Emily

by Valerie Wood

  ‘And what about food?’ Ginny, ever practical, asked. ‘Shall I bring you a bit of dinner? But I don’t know when it will be. It’ll depend when I can get out without being missed.’

  The warder appeared at the gate. ‘Time’s up, miss.’

  Emily clung to Ginny’s hand. ‘Ginny! Can you write a letter?’

  ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘I can, though I haven’t a good hand.’

  ‘Write to Mr Francis for me, at Elmswell Manor in Holderness.’ She glanced at the warder impatiently rattling his keys and spoke urgently, ‘Tell him what’s happened and tell him I’m innocent! And tell him – tell him that, if he has any fondness for Miss Deborah, to come and take her home.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ginny came back three days later with a clean blanket and a dish of cold chicken and beef. ‘Mrs Anderson sent ’blanket,’ she said. ‘I went and asked her, I knew she could get one without it being missed better than I could. It’s an old one,’ she added. ‘It was going to be cut up anyway.’

  Emily took it gratefully and wrapped it around her shoulders, then ravenously tucked into the cold meat.

  ‘I sent ’letter to Mr Francis like you said,’ Ginny spoke softly, ‘but don’t bank on it too much, Emily. He might not want to be involved with you – you know, because of his daughter.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Of course,’ Emily was downcast. If Mr Francis failed her then there was no-one else who could help. She put down the plate, her appetite gone. ‘Ginny! The women in here say I could hang. There’s a woman next door,’ she pointed to the cell next to hers and her hand trembled, ‘she’s going to York Assizes to be tried for murder and they say she’ll hang.’

  Ginny turned pale and she took hold of the bars of Emily’s cell to steady herself. ‘But you’re innocent, Emily! ’Bairn was stillborn. They won’t hang you for damaging a picture, will they?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Emily started to tremble. ‘If it was worth a lot of money, perhaps they will.’

  After Ginny had gone, she picked at the remains of the meat and then lay down again on the bench. The days were so long, nothing to do but gaze into space or listen to the ramblings of the other inmates. Two of the old women had gone to court that morning, charged with drunkenness. They had grumbled at being turned out in the cold weather. ‘See thee again, dearie,’ one of them had called to Emily. ‘I expect tha’ll still be here when I come back next time.’

  Emily had stared after them. Surely they wouldn’t come back to this dreadful place? Surely they would try to curb their excesses and stay away? Or, she pondered, perhaps they have little else to comfort them; perhaps this was the only roof which gave them shelter.

  Meg sauntered over to her cell. ‘Did you eat all o’ that chicken?’

  ‘Yes,’ Emily whispered. She wasn’t in the mood for talking, and besides, Meg had a most disagreeable odour, her hands and fingernails were filthy and her thick hair was tangled and unkempt.

  ‘That’s a pity. I was going to ask if you’d sell me a slice.’

  ‘Sell it?’ Emily was astonished. Where would she get the money from to buy food?

  Meg grinned. ‘Think I don’t know how to get money? I’ve been earning money since I was thirteen.’ She picked at her teeth. ‘Providing you’re not too particular you can allus mek money – even in here.’

  Emily turned her back in disgust and faced the wall. She was ready to die. Death was preferable to staying here with these revolting and offensive people.

  ‘Listen!’ Meg, unoffended by Emily’s attitude, claimed her attention again. ‘Listen to ’Lark.’

  Emily turned over again. ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘Can’t you hear her? We call her ’little Lark.’ She gave a guttural laugh. ‘Not that I’ve ever heard one.’

  Emily sat up and leant on one elbow to listen. How was it possible to hear birdsong so deep inside these grim walls? Besides, she hadn’t heard a lark since coming to live in Hull. The lark was a country bird.

  Meg wandered over to the gate which closed them in from the passage. She stood leaning against it, her head held up and her eyes closed as if concentrating. Emily looked at her. With her face in repose and her neck stretched, she looked younger than she had originally thought her. Once, perhaps, she had been a fine-looking woman, she mused, but life had made her ugly. Emily looked round at the other prisoners, they were all silent, some picking at their sores or scratching their heads, but all were silent.

