Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  ‘Miss Harkness, quick! Before I spill the damn stuff!’

  Ruth made up her mind. Feeling her arms like lead, she grabbed first Sarah’s free left arm, and then the other, and twisted them both behind her. Then she swung Sarah round to the right, so that she couldn’t kick the doctor because the table was in the way. She pushed Sarah forwards against it.

  ‘Let me go, you pig! I shan’t take any — oooooooh!’

  Armstrong shoved his hand across her face and forced her forehead back with the palm of his hand, so that she was staring upwards into the great meaty fingers across her eyes. At the same time he pinched her nose between finger and thumb, so that she couldn’t breathe. For a minute the three of them swayed backwards and forwards, but Sarah couldn’t kick the wretched man because of the table and she couldn’t bite him because his hand was too high up her face and she couldn’t hit him because Ruth held her arms behind her and worst of all she couldn’t breathe . . .

  She opened her mouth to suck in air and as she did so he poured the medicine down her throat.

  She choked and spewed half of it back. He caught most of it in the glass and when she breathed in again he poured it back into her mouth. Then he put the glass down and jammed his free hand under her jaw so that her head was tilted back even further and her mouth was closed.

  After another long minute she swallowed.

  He took his hands from her face.

  ‘All right, Miss Harkness. You can let her go now.’

  Ruth guided Sarah towards the bed so that she collapsed onto that rather than the floor. For a moment she slumped face down, ignoring them both. Martin Armstrong picked up the tray with the glass and jug and jar on it. Ruth gazed at him expressionlessly. He glanced down at the crumpled figure sprawled on the bed.

  ‘If you didn’t resist, everything would be much easier, Mrs Becket,’ Dr Armstrong said. ‘Take my word for it, I only give you medicine for your own good.’

  Sarah was sobbing, gasping for breath. She moved her head slightly and gazed up at him from the bed, speechless. There was blood on her chin from her lips and also a rust-coloured smear, from the medicine she had spat out.

  Dr Armstrong opened the cell door. He glanced at the table where there was some soup, some of it miraculously still in the bowl.

  ‘I should feed that to her if you can, Miss Harkness. It all helps to build up her strength, you know.’

  Then he was gone. Slowly, Sarah’s eyes focused on Ruth.

  Just survive until tomorrow morning, Ruth thought. Please, lady, don’t die on me now. She bent down and hissed: ‘Stick yer fingers down yer throat! Quick — you’ve got to puke it up!’

  As she touched Sarah’s chin Sarah jerked her head up convulsively and spat in her face.

  Then she turned her back and hunched into a ball on her bed, her head as close into the far corner as she could get.

  ‘Please, Mrs Becket! It may be poison. You’ve got to get it out if you can!’

  ‘I don’t want your help! Ever! Leave me alone!’

  For a long time Ruth stood watching her sob, but she could think of no more to say. To force the woman to vomit now after what she had helped the doctor to do, was impossible. Also, she could not remember if she had heard Dr Armstrong’s footsteps going away down the corridor, and she was obsessed by a fear that he might be outside.

  She mopped up the spilt soup on the table with her handkerchief, picked up the bowl, opened the door, and went out. There was no one there. She locked the door behind her and walked away down the empty corridor.

  22

  WHEN RUTH came on duty in the morning she did not know what she would find. Maybe an empty cell with Mrs Becket moved to the hospital wing, under the intensive care of Dr Armstrong. Or an unfortunate death in the night. An inquest — who had last seen the prisoner, what state was she in, why had the doctor not been called?

  Lies to write on an official form. Collusion with Dr Armstrong. What could she say that would not implicate herself as well as him? But surely he would not use a poison that could be easily traced back to him? Surely — unless he were in such a panic about what Becket might say that he would do anything . . .

  And then what could she tell Mrs Watson? I helped poison her, you see. I had to, to keep our plan secret. To save my own skin.

  She opened the cell door and went in.

  Sarah Becket sat on the bed and looked at her.

  White-faced, pale as a ghost with wide dark haunting eyes. Dazed, a little sleepy, hazy-looking. But a firmness too around the mouth, a grim smile that no ghost ever had. She stood up shakily, steadied herself with one hand behind her against the wall.

