A Time for Courage

by Margaret Graham

  She made herself lift her head, made the tears stay behind her lids because no one must see how much she was hurting.

  Esther stood with her hand to her mouth, her eyes filled with horror, but Maureen smiled. ‘Be brave,’ she mouthed.

  Hannah nodded to her and turned away and then she saw him and knew now who it was who had offered to pay her bail. His face was calm and strong. He smiled and she set her shoulders back now that Joe was here and walked upright from the dock, feeling not the plain wooden boards beneath her feet but the spongy moor. As Hannah disappeared down the steps and from the court Joe wondered how he had been able to keep his face still, his eyes calm, when Hannah had looked, for that brief moment, so broken. Her bruises were nothing compared to that.

  Hannah entered through gates which were by now familiar but this time she was not with other suffragettes but alone amongst criminals. She did not go to a comfortable cell but was taken with the other women prisoners into a cold square room and together they stripped beside dark, pitted baths. She did not look at the bodies of the other women or listen to the hoarse voices or acknowledge the laughter as she removed her clothes and stood naked before them. She had never seen other bodies before, nor had others seen hers. She thought of her mother’s bedroom, the dressing-table, her pin-boxes, her hat-pins. How many were there? She made herself picture them all and when she was pushed towards the bath by the wardress she began again. When she was dry she thought of Frances and the chairs and the fire and the dog as she put on the thick, rough-textured, dark green dress with its heavy pleats and white arrows and then the dull blue and white checked apron with its black arrows. She tied the frayed strings of the white cap under her chin. The red and black striped stockings were rough and slipped down with each step.

  She thought of the moor and the sea and Joe’s apple-loft at Penbrin which he had promised to show her one day when she had the time. She collected a Bible and library book from the wardress’s office and a filthy blanket before entering her dark cell, lit by one small high window, and she felt the breath tightening her chest and her father close to her as the spy-hole in the door slid shut. When would she have the time?

  There was no handle on this side of the door and she sat on the plank by the wall and only now did she think of where she was. She looked at the stool and the shelf which was the table; the rolled up straw mattress at the end of the plank on which she was sitting. So this then was the bed.

  There were several tins on the shelf and a wooden spoon stood up in one. It was porous and felt slimy to the touch and smelt of other mouths and old food.

  That night a wardress brought round gruel and dark bread, pouring it into one of the tins. Her keys were hanging in a bundle from the chain around her waist and they rattled together as she moved. There was no expression in the prison officer’s voice as she said, ‘Eat this, Number 15.’ The woman’s face was colourless against the holland dress and dark blue bonnet.

  Hannah could not use the spoon so she drank from the tin. The gruel stung her swollen mouth and she dribbled down her chin on to her dress. She rubbed at it with her hand; she had no handkerchief. She could not eat the bread, it hurt her mouth too much.

  The next day she ate porridge and had to use the spoon because it was too thick to pour. She washed her tin and her spoon and scrubbed the floor on her knees and they bled again. She sat in her cell, her back against the wall, because her ribs hurt too much to lie down but she could not rest her head against the cold stone because her scalp was still tender.

  Lunch was broth with a piece of meat and tea to drink. One of the girls liked being in prison, she said, when they walked round the exercise yard in the afternoon for half an hour, for at least there was food.

  Hannah looked at the sky; it was blue and the clouds scudded over the prison walls and disappeared from sight. She thought of the matchgirl and looked at the woman who liked the prison. She thought she had understood poverty but she had not, she knew that now. She pulled at her dress which had rubbed her neck raw with its roughness. No, she had not understood this world at all, how arrogant to think that she had. She had not felt its roughness, only seen it. Had not tasted meagre food, only seen it. Had not known hopelessness, only seen it.

  She sat for hours in her cell and all the time the dress rubbed at her skin and the high walls of the cell closed in around her.

  She was allowed one library book and she chose The History of Mr Polly and read two pages a day but only two for it must last. So each line she read twice, memorising if she could because it made the minutes pass. She thought of these as the wardress called her out of her cell for exercise, not hearing the clink of keys above the words which she made herself repeat in her mind.

  Her lips became less sore, less swollen, but her fingers grew raw and then hard from sewing thick shirts. The days turned to weeks and the weeks to one month and then two. Hannah’s feet had blistered and then hardened where prison shoes which did not fit rubbed as she paced the seven steps it took from wall to wall. She walked it again and again, memorising her pages, not thinking of tomorrow, not thinking of the loneliness, the locked door, the hunger, the wooden spoon, the world outside. Not thinking of Esther who would be teaching her children, walking in the park, boating on the river. Not thinking of the fact that she should have been here too.

  Again and again she thought of the matchgirl, the blank eyes, dull hair, the smell. She understood now the effect on the soul of deprivation, of poverty.

  As the last month began she grew thin and silent because there were still only walls to look at, not the sky, not houses, not fields, and each morning she emptied the bucket and rolled her bedding. Each evening she drank her grey thin cocoa and would not think of Frances drinking her brown thick brew. She read the letter which came from Arthur saying that he would be thirty in 1914 and his family would like to see him married by then. She was the woman he had chosen, she knew that, he said, and he could wait for her answer, but for no more than another two years. That should give you time to work this cause from your system, he wrote. Hannah had written back saying that she would give him an answer in the summer of 1913 but she felt too tired to say more, to think more. It seemed so unimportant, so distant. Even the words in her mind seemed slow and short.

