It was because of the incident with Julia at the summer camp, I knew that. Well, after the summer camp, as a matter of fact. Not that anything did actually happen, but that wasn’t what it looked like. The point was that, to Patricia, Julia was tarnished after that. She’d run off one evening in secret, you see, to try and meet a boy. And not even a boy of the right kind. Patricia had always made a terrific song and dance about the sort of people who attended the camp; she didn’t want Antonia mixing with the hoi-polloi and was forever warning me of the dangers of allowing my children to mingle with them. As if class was something that could be caught off people, like nits or pink-eye.
Her not having Julia meant that Frances couldn’t go, either. Patricia couldn’t have one sister and not the other. I think she thought no one would surmise the reason she didn’t want Julia, if she refused them as a job-lot. So she took Edwin. That’s how it began. Greville was always terribly soppy about children; he borrowed a pony from someone or other so that Edwin would feel he had the same as Antonia. And they had a dog, which of course Edwin had always wanted. Antonia was grateful for the company, she was nice to him. He liked it there, it was an adventure. Greville got it into his head that archery was the thing to amuse a boy, got him a bow and arrows – a proper big archery one, I mean, not one of those toys with rubber suckers on the ends of the arrows – and put up a target in the orchard. They’d go out every day and practise. Well, he was just the sort of age when he was mad on Robin Hood and William Tell and knights of old, all that sort of thing. It doesn’t require too much imagination to turn a boy’s head.
It was all very unsettling for the girls and I worried about them a great deal. First they went to Nina’s, but of course their house was right on the main road and tiny – more of a cottage, really – so it was quite unsuitable, especially after the baby came along: there was nowhere for them to go. After the baby was born, the girls got carted off to my mother’s. Well, of course there was plenty of space there to run around and explore, but Mummy was off with the fairies, to be honest, she couldn’t supervise. She was looked after by this Mrs Manville, a dreadful woman, who at least was devoted to my mother. So devoted, actually, that she didn’t trouble herself with my daughters any more than she had to. I always imagined that the girls must rather have loved staying there, because no one kept much of an eye on them. In fact years later Julia complained that they’d been terribly lonely at their grandmother’s, but that’s Julia for you. I wasn’t sure I believed her: she had her sister for company, after all.
In the end Nina had the brain-wave of moving into our house, for the duration. Clever, practical Nina. She took the baby – his name was George, after our father – and decamped with Julia and Frances. Eric joined them when he wasn’t working in Portsmouth or Southampton, or wherever it was. None of us had a clue how long it was all going to go on for, that’s what’s so hard to fathom now. Neither the war itself, nor Hugh and myself being in jail. If I’d been guilty of a crime I’d have had a sentence imposed on me, a know-able amount of time; but as it was I hadn’t committed any crime and yet neither I nor anyone else had the foggiest idea how long I’d be detained. For those first weeks I truly thought I’d be let out any day. It was only later, once the children had gone back to school and the autumn set in, that I resigned myself to the long haul. The uncertainty, that’s why it was so difficult to make arrangements. I had to accept that my sisters would take charge of the children and do things for the best. There was simply no other way.
Going back to the house, our house, was by far the most sensible plan because the girls had all their things and their own rooms and so on; and there were tennis courts just down the lane and croquet in the garden. They would have felt happy and at home and relatively settled. They couldn’t bathe in the sea because of the barbed wire and defences all over the place, but I don’t know if they realized how lucky they were to have their liberty and their youth and their health; to have the sea-wind in their hair. But I don’t believe the young ever really understand how free they are. What I’d have given, to feel that salty summer air on my bare legs and on my face.
Is this of interest to you? I’m not telling you much about Sir Oswald’s followers, although none of this would have befallen my children had I not been a follower myself. In any case, Edwin joined them at the house, just for the last week or so of the holidays. I think he was rather tickled not to be the only boy in the family any more, now that Nina had baby George. He’d never really met a new-born before, being the youngest: he may have hoped his new cousin would be ready to play cricket straight away. Anyway, Nina wrote to tell me how sweet he was, with the baby. I’m sure he would have been, Edwin always was the sweetest boy.
13. Holloway, September to December 1940
Some things were better in prison after the Blitz began in September, but others were far worse. The fear made it especially grim: the fear and the cold. Halfway through November, B wing was hit by two bombs; by some miracle there were no fatalities, but many inmates had cuts from the broken glass. Everyone was very shaken. The noise had been terrifying, as if the earth itself was exploding, opening up; as if the end of the world had come. Women screamed from their cells, terrified they would be burned alive. The building was a panopticon, the wings arranged like the spokes of a wheel around the central area, which was entirely roofed with glass. This roof had somehow survived the attack intact. The bomb hit an empty wing, but the roof’s transparency made the building a target. The strictest blackout conditions now applied: no more torches for reading under the bedclothes. People ducked down to light their cigarettes under the rickety washstand tables in their cells. They learned to hold the lit ends inwards to conceal the glowing tip, as well as the tiny flare when they inhaled. Some of them struggled to get the hang of smoking in this way and made self-conscious jokes about turning into navvies or coal miners. Their fingers began to be stained with nicotine.
