by Vicary, Tim
A few minutes later she found herself sitting with Mrs Watson in a little gloomy office at the back of the building, staring at the newcomer.
The girl did not fill Deborah with confidence. She sat on the edge of her chair as though she were about to leave. She wore a long black coat and had a scarf over her head. She looked unusually big, almost mannish, with a slightly stooped back that conveyed an air of embarrassment. But she also seemed pathetically anxious to speak; and, if her story was true, her embarrassment was hardly surprising.
Mrs Watson asked: ‘Why did you do that?’
‘Do what?’
‘Forcibly feed Sarah Becket.’
‘Why? 'Cause she refused food, o' course. And because it's doctor's orders.’
‘Doctor's orders?’
‘That's what I come to tell you about.’
Slowly, hesitantly, Ruth Harkness told her story. Of the two women in front of her she preferred the older lady, the woman in the green dress with the round glasses and grey hair. She had a manner like an old-fashioned schoolteacher, Ruth thought; she would stand no nonsense but you knew where you were with her, you could trust her. The other one, the fair-haired lady in the fine grey dress, upset her. She had been introduced to Ruth as Sarah Becket's sister, but she was as unlike the defiant woman in prison as she could be. She thought of Sarah Becket as slim, haggard, with a pale suffering face and haunting dark eyes that could flash and mock and make you tremble; this woman opposite her now seemed quiet, anxious, almost afraid of what Ruth had to say.
Ruth described the forced feeding, and told them what Sarah had said to Dr Armstrong about her husband, and what she had heard from the women in the collecting cell about the house in Red Lion Street, Hackney; and how she had followed her husband to his premises in Kensington and seen Dr Armstrong come out and Jonathan stay in.
‘But why did she go there?’ Mrs Watson asked. ‘I mean, what led her to suspect him in the first place?’
‘She said she got a letter, ma'am, from some prostitute. Warnin’ ‘er to keep you suffragettes away from Dr Armstrong because her husband was involved.’
‘Dear God,’ Deborah breathed. ‘The poor thing.’
‘Did she say where that letter is now?’ Mrs Watson asked.
‘No, ma'am. Didn't mention it.’
‘Pity,’ Mrs Watson said. ‘Nevertheless, that explains it.’ She glanced at Deborah.
‘Explains what?’
‘Why she didn't tell me what she was planning to do. Why she slashed the picture and got herself arrested instead of talking to me first. If we could have exposed the person who was running these bawdy houses it would have had enormous political impact and done far more for our cause than slashing the painting. But if — God forbid — Sarah believed her husband was involved in any of this, then of course she would have been shocked. Emotionally disturbed, perhaps. She wouldn't have been able to control what she was doing.’
‘Dear God!’ Deborah sat down, stunned. She didn't want to believe it but it was too likely, too inescapably true. All men betrayed their women, in the end. Even Jonathan. Poor, foolish Sarah. No wonder she had taken up the knife. She must have been so shocked she couldn't think what else to do.
‘That's what the doctor says, too.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Ruth's flat tones dragged their attention back to her. ‘Dr Armstrong. He says she's emotionally disturbed. Suffering from paranoid delusions, he calls it. It's his way of saying her whole story's a pack of lies. That's why he says she's insane.’
As Ruth explained Dr Armstrong's diagnosis, and the subsequent conversation she had had with him about it. Deborah leaned forward slowly on the table, resting her head in her hands. Tears were trickling down her cheeks but she made no effort to wipe them away. Her eyes were still fixed on Ruth.
‘It's monstrous,’ Mrs Watson said. ‘If Sarah is mentally ill he should release her immediately!’
‘He's got an explanation for that, too,’ Ruth said. She explained about the bromide treatment.
‘But that — bromide?’ Deborah said. ‘Surely that's not a treatment for mental illness?’
‘Dr Armstrong says it is. It calms 'er down, he says. Stops her being hysterical, like.’
‘But I remember — a woman was driven mad by it recently. I read it in The Times. She was being treated with bromide for something and she became delirious because she was given too much. Her husband thought she was losing her mind. It's poison — she might have died if they hadn't stopped.’
