Connie, perceiving some of his dismay, said, ‘I suppose you must have been very angry with me, or else you would have written.’
Will nodded. ‘Yes, I was. I took it very badly. I’m sorry.’
‘No, no – I should be the one to say sorry. After what passed between us you deserved far kinder treatment than I gave you.’ His head was turned away, and she didn’t know if she was more disheartened by his silence or by the odd mechanical way he had spoken.
‘So, you didn’t mean to – humiliate me?’
‘Of course not. How could you think me capable of such a thing?’
‘When I first learned of what had happened, I thought you’d been possessed by some kind of … madness. I couldn’t see how else to explain it.’
Connie looked at him sadly. He really was that far from understanding her, it seemed. She stood and leaned over to the little shelf of books. His remark had triggered a memory of something she had lately read, and she took up the Emily Dickinson poems which Marianne had lent her.
‘D’you mind if I read something to you?’
Will made a little gesture of assent with his hands. She found the page she was looking for, and read aloud:
‘Much Madness is divinest Sense
To a discerning Eye
Much Sense the starkest Madness
Tis the Majority
In this, as All, prevail
Assent and you are sane
Demur you’re straightway dangerous
And handled with a Chain’
She closed the book, and gave him a level look. Will, feeling as if he were sitting a viva, only nodded; he supposed it had been written by a woman, but he said nothing. Connie tried a different prompt. ‘Have you never fought for something you believed in, even when you knew that doing so might be harmful?’
Will considered this. What, really, did he believe in? He took no interest in politics or in the controversies of the day, and he had never been one for causes – unless one deemed cricket to be a cause. ‘I once – a friend of mine – I defended him when he faced … dismissal. But there is a world of difference. I didn’t go to prison for it.’
‘But it was to your disadvantage that you helped him?’
He gave a small shrug. ‘I suppose it was. In the end it profited neither of us.’
‘That is beside the point. You saw an injustice and stood up for him. The principle remains the same.’
Will looked away, shaking his head. ‘The two are in no way comparable. You broke the law – you willingly went to jail. And you did so knowing that it would destroy any chance of a future we might have.’
She heard a bitterness in his tone. The rift had widened between them, and it was by no means certain that Will wanted to help repair it. A kind of calm despair settled upon her. It was better to know how matters stood between them than to foster the illusion of hope.
‘William – please look at me. I make no claim on you, don’t be alarmed. I have forfeited the privilege of accepting your offer, and I don’t expect another. I only wish to know –’ here she paused ‘– have you no love left for me?’
Will flinched at the word, and let his gaze stray over the room. The agony of it was that he did feel love, yet the woman to whom he had declared it was so very different from the one seated here before him. He wanted that one back, the Connie who had beautiful bright eyes and a gay laugh, not this pale, half-demented wretch. He shifted in his chair, discomfited by his own delay. ‘I – I hardly know what to say. The woman I loved was not one I ever imagined visiting in prison.’
‘You see me here nonetheless. I am still that woman you held in your arms. Is it perhaps you who have changed?’
Will, pierced by the suggestion, decided that going on the offensive would be the surest way to get out of this corner. He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘I’m sorry, I should have known it was a mistake to come here,’ he said, coldly swallowing down the shame of his evasion.
‘It wasn’t a mistake, Will,’ she replied, trying to keep hold of her voice.
‘Tell me,’ he said, sharpening his wronged tone, ‘why should I trust you after what you did? How do I know that you won’t go and break more windows on getting out of here?’
His blustering words had spared him the courtesy of an honest answer, and the growing suspicion that he no longer loved her reduced Connie to silence. She absently drew her hand over her head, as if to check that her long dark hair really had gone; the pity of the gesture touched him so painfully he had to look away. He knew at an instinctive level that he could have asked her forgiveness, just as meekly as she had sought his, but the guilt he felt was being dissolved by the quick-acting acid of self-righteousness. She watched him stand up, but couldn’t make herself catch his eye.
His voice sounded hard and businesslike. ‘You will be out in – two months?’
Connie nodded, her eyes fixed to the floor, while he lingered there, turning his hat in his hands. He cleared his throat again. ‘I hope – I hope it passes quickly for you.’ He waited for her to raise her face to him, but she didn’t move from where she sat, and after a few moments he turned on his heel and walked quietly out of the cell. As she heard his footsteps recede down the corridor the first tear rolled from her chin on to her lap; she did nothing to staunch the steady plip of the ones that followed.
One morning, some days later, Connie was idling in the exercise yard with Laura when one of the wardresses emerged from the administration wing.
‘Callaway,’ the woman called, crooking a finger at her like a headmistress to a naughty pupil. ‘Visitor for you.’
Laura, her arms held across her chest against the cold, turned an inquisitive expression on Connie, who gave a shrug, then followed the wardress in the direction of the visitors’ room. She had not been expecting anyone. Fred, faithful Fred, had been to see her the previous week, and any further visits would have had to be arranged in advance. She smoothed her hand over her tufty hair, a gesture which had unwittingly become a tic, and entered the hall. The wardress, not troubling to speak, nodded in the direction of a large gentleman seated at one of the far tables. As she walked towards him, she tried to recall where she had seen him before. He was bald, and his girth, unabashedly spherical, was adorned by a gold watch chain. Thin-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He stood up to greet her.
