The Gypsy Bride

by Katie Hutton

  *

  The warder’s whistle shrilled, and the pacing men stopped. No one dared look round, or anywhere other than at the back of the neck of the man in front; even the most recent prisoners had learned quickly the wisdom of passively waiting for the next command, for it was bound to come, and obedience was simplest. But Sam had expected something unusual. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen a group of screws massing on the far side of the yard.

  ‘Outer ring – bath-house! ’

  They were formed into pairs to march off the ground.

  ‘It’s not bath day!’ whispered Cecil.

  ‘Dry bath,’ Sam whispered back. ‘Just remember you’re a man, and don’t let them take a rise out of you.’

  *

  ‘Clothes on the side of the bath, and quick about it,’ ordered the warder.

  Sam stripped, shivering with cold and shame.

  ‘Nippy for you, is it, sweetheart? Sorry, I forgot to warm the towels!’

  The screw stepped up to him, so close that Sam could smell the pomade on his moustache, and see the bristles in the creases of his neck. He was breathing heavily and smiling, ruffling the prisoner’s hair.

  ‘Nothing there, then. It was easier when you lot were kept cropped.’

  He stepped back. ‘Take your hands off your prick and put them on your head!’ he barked. Similar shouts, and some laughter, reached Sam from the other stalls. The screw quietly pushed the door to with his foot. A trickle of sweat ran from Sam’s left armpit, despite the cold.

  ‘Feet apart.’

  The man appraised the prisoner slowly, from head to foot, until Sam had to look away.

  ‘Lift your prick up,’ hissed the screw.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard, darling. Finger and thumb. Keep your other hand on your head.’

  Sam obeyed.

  ‘Very nice. Both hands on head now, and turn round.’

  Sam shuffled round to face the bath-tub. The warder ran his hands lightly along Sam’s sides, as though patting down a dressed man.

  ‘Bend over the tub. Hold onto the rim,’ he said, loudly again.

  Heart pounding, Sam at last found his voice, though it came out hoarse.

  ‘Shouldn’t there be someone—’

  ‘No need for that,’ murmured the screw. ‘Want to earn some baccy, dear?’

  The man’s hands landed on Sam’s buttocks, and in a rustle of clothing and warm breath he bent to look more closely. Sam raised his right foot and, planting the sole firmly against the warder’s chest, pushed hard. The man staggered back, roaring for assistance, and within seconds the small cubicle was heaving with uniforms.

  *

  The governor settled his glasses on his nose and looked up at Sam in the adjudication dock.

  ‘Obstructing a routine search and assaulting one of my men,’ he said. ‘These are serious charges. Have you anything to say?’

  Sam stood silent.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He took a liberty, sir.’

  ‘Adding calumny to your list of misdemeanours, B2.26. Do you think that’s wise? It’s not what the other officer says.’

  ‘With respect, sir, what other officer? We was alone.’

  The governor stiffened. He glanced at his clerk, and said: ‘For the obstruction it’ll be three days downstairs, usual bread and water. For the assault, fifteen strokes of the cat.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard. Go on like this and I can see no remission for you. You’ll have a few days to think about what’s going to happen to you until we get the necessary permissions. We do things by the book in this gaol. All right, take him away.’

  *

  Ellen lay between clean sheets in the bedroom she and Tom had inhabited as their private, secret world. She had wanted Judith’s company, but unable to cope with Tom’s cried demands night after night, the girl had chosen to roll bedding on and off the divan in the parlour, whilst her father slept soundly and alone in the room that had been Judith’s since childhood. Often Ellen had woken to find the baby still beside her, having fallen asleep as she fed him in the darkness. He was feeding now.

  ‘You’ll have to stay in the cot from now on, my little man,’ she murmured, stroking the dark hair. How beautiful he was! Ellen tried not to search too closely for his father’s likeness. It was there in the dark hair, the olive tinge to his skin, the alertness of his eyes, but when she looked for it in the shape of his mouth, or nose or chin, she feared losing what memory she still had of the man.

  ‘My dear Tom!’ she whispered.

