by Katie Hutton
Silence, but for some muffled sniggering.
‘No, brother, offer them no violence,’ said Harold quietly. ‘It’s not them I blame. It’s those who’ve taught them.’
CHAPTER 16
Next to death, gaol is the greatest leveller known to man. To me the flitting shadows of the underworld are not the sinister figures portrayed in the columns of sensational journals or in the pages of popular novelists, but just grown up children weeping in the shadows!
Stuart Wood, Shades of the Prison House
Stirapen20
Winchester
Keys rattled on the landing; a cell door was being unlocked close by. There was a murmur of voices, then, ‘In you go!’ and the door clanged shut. Sam lay in the dark, ringing silence of his cell, listening. Then it started: the sound he most dreaded hearing in this place. The man the other side of the white-washed wall was weeping.
He had no idea how long it was before the sound subsided, but it was enough to banish hope of sleep. In the unseen man’s tears Sam relived his first days in Lincoln, dank and dripping Princetown and then his time at reception here in Winchester: the stripping, searching, bathing under another man’s stare, numbering, processing – at least this time leaving him his hair!
He’d learned to count the time in Lincoln on his fingers with the help of the cathedral bells. Now the hour struck twice. He turned his face to the wall and saw himself leading Ellen under the trees, asking if he might kiss her. Sam’s eyes filled. No, I can’t go on thinking of her, not with him sobbing his heart out through there too. It’ll kill me. Yet a sleepless hour later, engulfed in self loathing, he took the only means he knew of making sleep come. In the darkness of his thoughts he pulled Ellen’s pliant body into ever more obscene positions. Lack of fresh air, prison diet and limited physical movement had sapped his strength; arousal was harder every time. When at last he was finished he said to himself, You put her on the streets, thinking of her that way, and resolved, as before, not to do it again. He waited for the compensation of sleep but it didn’t come. Through the wall the new prisoner started weeping again.
*
Standing blearily on the landing as the cells discharged their occupants, each holding his slop-bucket, Sam was able to appraise his neighbour. Middle-aged, a bit seedy, some vestiges of distinction in the slightly too long grey hair, the length of the cheekbones. And scared, very scared.
Sam whispered to him, for though the silent system had been abolished, at Winchester the old ways died hard. ‘Just do as I do. I’ll show you.’
The man timidly smiled his thanks.
*
Later, they were herded down for exercise, two circles of men, one inside the other, each man the regulation six paces behind the one before. The elderly prisoner in front of Sam started to plead with the warder. ‘Please, sir, if I might go in the inner circle today. It’s my heart, you see . . . the pain.’
‘Then you’ll get what you wanted, won’t you?’ retorted the warder. ‘You’ll stay in the outer circle until I say otherwise, you old malingerer!’
Wheezing, the old man shuffled back into line. At the blast of a whistle the meaningless, circling shuffle began. Sam gulped down the fresh air, taking breaths as deep as he could make them. They had completed about two and a half circuits of the yard when the man in front of him shuddered, staggered and then silently folded onto the asphalt. Sam stopped short, but the prisoners who followed him, their faces turned to the ground, dominoed into the back of him before the warder had time to get his whistle out.
‘Halt! You and you – lift him onto that bench,’ he barked, pointing at Sam and the man behind him, his new neighbour.
‘You take his legs,’ whispered Sam. ‘I’ll manage his other end.’
The old man’s head lolled against Sam’s chest, his lips blue, eyes staring. The other warder on duty ran across. ‘I’ll call for the M.O.,’ he said.
‘Wait, you two,’ shouted his colleague at Sam and his companion, and as the two prisoners held the old man, he lifted the hand that lay across the body, felt at the wrist and called to the other warder, ‘Tell ’im he needn’t hurry.’
As they laid their burden gently down on the bench, Sam was startled to make out the words the new prisoner was quietly intoning: ‘. . . the resurrection, and the life, he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live . . . and whosoever liveth and believeth in me—’
The whistle shrilled, followed by the order, ‘Show’s over, back in line, march!’ and the tramp of boots resumed. As he passed the bench again, Sam saw the warder who had sent for the medical officer had returned, and was covering the corpse’s face with a handkerchief.
