‘Not at all,’ she said and entered. It had a smell of things new to her, a heady mixture of maleness she had perceived emanating from her brother’s room at times, and perhaps wine and pipe smoke, or something similar. It made her head spin. Luckily, the windows were open and a breeze came in and brought with it a breath of fresh air badly needed and she felt a little recovered.
‘I have water, if you would like a glass.’
‘Yes, please,’ she said and sat upon a wooden chair that stood beside a table covered in papers and pencils. An easel was beside the window, surrounded on the wooden floorboards by a mess of paints, brushes and a palette. Against the other wall was a narrow bed, its covers awry. Beside it were a pair of shoes, kicked off, one on its side on top of a fallen pile of books, some splayed open, others shut. Suits and shirts hung on the picture rail and hats hung on nails on the wall. A cabinet held other secrets, topped with a basin and jug. His whole existence in one room. It was the most wonderful room she had ever visited in her life.
He fetched her a glass from a cupboard and poured out water from another jug that stood on a little table beside his bed. He drew up another mismatched chair and sat opposite her. He looked down at his feet and saw he had no socks. There was a moment of awkwardness where he seemed to consider whether or not to fetch his socks, and then he glanced up at her.
‘Your feet do not offend me, Mr Ashford,’ she said. She smiled and he smiled. Then they laughed. It broke the ice, and now they could sit more comfortably together.
‘Please, Miss King, I am quite alarmed by the news that you bring. What can it be?’
‘It is about Miss Woodvine. Anny. I do not know if you are aware of what has befallen her.’
‘I am not. I have been busy with my paintings these past few days. I have been inspired. I have barely left my room.’
That is not what his landlady said, Margaret thought. But perhaps she was a liar. She dismissed this thought and proceeded to tell him all about Anny. She left no detail out. She trusted Jake. She knew implicitly that he would understand. He listened attentively, shaking his head at each new awful turn of events. But he did not comment on anything she said, not even a ‘How terrible!’ or ‘Poor Anny!’ Perhaps it was a characteristic of male speech, that men said only what was necessary. Now she came to the difficult part.
‘When I saw her in that place, she asked something of me. Well, it was something she asked of you, Mr Ashford.’
‘Please, please call me Jake. I believe, sitting here together in my shabby lodgings, we may be permitted to use our Christian names, may we not?’
‘Of course,’ she said, but was a little perturbed at him smiling at this, at a moment when she had told him the most dreadful news. Perhaps he was nervous. ‘Anny asked something of you, Jake. She said to tell you that she didn’t do it. I tried to help her . . . You’ve heard that part of the tale at least, including my own failure.’
‘You are too hard on yourself, Margaret,’ he said and leant forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped beneath his chin, his eyes dark and full of sympathy.
‘Not hard enough, I fear,’ she said quietly, as she looked down, away from his captivating gaze. ‘There is more. She asked that you wait.’
‘Wait?’
‘Yes. She said, “Tell him to wait”. And also that you must come to visit her, as soon as you are able.’
Jake stood up quite suddenly. He stepped over to the window and looked out of it. She could not see his face. She turned in her chair and watched the back of his head as he talked.
‘I do not think that I am able to do that.’
‘I could send our carriage to transport you, if that is what you require to travel to Shrewsbury.’
‘No, it is not that. I do not think it is a good idea for me to visit Anny.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Anny and I spoke of . . . a future. A possible future. She wanted me to promise. But I could not.’
Margaret had guessed at this, of course, as Anny had asked her to tell Jake to come to her in prison. But to hear it from Jake’s mouth was hard. It felt like a slap in the face, yet she cursed herself for wanting to help her friend and yet at the same time . . . at the same time, she wanted something else entirely.
‘I had to explain to her that it was not that simple. I could not promise her. I tried to let her down gently. But you see, I am an artist. I am wedded to my art.’
‘Of course,’ said Margaret. ‘I quite understand,’ though indeed she did not really understand. What a complicated person he was, how deeply his feelings ran. It was the artist in him that made him so profound.