  Finally the pressure on her nipple ceased, and the baby sighed into sleep. Very gently, she eased off the bed and laid him in the wooden cot that had sheltered Judith and who knew how many Chowns, Harold included. She buttoned her nightgown over her breasts, small and soft now after the feed. Harold was to be her husband this night. He would have the unbuttoning of her, then. She turned down the oil lamp and waited in darkness.

  *

  Harold came in, wearing his old-fashioned nightshirt and carrying a candlestick. His lower legs were spindly, almost hairless. He held the candle above the bed as Ellen looked at him mutely, then turned his back on her to place it on the dresser. She saw his reflection in the mirror as he bent to blow out the flame; his face looked pursier, older than when he was dressed for his clerking.

  The bed creaked as he lay down, but he said nothing. From his breathing she realised he was already aroused. With a muffled grunt he turned to her and pulled back the blankets, then lifted up her nightdress as far as her navel. The night air on her skin made her shiver. Then, as the cool flesh of his belly flopped onto her stomach, she bit back a cry, but he gave no sign that he felt the involuntary recoil of her body. Then fatly, wetly, clumsily, he was in her, his breath hot against her neck. It hurt. Ellen tried to recall the urgency of Sam’s sinewy embrace, but it had nothing at all in common with poor Harold’s silent heaving. And thinking of Sam as she lay beneath Harold made what was happening now feel like an act of infidelity to the man she had loved. She put her hands tentatively on Harold’s back over the cotton of his nightshirt, closed her eyes and told herself: You do this for Tom! It’s for Tom! Her husband speeded up momentarily, then groaned as though someone had hit him hard on the skull. His face was buried in the pillow as she felt him shrink and leave her. He eased off her and lay down on his back alongside her, feeling for her hand, which he took in both of his, patting it.

  ‘All right, Ellen?’

  ‘Yes, Harold.’

  ‘It’s been a long time. I thought it would be forever. Thank you, dear wife.’

  Seconds later he slept, pushing air rhythmically through his open mouth as though blowing bubbles. Ellen wept silently, hot, fat tears pooling in her ears.

  A little before dawn she woke up with a cry, feet thrashing. The last image she scavenged from her dreams was of Sam’s face emerging from beneath her skirts, laughing, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

  *

  Sam had lost count of how many days he had lain in solitary confinement, waiting for some rai21, who didn’t know him and never would, to put a signature to a document that would sanction his judicial flogging, when keys rattled in the lock and two men entered the cell.

  ‘Stand up, B2.26, and take off your shirt,’ said the warder.

  ‘Time, is it?’ asked Sam, unbuttoning.

  ‘Time, is it, sir, if you don’t mind. No, medical officer’s come to clear you for the cat. It’ll be tomorrow morning.’

  The M.O. gave Sam a cursory inspection, grunting as he saw the soft white pits left by Liberty’s whip, then hooked his stethoscope to his ears and listened to Sam’s heart.

  ‘Strange work for a doctor,’ muttered Sam.

  ‘Hold your tongue!’ barked the warder.

  The doctor continued his prodding, then told Sam to sit, and proceeded to test his reflexes. Finally he said to the warder: ‘He’s sound’. Turning to Sam and looking him in the eye for the fir
st time, he said, ‘You won’t be given breakfast tomorrow. I don’t advise it.’

  *

  Sam’s lips were parched and cracked. In the silence of the night he pulled his lower lip under his teeth and raked it from side to side until he tasted blood. Then he tugged at the bleeding flesh between his teeth and shredded it, bringing tears to his eyes. With the tip of his tongue he explored the crevice he had made. He stared out at the near impenetrable blackness as the blood cooled and crusted.

  *

  ‘Get up, and take that shirt off.’

  The two warders led Sam, unresisting, down the length of B Hall. Warders stood at regular intervals on either side. It’s as if they’re taking me to the scaffold, he thought; they might just as well be. There was the silence of a solemn ceremony, almost religious in its patient intensity, but Sam sensed the listeners behind every cell door, the pounding of prisoners’ hearts – some in fear and sympathy, some in a state of sadistic arousal. Behind one of those doors the warder who would shortly inflict pain on Sam was hiding, but he would never be permitted to see his face.