‘A small mercy,’ he muttered to himself. At the next revolution, the M.O. was reassuring himself that life was extinct, whilst two prisoner orderlies stood by with a stretcher, and at the next, it was as if the death had never taken place – the bench was empty.
Turned round to file back up to their landings, Sam was behind the new prisoner. He whispered: ‘Are you a parson?’
‘Yes.’
*
They met again in the work hall over a heap of mailbags.
‘Sampson Loveridge. I’d give you my hand only they don’t encourage it.’
‘A pleasure to meet you, sir, though one might have hoped for better circumstances . . . Cecil Acland – the Reverend Cecil Acland.’ Acland passed a trembling hand over his face. ‘May I ask what you are in for, Mr Loveridge?’
‘Your first stretch, ain’t it, Reverend?’
‘As a matter of fact, it is.’
‘I don’t mind myself, but don’t ask the others that question. Wait until they tell you. It was horse-stealing, though I didn’t do it.’
‘Mine was fraud. I did.’
‘How long they gev you?’
‘Five years.’
Sam whistled. ‘That’s a curse.’
‘Keep the noise down over there, B2.26!’
‘They said I’d brought shame on my calling, and betrayed the trust of hundreds,’ said Acland.
‘What’s a reverend to do after a stretch like that?’ asked Sam.
‘Oh, I expect my bishop has some malarial swamp in mind for me, if I survive. I will be expected to be grateful; I would be grateful were it not for my poor Beth.’
‘Children?’
Acland sighed. ‘Two sons . . . my daughter. She’s not long married. I thought my son-in-law might throw her over because of my trouble, but he’s made of sterner stuff, fortunately. Her eldest brother gave her away.’ Acland wiped his eyes.
‘Keep your spirits up, Reverend. Them as love you depend on it. And hold your needle this way – look – you’ll find it’ll come easier. People must write a powerful lot of letters to need all them sacks – you’ve got to make your number, or they’ll put you on report.’
‘Thank you. They’re the ones I’ve let down most. I told Beth not to visit me. It’s no place for a lady, this. Nor my sons.’
‘What d’they do?’
‘The elder is a barrister; the younger is in theological college. I couldn’t have done them more harm if I’d tried.’
‘You med regret that – your wife not coming, I mean. Mine won’t, but I don’t mind that. And the one I love don’t know I’m here and I’ve no way to tell her.’
Acland scented a cause.
‘Can’t you write to her?’
‘Me? Can’t even write my own name!’
‘I can. I could write for you.’
Then Acland looked up, too late, at a point above Sam’s head.
‘I warned you, didn’t I, B2.26?’ shouted the warder. ‘On your feet! You’re on report, disobeying an order to keep quiet. And you, B2.27, you’d be as well, only we know you’ve been led astray, but I’ll not be so lenient the next time.’
‘Sorry!’ mouthed Acland.
*
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you, dear?’ Flora Quainton was p
ummelling nappy squares against a washboard.
‘No, Mother,’ said Ellen. ‘We won’t be long. Just once round the village for fresh air; it helps him sleep.’ And it helps me think. I’m half stifled in here.
Nevertheless, Ellen’s heart thumped as she set off up the lane as though wading into a choppy sea.
I have to get this over with.
*
Frank Newcomb stood near the window of the dining room of his manse whilst Rose laid the table for tea, and watched Ellen’s stiff-shouldered progress.
‘The witches!’ he exclaimed.
‘What is it, Frank?’ asked Rose.
‘Ansell and Larden, matrons of this parish. Staring at the Quainton girl with her baby until her face caught fire, poor girl.’
‘Mrs Chown, you mean,’ said Rose.
‘Horrible, such a pretty girl being sacrificed to an old man like that.’
‘She should count herself lucky. There are girls locked up in Littlemore for what she’s done.’
