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Crooked Pieces

Page 24

by Sarah Grazebrook

Fred came tiptoeing into the room in his great bobby’s boots, for he had come straight from being on duty. Halfway across the room he tripped over the jug that Mrs Garrud had used to wash my hair and it went clanging away like a church bell. This made me laugh.

  ‘I was trying not to wake you. I cannot see a thing in here. Has Mrs Garrud got no oil?’

  ‘I preferred the candles.’

  ‘Oh. Well…’ He sat down. I looked at him. He was gazing at me as though he had never seen me before. I thought, so much for candles! Slowly he leant across and, taking my face in his hands, kissed me, oh so gently, on my cheeks and then my forehead. ‘Oh, Maggie, I have missed you so much.’

  ‘Yes, I missed you.’

  ‘The ladies told me what was happening. I did not know how to bear it. I almost went to church to say a prayer.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about church. Or chaplains. Not prison ones, anyway.’

  ‘No. They say you are to go to the country for a few days. Till you are recovered.’

  ‘Yes. I have got a bit thin.’

  ‘I’ve brought you some cake, and chocolate, and flowers. Mrs Garrud said I should leave them downstairs for now in case you were…Oh, God, Maggie, you look so…’

  I felt my hopes go crashing down like the prison windows. ‘So…?’ All those words – ‘ill, old, vile, ugly’, the lot.

  He reached across for my ice-cold hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘Beautiful. So beautiful. I am the luckiest man on earth.’

  The country is all I could have dreamt and more. I was driven down here by a very funny lady, Miss Holmes, who kept quipping all the way. She told me she had nearly landed Mrs Pankhurst in a ditch on her first outing, she was so nervous. ‘I’d taken a wrong turning and it was nearly dark and we were running late. Mrs P tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Vera dear, if we are not there in five and half minutes you will have two thousand women to answer to”, so I slammed my foot down just as we were going round a corner and skidded and if there had been anything coming the other way, we should both have been in paradise by now. Or whatever the alternative is.’

  ‘Holloway,’ I said and we just fell about laughing. I should so like to learn to drive a car.

  I cannot begin to describe my treatment here. If Holloway is hell, then The Mascot is paradise.

  I was greeted on my arrival by Mrs Cliffe, the housekeeper, Mr and Mrs Pethick Lawrence being still in town. ‘Welcome, Miss Robins. We are so looking forward to having you here.’

  She led us through to the parlour where we had a cup of tea and then a real maid came and showed us up to our rooms. Mine is decorated with wallpaper, yellow and white stripes. It is like something out of a palace. I have a great china bowl with a jug, patterned in yellow and blue flowers. My sheets are softer than velvet. I have my own dressing-table with a mirror, though this is a fright for I can see how freakish I am become, though my hair is shinier now and not falling out so much, so I have hope that I may yet improve.

  For our supper Mrs Cliffe brought us soup, then venison with peas and carrots and then cheese and afterwards, strawberries picked that very day, she said. To drink, we had wine. It was dark red like blood and I did not think I liked it much, but after a little while I started to feel properly warm again – the first time for weeks.

  I slept that night like I had never slept before. When I woke the sun was pouring through the curtains. For a good minute I could not remember where I was and then there was a knock on the door and the maid brought in a great jug of hot water for me to wash in. She poured it right into the bowl without spilling a drop and I thought, that might have been me if I had stayed with the Roes.

  I would have liked to talk to her but she moved so quickly and never once raised her eyes to me. I wondered if it was because she thought I was a nob, but then I caught sight of me in the mirror again and I knew it must be because I looked so awful.

  Miss Holmes had to drive back to London after breakfast but first she showed me all around the garden which is huge – nearly as big as a park, I would say, and with pathways overhung with roses, and lawns and trees and a special wooden house called a summer-house with cushions and chairs and bats and balls and skittles and all sorts. And a swing! I wonder if I shall dare to try it.

  There is even a sort of cage with a net strung across the middle which Miss Holmes says is for a game called tennis. You have to hit a ball backwards and forwards across the net. She says it is very jolly and if she comes down again before I go she will teach me how to play it.