  In front of him loomed the altar to which he would be bound, a high frame of wood and iron and leather straps. The governor stood, sweating in his serge suit, avoiding meeting the prisoner’s eye. Sam noticed the sheen of his recently polished shoes. The warders stepped aside as a male nurse came forward and bound a broad leather band round Sam’s back, just above the waist, buckling it in front.

  ‘Too tight?’ the man whispered.

  ‘No,’ murmured Sam.

  ‘That’s for your kidneys.’

  The rest of me is fair game, then.

  He wondered if they might blindfold him, so strong were his thoughts of execution. But no blindfold came; instead he was told to lean against the frame, his feet planted wide. Leather straps were buckled round his ankles. A canvas sheet with a hole for his face was tied onto the upper part of the frame.

  ‘Tall, ain’t he?’ muttered one of the warders to his colleague.

  ‘Your face goes in there, and don’t go trying to look round,’ he was told. ‘Raise your hands.’ His wrists were buckled to the contraption.

  ‘Hold the frame tightly. You might find that helps,’ said one of the warders as they withdrew.

  Sam could not move. He decided to keep his eyes open and fix his gaze on the pale light coming through the high panes at the end of the hall. You’re a big bird, Sam, he told himself. Stretch out your wings and fly right up there till all this looks no bigger’n a child’s toy. Instead, the medical officer’s face appeared, inches in front of his. He frowned at the prisoner’s bloody mouth. Sam merely raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I’ve to see how you take it,’ whispered the doctor. ‘I advise you to yell. Governor might call it off earlier.’

  I’ll not make a sound. I’d not give them the satisfaction.

  Behind him Sam heard the familiar sound of a cell door opening, then a soft tread approaching. He clenched his teeth and tried to stop quivering.

  ‘One! ’

  A whirr – then a hot, tearing pain. Sam felt his skin part like an opening mouth. No moment to draw breath.

  ‘Two! ’

  He opened his mouth wide in a silent scream. He glimpsed the doctor’s face damp with sweat.

  ‘Three! ’

  Sam shrieked, his fingers curling, clutching at the cold metal of the frame.

  ‘Four! – No! ’

  He heard the cord pass through the air and braced himself, but it never fell. He badly wanted to pee. He heard the governor say in an irritated, high-pitched voice, ‘You know the rules, man! No running up to your target. Maintain your position and lash him from there.’

  Can’t they get on with it, for the love of God!

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Sam strained to recognise the warder’s voice.

  ‘Again then: four! ’

  Another split in his skin, and Sam felt blood dribbling off the leather kidney strap and into the band of his trousers.

  ‘Five! ’

  Sam screamed again. The doctor’s face was a pale oval blur. Far off, he became aware of a swell of noise, a wordless, shapeless murmur. It seemed to be coming from above him, but he didn’t know if it was the protest of his fellow prisoners or if it was sounding within his own head. Another face bobbed and swayed in front of him, and a tear-smarting chemical smell burned his nostrils. The faces of the doctor and the orderly swam into focus; something ammoniacal was being waved beneath his nose.

  ‘Six! ’

  Fully aware now, the pain was more excruciating than ever. The swish of the silken cord and his cries blended. There was no pause, no moment to drag together even two words for heaven.

  ‘Seven! ’

  Again Sam screamed, eyes screwed shut.

  ‘Eight! ’

  No respite, no numbness. A memory. Sam saw a soldier on a stretcher being carried back behind the lines, a leg missing. Yet the man didn’t make a sound until one of the stretcher-bearers told him he was an amputee.

  ‘Nine! ’

  Sam’s eyes rolled up in his head. He could hear from a distance the medical officer calling, ‘Governor!’ but what he saw in his mind’s eye was a woman, fully dressed, lying across a bed and sobbing, before he slumped into oblivion.

  *

  Sam came to lying on his stomach on a cot in the cell he’d been brought from that morning. His mouth tasted of vomit and his back was aflame. Someone was splashing it with disinfectant; the cold liquid gave momentary relief, and then his flesh burned worse than ever.

  *

  Pale and twitching, the following day Sam took his place opposite Cecil and reached for his pile of mailbags.

  ‘Dear God, Sam, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you in the infirmary?’