‘Locked up for frailty, Rose!’
‘She could have waited for some decent young Englishman, not gone with the Gypsies in the woods. Oh, I’ve forgotten to bring the sugar.’
‘You have, haven’t you?’ muttered her husband, as Rose left the room.
*
‘I should have come with you,’ said her mother, seeing Ellen’s face.
‘It’s all right, Mother. I can take the baby for an airing on my own.’
But in the privacy of the bedroom she laid Tom down on the counterpane and watched him kick his legs at her.
‘Oh my little man, you don’t know what’s in store for you!’
*
The following day she manhandled the pram onto the bridle path and met no one but old Mott.
‘He’s a handsome boy,’ said the old man, peering in at Tom.
‘Thank you, Brother Mott,’ said Ellen, fighting tears. ‘I think so too, but there aren’t many that say so.’
‘Every child is a gift of God, daughter. My mother always said that. It was just her and me, see? It was hard, very hard.’
‘I never knew!’ said Ellen.
‘Not many do these days. I’ve lived longer than the scoffers. You’ve been lucky, daughter, even if old Harold ain’t as handsome as the other one.’
Ellen’s hand went to her throat.
‘I thought to warn you then, but what maidy would listen to old Mott? Well, I mun leave you now.’ He raised his cap and shuffled away.
Ellen pushed on, refusing to glance into Surman’s Wood.
*
‘It’s all right,’ said Sam. ‘We’re allowed to talk at association, within reason. The politicos told me that.’
‘So what happened to you?’ asked Acland.
‘Three days on short commons in chokey – the punishment cells.’
‘For talking?’
‘It’s better than it was. It used to be that you couldn’t talk at all – even the screws couldn’t talk to you, except to give orders. And all your jobs you’d to do on your own, in your cells or in pens. You’d be out of your cell most days for less than an hour, save Sundays.’
‘Good Lord . . . If the outside world only knew!’
‘What makes you think they’d care? They don’t see or don’t want to . . .’
‘It’s a Christian’s duty to visit the imprisoned, Sam.’
‘We don’t know many Christians, then, you and I. But did them musicians come on Sunday?’
Acland’s face brightened. ‘They did. Oh, it was marvellous! I wish you could have heard them.’
‘The guv’nor’s one of the old school. He don’t really like them new reg’lations, and nor do the screws, most of them. But he can’t refuse people like the musicians when they offers.’
‘I’m sorry you got penned up like that. It was my fault for making you talk.’
‘You didn’t – I chose to. And besides, if the screws want to put me on report, anything will do.’
‘You missed a good sermon yesterday. About Psalm twenty-three. It’s so often talked about, but not as meaningfully as the chaplain did – after that poor wretch’s collapse. He didn’t dwell on the green pastures and still waters, but comfort in the valley of the shadow of death. That man was here for attempting self-murder, and never got a kind word!’
‘He was begging for his life just before he fell, Reverend.’
‘So he’d wanted to live after all. The chaplain asked us to pray for him – and he sounded as though he meant what he said, so I wish now I’d been kinder to him that time when he came to see me. I’m afraid I sent him away with a flea in his ear.’
‘The chaplain’s a good man – the best of ’em in here. He’ll give you another chance. I’d bet he’s waiting for you,’ said Sam.
‘All right. I’ll try to put myself in his way. I’m learning that you need friends in here if you’re not to finish up in the padded cell.’
‘That you do . . . I was thinking, whilst I was downstairs. Did you mean it about writing a letter for me?’
‘Of course. I’d be glad to. But how does one get paper and pen in here?’ asked Acland.
‘I’d try the chaplain.’
*
Sam and Cecil sat opposite each other at association, a blank piece of lined paper on the table between them.
‘ “Ellen, I love you,” ’ said Sam.
‘All right, Sam. I’ll just start it in the normal way. “Dear Ellen” would be customary.’
‘ “Dear Ellen, I love you”, then.’
‘Straight to the point – why not?’ said Acland.