‘I don't know nothing about that,’ Ruth said. ‘I think Armstrong gives it to 'er so that she don't kick so much when 'e shoves the tube in to force feed her. But it didn't do 'er much good last night, because she sicked it all up again.’
‘Oh my God!’ Deborah was on her feet again. ‘He may have damaged her already, for all we know! The man's trying to poison her!’
‘We don't know that for certain, Mrs Cavendish,’ Mrs Watson said. ‘But it is a possibility. He might do that, if he is truly guilty of introducing these children to brothels, and afraid that he will be found out.’ She turned to Ruth. ‘Does he think that only Sarah knows about this?’
‘That's what she told 'im, yeah. Only 'im and me 'eard what she said. And he's explained to me that it's all her madness, her paranoid delusion, 'e calls it.’ Ruth paused, and looked at the two women in front of her cautiously. ‘I come 'ere today because I didn't really believe that, and although I don't approve of militant suffragettes, I think child prostitution is worse. What I want to know is, do you think this story is true, or is Sarah Becket mad, like what 'e says she is?’
‘Of course she's not mad!’ Mrs Watson said. ‘And I can assure you, young woman, that this story of the child prostitutes is absolutely true. Some of us have been investigating it for some weeks. Only definite evidence to link Dr Armstrong with some of the premises was missing — and now it seems we have it. I am deeply grateful to you.’
Ruth nodded. She looked at Deborah carefully. ‘I'm sorry, Mrs Cavendish. I know it sounds dreadful, like, but it's true.’
‘It's more than dreadful!’ Deborah said. ‘Her husband, an MP — to do that with a child!’
There was a long silence. There was the sound of typing, busy discussion, and laughter from the rooms all around them. The three women looked at each other, and shared Deborah's grief.
At last Mrs Watson said: ‘There is only one way to find out the truth of this, and that is to get Sarah out of prison. And if she is being force-fed and possibly poisoned as well, as you say, then the sooner we do that the better.’
‘But we can't!’ Deborah said. ‘You heard this girl, she's a prison wardress and she ought to know. Sarah's being kept in for six months! And we aren't even allowed to visit her, let alone get her out!’
‘We'll run a campaign,’ said Mrs Watson. ‘We'll tell this story on the front page of The Suffragette. We'll have mass demonstrations and a march on Holloway. They'll have to let her out!’
‘She'll be dead by then.’ Ruth's hard, flat voice brought them up short.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I've seen 'er. She's fainting away already, with the strain of it. She can't keep any food down. Any other doctor would let her out, but not Armstrong, not if this story's true, as you tell me it is. He'd rather have 'er die, wouldn't 'e, and then the evidence is gone. And without the evidence, your story in The Suffragette would be all lies and no proof, wouldn't it? Libel they calls it — he could sue you for thousands. And I can't tell yer if her story is true or not, I can only tell yer what she told me. If she's dead, 'e'll just say she was mad, and sign a paper to prove it.’
‘So what do we do, then?’ Deborah asked. ‘Even if she is a little mad, even if part of her story is wrong. Sarah's in terrible danger. Surely there's some way we can get her out?’
‘From ‘Olloway?’ Ruth shook her head, slowly. ‘You ain't never been a prisoner, 'ave yer, Mrs Cavendish? I've been over every inch of that bu
ilding and I can assure you there's ain't no way anyone can escape. No way at all.’
‘Well, I don't know about that,’ Mrs Watson said, slowly.
They both turned and looked at the small, governessy woman in surprise. There was a slight, grim smile on her face.
‘You may not realise it, Miss Harkness, but militant suffragettes are extremely resourceful people. Some of us have got into the House of Commons, and 10 Downing Street, and even Buckingham Palace before now. And we have put quite a lot of thought into how to get out of prisons, as well as into them. It is difficult, I grant you, but then we have never before had the advantage of a prison wardress on our side.’
