Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  ‘Why?’ Ruth stared at the newspapers in confusion.

  ‘To sell, of course.’ The young woman frowned. ‘I’m sorry, you are Lucy Shaldon, aren’t you?’

  ‘No. No, I’m not.’

  ‘Oh, I do apologise. I’ve been waiting for her for twenty minutes and I was told she was tall, like you, so I just assumed . . .’ She laughed, a friendly, happy laugh that reassured Ruth despite her embarrassment. ‘You must think I’m a fool. I haven’t seen you here before, that’s all. Can I help you?’

  ‘Yes. I want . . .’ What did she want, really? Ruth had spent so much of her energy just deciding to walk through the door that she had not worked out exactly what she would say when she got in. She flushed and said: ‘I want to talk to someone about Sarah Becket.’

  ‘Oh.’ It was the young woman’s turn to look surprised. ‘But I’m afraid you can’t, you see. She’s in prison.’

  ‘I know. I’ve seen her there. That’s what I want to talk about.’

  ‘You’ve seen her in prison? Good heavens, I didn’t realise. When did you get out?’

  ‘I didn’t, exactly. I mean, I work there, I’m a wardress. Look, can I talk to someone — I mean, someone who knows her? It’s very important.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. Just stay there.’

  The young woman disappeared into the depths of the shop, and Ruth stood awkwardly beside the table with the pile of newspapers on it. All around her the women continued to talk and work energetically. Ruth glanced at the newspaper and saw the banner headline CABINET OF TORTURERS printed above a number of small photographs of the Prime Minister, Asquith, with Churchill and Lloyd George and his other government colleagues. She shuddered, and glanced away through the window. Two police constables were strolling along the pavement, observing the suffragette shop with considerable interest.

  Those are my people, she thought desperately. What am I doing in here? This is all wrong.

  Her feet began to edge their way towards the door. Then, when she had almost reached it, the cheerful fair-haired young woman reappeared, marching briskly towards her. Behind her was a middle-aged lady with glasses, and another woman. All three of them looked anxious and excited.

  ‘There she is, Mrs Watson,’ the young woman said. ‘Over there by the door!’

  ‘You say you saw her yesterday evening?’

  ‘Yes. I told you once already.’

  ‘At what time?’

  ‘Four o’clock, about. When we force fed her.’

  Alice Watson shuddered and, beside her, Deborah Cavendish’s eyes misted over with tears. The conversation was extraordinary, but so, from Deborah’s point of view, was the entire day. She had begun the day thinking about her letter from Charles, and spent most of the rest of it in the WSPU headquarters with Alice Watson, looking through their files on prostitution. The evidence, she thought, was depressing, but lacking precise, relevant details. The name of Dr Armstrong cropped up once or twice, but there was nothing definite, nothing completely damning that would have held up in court. She began to wonder if Mrs Watson was blaming the man unjustly.

  She had come to the suffragette headquarters with Mrs Watson expecting long tiresome arguments about the rightness of militant tactics, and had prepared what she thought were clear reasons why burning post boxes, smashing windows, and pouring weedkiller on golf courses — not to mention slashing the Rokeby Venus — were bad ideas. But none of that had been necessary. The women she had met had been friendly, open, talkative, but also brisk, extremely busy, and unnervingly sure of themselves. Since she was Sarah’s sister, and had come with Alice Watson, they assumed that she supported their cause. In any case, to them, the necessity for militant action was so transparently obvious that it was not worth discussing. More important were the day’s press, the points they were going to make in speeches that afternoon, and the most cogent articles from The Suffragette.

  When she had read everything Alice Watson had to show her, Deborah sat for a while in an upstairs room, staring into space and thinking. She supposed she ought to be thinking about Sarah. Clearly Sarah was in a terrible position if this Martin Armstrong was as bad as Mrs Watson thought. But Deborah didn’t see what she could do about it, other than warn Jonathan. And then what? The problem kept drifting away into the distance, and Deborah thought instead about Rankin walking away from her with his hands in his pockets, and the baby, growing inside her.