  Inside the house is almost as beautiful as out. There is a great drawing-room with a piano. I tried a few notes when I thought there was no one about. After a while I could do a whole verse of Fight on, Women, for the fight is hard and long so I thought it would be a fine idea to sing it, too. I had just got to the third line when, like an echo, I heard another voice joining in. I never had such a fright. I spun round and there, standing in the doorway, was Miss Christabel, no less. I fairly leapt out of my seat.

  ‘Don’t stop, Maggie. You’re doing a grand job. How are you? You’re looking much better. We shall soon have you back on the road, shall we not? I trust you’ve read your newspapers this morning? Of course you have. I’m only joking. Where’s Mrs Cliffe, do you know? I need to bring some women down from Aylesbury. The hunger strikes are working a treat. Questions in the House. Do you know, there was a whole column in The Times yesterday? Saying how it can render a woman infertile if carried to excess. That should raise an eyebrow or two, wouldn’t you say?’ Fortunately I did not have to say, because she was gone.

  There is a library here. I have spent the whole afternoon examining the books and it seems to me that there is all the knowledge known to mankind contained among those shelves. I asked if I might borrow one and Mrs Cliffe looked most surprised. ‘Of course you may. You are a guest. You may do whatever you like.’ Well, I knew that could not be true but I thanked her all the same.

  It is very strange being here all by myself. I should be frightened in such a great house but it has such a warm, good feeling to it, as though it wants me to be here.

  After my supper Mrs Cliffe brought me some photographs to look at. They were of Mr and Mrs Pethick Lawrence when they were younger, in the garden of the house, surrounded by children – scrappy toothy little mites that might have come from Stepney.

  Seeing my surprise, Mrs Cliffe explained that they had first met when working in the East End and that, after their marriage, they would often bring whole charabanc loads of children down so that they could have a real holiday and feel some sunshine on their faces. I understood then why she found nothing odd about me.

  Before I went to bed she gave me a tiny thimbleful of a golden brown liquid. ‘To help you sleep, dear.’ I thought it must be medicine so screwed up my eyes and swallowed it in one. Lord, did it make me cough! When I was right again Mrs Cliffe said, ‘It’s probably better to sip it next time, Maggie. Besides, the master would be very put out if he saw his best brandy disappearing so fast, I can assure you.’

  So now I have had brandy. It is a very good drink and makes you glow like a furnace all through. Perhaps I should ask the prison doctor next time if he will prescribe some for me, just to stop the cold.

  Next morning after breakfast (hot rolls, jam, butter, cold ham, a boiled egg) I went back to the library. There were three or four newspapers laid out so I thought I should read at least one or Miss Christabel might not be so generous about it next time. I picked the smallest.

  I found a book of poetry by a man called Byron and after dinner (soup, a whole trout, potatoes and a strawberry jelly) took it down to the summer-house. I sat the whole afternoon with my feet on a little stool just reading and reading, with the sun dripping down on me like honey and a cool soft breeze whispering in the trees.

  Poetry is surely the finest thing in the world. There was one about a man locked up alone in prison for fourteen years. What could be more awful? And yet, when they finally came to let him out, he did not
want it. ‘Even I, Regained my freedom with a sigh’. I shall learn it by heart so that next time I am Close Confined I can repeat it to myself and maybe be a bit braver.

  At five o’clock the maid brought me out a pot of tea and some cream sponge cake on a tray. She asked if I would like a bath before dinner. I am sure she can be no older than I am but she was so respectful I hardly knew how to reply.

  ‘The Master and Mistress will be down about seven, I am to tell you, miss, and you will all dine together this evening.’

  ‘Oh no…’ I said, which was not at all what I intended. ‘Then I should like a bath very much, please.’

  ‘I will prepare one for you when you are ready.’

  ‘Oh… Thank you.’

  ‘And shall you like me to help you dress after, miss?’

  I do not know what my expression must have been. ‘No, thank you. I can do that. I used to be a maid.’ She looked up at me so strangely. ‘I know what you are thinking,’ I blathered. ‘You are thinking that cannot be true.’

