by Valerie Wood
‘Smith, I’ll bet. He’ll not drop ’charges.’
Mikey stared at him, then licked his lips. ‘Will I be hanged?’
Tully gave a harsh laugh. ‘This your first time?’
When Mikey nodded, he said, ‘No. But you’ll get sent down; mebbe a month. You’ll not like it. Nobody does first off.’ He yawned, a great gawping yawn showing blackened teeth. ‘But you get used to it. I even know some folk who break ’law deliberate like, just to come inside for a bit.’
He lay down on his side, facing Mikey. ‘Wake me up in time for breakfast. Tell ’warder I’ll have a nice slice o’ bacon wi’ my bread, and a hot cup o’ tea.’ He closed his eyes, then opened one of them. ‘I’ll buy your bread off you if you don’t fancy it. Not everybody does when mice have been dancing over it.’
Mikey was familiar with mice. Their room at home was infested with them. The mice were as hungry as the family was. ‘I’ll want it,’ he muttered.
He didn’t sleep any more but watched the daylight creeping round the cell and listened to Tully’s snoring. The man had rolled over on to his back and with his head back and his mouth open, his whistles and snorts might have woken the dead.
Wonder what he’s in for? Dare I ask him? Suppose he takes offence if I do? He could beat me up and no one would know. They could find me throttled when they bring our bread and water. He kept an anxious eye on his cellmate, too wary to relax his guard.
Tully woke with a start when the constable rattled the door. He was instantly alert, though his eyes were half closed as he peered at Mikey; then he put his finger to his mouth.
‘This lad’s sick,’ he muttered to the officer. ‘Kept me awake wi’ his belly-aching. You’d better fetch him some more bread afore he passes out on you. It’ll not do if he collapses in ’dock. You’ll get ’blame.’
‘Not me, Tully. I’ve onny just come on duty.’ The constable gave a wry grin. ‘You tried that on last time you were in.’
‘Oh! Is it you, Benton?’ Tully pretended he couldn’t see and screwed his eyes up at the warder. ‘Well, how ’andsome you’ve become. I didn’t recognize you. What happened to that warty nose and bloodshot eye?’ He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. ‘Oh, yes! Sorry, my mistake. They’re still there.’
Benton shoved a metal tray containing two cups of water and two slices of bread towards Mikey. ‘Don’t get mixed up wi’ him,’ he warned as if Mikey had had a choice in the matter. ‘He’ll lead you into worse trouble than you’re in now.’
Tully grabbed a cup and took the thicker slice of bread. ‘Shove off, Benton. We don’t want ’likes o’ you in here wi’ us. Lets ’tone of ’place down.’
Mikey wanted to laugh, feeling a sneaky admiration for Tully’s bravado. How dare he insult a police officer in that way? Wasn’t he scared of what the man might say when he came up before the magistrate?
‘Listen.’ Tully took a gulp of water and dropped his voice when the warder had left. ‘When you go up afore ’bench, plead guilty and mitigating circumstances. Can you remember that?’
‘Don’t know.’ Mikey wasn’t even sure he could say it, and he certainly didn’t know what it meant. ‘My ma said I had to plead guilty.’
‘Wise woman, your ma.’ Tully chewed on the dry bread. ‘What about your da?’
‘Dead. Lost at sea.’
‘There you are then! Tell ’em you’re ’chief breadwinner; your ma is sick and so on. Give ’em a sob story.’
Mikey nodded. ‘I was going to.’
‘Oh!’ Tully seemed peeved. ‘Don’t need my advice, then. Got it all planned.’
‘Oh, no.’ Mikey didn’t want to upset him. ‘I’d be grateful for any advice. It’s just that my ma sent a message and said I had to plead guilty.’
Tully continued chewing and gazed thoughtfully at Mikey. Then he glanced at the slice of uneaten bread in Mikey’s hand. ‘Don’t you want that?’
Mikey suddenly felt sick. ‘No.’ He handed the bread to Tully. ‘You can have it if you like.’
‘For free?’ Tully grabbed it. ‘You’re a green lad, Quinn. Don’t ever give owt away. There’s a price for everything.’ He bit into Mikey’s breakfast and chewed, his eyes constantly on him. ‘If we get sent to ’same place, I’ll look out for you. Just mention my name and you’ll be all right. Just say you’re a pal o’ Tully’s and you’ll gain respect.’ He nodded his dark unkempt head. ‘Don’t forget, now.’