The improvement the air raids brought about was that the prisoners’ cell doors were kept unlocked at all times, so that they could follow the evacuation procedure if need be. This was freedom on a heady scale, after the oppressive schedule that had operated previously. A festive, slightly frantic atmosphere broke out, as if they were girls at boarding school. People darted in and out of each other’s cells at all hours of the day and night, sitting on each other’s beds smoking and talking, or played cards at the long table for hours at a time. But once darkness fell – earlier each day – the mood became more sombre. Many of the women on F Wing came from the East End of London. Every night they flocked up to the third-floor cells and took it in turns to stand on chairs and tables, craning to see if they could judge where the bombs were falling. Numbers of them sobbed through the dark nights, terrified of what might be happening to their homes, their families.
Word filtered down that OM was campaigning from his own prison cell for the women in Holloway to be protected in Anderson shelters during the nightly raids. He was said to be outraged that these women, innocent of any crime, should be denied the basic safety measures available to the rest of the population. His own wife was among them, after all. It was comforting to know that he was speaking out on their behalf, even at a time when his own wings were clipped. The very thought of him brought them strength. At the summer camp there had been much talk about the fact that his visits always coincided with fine weather, as if his charm could work its magic even on the recalcitrant English sun. The air raid on Holloway had hit just two days before OM’s birthday. Among the women on F Wing there was a general feeling that the luck he brought in his wake had somehow prevailed here, too. No one had been badly hurt! It was in this fervent, slightly giddy spirit that they arranged a tea-dance of sorts to celebrate the Leader’s birthday. Someone got hold of a gramophone and another detainee, Lady Domvile, obtained a tin of biscuits. To Phyllis it was wonderful, the way her fellows pulled together and made the best of their situation and jollied each other along. No matter the difference in their background
s, they were all in this together. It was only their courage and camaraderie which made the days bearable.
Phyllis found the boredom was easier to manage than the uncertainty. There were frightening and persistent rumours that all the women detained under the same terms as herself might be deported, perhaps to the colonies. Obtaining any information as to how long her imprisonment might last was all but impossible, nor did anyone seem to know what steps she might take in order to be released. There was talk of having to appear before some sort of judging committee. From October the women were allowed to write to their MPs to appeal against their treatment, but since it was Parliament which had put them in jail in the first place, the gesture seemed pretty futile. The not-knowing made everyone jittery and corroded hope as surely as salt water rusting metal.
Although she never believed that her convictions were reason enough for her incarceration, Phyllis could not help but see her imprisonment as something she deserved, a punishment she had brought upon herself for her carelessness regarding poor Sarita. As well as having been a bad friend, she had been a neglectful daughter to her poor dear father: these thoughts tormented her. She thought of the words in the General Confession: We have left undone those things which we ought to have done and we have done those things which we ought not to have done, and there is no health in us. There is no health in us. The phrase caught in her brain, like the chorus of a popular song. Many times a day it came to mind and repeated itself. If it had not been for the friendship she found among the other women, Phyllis would have felt as though she was thoroughly rotten.
By now the prisoners were allowed short visits. Greville wrote a brief note to say that he would be coming: Phyllis guessed that he and her sisters and possibly Eric too had agreed that it should be Greville who would be the first visitor. She imagined that he wouldn’t have countenanced Patricia making the trip: Holloway was in the back of beyond, and he would have insisted that prison was no place for a woman, notwithstanding the fact that Phyllis was a woman herself. The visit took place in a room Phyllis had never seen before, filled with scuffed tables and oddly low chairs, the height of chairs in a nursery school. It was humiliating to sit so close to the floor, making them all look knock-kneed and out of proportion. Four or five warders stood about, presumably to make sure no one passed contraband. Phyllis took a seat and waited for her brother-in-law to be brought in with the other visitors. He was not quite able to conceal his shock at his first sight of her.
Greville began speaking almost before he had taken his seat, she guessed in a gallant bid to hide his dismay at her gaunt and pallid appearance.
‘You must try not to worry, we’re doing all we can. We’re in touch with the Advisory Committee and it seems they’re aware of you and will call you to speak in due course. There doesn’t seem to be a way of hurrying them along, although,’ and here Greville lowered his voice, ‘I did drop some names which I thought might help. Made it clear that you’re not without connections. So much for habeas corpus! It’s like something out of Lewis Carroll, dealing with these people. You know, the scene in Alice in Wonderland, Who Stole the Tarts? I have pointed out that you are guilty of no crime and therefore should be the equivalent of a remand prisoner, with the privileges that that entails. I’ve been quite insistent on this, both in private interviews with one or two people and by letter with several others. But of course one has no way of knowing if anything gets through to them. They are treating you decently?’
Phyllis did not know how to answer. It wasn’t how she was treated that was of concern to her: it was that she was locked up in the first place.