  ‘You’re all right then?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sarah nodded towards the bucket in the corner. ‘I took your advice. Some of it’s in there at least. If it was poison at all.’

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Strange. As though my legs don’t belong. But they work - look.’ She took a bold stride away from the wall towards the table, another — then sat down abruptly, hard on the stool. She swayed, clutched at the wall to steady herself, and started to giggle. ‘They don’t work very well, do they? It’s just that they seem so far away, and the floor is too . . . unsteady. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. Just concentrate, you’ve got to walk downstairs somehow.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sarah stopped giggling abruptly and propped her head in her hands. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll manage.’

  ‘You’ll have to. We won’t get another chance.’ A cocktail of relief and fear flooded into Ruth’s veins, making her hand tremble. So she hasn’t changed her mind, she thought. She plonked the bowl of porridge down on the table.

  ‘‘Ere. Eat this if you can. To give you strength. It may mop up what’s left of that medicine, too.’

  Listlessly, Sarah spooned some into her mouth. Then spluttered and choked. ‘Quick — water!’

  ‘‘Ere.’

  Ruth held the mug while she drank. Then Sarah’s hand came up and took it from her. Gently, but firmly. It was hard for her to grip it but she forced herself. Sipped, deliberately, then looked up. Not a kind look.

  ‘About yesterday,’ Ruth said. ‘I’m sorry, but I had to do it. You do realise that, don’t you?’

  A nod. As though the matter was acknowledged, dismissed for the moment. Then Sarah said: ‘I spat at you, too. That was unforgiveable.’

  Ruth flushed. ‘It don’t matter. I’ve had worse.’

  ‘Nonetheless, I’m sorry.’ Grimly, Sarah fed herself a second spoonful of porridge, swallowed. A third, and a fourth. Half the bowl.

  ‘When do we begin?’

  ‘When you’ve eaten and slopped out. Take your time.’

  All around them was the noise and clatter of prison, the slamming of doors and shouting. Anxiously, Ruth listened for the rattle of keys that would mean another wardress on the corridor outside. She was shaking with nerves and the need for hurry, but at the same time acutely aware that the woman in front of her looked scarcely able to carry herself, let alone a bucket or a bundle of linen. But it had to be done.

  Sarah finished her porridge and stood up, swaying slightly. To Ruth’s surprise she did not sit down again. She nodded towards the corner of the cell.

  ‘All right, I’m ready. Pass me the bucket, will you?’

  For a wardress to perform such a task was unheard of, but Ruth did it. It was a gesture of respect to the woman’s bravery, her determination to go through with the scheme after all. A recognition that they were in it together.

  It took a long time for Sarah to carry the bucket to the sluice, empty it, and return, but not quite so long, Ruth thought, as to attract attention. It was not unknown, after all, for prisoners to dawdle out of spite, or sullenness. And, on the corridors and landings around them, others were busy with their own duties. When they returned to the cell, Ruth recovered her normal loud assertive bawl.

  ‘Now, roll up the linen from your own bed first, and make a decent job of it. ‘Ollo
way don’t send things out all scrumpled up and ragged, whatever the men’s prisons do. We teach respect ‘ere! When you’ve done that yer can carry it down. Jump to it, Becket, if yer wants to go out and exercise later!’

  Sarah managed to get out into the corridor with her bundle of dirty sheets. She swayed and put one hand against the wall, but Ruth dared not help her. There were other wardresses and prisoners in sight — such a gesture would be bound to excite comment. Slowly, Sarah walked along the landing and down the metal stairs.

  I came this way yesterday, she told herself. It’s not so far. And if I fall I can just hold these sheets in front of my face and they’ll form a lovely soft pillow and I can sleep for a week, right here on the floor . . .

  ‘Becket! Stand up straight and stop dawdling! We ‘aven’t got all day!’

  Ruth’s harsh wardress’s voice awoke her. Just in time. Sarah realised she had been drifting off into a dream. She managed the rest of the stairs without mishap, concentrating on the clank of her heavy prison shoes on the metal staircase. I am a condemned woman going to execution, she thought. Mary Queen of Scots perhaps . . .