  She read letters from Frances and she wrote saying that when this fight was over she wanted to start a school in the fresh country air and fund scholarships for the children of women like these. She read the letter which Frances forwarded from Harry who was now in Kimberley. She wished he would come home because she feared he would be hurt if he stayed. Someone might find out that his best friend was a black man. But she would not allow herself to think of that, only of the boy who had swung her on the rope. Did he still have that piece that he had cut on that last day?

  She read a letter from Esther but she felt too silent, too tired to write. Maureen wrote and the others. She replied saying she was well.

  Joe did not write but he had come, hadn’t he.

  On Sundays she attended the chapel, they all attended the chapel, and it was good to be with people again, to hear voices singing, and see faces in rows about her though not one face knew another.

  At eight o’clock three months later she walked in her own clothes, which were too soft and too large, through the doors and gates with their large heavy bolts which the wardress pulled open as she approached and clanged shut when she had passed and then there was just the small high door into the warm July morning.

  Joe was there. She had known he would be and he did not take her to the school but to the train where Frances waited.

  ‘It’s time I had a holiday, my dear. The school has broken up and so we thought perhaps you’d come. The Conciliation Bill has no hope and there is definitely to be a Manhood Suffrage Bill presented.’ Frances helped her over the gap and into the train. Hannah looked out of the window. It was no surprise but she was too tired to think yet. She could see for miles and there were people in clothes and hats and t
here was sky and wind.

  She turned to Frances. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’d like to leave London for a while. Will they mind, do you think?’

  It was strange to be with those whose faces were full and touched by the weather; to be talked to, not ordered and pushed. To sit on a padded seat, to rest her head against the softness of the head rest. Comfort was something she had forgotten existed. But she was lucky, for the other women would not be coming to this. They only had the matchgirl’s room. She closed her eyes. She was so tired but there was so much to do, so much to put right. She would not travel first-class again.

  ‘Will they mind?’ she repeated.

  Frances was looking at Joe. ‘No, my dear, they won’t mind.’

  Hannah was glad because she was too tired to march or to shout or heckle and she wanted to regain her strength to win the fight. She also wanted the strength to teach more women on Sunday mornings about health, about skills. To feed them all, and clothe them too.

  She looked out of the window at the newsboy as he walked past the window, waving his papers. The train jolted, the whistle blew, and they began to move; past him this time and now she heard the words that he was calling in a voice which seemed just for her.

  ‘Suffragette on hunger-strike in prison.’

  She saw Frances look at Joe and looked away from them and out across the concourse which they were now leaving, but she could not leave the words behind, they were in her head; loud, too loud. She gripped the leather window-strap. I’m too tired, she protested silently, knowing now what awaited her on her return and afraid that she would be unable to bear it but knowing also that somehow she must.

  The gardener, Edward, met them in the trap and Joe grinned as Hannah blushed when the man swept his hat off in a bow then helped her into the trap. The springs sagged beneath her weight. The leather of the seat was warm, the colour faded to beige.

  ‘You’re the mistress, you see,’ Joe whispered as he settled himself beside her, his hands broad and tanned on his knees. ‘You’ve done a great deal in your short life, young lady,’ he drawled, smiling.

  The sun was warm on her hands but it did not reach her face because the brim of her hat was too big. She reached up, her arms felt so heavy. She pulled out the pearl pin slowly and brought the grey hat on to her lap, her hand still holding the pin, her fingers too tired to release it. She lifted her face now, and closed her eyes beneath the warmth of the sun and saw the red behind her eyes as she had done when she woke that first morning at Joe’s cottage when she was still a child.

  ‘But nothing is finished yet,’ she murmured.

  Joe’s hand was hard still, she felt the weight of it on hers, the warmth of it.

  ‘The holiday home is, my Cornish girl. Don’t forget the achievements.’

  Hannah opened her eyes, lowering her head against the glare. But there was still so much to do. The luggage was on the cart now and the gardener’s boy followed in this as the bay pony drew their trap through narrow lanes past hedgerows white with summer dust and thick with flowers. There was bird’s foot, sorrel and montbretia; brilliant orange against the thick green of the leaves and grass. Honeysuckle reached out from the hedgerows which soon gave way to dry-stone walls.

  Hannah felt safe here, tucked behind a fragrant barrier with the sky high and blue and light, with the wind blowing clean and clear.

  She would not allow her thoughts to stray beyond the yellow, orange and green of the honeysuckle, the flat stones of the walls, the warmth of Joe’s hand and Frances’s calm eyes.

  It was early evening when they arrived. The drive was not long and the gate was open so the trap did not falter but swept round the grey stone house which was fringed by oak trees and a yew hedge and then into the stable-yard at the back.

  Joe took Hannah to the stone stables, not the house. He unhitched the pony first and nodded to Frances.

  ‘Have some tea with Edward, Frances. The families will be there to welcome you. I will bring Hannah in shortly.’