  Then Emily heard the sound that they were all listening for. From somewhere above them in one of the far cells, came a voice, a voice so pure and sweet that it seemed inappropriate in this grim place. The voice raised in song was poignant and sensitive, it soared indeed like a bird on the wing. It conjured to Emily a scene of open countryside, sweet-smelling herbs and blossom, warm sun and gentle rain, and as she wiped a tear from her cheek, she saw that others were doing the same.

  ‘Who is she?’ she whispered to Meg as the songbird finished. ‘Why is she in here?’

  Meg shrugged and shook her head. ‘They say she killed her parents. They also say she’s a lunatic.’ She raised a thumb towards the end of the passageway. ‘Some of ’em are locked up in gaol ’cos there’s nowhere else for them to go.’ She sat cross-legged on the floor next to Emily’s cell, her ragged skirts showing her bare knees and dirty ankles, and put her head in her hands. ‘I onny know when I hear her sing I want to die and go to heaven.’

  They were disturbed during the early hours of the next morning by the sound of raised voices, the rattling of keys and the gate being opened. A woman was pushed unceremoniously inside the main female cell. ‘I’ll have you for this,’ she shouted at the warder. ‘Just see if I don’t.’

  ‘Hello!’ Meg got to her feet and surveyed the woman. ‘Well, well, well! If it isn’t Queen of ’Night! Fancy meeting up wi’ you again.’

  Emily, half-asleep, peered through the bars at the newcomer. Then she sat up and took more notice. The woman was dressed in a dark red gown edged with black. An expensive cloak was draped about her shoulders, she wore a feathered hat on her head and a very haughty expression on her face. Surely there was some mistake, Emily thought. Why would a well-dressed woman like this be bundled into a cell?

  The woman looked Meg up and down and then turned her back on her and stared across at Emily.

  ‘Hey,’ said Meg, ‘aren’t you going to say hello to your old pal? Sisters!’ she grinned.

  ‘Sisters! What are you talking about? You’re no sister of mine.’ Her voice, though rasping, was not hard and guttural as Meg’s was. ‘I have no idea who you are.’

  ‘Come off it, Queenie. You know what I mean. Sisters of ’same trade. And you know who I am right enough. Turned me away from your doorstep once. Said I was pinching your trade!’

  Queenie’s lip flickered and she drew herself up as tall as she could, which wasn’t far as she was short and plump. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about. I run a respectable lodging house.’

  Emily stood by the bars listening. Whatever could Meg be talking about? She had a feeling that she was being offensive to this lady.

  Meg circled the woman. ‘Oh, we know that, Queenie! We know what happens in your house. Not quite one of ’best houses though, is it? Sort of half-way to ’bottom!’

  Queenie put her head up and sneered. ‘Not down in ’gutter though, like some we know.’

  Meg launched herself at Queenie with such force that they both fell over. Queenie’s hat fell off and one of the other women rushed in and took it to her corner, where she promptly sat on it. The two women punched and scratched and kicked and uttered oaths and blasphemy that Emily had never heard before, and she looked on with her eyes wide and her hands clasped to her mouth whilst the other inmates cheered and shouted and egged them on.

  ‘What’s going on?’ The voice of the warder bellowed as he sauntered idly down the corridor, swinging his keys. ‘I knew there’d be trouble putting them two together.’ He watched them through
the bars as if enjoying the spectacle of the two women rolling around the floor. Meg was holding Queenie by her hair and pulling for all she was worth, whilst Queenie dug her fingernails into Meg’s face.

  Emily turned away. It was horrible. The women’s legs were showing almost up to their thighs, their bodices were ripped and the men in the adjoining cells were shouting obscene suggestions at them. ‘Aye,’ Meg shouted back at them, ‘if tha can pay – which I doubt.’

  The warder blew on a whistle and another warder appeared. They turned the key in the lock and entered. ‘Right, come on. Break it up!’ They hauled the women apart. ‘Put Meg in one of ’other cells,’ said one warder to the other. ‘She’ll have to double up with ’murderess. No, not that one, she’ll be off in ’morning. This one.’ He pointed to Emily. ‘She’s quiet enough. She’ll not be a bother.’