Mikey was taken into the court room at ten o’clock. He’d rinsed his hands and face in a bowl of cold water and patted down his unruly hair. He was shaking with nerves and disbelief that he was in this situation. He had friends and acquaintances who regularly stole food or small items that they could sell, and he had heard of some notorious people of the district who had stolen pocket books, gloves, and once a gold-topped walking cane that had been laid down for a moment whilst the rightful owner contemplated a purchase.
Mikey had thought these stories mildly amusing and considered that the loss of such possessions was solely due to carelessness. If he had been the owner of similar items he would have held on tight to them so that no thief could ever steal them. Now, however, amusement had been replaced by fright as he stood trembling and handcuffed in the dock.
He answered to his name and the charge was read out. ‘There is a witness to this incident, I understand,’ the magistrate, Mr Zachariah Pearson, commented. ‘Is Mr Kendall in court?’
Mr Kendall was in court and Mikey saw the man who had stopped his headlong flight take the stand.
‘You saw what happened, Mr Kendall?’ the magistrate asked. ‘I believe you were able to apprehend the accused?’
‘Indeed I was.’ Kendall lifted his sharp nose and gazed at Mikey. ‘And if I hadn’t done so, there might well have been a more serious charge.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Mr Pearson enquired. ‘Was the defendant intent on other misdoings?’
‘I believe that in attempting to make his escape, he would have stopped at nothing, nor let anyone stand in his way,’ Kendall answered. ‘My young daughter was in his path and he was heading straight towards her; had I not seized him he might well have caused her serious injury.’
No. No, I wouldn’t, Mikey thought. I had seen her. That’s why I didn’t swerve.
‘In my opinion,’ Kendall continued, ‘he is a dangerous young criminal.’
‘Yes, possibly.’ The magistrate pondered. ‘But this is his first appearance and we cannot, as you well know, Mr Kendall, charge someone with what they might or might not have done had the circumstances been otherwise.’ He took a deep breath. ‘So the charge stands at stealing a pair of rabbits from Mr Smith the butcher. Has Mr Smith had trouble from Quinn previously?’
‘He says he’s seen him hanging about, sir,’ the arresting constable said. ‘But he’s never caught him stealing before.’
‘Not caught him,’ Mr Pearson queried. ‘Does that mean he has seen him stealing?’
‘No, I don’t think so, sir. It’s just a manner of speech.’
‘What have you to say for yourself, Quinn?’ The magistrate turned and frowned at Mikey. ‘Do you plead guilty to the charge?’
‘Yes, I do, sir.’ Mikey spoke in a low voice. ‘And I’m very sorry. I’d offer to pay ’butcher back but I’ve no money. I’ve been trying for work but haven’t been able to get any. My ma’s not well and we’ve no money for food. I saw ’rabbits hanging outside ’shop and was tempted.’ He licked his dry lips. ‘I just fancied some rabbit stew.’
‘Well, I dare say,’ Mr Pearson said. ‘But just because we fancy something doesn’t mean we can help ourselves to it. Especially if that something belongs to someone else. There are rules and there are laws, and without those rules and laws society would break down and there would be lawlessness throughout the whole of the country. Do you understand me, Quinn?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Mikey hung his head, trying to look as meek and sorry as he felt. The magistrate seemed fairly understanding, he thought. Perhaps
he would let him off with a caution to be on his best behaviour in future.
‘However,’ the justice continued, ‘I am mindful that this is your first offence and understand that, very foolishly, you thought you were helping your mother by bringing home some ill-gained supper. I hope that if you are given a short sharp lesson you might not be tempted into such misdemeanours again.’ He shuffled through some papers, tapped them on the desk and then took off his spectacles. ‘I therefore sentence you to one month in prison.’
A cry rang out from the public gallery. Mikey knew it was his mother even before she started to call his name. ‘No! Mikey! No! Please, sir, no!’
Mikey was led away by two police constables. One of them was Benton, who gave him a shove when they were going down the steps to the cells. ‘That’ll larn you, my lad. When you’ve broken up a ton o’ stones you’ll not want to come back here again.’