  His back was towards Hannah as he worked at the leather straps. She saw Frances look at him. He turned briefly to the Headmistress; he was not smiling though his face was calm. She watched as Frances put her hand on his arm and nodded before walking over the paved yard towards the half-open door of the kitchen. Hannah saw that the roof was lower this side than at the front and that ivy clung to the walls, clustered around open windows. Stocks and montbretia stood in vases on the windowsills of all the rooms.

  Lavender grew outside the kitchen door in tall bushes and bees wove through the blue stems. There were smaller shrubs of thyme, heavy with pink-purple flowers beyond the old rusted pump. She walked towards the lavender.

  ‘No. This way, Hannah,’ Joe called as he pulled the pony from the shafts towards the open stable door.

  She did not want to follow, she wanted to feel the lavender, smell it, hold it to her face and breathe it in and wipe away the days which had filled the endless months and years of tiredness.

  ‘This way, Hannah,’ Joe called again and now she followed as the pony’s hoofs rang sharp and clear across the yard turning to a muted thud as they passed into the dark of the stable. She did not want to enter because of the dark, because of the high small windows.

  ‘Come, Hannah,’ Joe said and he was standing there, where she could see him; and so she entered and it was dark but filled with the sweet smell of hay which gleamed pale yellow. The colour of Arthur’s hair, she mused. Bales of straw were stacked in the empty stall next to the pony, dry and full golden. Oil cake stood on the window-ledge and above it, light shafted down catching dust in its beam. Meal stood in containers and she could smell it from here. There was warmth in this darkness, there was light.

  Joe stood by the pony watching and she turned to him and smiled. ‘Yes, I should remember the achievements too.’

  He nodded, moving now, across to the straw bales, pulling handfuls and passing one to her.

  ‘Rub the pony down now, Hannah,’ he said.

  She shook her head; her arm was too heavy, she was so tired, still so tired but would she sleep? She never seemed to sleep, never seemed to rid her mind of fear, of plans and of prison now.

  Joe came to her. ‘Rub the pony, Hannah.’ His drawl was pronounced and his voice loud. ‘Now.’

  And as though he had been a wardress she did as she was ordered and walked through the clean straw, feeling it rustle beneath her feet. The pony was damp and warm; steam rose from its flanks and it blew hot draughts of air into the feeding cradle. Her arm was still heavy as she began to work the straw backwards and forwards, rubbing slowly at the darkened sweat patches.

  Joe was at her elbow and as her straw grew wet too and limp he drawled, ‘Toss it down,’ and she did, but he gave her more.

  Again and again this happened and she rubbed and worked and the coat dried and the darkness gave way to the light of the bay coat. She moved to the other side and her arm was stronger now and she did not wait for Joe but pulled straw from the bale at the side of the stall. She rubbed hard, again and again and again, working the straw, drying up the darkness, taking it away. Taking it away all by herself. There was sweat on her face now but she didn’t care. Her hair hung down across her face but there was not time to push it aside.

  Joe stood leaning on the stall-post watching. She knew he watched and she wanted him there but she was glad he did not help. This must be her victory, to rub away the darkness, the thoughts, and finally it was done. Now her arm was shaking as she stood back and looked at Joe and smiled.

  ‘Will I ever make a cowboy?’ she asked.

  ‘Too pretty,’ he said, ‘and not enough backside.’

  She laughed and it sounded strange, it was so long since laughter had come.

  That night she slept and then woke with the heat of the day. The sun was high and she washed beneath the picture of the marigolds, pouring water from the jug into the bowl, splashing her face and her body, looking out from the window over the stable to the sea beyond. She
was still tired but it was not the same. She walked down the stairs past a wooden soldier lying on the blue patterned carpet. The banister was smooth, the whitewash light on the walls, the paintings were of the sea and she knew they were by Mr Arness.

  The house was quiet, the dining-room cleared of plates and people. The kitchen door was open as before, throwing light across the flagstones to the stove which burnt low in the grate. There were tea-towels hanging on the airer. Hannah moved across lifting one and burying her face in its fresh boiled smell. She lifted the kettle. There was enough water in it for tea and so she put it on the range.

  There was yellow soap in the sink and its scent was as fresh as the tea-towel had been. She crossed to the window and looked out at the stable-yard, half of which was in shadow, then turned and saw black beetles scuttling over the flagstoned floor.

  Against the opposite wall was a pine dresser and the tea leaves were in a large tin with pictures of tea plants and Indian girls. A great stone jar was filled with demerara sugar. She found the teapot in the pantry; hanging from the ceiling were two hams with a side of bacon curing behind the door and it was these she could smell now. All she could hear was the hissing of the kettle and the sound of her own footsteps as she walked further into the pantry.

  Packets of candles ranged along the shelves, with spare oil wicks since that was how the house was lit. Next to these were small candles suspended from twisted wicks for the lamp of the pony trap. She ran her finger down the cool wax before turning back into the kitchen, half sitting on the large deal table which had been freshly scrubbed but was now dry. All this was hers. She ran her hand along the grain of the table. She had come home and she had not known it was here.