  He unlocked Emily’s cell gate and pushed Meg inside as she hurled abuse at her rival. ‘Queen of ’Night!’ she hissed. ‘Devil’s Daughter, more like!’

  ‘Hah!’ Queenie laughed and shouted back, shaking her fist. ‘We’ll see who’s out first.’

  Meg sat down on the bench next to Emily, breathing hard. ‘Look at that,’ she muttered and surveyed her bare arm, which had several long red scratches on it. ‘Look what that bitch did!’

  ‘Shall I bathe it for you?’ Emily offered. ‘I’ve still got some water and it’s fairly clean.’

  Meg stared suspiciously. ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘Bathe your arm. In case there’s any dirt from her fingernails.’

  Meg put her head back and laughed. ‘By, you’re a right one! Dirt in her fingernails!’ She roared again as she looked at Emily’s solemn face. ‘I don’t know what you’re doing in here! Listen,’ she said, becoming serious and putting her head close to Emily’s, ‘she’s got more than dirt under her fingernails! She’s got vice, debauchery and she’s got murder for a start, and plain water’ll not wash that out. They might call me immoral and throw me in here now and again, but it’s my living. But I’m not depraved and I’ve never hurt anybody in my life. I give ’em what they want and nowt more.’

  ‘I see, I think.’ Emily was confused. ‘But if she’s murdered someone, why hasn’t she been tried?’

  ‘I’m not saying she did it with her own hands.’ Meg stared out into the other cell. ‘But I had a friend who went to work for her. She was fourteen, same as I was. They fished her out of ’Humber a month later. She wouldn’t do what they wanted, so they got rid of her.’

  Emily felt sick. ‘How do you know?’ she whispered.

  Meg gave a small smile. ‘Huh. I just do. Folk in my line o’ work talk to each other. We know what goes on in this town.’

  The next morning, just after their bowl of gruel, which Queenie disdainfully refused, a warder came and unlocked the gate. ‘Come on then, Queenie, off you go home. Your friends have paid up as usual.’

  She brushed herself down and glanced contemptuously at the crowd of prisoners watching her. ‘Somebody has stolen my hat. But keep it,’ she mocked. ‘It’s worth nothing! Just a frippery that I bought to amuse myself. I’ll get another.’

  She looked the warder up and down. ‘And I’ll thank you not to be so familiar. My name is Mrs Plaxton.’

  ‘Poxy Plaxton,’ one of the men called mockingly. ‘I’m glad I can’t afford any of thy wenches.’

  She walked out of the cell, swirling her cloak about her and waving one hand in farewell.

  ‘How is it she’s gone out?’ Emily was at a loss to understand.

  ‘One of her gentlemen will have paid to get her out,’ Meg pulled a derisive face. ‘And ’bitch won’t come to trial ’cos half of ’magistrates in ’town are her clients.’

  Early the next morning the prisoners roused themselves and gathered about, whispering to one another. Some of them were nervously watching the gate as if waiting for someone. Then someone whispered, ‘Here’s ’priest coming. It’ll be today then!’

  A black-garbed priest was let into the cell next to Emily’s by two of the warders, who then positioned themselves outside.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Emily called softly to Meg, who was standing by the bars watching.

  ‘’Lass in ’cell next door. She’s going to York Assizes this morning. She killed her husband. She’s Irish Catholic and ’priest’s here to hear her confession.’

  Emily felt a great blackness coming over her and sank to the floor in a faint; when she came to, the prisoner, the priest and the warders had gone and Meg was on her own side of the cell looking through the bars at her.

  ‘She went quietly,’ she said. ‘I don’t think she believes it’s happening.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Don’t know what’ll become of her bairns ’cos if they don’t top her, they’ll transport her.’

  Emily sat huddled in her blanket all the morning. Could this happen to me? Can my life be snuffed out like a candle flame when I haven’t yet begun to live? She looked round at the other prisoners, they seemed to have already forgotten about the young woman and were concentrating now on their own discomforts.

  They were quite often disturbed by visitors coming to the gate to peer in at them. People who had imbibed too well, who thought it would be a jape to bribe the gaolers to let them come and look at the dunghill degradation into which other, lesser mortals than they could fall. They peered with hungry fascination into the cells, the women to gasp from behind their handkerchiefs and the men to leer and sometimes jest.