‘Miss Callaway? George Fotheringham,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘We have met once before …’ And now Connie did remember: he was the Maitland family lawyer who had arrived at lunch on the weekend Connie had gone to stay.
‘Yes – hullo,’ she said, still nonplussed. ‘How are you?’
Fotheringham spread his palms expansively. ‘Very well indeed, I thank you. But it is about your health I have come to enquire. Please – sit.’ His gaze, shrewder than it had been when tucking into his food, seemed to interrogate Connie’s appearance and then offer a sorrowing verdict. He joined the tips of his stubby fingers to make a steeple. ‘I have been apprised of recent events via one means or another. I gather you were forcibly fed on several occasions last year, as a result of which you contracted a quite severe rheumatic fever. I’ve not read the report of the doctor responsible, but if my information is correct it seems that you have a very good case.’
‘Case – for what?’
‘Why, for an early release, my dear. The matter stands thus: the doctor failed to check your medical history. He then suffered you to be forcibly fed, thereby exacerbating a heart condition and endangering your life. One could sue on a charge of negligence, of course, but that would entail gathering witnesses, testimonies and so forth. It would take too long to come to trial. If, however, His Majesty’s Prisons agree to settle out of court – which would be to their advantage – the remainder of your sentence will be waived, and you will walk free.’
Connie was taken aback, first by the prospect of sudden deliverance; second, and more piquantly, by the implication behind Fotheringham’s presenting himself here. Will must
have commissioned this esteemed legal gentleman to visit her, which in itself suggested a remorse for his previously unyielding attitude. Did that mean …? She couldn’t allow herself to hope such a thing. Perhaps it was a gesture of conciliation, which would in itself be remarkable after their last encounter. But there was a practical consideration to discuss.
‘Mr Fotheringham, I am very grateful to you for coming here, believe me, but I must tell you, my finances are in no fit state –’
‘All taken care of,’ he broke in, holding up his hands like the stage magician who has just made his silk handkerchief disappear. ‘Your benefactor has underwritten all of my fees, so let it not concern you. Now, to business. I am obliged to take a statement from you, so if you would be good enough to recount precisely what happened …’ Having removed paper and a pen from his briefcase, he proceeded for the next half-hour to question Connie on the circumstances of her hunger strike and the brutal measures HMP Holloway had taken to thwart it. Aside from an occasional harrumph or a clarifying question, the lawyer’s demeanour remained steadily dispassionate: he might have been compiling a list for his grocer. It was oddly reassuring, Connie found, to describe what had befallen her without having to endure a listener’s sympathy. While they talked, she wondered what Mrs Maitland would say if she ever found out that her lawyer had been co-opted to the defence of a suffragette. It spoke highly of Will’s nerve that he had gone behind her back.
When he had completed the transcript to his satisfaction, Fotheringham carefully replaced the cap on his fountain pen and folded away his papers. He fixed Connie with a rueful look of reminiscence.
‘The last time I visited this place, my client was facing a life sentence.’
Connie hesitated before she spoke. ‘In truth, Mr Fotheringham, to anyone who has been here, all sentences are life sentences. The experience of this place will stay with me for as long as I live.’
‘Well, then, I shall make it my business to ensure your speedy liberation.’
‘Speedy?’
‘I envisage no longer than a week, once we set the wheels in motion.’
‘You must be a very good lawyer,’ she said, confounded.
‘Oh, more than good, Miss Callaway – the best!’ And he permitted himself a complacent chuckle. Which meant that he must be expensive, too, thought Connie, preparing her expressions of gratitude.
‘I shall write a letter in due course,’ she said, ‘but in the meantime, please do pass on my thanks – my sincere thanks – to William.’
Fotheringham frowned at this. ‘William? I don’t quite –’ For the first time since their interview began the lawyer appeared at a loss.
‘William Maitland?’ she prompted. ‘I presume he sent you.’
He slowly shook his head. ‘I’ve heard nothing from young Maitland. Forgive me, I should have made it clear. I am here at the behest of Mr Tamburlain.’
Connie was stunned. ‘Tam?’
‘The same,’ he replied. ‘I thought you would have known …’ He proceeded to explain the circumstances of Tam writing to him. ‘I am a little surprised he didn’t write to you also, but then Mr Tamburlain has a delicacy about him – as I’m sure you know.’
Connie nodded, merely to hide her confusion. Tam, of all people. That he knew about her imprisonment might have been expected; that he had put himself out to help her was beyond comprehension. She barely knew him. They had met one another only a handful of times. As she adjusted to this unforeseen beneficence she felt a simultaneous plunge of her heart: Will would have nothing to do with her, after all. Fotheringham had risen from his chair and was hitching up his trousers. He looked about him, sniffing the air as he might have done a corked bottle of wine.
‘I am sorry that you have had to brave this place, Miss Callaway. Be assured that it will not be for much longer.’