  I am surrounded by women who might help, she thought despairingly, but I daren’t say a word. I don’t know any of them well enough and anyway, they might despise me. None of them would be so foolish or immoral as to do what I’ve done and get found out. And what help could they offer except tea and sympathy and gossip later behind my back?

  I’m on my own.

  No, you’re not. There’s me.

  For the first time ever she thought of the baby inside her as the person it would become. It would have blue eyes at first and black hair, and then maybe the hair would stay black and the eyes shade to green. The skin would be sallow and smooth like Rankin’s — and, whatever I’ve done, it will love me.

  We’re on our own, my baby. You and me against the world. Oh God what will Charles say when I tell him?

  Suddenly, a young fair-haired woman, Mary Lemprier, to whom she’d been introduced earlier, burst into the room. She was bubbling with astounding news. A prison wardress from Holloway was actually downstairs, and she had seen Sarah Becket! Deborah gazed at her vaguely, and then dragged herself back into the present. This is what it is like, she thought, I remember with Tom. The longer the pregnancy goes on the more distant everything around you becomes. Of course it’s very important that someone has news of Sarah but I can’t feel it.

  A few minutes later she found herself sitting with Mrs Watson in a little gloomy office at the back of the building, staring at the newcomer.

  The girl did not fill Deborah with confidence. She sat on the edge of her chair as though she were about to leave. She wore a long black coat and had a scarf over her head. She looked unusually big, almost mannish, with a slightly stooped back that conveyed an air of embarrassment. But she also seemed pathetically anxious to speak; and, if her story was true, her embarrassment was hardly surprising.

  Mrs Watson asked: ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Forcibly feed Sarah Becket.’

  ‘Why? ‘Cause she refused food, o’ course. And because it’s doctor’s orders.’

  ‘Doctor’s orders?’

  ‘That’s what I come to tell you about.’

  Slowly, hesitantly, Ruth Harkness told her story. Of the two women in front of her she preferred the older lady, the woman in the green dress with the round glasses and grey hair. She had a manner like an old-fashioned schoolteacher, Ruth thought; she would stand no nonsense but you knew where you were with her, you could trust her. The other one, the fair-haired lady in the fine grey dress, upset her. She had been introduced to Ruth as Sarah Becket’s sister, but she was as unlike the defiant woman in prison as she could be. She thought of Sarah Becket as slim, haggard, with a pale suffering face and haunting dark eyes that could flash and mock and make you tremble; this woman opposite her now seemed quiet, anxious, almost afraid of what Ruth had to say.

  Ruth described the forced feeding, and told them what Sarah had said to Dr Armstrong about her husband, and what she had heard from the women in the collecting cell about the house in Red Lion Street, Hackney; and how she had followed her husband to his premises in Kensington and seen Dr Armstrong come out and Jonathan stay in.

  ‘But why did she go there?’ Mrs Watson asked. ‘I mean, what led her to suspect him in the first place?’

  ‘She said she got a letter, ma’am, from some prostitute. Warnin’ ‘er to keep you suffragettes away from Dr Armstrong because her husband was involved.’

  ‘Dear God,’ Deborah breathed. ‘The poor thing.’

  ‘Did she say where that letter is now?’ Mrs Watson asked.

&
nbsp; ‘No, ma’am. Didn’t mention it.’

  ‘Pity,’ Mrs Watson said. ‘Nevertheless, that explains it.’ She glanced at Deborah.

  ‘Explains what?’

  ‘Why she didn’t tell me what she was planning to do. Why she slashed the picture and got herself arrested instead of talking to me first. If we could have exposed the person who was running these bawdy houses it would have had enormous political impact and done far more for our cause than slashing the painting. But if — God forbid — Sarah believed her husband was involved in any of this, then of course she would have been shocked. Emotionally disturbed, perhaps. She wouldn’t have been able to control what she was doing.’

  ‘Dear God!’ Deborah sat down, stunned. She didn’t want to believe it but it was too likely, too inescapably true. All men betrayed their women, in the end. Even Jonathan. Poor, foolish Sarah. No wonder she had taken up the knife. She must have been so shocked she couldn’t think what else to do.