  The prisoners, ever mindful that they could make money, would whine and put out their begging hands. ‘Not for me, for my poor bairns,’ the women would cry, whilst the men would grasp the women visitors’ wrists with their horny, rough hands, and tell of the wife and children they had left starving at home. Sometimes someone would fling a coin and there would be a general scramble to retrieve it, but at other times someone would offer a coin and then snatch it back with a loud laugh and return it to their purse. Then a torrent of abuse was hurled at them and tales of what awaited them in the Devil’s world when they got there.

  Emily crouched as far back in her cell as she could when these visitors came. She couldn’t bear the shame, couldn’t bear the thought of being the object of ridicule or the laughing stock of these people come to gloat. I have no hope, she thought, locked in her cave of despair. I am as doomed as that poor woman in the next cell whose face I never saw.

  She was lying facing the wall when she heard the rattle of the gate and her name being called. ‘Emily Hawkins! Rise up.’ She scrambled to her feet as the warder unlocked her cell.

  ‘What? Where am I going?’ Fear hit her. ‘Am I going to court?’

  ‘No.’ The warder had little to say. ‘You’re being moved.’

  ‘But why?’ She started to cry. Was this the start of procedure which would lead to the hangman?

  ‘Where ’you tekking her?’ Meg stood between the warder and the gate. ‘Come on, where’s she going?’

  ‘Nowt to do wi’ you.’

  Meg sidled up to him. ‘Aw, come on. You can tell me!’

  The warder hesitated, then gave a small smile. ‘It’ll be a favour, Meg.’

  She nodded. ‘Just tell us where you’re tekking her.’

  ‘She’s being put in one of ’other cells. Comfort of home in there,’ he added caustically.

  Meg moved back. ‘You’ve got a friend after all then, Em! You’ll be too good for ’likes of us when you get up there.’

  Emily stared. She was frightened. She didn’t believe them. They were going to hang her without a trial. ‘No,’ she shrieked. ‘I won’t go! Let me stay here.’ Somehow she had become accustomed to these outcasts of society, familiar with their disgusting habits, their scratching and swearing, their fighting and brazen shamelessness, born she was now quite sure, out of hopelessness and misery.

  Meg grinned. ‘She wants to stay wi’ her pals, don’t you, Em? You’ll miss us, won’t you?’

  Emily looked over her shoulder as she was dragged away. ‘Y
es,’ she whispered, ‘I will.’ But Meg had already turned her back and was walking away.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Who sent me in here?’ She was bundled with her belongings into one of the cells in the passageway, which, although it was open to view through the barred door, was slightly larger than the small cell she had just occupied.

  ‘Don’t know, but I shouldn’t complain if I were you,’ said the warder. ‘There’s not many have this luxury.’

  It’s hardly luxury, she thought, looking around at the damp, streaming walls and the straw mattress on the bench, but it had a grate with a low fire burning and it had a single wooden chair and on a shelf a stub of candle, and she was grateful for that at least to her unknown benefactor. She was brought some soup, slightly warmer and not quite so greasy as she had eaten previously and she sat by the fire and felt a glimmer of hope where there had been none before.

  It must be Mr Francis, she pondered. No-one else would do this. Towards the end of the afternoon, just as she had lit the candle from the dying remains of the fire, she heard the sound of footsteps coming down the stone passageway; the heavy tread of the warder’s boots and lighter steps such as a woman might make. She didn’t look up, but sat staring at a puff of smoke which tongued around the last sliver of wood and curled its way into the room.

  The iron key rattled in the lock and startled she jumped up. A woman was entering and the warder was locking the gate behind her. She had her face covered by the hood of her cloak and in the gloom Emily couldn’t see whether she was young or old.

  ‘Have you come to share my cell?’ Emily asked softly. ‘I thought I was to be alone, but I shall be very glad to have some company in this dreadful place.’

  ‘I can only give you my company for an hour,’ the woman whispered. ‘I have been asked to come and see you.’ She shuddered and turned her head to glance around her surroundings. ‘And in truth, I don’t think I could bear to stay longer between these walls.’

  ‘Who are you? Who has sent you? Please, won’t you sit down?’