  The girl blushed. ‘No, miss, truly. I was just wondering…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why anyone who could have been a maid would want to do what you do.’

  As I lay in my bath I thought, if only you knew.

  The days have flown by. I have put on near all the weight I lost and if I keep this up I shall need a wagon to take me back to London, not a car. I have written to Fred every day. I had hoped to have a reply from him, but I expect he is very busy. I have had two goes on the swing. It is the best feeling in the world to sway backwards and forwards with the sun on your back and a warm soft wind in your face. That must be how angels feel when they are flying.

  I have read four books of poems, one about a king called Arthur who lived at a magic time and had a round table where all his noble knights sat, so that no one could be greater than the others. We could do with a round table at some suffragette meetings, I am thinking, for there is a load of arguing goes on about who is in charge of who, although in the end, the knights quarrelled anyway and poor Arthur died and went away in a barge with three wailing queens.

  I have committed six poems to heart. I could not learn all the prison one for it is twelve pages long, but I know a good few verses.

  Mr and Mrs Pethick Lawrence stayed the weekend and Miss Sylvia came down on Saturday and we all played tennis. It is a wonderful game although I do not understand the rules one bit. Mr Pethick Lawrence was my partner and Mrs Pethick Lawrence and Miss Sylvia were against us. We won by miles. Miss Sylvia is a bit soppy at running and Mrs Pethick Lawrence could not find her eye-glasses.

  Then we had lemonade and sat under the trees to cool down and everyone said how well I looked, and how they were looking forward to having me back in the office. I said I was quite well enough to return but they said, no, a few more days would do me no harm, so here I am, feet up, book on my lap, sun in my hair. Maggie Robins, the Queen of Camelot. Oh, for my knight in shining armour.

  And he has come. The maid, whose name is Lucy! came hurrying out to the summer-house at half past ten this morning to say a young man had called and should she send him out or would I like to receive him in the drawing-room? Well, I beat her back for I rushed across that lawn like I was shot from a bow. Through the drawing-room, the library and straight out into the hall. Fred was standing with his back to me, studying a painting, light streaming on to him through the stained-glass window. His hair was full of flames. I just gazed. He turned and his whole face lit up like diamond sparks, mystic, wonderful. He held out his arms. ‘Maggie…’

  I think the maid was a bit shocked. I cannot help that. Queen Guinevere was just as forward when Sir Lancelot returned from seeking the Holy Grail. I think he was gone a bit longer than two weeks but it seemed like forever to me and anyway she didn’t have to watch.

  This has been the most perfect day. Mrs Cliffe asked if we would like to eat lunch (dinner) in the dining-room or should she pack us a picnic to take down to the lake?

  We sat by the water’s edge and Fred took off his shoes and socks and dipped his feet in, so I did, too, and after I had given over screaming for it was so cold, it was quite lovely. Fred tried to catch my foot between his own and we had such a tussle that I nearly fell in and had to smack him (but not hard) and he caught hold of my hand and kissed it, then my arm, then my shoulder, my neck…so now I am nearly a woman again. Oh, he is so lovely.

  I told him about King Arthur. He knew of him already and agreed that he was quite the best king who ever reigned in our country. I asked him if he thought women would have had the vote in Arthur’s time. He smiled and rolled on his back so that all his muscles sort of rippled like a beautiful wave. ‘They wouldn’t have needed it, Maggie. The men were theirs to command.’

  ‘Are you mine to command?’

  He reached up with his hand and touched the skin of my neck so it tingled like a firework bursting. ‘You know I am.’

  I lay down beside him. ‘Well, that’s not fair. We must be equal. That is what I am fighting for.’

  He tickled my nose with a piece of grass. ‘You are, Maggie. I would not vouch for your fellows.’ I would have questioned him about that but he seemed to think kissing would be better.

  After tea he had to catch a train back to London.