‘No, I won’t.’ Mikey could hardly stop the tears from falling. What would his ma do without him? Who would watch out for his brothers and his sister? He had always been the reliable one, the one his mother could depend upon.
‘And don’t get mixed up wi’ Tully,’ Benton continued. ‘He’ll have you doing jobs for him, running errands and so on. He’ll promise you ’world and a quick way of getting rich.’ He opened a cell door, took a key from his pocket and unfastened Mikey’s handcuffs. ‘Go on,’ he said roughly. ‘Get in there and wait.’
‘Is this where I do my time?’ Mikey grasped the bars.
The two constables laughed. ‘You should be so lucky,’ Benton said. ‘This is a holding cell. Somebody’ll come and fetch you and take you to Kingston Street. You’ll serve your time there.’
Mikey nodded. He’d cry when they’d gone, but not before. He wouldn’t let them see how frightened he was, or how he was missing his mother. I want to go home, he thought desperately.
Bridget was allowed in to see him. ‘Your ma wouldn’t come,’ she said, peering through the barred door. ‘She said she couldn’t bear to see you locked up. I said I’d come instead and tell her how you were bearing up.’
‘Are you enjoying this?’ Mikey muttered. She seemed very perky. ‘A bit of excitement for you, is it?’
‘Well there’s thanks!’ Bridget retaliated. ‘I had to coax ’constable to let me in.’
‘How did you do that?’
She tossed her head. ‘Never you mind. I just did. Anyway, your ma said was there owt you wanted? I told her they wouldn’t keep you in here. You’ll probably go to Kingston Street in ’morning, so if there’s owt you want I’ll have to fetch it in today.’
Mikey pondered that Bridget was very well informed. Did she wheedle that information from the warder too?
‘No, there’s nowt. Ma hasn’t got any money so there’s no use in asking.’ He sighed. ‘If there was a bit o’ pie I wouldn’t mind, but I don’t suppose there is. I expect there’ll be some more bread and water later on.’ He was hungry now, and wished that he hadn’t given his bread to Tully.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ she whispered. ‘I know ’baker’s delivery lad.’ She winked. ‘I’ll see if he’s got owt spare in his basket.’
‘What? How do you mean?’
Bridget gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Never mind. I’ll try to get back later.’ She started to walk away, but then turned back. She stood on tiptoe and pressed her face to the bars. ‘Come here,’ she said.
Mikey did as she bade and put his face to the bars, expecting her to murmur something into his ear that she didn’t want the hovering constable to hear.
‘Give us a kiss then,’ she said softly. ‘If I’m going to fetch you some dinner, it’s ’least you can offer.’
Mikey frowned. Why would she want a kiss? She wasn’t his mother. He was startled when Bridget took his face in her hands and kissed him full on the mouth, even running her tongue over his lips. He pulled back. It wasn’t that it was unpleasant; just unexpected.
‘That your first time of kissing a girl, Mikey?’ She gave a mocking smile. ‘Did you like it?’
‘Erm. Yes.’ Did he? He wasn’t sure. It certainly made him feel very strange. A sort of tingling in his body which then ran down his legs. But if that was what was required to obtain some food, then it was no hardship.
Bridget gave him another wink and ran her tongue over her lips; then, with a shrug and a swirl of her torn skirt, she left.
How strange, he thought. Is that what girls do? He couldn’t imagine his sister asking for kisses, and, he mused, he hoped that she didn’t. His mother would not be pleased. But Bridget … well, it seemed that she was a law unto herself, and he wondered how it was that he was in prison whilst others, such as the baker’s boy, giving away his master’s bread, and Bridget, receiving it, were not.
CHAPTER THREE
‘Here.’ The warder on duty clanged open the cell door. ‘Present for you.’ He handed Mikey a moist paper bag stained with gravy. ‘Nice lass you’ve got. Lucky devil!’
‘She’s not my lass,’ Mikey said. ‘She’s my sister’s friend.’ He took the offering and sniffed. Meat pie! However had Bridget managed that? He was starving hungry in spite of the slice of bread they’d brought him at midday.