‘I knew you would,’ he said and turned to her, looking down at her.
Margaret heard herself ask him a question, before she had time to regret it. ‘Do you love Anny?’
‘I am fond of her. But I find myself caught between two mistresses.’
She held her breath. She stared at him. ‘Which two?’ she said and it came out as a whisper.
‘My art and my fondness for Anny.’
‘Indeed,’ she said and looked away.
‘She would make a good wife and she does love me, I’m sure of that. But there is a further obstacle.’
‘What is that?’
‘There is another.’
‘Another what?’
‘I love another.’
Margaret felt she might be sick. She could not speak a word.
He went on, ‘But I believe the match is impossible. I am unworthy of her. I am so very glad I can confide in you of this. You are such a very good listener.’
He smiled at her and she forced her mouth to turn upwards just a touch. ‘Who is it, this other match?’ she managed to say, though she wished to rush from the room.
‘Why, it is you, of course.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, dear Margaret. But I suspect your father would never allow it, and so I have repressed my feelings for you and instead have allowed Anny’s feelings to rule my own. It may be wrong of me, but I do not know how I must act for the best.’
‘You have feelings for me?’
‘I do, I do, my dear. How could I not? You are divine.’
He looked searchingly at her, then he fell to his knees and took her hands.
‘Could it be,’ he began and kissed her hand so gently, ‘that you feel the same for me? Can you tell me your feelings for me, dear Margaret?’
‘Why, I love you, Jake.’
‘You do? Oh, my dear!’
He leant in and kissed her lightly on the lips. She leant in further and kissed him again, softer, longer. But suddenly he withdrew and stood up. She stood up too, not wanting to be further apart than the breadth of their kisses. But Jake had let go of her hands and was running his fingers madly through his hair.
‘But what of Anny? And your father? Oh, I am overwrought. I cannot think straight with you here, so close to me. I am intoxicated by your presence. I need time to think it all through. There must be some way we can be together. Can I come to see you tomorrow? Not here. Let us meet in the woods, away from prying eyes.’
‘Of course. Do you know the place where the two paths meet in the woods, just beyond the coracle sheds?’
‘I do, I have passed it on my walks.’
‘Shall we meet there at noon, tomorrow?’
‘At noon.’
They stood and watched each other.
They kissed again. This time his tongue was in her mouth. It was so wet, such a queer taste of tobacco and sleep, a sour taste that startled her, but her desire for it was so overwhelming that she welcomed the bitterness and fed from it. Kissing this way was a kind of devouring and she had a hunger for it.
Desire in her rose like a wave and she pressed herself against him with such force, their teeth clashed. She felt mortified with her own clumsiness but he was kind about it and stroked her cheek, held her and shushed her. Then, he let go and took a step back.
‘My dear girl, pl
ease. There is nothing I would like more than to kiss you again, a hundred times. A thousand times more! But we must be sensible. There is much to consider. I will meet you tomorrow, as planned. And we shall talk it all through. Do not fret. Sleep well tonight, my love, and I will see you on the morrow.’
It was hard to leave him, so hard. It was only when she came down the stairs and saw the landlady standing in the hall, smirking at her, that she recalled the shame of what she had done. And as she stepped outside into the street and looked up at the iron bridge, she recognised the forlorn figure of Mrs Woodvine crossing over it, laden down with linen, delivering her work to the households of the town. Margaret turned in an instant and rushed away up the street, fairly breaking into a run to get up onto the hill and away from that woman, that kind, sweet woman. Anny’s mother. She had started the day with a visit to Anny’s parents and ended it by smashing the fragile hopes of their daughter because of her own selfish desires. But he loved her. Jake Ashford loves me, she told herself. And Anny loved him, waited for him, in that hellish place. Oh God in heaven, what had she done? Was there ever a betrayal lower and more cowardly than this? Anny’s pale face in the prison floated before her in her mind’s eye. How could you, Peggy? How could you?