  ‘That’s what the doctor says, too.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Ruth’s flat tones dragged their attention back to her. ‘Dr Armstrong. He says she’s emotionally disturbed. Suffering from paranoid delusions, he calls it. It’s his way of saying her whole story’s a pack of lies. That’s why he says she’s insane.’

  As Ruth explained Dr Armstrong’s diagnosis, and the subsequent conversation she had had with him about it. Deborah leaned forward slowly on the table, resting her head in her hands. Tears were trickling down her cheeks but she made no effort to wipe them away. Her eyes were still fixed on Ruth.

  ‘It’s monstrous,’ Mrs Watson said. ‘If Sarah is mentally ill he should release her immediately!’

  ‘He’s got an explanation for that, too,’ Ruth said. She explained about the bromide treatment.

  ‘But that — bromide?’ Deborah said. ‘Surely that’s not a treatment for mental illness?’

  ‘Dr Armstrong says it is. It calms ‘er down, he says. Stops her being hysterical, like.’

  ‘But I remember — a woman was driven mad by it recently. I read it in The Times. She was being treated with bromide for something and she became delirious because she was given too much. Her husband thought she was losing her mind. It’s poison — she might have died if they hadn’t stopped.’

  ‘I don’t know nothing about that,’ Ruth said. ‘I think Armstrong gives it to ‘er so that she don’t kick so much when ‘e shoves the tube in to force feed her. But it didn’t do ‘er much good last night, because she sicked it all up again.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Deborah was on her feet again. ‘He may have damaged her already, for all we know! The man’s trying to poison her!’

  ‘We don’t know that for certain, Mrs Cavendish,’ Mrs Watson said. ‘But it is a possibility. He might do that, if he is truly guilty of introducing these children to brothels, and afraid that he will be found out.’ She turned to Ruth. ‘Does he think that only Sarah knows about this?’

  ‘That’s what she told ‘im, yeah. Only ‘im and me ‘eard what she said. And he’s explained to me that it’s all her madness, her paranoid delusion, ‘e calls it.’ Ruth paused, and looked at the two women in front of her cautiously. ‘I come ‘ere today because I didn’t really believe that, and although I don’t approve of militant suffragettes, I think child prostitution is worse. What I want to know is, do you think this story is true, or is Sarah Becket mad, like what ‘e says she is?’

  ‘Of course she’s not mad!’ Mrs Watson said. ‘And I can assure you, young woman, that this story of the child prostitutes is absolutely true. Some of us have been investigating it for some weeks. Only definite evidence to link Dr Armstrong with some of the premises was missing — and now it seems we have it. I am deeply grateful to you.’

  Ruth nodded. She looked at Deborah carefully. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Cavendish. I know it sounds dreadful, like, but it’s true.’

  ‘It’s more than dreadful!’ Deborah said. ‘Her husband, an MP — to do that with a child!’

  There was a long silence. There was the sound of typing, busy discussion, and laughter from the rooms all around them. The three women looked at each other, and shared Deborah’s grief.

  At last Mrs Watson said: ‘There is only one way to find out the truth of this, and that is to get Sarah out of prison. And if she is being force-fed and possibly poisoned as well, as you say, then the sooner we do that the better.’

  ‘But we can’t!’ Deborah said. ‘You heard this girl, she’s a prison wardress and she ought to know. Sarah’s being kept in for six months! And we aren’t even allowed to visit her, let alone get her out!’

  ‘We’ll run a campaign,’ said Mrs Watson. ‘We’ll tell this story on the front page of The Suffragette. We’ll have mass demonstrations and a march on Holloway. They’ll have to let her out!’

  ‘She’ll be dead by then.’ Ruth’s hard, flat voice brought them up short.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve seen ‘er. She’s fainting away already, with the strain of it. She can’t keep any food down. Any other doctor would let her out, but not Armstrong, not if this story’s true, as you tell me it is. He’d rather have ‘er die, wouldn’t ‘e, and then the evidence is gone. And without the evidence, your story in The Suffragette would be all lies and no proof, wouldn’t it? Libel they calls it — he could sue you for thousands. And I can’t tell yer if her story is true or not, I can only tell yer what she told me. If she’s dead, ‘e’ll just say she was mad, and sign a paper to prove it.’

