Crooked Pieces

by Sarah Grazebrook

‘Tomorrow we will find a clergyman.’

  ‘No.’

  He grasped my hand. ‘Because of The Cause? I would not stand in your way, Maggie. You know that. I believe in truth and justice, too, you know.’

  ‘I know you do. It is not that. Not just that. I cannot…’

  ‘Cannot what?’

  Cannot retrace my steps. Cannot undo the past. Cannot undo the future.

  I knew I had one hope. To make him hate me, so that when I left he would no longer care. I closed my eyes. ‘There is something much worse.’

  ‘Worse?’

  ‘I had thought never to tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  I told him then how I had killed my brother, Samuel. How, when Samuel was so ill with the measles, I had heard the Reverend Beckett say he would take me in his Bible class for a shilling a week, and my ma had replied, ‘I cannot find it, Reverend, for I have medicine to buy for my Samuel.’ And yet the very next week I was called up from my seat in the Sunday School and told I was to go home and learn two psalms by heart and the Reverend would test me on them on the Friday. And so I did, and when he came by I said the two he had set me and one more, ‘As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God.’ And he said that was very good, and I was to attend on Sunday after matins. And at five o’clock next morning Samuel died.

  Fred gripped my hand and squeezed it very tight. ‘Maggie, you are wrong. So wrong. Don’t you understand? This Reverend took you in his class because you are clever. Because he knew he could reap the rewards of his charity. Did he not use you to teach the younger children, to impress the Guardians on their rounds, to clean the classrooms after lessons?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘You did not kill your brother, Maggie. Do you truly believe your ma would, even for one mad second, have chosen a few scripture lessons above her child’s life? Is that all you think of her?’

  I started to cry. ‘But Samuel died. He died the next day. Because he had no medicine, only a poultice to ease the blisters.’

  ‘There is no cure for measles, Maggie. You live or you die. And if you are poor and have no medicine, most likely you will die.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because I have seen it, over and over. My father used to take me visiting. I feared it. Hated those stinking hovels full of illness and decay. I caught everything that was going. He said it would save me from it in later life. I used to think, what good is ‘later life’ if I die before I am twelve? But I did not. And they did. And if you have a life you must live it. If I believe nothing else, I believe that.’

  I curled up close to him and he wiped away my tears and kissed me and told me I was safe now. Would always be safe. Then he asked, ‘Have you never spoken of this before, Maggie?’

  ‘Never. Only to Frank when it happened.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said he felt very sorry for me and he promised to keep my secret.’

  Fred was silent for a while and then he spoke. ‘Just as you kept his?’

  My heart stopped. I looked at him and saw his eyes were full of kindness and love – and forgiveness, I suppose. ‘The things he did to you, Maggie, in return for that silence.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Lucy told me. Not in so many words, but she made it fairly clear she had taken your place. Besides, I think I’d already guessed. We used to see a lot of it when I was in the police – young prostitutes, trained up by their brothers or fathers.’

  I started to tremble. ‘Is that what you thought of me, then? That I would end up on the streets?’

  He stroked my cheek. ‘No, Maggie, I did not. And if you had, it would have made no difference to me. Can you understand that? No difference, because it’s the real you I love, not the packaging. The real Maggie Robins, who is unique and wonderful and braver than any woman I ever met. That is why you are a suffragette, and Lucy…’

  Still I tried to fight him. ‘You think she will end up that way? My own sister?’

  He shook his head. ‘I hope not, Maggie. All I can say is I think she enjoyed it more than most girls do, because she went looking for it everywhere.’

  I could not help myself. ‘Is that why you gave her that bracelet?’

  He stared at me in astonishment. ‘What bracelet?’

  ‘The blue one. She showed it to me the Christmas after you visited.’

  For a moment he said nothing. When he spoke it was like I had stuck a knife in him. ‘Is that all you think of me, Maggie? Is that all you think of my love for you? That I would buy your own sister with a bangle?’

  ‘No… I…’ My head was pounding. Say ‘yes’ now and it will be over. This is your chance. You are a suffragette. Loyalty. A dog cannot serve two masters. Even unto death.

  I covered my face with my hands. ‘I don’t know any more. I don’t know what I think. Forgive me…’

  Gently he drew my hands from my face. ‘The bracelet was for you. It was all wrapped up with your name on it. For Christmas.’

  I could hardly speak. ‘I sent you a card.’

  ‘I never got it.’

  I almost laughed. ‘No. Miss Davison managed to set fire to the pillar-box I had posted it in.’

  Fred frowned. ‘Is that the Miss Davison who…?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She was a brave woman.’

  ‘Yes. Very.’

  ‘But foolish. To think such an act would change the politicians’ minds.’

  The wheel began to turn again. ‘Sometimes desperate methods are necessary to achieve one’s aims.’

  Fred sighed. ‘You and I both know that is nonsense. All this vandalism just hardens people’s hearts.’

  ‘Perhaps if they get much harder they will crack.’

  ‘Perhaps. But they may not. And then where will all your militant sisters be? Violence is never the answer to anything, Maggie. That much I have learnt.’

  ‘What would you say if I turned militant?’

  ‘I should be very sad.’