Chapter 19
‘Ow bist thee faring, Anny?’
‘Fair to middling, Mother.’
There was so much that Anny could not tell her mother. It was her first visit, and when Mother came into the room and gave her the seed cake, bread, ham and apples she’d brought from home, Anny fell to eating it like something feral. Ham first. Meat! The smell of it drove her mad, and she saw the other prisoners in there waiting for their visitors sniffing the air like dogs. She had not said much yet, only one word that she mouthed as she came in, ‘Mother!’ But then the smell of food took her and she could think of nothing more until she had it in her hands. Her mother watched her devour the meat, then move on to the bread, but put a firm hand on Anny’s and said, ‘Slow down. You’ll make yourself heave. Save it for later.’
She shook her head hurriedly. ‘They’ll take it from me.’
‘Who? The guards?’
She shook her head again, now working on the cake. ‘The others.’ She had no time to explain. She had to eat all of this before they sent her back. Her mother waited for her to eat, wiping her eyes with the tips of her fingers from time to time. Her mother couldn’t stop the tears coming, but was doing her best to hide them.
When she’d finished eating, she came back to herself and remembered that her dear mother was there. She wanted ever so much to feel her mother’s arms around her, but she didn’t want to risk a beating from that one over there. He was one of the worst turnkeys, mean and petty. Her cellmate Jane had gone off with him three times these past days and come back sore and achy, but also with crumbs and wine stains down her front, so it was worth it, Jane said. Was it worth it? Anny had been considering it. She’d had some offers but never spoke to the turnkeys if she could help it, and always avoided their gazes and whisperings. But the hunger had been getting to her, gnawing at her and she’d nearly succumbed yesterday when they gave her no breakfast gruel, saying she was not tidy and clean enough. But now she’d had her mother’s food, she’d be able to hold out for a while longer.
‘What do they feed you, lass?’
‘Gruel for breakfast. Potatoes or soup for dinner. Gruel or soup for supper. Some bread each day. Not enough of it. Never enough.’
It was good to talk, to hear her own voice. She spoke to nobody here. It was banned in her cell. Ellen had banned it. ‘I dunna wanna hear a peep out of you again. Not a sound. If you cry, we’ll leather you. If you snore, we’ll leather you. And no talking, not ever.’
She went on, getting a feel for it now, remembering how she’d loved to talk in her other life, in the time before this. That time seemed to have never happened. Everything was this now. ‘Soup sounds good, doesn’t it? You would think it was good. Nourishing.’ That was a nice word. ‘But it’s not. It’s lukewarm, greasy water with bits of who-knows-what floating in it.’
‘Anny, I wanna say I’m that sorry I couldna come sooner. It took me very bad like, all this. And you know how weak I get when I hear bad news. It is a terrible failing of mine and I curse myself for it and I am sorry for it. I shoulda been there with your father that first time he came but the shock had me laid up for days. I wish I were stronger for you.’
‘Please don’t fret,’ said Anny and reached out to touch her mother’s cheek, withdrawing her hand quickly as she glanced at the guards, knowing they would shout at her for touching. Mother followed her gaze and frowned at the man who lolled against the wall.
‘Do they treat you well, the guards?’
What could she say to that? Mother did not need to know the truth. If she had a bruise here or there her mother might notice. There was a big one on her arm, yet luckily her sleeve covered it. Everyone knew the turnkeys would beat you as soon as look at you, but they showed a little care to keep it off the face.
‘I don’t speak to them,’ she said, eyeing the one at the door.
‘Do you have to work? You look tired.’
She was exhausted. But mostly that was because she could not sleep at night. There were comings and goings from the cells, sad women crying, mad women screaming and her own cellmates plotting and whispering before they fell into a deep, guttural sleep. She would rather listen to the cacophony of the blast furnace all night, every night instead of the random, terrifying sounds that emitted from these cells, all cloaked in a heavy silence between them that smothered you and mocked you, an emptiness that reminded you of everything you had lost. Sometimes she wondered if she were going mad herself.