  For God’s sake pay attention! This is real, it’s important, you’ll never get another chance to escape. Don’t let your mind drift now.

  The laundry room was down a short passage at the foot of the steps. There were a dozen large wicker baskets in it. Eight of them were already full, four stood half empty. Sarah entered the room behind another prisoner in a grey arrow-striped dress, who threw a large bundle of sheets into the basket furthest from the door. Then she turned, glanced briefly at Sarah, and went out.

  Ruth came in behind her. There was no one else in the room.

  ‘Quick — there!’ Ruth hissed. She nodded at the further basket, which was now three-quarters full. ‘I’ll stand by the door.’

  Sarah walked to the basket, dropped her bundle of sheets in, and then clutched the side with her hands. She swayed, bowed her head.

  Ruth watched her, appalled. ‘What the ‘ell are you doing? Get in, woman — quick!’ She could hear footsteps clanging down the metal stairs at the end of the corridor.

  ‘I can’t!’ Sarah turned to her, a silly, desperate smile on her face. ‘It’s . . . too high, you see. The sides, I mean. We didn’t think of that.’

  ‘Great God Almighty!’ Ruth left the door and strode swiftly across the room. It was true. The woman was so weak and dazed with bromide or whatever it was that the side of a three foot wicker basket seemed like a wall to her, impossible to climb. She reached Sarah’s side and put her hand on her sleeve.

  ‘Bit slow on your landing this morning, aren’t they, Miss Harkness?’

  ‘What — beg pardon?’

  Ruth swung round as though she had been stung. Mrs Canning, her supervisor, stood in the door — a short stocky woman with iron-grey hair and forearms like legs of lamb. Panic-stricken, Ruth thought: she knows — she knew all along, she’s come here on purpose to trap us!

  ‘Oh. Yes, ma’am — it’s this suffragette ‘ere, coming off hunger strike. She’s still weak, can’t move so fast. I thought she was going to fall.’

  Mrs Canning glanced dismissively at Sarah and then glared at Ruth as though she were being deliberately obtuse.

  ‘Nonsense, girl. You’re not trying to mollycoddle ‘em, are you? If they’ve still got legs, they can walk. Bit of hard work’ll do ‘em good.’

  Behind her, two other prisoners came in. The first threw her sheets into a basket, turned, and went out. The second was slower, dawdling as though even the small liberty of the laundry room was a refreshing change to her.

  So we’ve failed, Sarah thought. I can’t even climb into the basket and anyway the room is full of people. She sighed, and began to move dispiritedly back towards the door.

  A loud noise echoed outside, from somewhere up on one of the landings. One of the usual appalling prison noises, which echoed in the vast central hall, Sarah thought. As though someone was banging a metal bucket, deliberately, as loud as she could. Not just one person, but several. And women screaming, chanting.

  ‘Just a minute.’

  Mrs Canning pushed past her, strode out into the corridor. Sarah could make out some of the words from upstairs now. They were like a song of joy to her.

  ‘Votes for Women!’

  ‘Justice!’

  ‘Free Mrs Pankhurst!’

  ‘Down with the Cabinet of Torturers!’

  And then the banging of buckets became more rhythmical, the accompaniment to a song:

  ‘I shall not cease from mental fight

  Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand

  Til we have built . . . Jerusalem

  In England’s green and pleasant land.’

  ‘What is it?’ Sarah glanced at Ruth and the other prisoner, stunned, then stepped towards the door. It was like a dream. Perhaps she would not need to escape anyway. Suffragettes were taking over the prison!

  ‘Just a minute, Becket,’ Ruth said. Her voice was loud, overbearing. ‘Ignore that row, whatever it is. Just get over there and ‘elp fasten these down, will you?’

  ‘But . . . it’s suffragettes . . .’

  ‘I said ignore it, Becket!’ Ruth stared at Sarah insistently, forcing her to meet her eyes. ‘Just get over ‘ere now and ‘elp me, will yer? Now!’

  The other prisoner in the room, a young, healthy girl with a pinched, disrespectful face, glanced at Sarah, clicked her tongue, and rolled her eyes upwards to indicate how deeply stupid any order from a wardress was. Then she made a movement as though to help Ruth herself. Ruth scowled.