  ‘Fit for work, they said.’

  ‘What? I heard your screams – we all did.’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’

  ‘But who did that to your mouth?’ whispered Cecil.

  ‘Oh, that? That was me.’

  *

  Ten days later they sat in the peace of the library.

  ‘We’re only here thanks to the chaplain, ain’t we?’

  ‘That’s right, Sam. Now will you tell me what happened? That row in the bath-house – was that you?’

  ‘The screw came on to me.’ And as simply and plainly as he could, Sam recounted the story.

  ‘Hell fire! What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Do? What can I do? They’ve punished me. It’s what the screw will do now that worries me.’

  ‘Hell hath no fury and all that?’

  ‘I wondered was it him what did it – flogged me, I mean.’

  ‘Surely they would not be so perverse as that. Have you seen him since?’

  ‘No. If it weren’t for her, I’d deal him the same card again. But if they put Puss to scratch me another time, I don’t know how I’d bear it.’

  ‘He’s most likely been transferred to another hall,’ said Cecil.

  ‘So he’ll fix on some other poor wretch.’

  ‘Of course. Someone who is more desperate for tobacco than you are. Does it hurt as much now?’

  ‘It stings, and itches something terrible. Weeps too. I sleep – when I can manage it – without my shirt on or it’d be stuck to me and the devil to peel off.’

  ‘Will you let me see?’

  ‘O’ course.’ Sam stood up and unbuttoned. Then he slipped off the coarse putty-coloured shirt and turned round. Cecil could not suppress a cry.

  ‘Oh merciful Jesus!’

  ‘It could have been worse, Cecil. The governor called a halt after ten, the orderly told me.’

  ‘It’s bad enough!’ whispered Cecil, staring at the half-crusted wounds with greenish, stiff edges that scored Sam’s shoulders and back, and snaked onto the more tender skin of his sides and armpits.

  *

  ‘What is it, daughter?’ asked Oliver.

  Flora Quainton held an unopened enve
lope in her trembling hand.

  ‘’Tis a letter. For Ellen. Someone who don’t know she’s married.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ said Oliver. ‘Hmm. I see they don’t know this place either. “Chingston”, they’ve written. Boil the kettle, would you?’

  Flora watched her father-in-law as he read the steamed-open letter, saw his mouth tighten. He crumpled the paper with such sudden violence that she jumped.

  ‘You are to say nothing about this, daughter. To no one. Never.’

  He tossed the letter and envelope on the fire, leaning against the mantel until they were entirely consumed.

  20 Prison

  21 Gentleman

  CHAPTER 17

  What means, quoth he, this Devil’s Procession

  With Men of Orthodox Profession,

  Are things of Superstitious Function,

  Fit to be us’d in Gospel Sun-Shine . . .

  Samuel Butler, Hudibras

  Skimmington

  Ellen ignored the whispering and giggling and pressed on. Then she heard the pad of footsteps behind her. She paused, without looking round, to let whoever it was overtake her. The footsteps paused also. She walked faster. At least three others were following her now. She pushed harder against the handle of the pram; it bounced on the uneven path, and Tom woke, eyes widening.

  ‘Ssh, my baby, we’re nearly home.’

  Someone sniggered as a clod of earth hit her in the back. Ellen turned, putting her back to the pram. Her tormentors fled, laughing.

  Children! She trembled. I’d swear that little girl was in my Sunday school.

  *

  ‘They’ll stop in the end,’ said Grace. ‘As soon as someone else’s misfortune gets their attention.’

  ‘So I’ve to pray for that, have I?’

  ‘No, Ellen. They torment you because you didn’t follow their rules. If you’d given Tom away, or even if you’d kept him and brought him up on your own—’

  ‘Which I would have, if they’d let me!’

  ‘And which would have been the hardest and loneliest way in the world, Ellen!’

  ‘I know – I’m sorry.’

  Grace softened. ‘It was easier for me, though. Being a young widow. They could pity me. What they don’t like is that you didn’t hang your head – and you had the cheek to marry, even. It’s that they can’t forgive. If they could have dressed you in sacking and paraded you round the place facing a donkey’s tail, they’d probably have been satisfied.’