smile when Rankin made him laugh.
Perhaps my child will look like that, she thought, with a pang of keen sadness. So dark and beautiful. So utterly unlike Charles.
At least the place was private. No dockers, no union men, no one he seemed to know. There were a few single men, eating quietly at plain wooden tables. Most had a book or a newspaper open in front of them. Probably he chose it for the privacy, she thought. Is that a good thing? Does it mean he wants to spend time alone with me? Or to keep me separate from the rest of his life? She wasn’t sure.
They were both hungry and ate ravenously when the food came. He began to relax. She told him of her travels round various docks during the day, and he laughed and related odd anecdotes about the places she had been.
‘I was lost more than once myself, when I first came here,’ he said. ‘But you’ve not told me how you come to be in the big city at all. I pictured you at that fine country house of yours in Ulster. What do you call it now?’
‘Glenfee.’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Oh, I went there, James, of course I did.’ But he has never been there, she thought. How remote our lives are from each other. There was bread and butter with the fish, and tea. She rolled the bread into little pellets between her fingers and ate it thoughtfully, between sips of hot, strong tea, while she wondered how to begin. Should she tell him now? She was so afraid of what he would say. He looked less tense than he had, but still not . . . entirely pleased to see her. ‘It’s partly because of my sister that I came.’