  ‘But could you forgive me?’

  He was silent for a while. ‘I would forgive you anything. Everything. I always will. I cannot help myself.’

  I snatched my hands from his. ‘No. Don’t forgive me. Never forgive me. I do not deserve forgiveness. I am too… I am not…this “Maggie Robins” you talk about. It isn’t me. I’m not like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Brave and wonderful and…’

  ‘You are to me.’

  ‘I’m not, Fred. I’m not. I’m… I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Sorry for what?’

  What could I say? ‘For not being me. The me I wanted to be. For your sake.’

  He reached over and doused the candle, then he drew me to him and kissed me like his life depended on it.

  ‘You are the “me” I wanted, Maggie. From the night I saw you outside the Albert Hall. Running, your hair flying out in all directions, your cheeks flushed, your eyes shining. You were like a flame lighting up the night. Warming everything you touched.’

  ‘That’s beautiful. Like a poem.’

  He laughed. ‘One of my boys wrote it. I gave him four out of ten for being soppy. Now if you want a real poem…’ He rolled out of bed and went crashing around till he found the matches, a candle, an old battered book. It was the same as the one he had given to me that first Christmas. He turned to a page near the end. I saw that it was scribbled over – scribbled over with my name. And the writing was all blotched.

  ‘If I might see another Spring –

  Oh stinging comment on my past

  That all my past results in ‘if’ –

  If I might see another Spring

  I’d laugh today, today is brief;

  I would not wait for anything:

  I’d use today that cannot last,

  Be glad today and sing.’

  Be glad today and sing. We lay together in the dark, listening to each other’s breathing. W
hen I knew he was asleep I crept away. And went to burn down a man’s house.

  I remember so little of that night, and yet I remember everything. How my life was given to me then taken away.

  A great house, iron gates, walls reaching up forever. My frozen skin tearing on rusty wire as I slipped and slid, running, tripping, crawling, my heart hammering, bursting inside me. My hands shaking so I dropped the matches, scattered them like spillikins, could not find them, could not lay my fire. Crouched, scrabbling in the dark with the dank fog curling round me, soaking me, soaking everything. Then a light. Thin, relentless, blinding.

  There were two of them, local men, volunteers – I had been recognised at the station by the prison doctor, he who had first tortured me, the man with no blood, travelling on the same train. His duty to report me.

  There being no meetings organised, a watch had been put on all public buildings – the gallery owner remembered me and declared my behaviour suspicious. ‘Entering a private room and searching, possibly with a view to hiding a bomb.’ All local politicians had been notified and guards put on those of their residences found to be unoccupied.

  The men had watched me break in, tracked my progress through the grounds, with every bush hiding some savage beast, every cracking twig the lurch of a mantrap to my fevered brain.

  They took me by my arms and dragged me down the steps, laughing all the while. There they spread me on the manky grass and pulled my skirt high over my head. They took turns to ram themselves up into me, then turned me over and did it from behind. Laughing. The stink of their sweat, their rancid breath, slobber dripping from their gobs into my mouth, my nose, my eyes, callused hands scraping, twisting, squeezing. The pain like jagged glass.

  The judge sentenced me to six months, third division. ‘Intent to Endanger Life.’

  The prison doctor was a witness. He said I was a ‘known felon’ and that he knew me to be capable of violence. I said I knew him to be capable of the same. The judge ordered me to be silent. The men said they had caught me setting light to a pile of sticks by the main entrance to the house. Fortunately they had managed to douse the fire before serious damage could occur. The judge congratulated them on their bravery and public spirit and awarded them five pounds each from the Public Purse.

  It was night again when they took me away. I thought of Fred lying by the window, his arm curled round me, protecting me, keeping me safe, and how I had slipped away from him like water through his fingers. And I knew that by now he would have read the evening paper.

  I thought, he will not come looking for me again.

  The women here are kind to me. They beg me to eat for they cannot bear to hear the screams. I tell them not to worry for there is no more force-feeding. When I am too weak to stand, the prison must release me and I shall go back to London where I am sure a safe house will be found for me, at least until I have regained my strength. They shake their heads. ‘It’s not like that here, duck. The doctor enjoys himself too much to let folk go.’

  He came in the evening. I had not eaten for four days. I looked at his lizard eyes, flicking around the cell then over me as though deciding whether I was worth the trouble of devouring.

  He signalled to two of the brutes who brought in a jug of hot milk and some bread spread with honey. ‘I must ask you to eat this bread.’

  I said nothing. He poured some milk into a cup and held it out to me. ‘At least drink this milk.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘You refuse. Very well, I must warn you that, in the interests of the preservation of human life, I shall be obliged to feed you, whether you desire it or not.’ He nodded to the brutes who went out and came back with four others. They circled me like hungry crows. He opened his fat black bag. Uncoiled the rubber tube.

  I must have cried out for I remember them all looking at me in surprise. He signalled to the women to tie my hands and legs to the chair. I kicked out. I was screaming, ‘No. No. No. You have to release me. It is the law. You have to release me.’

  He cracked me across the face with the back of his hand. ‘I am the law in here, you stupid minx. Will you eat or not? No, I thought not.’