‘I don’t know how much of a good idea this is, Cecil. I don’t know what I’m doing.’
‘You’ve not much of a choice. The girl thinks you’ve abandoned her.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s only that I’m sitting here talking to you. If I had her in front of me I’d know what to say.’
‘Try this then,’ said Acland. ‘Take that chair and turn your back on me.’
A warder stopped his strolling up and down between the tables and stared at them. Then he shrugged, and went on walking.
‘Good . . . Now close your eyes,’ said Acland. ‘Look at her instead. Can you see her, Sam?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Now tell her. Slowly, if you can, so I can get it all down.’
‘And you’ll make it good?’
‘I’ll make it good, without taking any of you out of it.’
‘All right then . . . Dear Ellen, I love you and I hope you love me still. You’ll be thinking I run off and left you when you are the best thing I ever seed but I was taken off by main force by Lukey’s brothers. They gave me a whopping such that I thought to die but kep’ alive because my mother is a clever woman and because if I didn’t I wouldn’t see your face till judgement. Two of my ribs got bust and they still bother me, especially on cold nights, which is when I miss you most, though we never had nights only days and those too short. My hand is not right either but fortunately it’s not the hand I use the most. I got my mother to leave you a pattrin—’
‘What was that, Sam, a pattern?’
‘No, it’s our word meaning something you leave so the next person knows where you’ve gone.’
‘I’ll put “sign”, shall I? She might not know your word either.’
‘All right, then – I got Mother to leave you a sign but I don’t know would you understand it. It was to say I was gone to Reading, though maybe they’d’ve not let you to go there. Now I am not in Reading, but in Winchester, in the prison, with twelve months for horse theft. But I didn’t do it, Ellen. Liberty made me say I did or otherwise he would thump me better the next time and nobody ever thinks to dig under where there’s been a campfire, so here I am with all this time to think about you and miss you more than I know how to say.’
‘Wait a minute, Sam. I need to put more ink in this . . . That’s it, go on.’
‘There is a kind reverend i
n here what has writ this down for me. He is also going to teach me so next time I write maybe I can manage a bit myself. The reverend misses his books. I miss you, Ellen, and saying all this to you makes it worse as well as better because I can see you more clearly now as if I am talking to you, but I can’t put my arms round you and show you I love you the way I did in the woods. I miss your smile and your gentle words and the way you look up at me and a lot else besides, but that is private. I don’t mean that against the reverend, who is my friend, but because he tole me all the letters that go out are read by the governor’s men. You are a real lady and my lady. I will be out in May and I will come looking for you even if Caley and Liberty are waiting for me, as they can’t do much to me in a town in front of a prison. So for now all I can do is kiss the paper when the reverend finishes writing all this and put my mark on it, and if you kiss the paper too we can remember what that was like until I can kiss you again and not let go of you ever. I love you, Sam Loveridge.’
*
Ellen was singing quietly to herself. A perfect wash-day Monday, dry and blowy. She didn’t hear Harold’s approach across the grass to where she pegged out nappies and sheets. Tom lay sleeping in a basket under the plum tree, tiny fists gently furled, his bud of a mouth open. Ellen eased back her shoulders, stiff from turning the mangle.
‘’Tis much work to change three beds, I think,’ said a voice behind her.
‘Oh Harold, you gave me quite a turn! I never heard you coming! No, ’tisn’t so bad, for Judith and me work it out between us.’ She spoke gaily, still warmed by the fine weather and the pleasure in hoisting fresh laundry into the breeze.
‘Your child is three months old,’ said Harold.
‘Yes. He does well, don’t you think?’
Harold glanced in the direction of the plum tree.
‘It’s time I came to sleep in the marriage bed,’ he said. ‘As we’d agreed. I’ll come tonight.’
Ellen’s busy hands stilled. The breeze still ruffled her hair and flapped the sheets, but the light had gone out of the day.
‘Yes, Harold.’
‘I’ll be back at teatime.’
‘Goodbye, then.’
Ellen went on with her task, now in silence.