‘Better get it eaten,’ the officer said. ‘It’ll be ’last good food you’ll get for a month. You’ll be moved at about half past two. Doubt you’ll get meat pie brought in at Kingston Street.’
Mikey bit into the pie. It was still warm and running with gravy. ‘Won’t I be allowed visitors?’ he asked, his mouth full of pastry.
‘Depends who’s on duty and what ’visitors are offering.’ He gave a grin. ‘Your lass might be able to get in.’
Mikey considered. Bridget had obviously charmed the warders, so perhaps he should pretend that she was his lass if it meant that she could come in to see him and perhaps bring a message from his mother, or even, he pondered, deliver an ill-gotten pie.
He was manacled and taken by handcart across the town to Kingston Street prison, which had been built near the banks of the Humber some thirty years before. It had once been considered to be amongst the best houses of correction in the country, and over the years it had been extended to accommodate the growing prison population. There were separate buildings for men and women, a holding cell where the worst prisoners would languish awaiting their sentence or transference to the County Assizes, cells for debtors, work buildings where some prisoners were put to the treadmill, and a large courtyard where others were set on the back-breaking work of crushing stones.
Mikey was stripped of his clothes and given prison garb of scratchy cotton. It was too big for him, the trousers flapping below his ankles and the sleeves hanging lower than his fingertips. It had been made for an adult man, whereas he was still growing out of childhood into adolescence. Stitched on to the jacket was a number: 3624.
He was marched down a flight of stone steps and past locked doors, and put into a cell where he was left alone for several hours. The bare brick cell had a fixed board to sit or lie on, a metal pail beneath it and a greasy tin bowl for washing. It was cold and very damp.
Mikey sat down on the bench and this time he did cry. He cried for his mother, and he cried for himself and the enormity of the situation in which he found himself.
‘I’ll never do owt wrong again in my life,’ he vowed, sniffling. ‘Never. Not even if I’m starving at death’s door.’
But although he was frightened and ashamed, he was also resentful. He and his family had not had a proper meal in weeks. His mother received a small allowance from a seamen’s society which helped the families of those lost at sea, but it was barely enough to pay the rent on their room, which was in a narrow dark entry and shared a pump and one privy with several other families. What little their mother earned was spent on food, but there was never enough for all of them and there was no work for boys such as Mikey.
‘Here you are, three six two four.’ The warder handed a bowl of soup through a hatch in the door. ‘Get that down you
.’ He offered Mikey a slice of bread on a tin plate. ‘There’ll be nowt else till morning.’
Mikey took the bread from the plate and took it and the bowl to the bench, where he sat down and sniffed at the soup. It was pale green and strong-smelling. ‘Yuck!’ he muttered. ‘Yesterday’s cabbage. I hate cabbage!’
He ate it nevertheless, his hunger getting the better of his revulsion, but ten minutes after finishing it he was violently sick, vomiting his stomach’s contents into the pail, which left him feeling weak and nauseous and still hungry.
Three days he was left alone in his cell and there were times when he felt he had been forgotten; he would hear the sound of boots on the stone floor, the clang of cell doors and an echo of voices, and then silence. The tedium was broken at breakfast and midday by the arrival of a warder with bread and water, and in the evening he was brought a bowl of some kind of thin liquid which went under the name of soup.
On the fourth morning he was told that after finishing his breakfast of gruel and a cup of lukewarm tea he should prepare himself for work. He was given a brush and shovel to sweep out his cell and told to bring out his slop pail for emptying.
It was a relief to know that he wasn’t going to spend the whole month in the cell, though he was slightly apprehensive as to what kind of work he would have to do. ‘Hope they don’t put me on ’treadmill,’ he muttered as he swept. ‘Seems senseless to me, as well as being painful.’ He recalled an old man, local to the Hull streets, who was bent almost double and, rumour had it, could no longer straighten up after enduring years of working the treadmill in prison as a young man.
‘Three six two four!’ The warder opened the cell door. ‘Fetch your pail and don’t spill any or you’ll have to scrub all of ’corridor.’
Mikey put down his sweeping brush, picked up the pail and followed the warder down the passageway. He was still below ground, but the air was fresher than in his now stinking cell, a draught blowing down from outside. He took a breath as he went up the flight of stairs and stepped at last into the open air.