‘Anny, do you have to work? Do they make you work?’
‘I’m the monitor of our court. Our group of rooms. Every morning, I have to make sure the rooms and arcades are swept and washed down. That windows and doors are opened on dry days and all the beds are turned down to air. If I do that right, I’m supposed to get fourpence a week. In credit, like. Not in my hand. On Mondays, they put a table out in the courtyard and you can buy things, like cheese or stockings. But only if you’ve done your job as monitor. But the others don’t do as I say, so I’ve not received anything yet. During the day, I work in the wash house. Just like back at home with you, Mother.’
They both smiled grimly. Simpler days. Happy days. She never thought she’d miss it. Now she believed she’d give her right arm to be a washerwoman with her mother again at home. If she had, none of this would ever have happened.
‘This is what happens when you get above your station,’ she said, thinking aloud. She hadn’t intended to actually say it.
‘What can you mean, Anny? This inna your fault. Never your fault. Dunna tell yourself that ever.’
‘If I’d never worked for the Kings, this would never have happened. I should’ve stayed with you. Why didn’t I stay with you?’
This was the kind of thing that tortured her in those silences at night. That, and why she didn’t simply lie back and let Cyril King do what he wanted with her. If he’d bedded her, he’d have probably grown tired of her and not even pursued the marriage. She could’ve played that smarter.
Her mother was weeping openly now. She couldn’t keep it in anymore.
‘Hush now, Mother.’
‘I’m sorry, lass. Look at you. I’m the one who should be comforting you. Oh, dear heart. You’re so strong.’
Anny scoffed then checked herself. She did not want to upset her mother further. ‘Yes, I am coping. Is there any news of when the hearing shall be?’
‘No news to us.’
‘To me neither. They tell us nothing here.’ She had lain awake at night obsessing over the possibilities of her punishment, if found guilty, which she would surely be. It could be imprisonment, probably with hard labour, which would mean years of breaking stones. At least you’d get more food each day. It could be transportation to Australia. Never to see your f
amily again and banished to a foreign isle, if the ship journey didn’t kill you first. Then, there was hanging. It was unusual, for a woman to be hanged for theft. But it could happen. She imagined the rope around her neck, the moments before. Would she scream? Would she weep? Would she face it with dignity?
‘Tell me more about your days. Is there no one you can talk to? What’s the keeper like? Is he a good man? Can you talk to him about more food?’
Some of this she could speak about. It was generally a safe topic for her mother to hear. ‘He seems a good enough man. He visits the cells once a day but just gives us a quick look, nothing more than that. It is said we are allowed to make complaint to him but he never gives us the time to do so and all the women are afraid of him.’
‘I’ve heard there are male prisoners here too,’ said Mother, looking worried. ‘Do you ever see them?’
‘No, we are separate at all times,’ said Anny, glad of this, yet knowing that the turnkeys were worse than any prisoner she could imagine.
‘What else do you do here? Do they give you time to stretch your legs?’
‘We have time in the exercise yard daily.’ A place of bullying, taunts and being thrust up against the brick wall by a turnkey, maybe clouted on your body somewhere for looking at them the wrong way. But yes, you could stretch your legs. She did not say any of this to her mother, of course.
‘And do they let you read and write at all? I know how you must miss it.’
‘We have Bible class every morning. We listen to the chaplain read. And as monitor, I am responsible for the prayer book in our day room.’ She did not go on to say that, as monitor, she was also responsible for telling tales on other prisoners. She would never do it, under threat of various methods of subtle torture from her cellmates, but then she incurred the wrath of the turnkeys, who would grab her and twist her arm to make her say something about the others and the tricks they got up to, but she never did. A quick whack on the leg or back with a turnkey stick would be her reward for that. ‘There is a schoolmaster, but when they heard I could already read and write, they said I had no need of lessons.’
The Daughters of Ironbridge Page 20