  ‘Is your name Becket?’

  ‘No, but I thought . . .’

  ‘You ain’t in ‘Olloway to think, Raikes, you’re in ‘ere to do what yer told and be punished. Now git off up them stairs smartish!’

  ‘Charmed, I’m sure!’

  The young woman ducked the ghost of a curtsey, then flounced briskly out of the door before anything could happen. Ruth glanced out after her. Several wardresses were hurrying towards the landing where the noise was still going on. Mrs Canning was striding determinedly in the same direction, keys clanking at her hip. There was another prisoner at the top of another flight of stairs with a bundle of linen in her arms, but she was staring open-mouthed at the row, with no sign of moving. Ruth turned briskly back into the room and took Sarah firmly by the arm.

  ‘All clear. This one — now!’

  ‘But what is it? What’s that noise?’

  Ruth grinned. ‘Your friends, ain’t it? That Mrs Watson of yours gave me a note to take to ‘em, telling ‘em to make a hell of a row at nine-thirty this morning, and by God they have! She promised ‘em if they did they’d have something to crow about later, so we’d better make sure that’s right, ‘adn’t we? Come on, get in, quick!’

  The laundry baskets were large, about five feet long by three feet wide, and three feet deep, too — that was Sarah’s problem. The one they had chosen was about three-quarters full, with its lid propped open against the wall behind. But this time Sarah had more energy. She leaned against Ruth with one arm round her neck, lifted one leg over, then stopped. The long prison skirt impeded her. Something caught, held her back. The song on the landing ended. There were shouts, screams.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s my skirt — I can’t move.’

  ‘Hold still. It’s snagged on this buckle.’ Conscious all the time of the need for haste, Ruth wrenched, ripped it free. ‘There! Get in now. Bury yourself under them clothes!’

  ‘But if I can’t breathe?’

  ‘Make a place for your head. Hurry!’

  Ruth snatched a sheet from another basket and flung it on top of Sarah. Then another, while Sarah hunched herself into a ball, her arms around her face to hold the clothes back. Wide, scared eyes — footsteps on the stairs outside. Ruth seized the lid, dragged it swiftly down, ignoring the hand that Sarah raised feebly to prevent her . . .

  ‘Wait!’

 
But there was no time. Ruth had the lid down, one leather strap through the buckle, heaving it tight against the creak of the wickerwork. She looked round, a fine mist of sweat prickling on her forehead, under her arms.

  No one.

  The row upstairs was still going on. Cell doors were slamming, buckets clattering, women screaming. She could hear Mrs Canning’s loud voice shouting orders. I must get up there and help before it’s over, Ruth thought. People must remember I was up there, not down here.

  She fastened the second strap. A prisoner walked in with a bundle of sheets in her arms. Without looking at Ruth, she marched straight to the last empty basket and threw them in. Ruth hurried past her, ran along the corridor and up the landing towards the noise of screams and bangs.

  As she went, she glanced at the big clock on the wall in the hall.

  Nine thirty-six.

  In another quarter of an hour, if all went well, the laundry van would arrive. If Sarah’s departure hadn’t been noticed by then, the van men would come, carry her out, and she would be free.

  And, with luck, they won’t discover there’s just a rolled-up blanket on that bed in her cell for another two hours. By which time she’ll be out of the laundry.

  But if they find out I was alone with her down in the laundry room while this riot was going on, it won’t be just a rolled-up blanket that takes her place in that cell.

  It’ll be me.

  If I can’t breathe . . .

  For the first few minutes in the basket Sarah thought of nothing else. Her pulse raced, her breath came short and fast, there was a singing in her ears. She writhed and twisted among the linen, trying to get her head in a freer position where she could see light through the wickerwork, ignoring the creak of the basket around her. She moved her hand to try to push the lid, and a fold of old smelly sheet came with it, wrapping itself over her nose and mouth like seaweed. Dear God, I will die in here! She dragged her hand free and shoved hard against the lid but nothing moved, the straps outside held it firm. Sarah thought she would scream.