‘We manage. There’s one rather annoying thing: they do insist on distributing things that come in our parcels, sharing them out. Not clothes, but toffees, cigarettes, tea; that sort of thing. You might tell Patricia, so she could put in a few extras. Otherwise I end up with just one biscuit or whatever it is, out of a whole packet.’
‘But that’s monstrously unfair!’ said Greville. ‘A package sent to you ought to be your own property. The sole property of the addressee. That’s behaving like socialists.’
Phyllis smiled wanly.
‘Anything you need, in particular? Books?’
‘Books are always a great boon. Anything by Margery Allingham would go down well, if you wouldn’t mind. We’ve got some Agatha Christies, we pass them around once we’ve finished. It’s rather fun, actually, because it means we’ve all read the same things, so we can discuss them together. We all got a terrific craze for Murder is Easy, we couldn’t talk of anything else for a fortnight. Rather suitable, for a bunch of jailbirds.’
‘I don’t know it,’ said Greville.
‘Oh, well. It’s a potboiler, as Patricia calls them. Probably not your sort of thing.’
‘I don’t care for stories. I tend to read history. Mark you, I hardly do read: two pages and I’m out like a light. Takes me months to get through a book.’
‘How is she? And Antonia?’
‘The tiddler is doing splendidly, by all accounts. Seems to be getting on very well at school.’
The idea of Antonia being splendid at anything was hard to fathom, but Phyllis nodded as if he was only reporting something she had expected all along.
‘Patricia’s got some chickens, for the eggs, you know. She’s rather taken to them, goes out before brekker every morning to see what’s what in the hen house. But of course she’s sick with worry about you. We are gunning for you, you know.’
‘Thank you, Greville. I know you are. It makes such a difference, to think you’re trying to get me out. I simply couldn’t bear not to be with the children for Christmas. For their stockings.’
‘No, of course. Well, we’ll do all we can to make sure you’re home by then.’
‘Is there a chance, do you suppose? It’s less than a month away.’ Desperate, Phyllis made to clutch at her brother-in-law’s arm across the narrow table.
Greville recoiled. The gesture, almost imperceptible, was all the more wounding for having been involuntary. It was a tiny movement, but to Phyllis it was devastating. She felt it as a physical sensation, as if she had been winded. In the moment of his drawing back from her Phyllis understood that she had crossed an invisible barrier which set her apart, now, from the people she loved. They were on one side of this line and she was on the other. All that was to follow revealed itself to her in that split second with a terrible force and clarity.
At just the same moment a warden came across and told Phyllis that touching was forbidden. Phyllis was sure that Greville felt the same rush of perverse gratitude for this intervention as she did. It was merciful that someone else had spoken before they had to face each other again. She saw that her brother-in-law at least had the good grace to look embarrassed. He was a kind man, she knew that.
‘Well now,’ he said, recovering himself. ‘Is there anything else you’d like, any little thing we can send?’
‘You might tell Patricia that if she scribbles a note on the flyleaf of a book or the inside lid of a box then it doesn’t count as a letter. Just as long as it’s light newsy things, they let it through. Nothing about the war. We’re only allowed two letters, you see, and I try to keep channels open for the children. In case they write.’
A hooter sounded, signalling the end of the visit. Chairs scraped back from tables all at once, as at the end of a school lesson. In the slight flurry as she stood, Phyllis noticed a sharp, oniony sort of smell. She wasn’t sure if it was coming from her, or from the others. It seemed to fill the room, as if a pan of stew was being heated nearby. It wasn’t the smell of ordinary sweat, the sweat of exertion; it was the sweat of unease and fear. She recognized it, now. Perhaps it was the smell of dread, the dread of being locked up once more, separated from families and sweethearts. Or perhaps it was the visitors who were perspiring, made nervy from the unfamiliarity of the hostile surroundings and abrupt goodbyes. And yet for all their pity and even sorrow, they would be returning to the outside world. They would
feel fresh air on their faces, the wintry cold pinching at their noses. They would be able to turn up their collars against the chill, blow on their wool-gloved fingertips while they stood in little groups at bus stops; make their own way, each of them, to their own homes, their own familiar things. It seemed to Phyllis that she would never again take for granted the comforts of home: the soft blankets with their fraying satin edges, her favourite rose geranium soap, the soft rich glow of a table newly polished with beeswax and turpentine. In the time it took her to imagine such things, the visit was over, a hasty leave had been taken and she was trudging back along the narrow corridors to her cell.
In early December Phyllis was called to appear before the Advisory Committee to consider appeals against orders of internment. To everyone in prison this had by now become known as the tribunal, even though there were usually four officials on the other side of the desk and not three. A couple of dozen of the women had already been through such hearings and reported the absurdity of the proceedings. They said that members of the tribunal seemed to think they could ensnare them by getting them to admit to being fascists, forgetting that the word – which to outsiders was pejorative – had been used among them as commonly as Mr or Mrs, especially among the older stalwarts who had joined before the Party changed its name from British Union of Fascists to British Union.
After the Party Page 19
