by Vicary, Tim
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. ‘Olloway 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?’<
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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.
‘Over there, and be quick about it. The van'll be 'ere soon, and this lot's not 'alf full.’
A strange wardress's voice came to her and somehow in a moment the panic was gone. The calm bullying certainty of it — I don't want to return to that, she thought. That and the foul medicine of that doctor. I have to take this chance — if Ruth Harkness is right, I'm lucky to be still alive.
Further away, she could hear shouting and banging from the landing upstairs and she thought: those brave women will be punished for this if I call out now and the escape is discovered. And Ruth Harkness will be locked up, too. I will have betrayed someone who's risked everything for me — and let down all those who are waiting outside, just because I can't bear half an hour or so in a basket. Look, I can breathe, it's easy. There's air coming through these gaps. I can even see a little — is that dark shape a woman's dress?
For a moment she stared but she could see nothing distinct, and it made her eyes ache, so she gave up and closed them. It was not uncomfortable here, among the bundled sheets and dresses, when she got used to it and wriggled free from the hard lumps that one or two had tangled themselves into. Her legs were bent awkwardly, but she had her arms in front of her, humping a bundle of cloth under her head like a pillow. For a while she listened intently, taking in every nuance of sound from outside. The noise upstairs carried on for a while, grew louder and then stopped. A couple more prisoners came into the room — she heard the slither and slop of their ill-fitting shoes across the floor, the flop of the sheets as they threw them into the other baskets, the creak as those baskets were closed and strapped tight. Then silence.
She was alone.
Sarah was so tired . . . The laundry room was warmer than any she had been in for days, the sheets softer than her bed at home. Without intending to or even realising it, she fell asleep.
It was the longest morning of Ruth's life.
The riot on the upper landing went on for nearly quarter of an hour. Ruth had passed Mrs Watson's message to only two suffragette prisoners, but they — bless them, she thought now — had managed to pass it on to three more. These five women, all of whose cells were open for the change of linen, had seized sluice buckets, cups, brooms and mops, and marched up and down the landing banging and shouting out songs and slogans as loud as they could. The other prisoners, startled and amused, egged them on, and Mrs Canning and her warders found their way obstructed by women carrying piles of linen and offering to help in the most useless way possible.
When Ruth arrived on the landing, the five suffragettes had not only linked arms across the corridor, but thrust two broom handles behind their backs, which they gripped with their elbows while they clasped hands in front. This had the effect of making them into a completely solid straight line which stretched right across the corridor. No one woman could be moved in any direction unless all the other five went that way, too — and this they resolutely refused to do.
Singing and chanting slogans all the way, they backed slowly along the corridor towards the sluice, and jammed themselves across its doorway. All the wardresses were in front of them; there was only one elderly prisoner behind in the sluice itself, and she sat there on an upturned bucket, cackling helplessly with laughter.
Eventually, by dint of much pushing and slapping and punching, the five women were disentangled and locked into their cells. Ruth was quite prominent in the struggle, and frogmarched one of the ringleaders, Mary Lethwaite, along the corridor past Mrs Canning, who was outraged.
‘Shameless baggage!’ Mrs Canning yelled. ‘You ain't fit to be in a decent prison like Holloway. You ought to be whipped!’
‘Votes for Women!’ Mary Lethwaite yelled back. ‘Set us free, then, if you don't like us here. We'll get out anyway, so save yourself the trouble! Wait till this afternoon, fat cow!’
For a terrible moment Ruth thought that Mary, carried away by the excitement, might give the game away. Ruth swung her roughly by the arm so that she cried out with pain, and then, when she had slammed the door behind them in Mary's cell, said breathlessly: ‘Sorry if I 'urt you. Thanks. It was magnificent!’
Mary rubbed her arm, grinning ruefully. ‘It was fun! But did it work? Did she get out?’
‘Don't know yet. Keep your trap shut for another couple of hours, whatever you do. Then you can claim it was all your own work.’
‘Without knowing how we did it, eh?’ Mary said.
‘Yes. Best way.’ Ruth turned quickly, went out o
f the door and locked it. Mary and the other woman had been asked to make a disturbance to cover Sarah's escape, but they had not been told how she was going to get out. It was best like that, Ruth thought, and Alice Watson had agreed. She and Mrs Watson had discussed the plan two nights ago, slowly and painstakingly going through every detail. Now they would see if those plans would work out.
On the landing Mrs Canning was hot, red-faced, angry.
‘Shut the whole lot of them up in their cells for an hour and let them cool down. Blasted suffragettes!’ she muttered furiously. ‘Has that laundry gone yet?’
That was what Ruth wanted to know, but she dared not go down to find out. Instead, she went across to her own landing, where Sarah's cell lay quiet, the door closed, one blanket rolled into a sausage with another spread over it, in the hope that a casual observer might think the prisoner was asleep. She locked the door and went along the corridor to where a window looked out towards the main gates. They were just closing. Did that mean the laundry van had just gone out? She couldn't see, but she hoped so.
For the next half hour nothing unusual happened. Ruth let out one or two of her trusty prisoners and set them to cleaning the floor. The noise in the prison died down. Ruth began to breathe more easily.
It was Alice Watson who convinced me to do this, she thought. I was impressed by Sarah Becket, of course I was, but I wouldn't have done it for her alone. That Mrs Watson has persuaded me to change my life.
She had sat with Alice Watson for hours in the little upstairs office in Clements Inn, and afterwards had accompanied her home. Mrs Watson lived in a small top-floor flat in Blackfriars. It was neat, comfortable, unpretentious, with soft green curtains, faded brown carpets, and photographs on the walls of groups of young women in white dresses and pinafores with high white bonnets with badges on. In the middle of each group sat a proud, younger version of Alice Watson.
Ruth had been nearly right when she thought Mrs Watson was a headmistress. In fact she had once trained nurses in hospital. She had probably been very good at it, Ruth thought. Certainly she found the woman easier to talk to than any other middle-aged lady she had met for years.