  And so it began again. I did not think there remained any part of my body that was not split inside and out, but he found more and tore them, too. He cranked my mouth wide with a metal brace, shovelled the poisonous tubing down my throat, and down and down till I thought he would drag my heart and lungs out with it. He flung the bread into the jug of milk, slurped it around then emptied it, all clods and chunks into the funnel. Down it slithered, like a fat white worm. Then I was sick.

  I have been sick every day since. They took me to the hospital. The matron was shocked. ‘Who has done this? Not the doctor?’

  I shook my head, though if I could have seen him blamed I would have. Later she spoke to him, but he said they were surface cuts and needed nutrition to heal them. So it went on. Torture. Sickness. Sleep – blessed sleep. Days. Weeks. I do not know. And then the dreams. Great red eyes streaking towards me like comets. The walls talking and when I looked they were covered in chocolate-coloured diamonds, stretching their sides till they were tall as the room and I could see the metal pegs holding them wide, ready for the tube.

  One day I saw a vicar standing near me, hands clasped in front of him like a shield. His nose was wrinkled so I knew I must have sicked up again. A nurse came in and wiped the floor around him. She brought him a chair and he perched on it and turned his face sideways so he wouldn’t have to smell the sheets.

  He cleared his throat so hard I was afraid he would set the walls talking again, for they are always worse when there is some commotion. I think he spoke to me. He was asking something about my treatment. Was I content with my treatment? I could not remember what ‘treatment’ meant so I smiled at him and he got up, looking mightily relieved and went away. The nurse came back for the chair but it was talking to me so I shouted she should leave it and the next minute, another nurse came with a spoon and gave me some syrup.

  It is dark all the time now. I do not know if it is day or night, winter or summer. They have stopped the torture but I am as sick as ever. And so tired. They have taken away the syrup so now I cannot sleep, but just lie here waiting for my stomach to stop heaving and it never does.

  The nurse says I have had a visitor. I ask, ‘Was it the vicar?’

  She says, ‘No, not him. He doesn’t count. A young man. Respectable-looking. He said he had to see you. I told him you were sleeping, but he came back next day and the next. He said you couldn’t still be asleep and that he would bring the press around if I didn’t let him in.’

  ‘What happened?’

  She straightens my sheets. ‘I told him you refused to see him. We can’t have press men wandering round the hospital, now can we? Now you just close your eyes and go to sleep.’

  I say, ‘Not any more. I shall never sleep again.’

  She looks unhappy. ‘Sometimes it does that to you,’ she says. I don’t know what.

  Today another doctor came to see me. He examined me most fully and when he had done he sat down by my bed and looked at me hard. ‘You are very lucky. A very fortunate young woman indeed.’

  I asked him how he came by that opinion.

  ‘You are strong. Ferociously strong. Anyone less robust would certainly have succumbed. It has been decided to release you early in view of your current condition. You would be wise to have a care what you get up to if you do not wish to inflict further damage on your unborn child.’

  So now a child is growing in me. Put there by a beast, a savage, a wild animal. Put there and no one to pull it out again. Maybe it is not a child, but some foul piece of vermin, for what else could such as they be father to? They. I do not even know which one. I do not care. It is there, sewn into me, spreading, swelling, sucking the life out of me from inside my own body. Inside. And I am outside. Once more. For no one knows what really happened that night. They do not know because I am too ashamed to speak of it, and
so they think it is my own doing. My own unchastity. My pitiful lack of virtue. I have shown myself unworthy of their ‘highest trust’. But they are not especially surprised. Given where I came from.

  Miss Christabel has sent word that I may not stay in our London office once the baby shows. She thinks it might upset the others.

  After all, Maggie, they are respectable girls and, though no one wishes to condemn your behaviour out of hand, I do feel a responsibility for their moral welfare, which is hard enough anyway from such a distance, and would not be helped by your continuing presence. I have therefore arranged for you to transfer to our Hornchurch branch at the appropriate stage, where you will be properly cared for until such time as it is all over.

  I have also asked their organiser to look out for a respectable couple who would be prepared to take the child and rear it as their own. I believe this is quite regularly done in those parts, so do not foresee any great problems in that department.

  In the meantime, I would ask you to refrain from activity likely to result in arrest, as it is vital you retain your good health for your own and your infant’s sake. Also bear in mind that it would be a lot harder to find prospective parents for a damaged child.

  I will close by sending you my very best wishes for a safe delivery and speedy return to Lincoln’s Inn where I am sure you will be much missed.

  Yours in the Cause,

  Christabel Pankhurst. Founder Member WSPU

  PS. Who knows? I may be there before you! Matters are finally going our way, and the use of drugs on prisoners has created a veritable storm for poor Mr McKenna.

  Mrs Garrud says my room will be waiting for me. She has given me some breathing exercises which she says will help with the birthing pains. I did not tell her there are no pains left which can hurt me. My body is like a broken shell packed full with other people’s foulness.

  She had asked that I might be allowed to stay, but it seems there are fears the press might learn of my condition and use it against Miss Christabel. ‘Above all, suffragettes must be seen to be morally beyond reproach.’ The Suffragette. May 1912.