She smiled as they shook hands, and studied his slow, waddling gait as he left the room, her roly-poly redeemer dispatched from out of the blue.
The lawyer proved as good as his word. Five days later Connie had gathered together her modest rubble of possessions and was tidying up her cell when a knock sounded on the open door. It was Miss Ewell, who, Connie realised, had come to say goodbye in spite of being off duty this day. There was a fond glimmer in her eye.
‘I find myself quite torn,’ she began, blushing slightly. ‘On the one hand, I’m very glad to see you getting out of this place, and on the other – I’m sorry, because … you’ll be missed.’
Connie looked down. ‘You’ve been so good to me, Miss Ewell –’
‘Faith. My name – I’d rather you remember me as Faith.’
Connie made a little bow of compliance. ‘Faith, Constance – what a pair we make!’
‘My father is a minister. I suppose that’s why he thought the name … I’m afraid my conviction in most things has been – unsteady.’
‘Even in your … calling?’
‘Especially in that. I started at prison work so hopefully – I thought I could do some good – but my high ideals have been worn down.’
‘You did do some good,’ said Connie, gently. ‘I wish that all the wardresses had been as kind as you.’
But Miss Ewell looked sad, and shook her head. ‘I can’t help thinking what has been done here, to you, to others – it’s – wicked. Which is why –’ at this she checked the door, to see that no one was about ‘– I’d like you to take this.’ From her pocket she drew out an envelope, on which she had written Connie’s name in brown ink.
‘You have nothing to apologise for,’ said Connie.
‘Maybe not. But I’d like you to have it anyway.’
‘What is it?’
‘You’ll see. Open it when you’re gone from here. Please?’
Connie thanked her and hid it in the breast pocket of her coat. Then she put on her hat, the navy cloche with the flame-coloured band, which Fred had brought in for her last week. She stood before her jailer.
‘How do I look?’
‘As neat as a new pin,’ said Miss Ewell, and shyly offered her hand. Connie pressed it between her palms.
‘Goodbye, Faith. And thank you for …’ she hesitated, not sure if the words would ring true, but she said them anyway: ‘for being a friend.’
A quarter of an hour later, Connie heard the choir practising on the gallery above, and she asked permission from the wardress who had come to escort her for a few minutes’ leave. She quickly climbed the stairs and there, conducting the women as usual, was Ivy Maddocks. Unlike Laura, to whom she had become close during their months of incarceration, she had not enjoyed more than a remote cordiality with Ivy. Connie was impressed by her zealous adherence to the cause – it was difficult not to be – but she found it impossible to converse for long with someone so deficient in a sense of humour. In fact, there were moments when a light flared in her eyes that Connie found quite disconcerting. Even in a ward bristling with the militant spirit there were a handful of women who seemed to live the struggle more intensely than their sisters. Ivy caught sight of her now; with a sudden flick of her baton she silenced her choir, and came along the gallery to greet her.
‘I’m going today, Ivy. I just wanted to say goodbye.’
‘Oh!’ she said, narrowing her aquiline gaze. ‘Your singing will be missed, Constance. Perhaps you’d like to join us for “The March of the Women” before you leave?’
Connie laughed, until she realised that Ivy was being quite serious. ‘Thank you, but – the wardress awaits.’ That she also cheerfully loathed the song she decided to keep to herself.
‘I dare say we’ll see one another soon enough – at the meeting in April?’ There was a WSPU reunion planned for those suffragettes who had served time in Holloway.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Connie, ‘Laura told me about it. We three shall meet again – like the weird sisters!’
Ivy blinked at her uncomprehendingly. ‘Weird?’
‘Yes … like Macbeth?’
‘Oh, I see,�
� said Ivy, in a frowning way that made Connie regret the humorous allusion, and wonder indeed if it were humour at all. One simply couldn’t be frivolous with certain people. She held out her hand, which Ivy took in a surprisingly fierce grip.
‘Remember, Constance,’ she said, moving her face so close that Connie could see her light-coloured eyelashes, ‘no surrender to tyranny. We must win this war.’
Connie nodded, and was about to conclude with a ‘goodbye’, but Ivy had already turned away and stalked back to her spot in front of the choir. As she descended the stairs, the familiar words echoed along the gallery.
March, march, swing you along,
Wide blows our banner and hope is waking.
She left by the same gate she had entered the place, though she hadn’t seen it back in September, immured within the jangling dark of the Black Maria. Up to the very last moment, having signed for the return of her possessions and walked across the courtyard, she had to suppress an irrational anxiety that a clerical error would come to light, and that she would be obliged to serve out her sentence after all. But as the gatekeeper drew back the bolts and pushed open the studded door she knew at last that there had been no mistake, for there, loitering by the outer railings, stood Fred. Never had she been so glad to see him, even she, who had always held her brother the dearest companion of her life. She had envisaged this day often enough to believe herself prepared for it, yet who can really know the violence of relief a prisoner experiences at the moment of liberation, but that prisoner herself? Flinging herself into his arms, she hugged Fred so tightly that he was at length moved to loosen her embrace by small degrees.
Half of the Human Race Page 24