  ‘So what do we do, then?’ Deborah asked. ‘Even if she is a little mad, even if part of her story is wrong. Sarah’s in terrible danger. Surely there’s some way we can get her out?’

  ‘From ‘Olloway?’ Ruth shook her head, slowly. ‘You ain’t never been a prisoner, ‘ave yer, Mrs Cavendish? I’ve been over every inch of that building and I can assure you there’s ain’t no way anyone can escape. No way at all.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ Mrs Watson said, slowly.

  They both turned and looked at the small, governessy woman in surprise. There was a slight, grim smile on her face.

  ‘You may not realise it, Miss Harkness, but militant suffragettes are extremely resourceful people. Some of us have got into the House of Commons, and 10 Downing Street, and even Buckingham Palace before now. And we have put quite a lot of thought into how to get out of prisons, as well as into them. It is difficult, I grant you, but then we have never before had the advantage of a prison wardress on our side.’

  She paused. The little beady eyes behind the round glasses weighed up the younger woman carefully. Watching her, Ruth Harkness had the feeling that she was back at school, in her headmistress’s study.

  Except that her headmistress had never had quite the same glint of mischief behind her spectacles.

  ‘If you are on our side, that is, Miss Harkness,’ Alice Watson went on. ‘I am asking you to risk your job. But it is, after all, a case of saving a woman’s life.’

  21

  SUFFER . . .

  It was so hard to write, now. It had taken Sarah most of the morning to mix the paste. First she had to collect the dirt from her cell floor with bare hands — and there was very little of that because every day she was made to sweep out her cell with a dustpan and brush. She had to scrabble with cracked fingernails around the feet of the bed, and in the corner where there was a crack between the flagstones and the woodlice lived, to find any. Then, when she made a little pile, she scooped it into a hollow in the flagstones, and crumbled bits of the grey gritty prison soap on top of it. Then she took the metal cup which was chained to the wall and poured water into her palm.

  Water . . .

  Her eyes focused on it, yearned for it. Her tongue, which had begun to swell in her mouth, touched her dry cracked lips and her hand moved towards her mouth.

  She stopped. Deliberately, she knocked the cup over.

  She had begun the thirst strike last night and this was her first crisi
s.

  She watched the water trickle down the walls and flow over the floor and she bent down on her hands and knees and did not lick it up. Instead, she brushed it away from the hollow in the floor where her pile of soap and dirt was, and only added a few drops at a time from her finger ends to mix the paste.

  Damp, black, sticky — it would do.

  She dipped her slate pencil in the ink and wrote on the wall.

  Suffer . . . the little . . . children . . . to come . . . unto Me.

  It was hard work. The paste had not quite run out when she finished so at the end she scrawled a little cross. Then her head started swimming so she had to sit down. There were spots dancing in front of her eyes and her pulse was beating so strongly through her head and neck and chest that she felt her skin was quite transparent.

  She lay on her bed, waiting for the attack to pass, and thought, this is what it is like, this is what I have to suffer to win. I have to win for the children.

  In the long cold echoing nights she had thought a lot about the children. She began to daydream about them now. They were all girls, the children of the brothels, with half-formed breasts and cheap gaudy clothes and hard staring eyes that she imagined were too frightened to weep. In her dreams she opened the door of the brothels and took them away and they were with her in the garden of a beautiful house in the country, walking across a lawn with daffodils around the edge, and one of them laughed and called her Mother. And she wondered if any of them were her own children, the ones who had miscarried. Then a man came out of the house, a tall handsome man in black, and she turned her back and grabbed the girls by the hands and ran.

  I will never be anyone’s mother, she thought. Not now. If Jonathan comes near me ever again I’ll kill him.

  The cell door crashed open. A wardress stood there. Big, burly, pasty faced. Ruth Harkness, my friendly torturer. Sarah stared, and said nothing. Prisoners were supposed to stand up, but she couldn’t be bothered. Anyway, she felt too weak.