  He said he had received all my letters and had started to answer each one of them but could not get his thoughts out, so that is why he came to see me. I said I should be home soon for I could not bear to be away from him much longer. He made me promise that I would stay as long as I was ordered. I said, ‘Why? Am I still too ugly to come back?’

  He shook his head. ‘But if I could, I would keep you here forever.’ He didn’t say why.

  Happy. Today I am perfectly happy. I must remember how this feels in case I ever lose it.

  PART THREE

  1909–1910

  All summer long the war has continued, for it is a war now. We can no longer pretend that fine words and promises mean a thing. There will be no vote for us until the Asquith and all his slimy kind have been beaten.

  They complain that we challenge them at church, at dinner, when they are on holiday, but if they will not receive us in the proper place, what can we do? They cannot ignore our demands and expect us to respect theirs. Anyway, now they must go around with an army to shield them. Sneaking in and out of their meetings, scurrying away into the night like sewer rats. And so we go on with our protests: window smashing, taunting the politicians, storming Liberal assemblies. Paying the price. And the price is always prison. Prison, then hunger strike. Recovery, protest, prison. On and on.

  Some days I think I shall run mad. For where is it getting us, all this endless rebellion? I see women in the street, in the shops, through the windows of their homes, going about their business without a single care or thought for the struggle we are engaged in. Sometimes I want to cry out, ‘Look at me. See what they are doing to me. Look at my hair, my skin, my bones sticking through my garments. And it is for you. For you and your children. Why can you not stand by us? Why do you turn your backs?’ And then I think, they look so calm, so peaceful, so contented. Perhaps they do not need the vote after all. Women have lived for thousands of years without it. Why should they want it now? Besides, people do not welcome change, it seems to me, for I have only to move the chairs around in the office for everyone to start fretting and moaning about how much better it was before.

  Before. What is this magical ‘before’ when everything was fine and no one went hungry or died or got beaten with a truncheon? When did it exist? I think, never, unless in a poem like King Arthur and his knights. But we must not think of ‘before’. Only of the future. Tomorrow, when we have won. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

  Mrs Pankhurst is forbidden to go on any more deputations till the courts have ruled on what to charge her with. For once they have not found a law yet to counter her.

  The Women’s Freedom League has taken over the protests. Perhaps it is as well
they do it, for so many of us are so wrecked we have no longer the strength for such a thing. Once fine strong women trudge about like crones, dull-eyed, aching, frozen – always frozen. I would rather fall in the Thames in darkest winter than lie on a Holloway plank with no food inside me. It is like a block of freezing iron binding my ribs to my backbone. Sometimes I think my soul will fall out the other side. There is no blood flowing beneath my skin. Everything is frozen.

  I have been hungry before. At home there was never enough to fill us all, and Pa and my brothers got first pickings, but even at the worst times it was never like this. This endless starving of ourselves. It is so contrary to everything that life should be. To turn your back on nourishment, on all you need to live and keep on living. To watch your body failing bit by bit. My bleeding has quite stopped now but there is no baby in me, that I know. I told Miss Annie. She said hers had, too. It was a ‘side effect’. ‘Side effects’, it seems, are little fiddling nuisances that can occur as a result of certain actions. ‘Like getting your skirt splashed if you stand too near the gutter on a wet day,’ she explained. I wondered if losing your hair and your eyelashes and being able to count each rib in your body were side effects, too.

  One day as I was sitting in the park waiting for Fred to come off duty, a mother came by with her little girl, about four years old, I would guess. They stopped right near me and brought out a bag of crumbs to feed the ducks. As the child took hold of it, the bag split open and half the bread spilt on the ground so I bent down to help her pick it up, but when I held it out to her, she screamed and ran behind her mother’s skirts, and would not come out till I had moved away. I heard the woman soothing her. ‘No, no, Emily. She’s not a witch. It’s just the way she looks.’

  I fled home, scurrying along the pavements, eyes down, scarf round my head to hide my horrible face. Still I could see my scraggy fingers gnawing at my coat buttons. Once I glanced in a shop window and there I was, one, two, three of me. Three witches scuttling like rats to find a hole to hide in.

 

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