She paused. The little beady eyes behind the round glasses weighed up the younger woman carefully. Watching her, Ruth Harkness had the feeling that she was back at school, in her headmistress's study.
Except that her headmistress had never had quite the same glint of mischief behind her spectacles.
‘If you are on our side, that is, Miss Harkness,’ Alice Watson went on. ‘I am asking you to risk your job. But it is, after all, a case of saving a woman's life.’
21
SUFFER . . .
It was so hard to write, now. It had taken Sarah most of the morning to mix the paste. First she had to collect the dirt from her cell floor with bare hands — and there was very little of that because every day she was made to sweep out her cell with a dustpan and brush. She had to scrabble with cracked fingernails around the feet of the bed, and in the corner where there was a crack between the flagstones and the woodlice lived, to find any. Then, when she made a little pile, she scooped it into a hollow in the flagstones, and crumbled bits of the grey gritty prison soap on top of it. Then she took the metal cup which was chained to the wall and poured water into her palm.
Water . . .
Her eyes focused on it, yearned for it. Her tongue, which had begun to swell in her mouth, touched her dry cracked lips and her hand moved towards her mouth.
She stopped. Deliberately, she knocked the cup over.
She had begun the thirst strike last night and this was her first crisis.
She watched the water trickle down the walls and flow over the floor and she bent down on her hands and knees and did not lick it up. Instead, she brushed it away from the hollow in the floor where her pile of soap and dirt was, and only added a few drops at a time from her finger ends to mix the paste.
Damp, black, sticky — it would do.
She dipped her slate pencil in the ink and wrote on the wall.
Suffer . . . the little . . . children . . . to come . . . unto Me.
It was hard work. The paste had not quite run out when she finished so at the end she scrawled a little cross. Then her head started swimming so she had to sit down. There were spots dancing in front of her eyes and her pulse was beating so strongly through her head and neck and chest that she felt her skin was quite transparent.
She lay on her bed, waiting for the attack to pass, and thought, this is what it is like, this is what I have to suffer to win. I have to win for the children.
In the long cold echoing nights she had thought a lot about the children. She began to daydream about them now. They were all girls, the children of the brothels, with half-formed breasts and cheap gaudy clothes and hard staring eyes that she imagined were too frightened to weep. In her dreams she opened the door of the brothels and took them away and they were with her in the garden of a beautiful house in the country, walking across a lawn with daffodils around the edge, and one of them laughed and called her Mother. And she wondered if any of them were her own children, the ones who had miscarried. Then a man came out of the house, a tall handsome man in black, and she turned her back and grabbed the girls by the hands and ran.
I will never be anyone's mother, she thought. Not now. If Jonathan comes near me ever again I'll kill him.
The cell door crashed open. A wardress stood there. Big, burly, pasty faced. Ruth Harkness, my friendly torturer. Sarah stared, and said nothing. Prisoners were supposed to stand up, but she couldn't be bothered. Anyway, she felt too weak.
Ruth closed the door behind her. She looks nervous, Sarah thought. Am I so frightening, even now?
Ruth looked at the floor, noticed it was wet, saw the empty cup.
‘Clumsy,’ she said. ‘I'll get you some more water.’
‘No need.’
‘Why not? It's no bother.’
‘I'm not drinking.’
‘Oh no.’ Ruth shook her head firmly. ‘Don't start that nonsense now! Believe me, Mrs Becket, you've got more important things to think about. Not drinking ain't going to do no good at all.’
‘That's what you think.’ It's not fair, Sarah thought. When you're so hungry, rage takes you over so suddenly and completely that you shake all over, and yet your body's too weak to do anything about it. Even your voice hurts, so that it's a pain to speak. Nonetheless, she got to her feet, and turned her back to stare at the wall.
‘Oh, come on now, Becket, I've got something important to say to you.’
‘Torturer! Get out.’
‘I went to the Women's Social and Political Union. I talked to 'em about you. They want to rescue you.’
Sarah's shaking stopped. She turned round. Stars swam briefly in front of her eyes and she thought: hallucinations already? I thought my mind was stronger than this.
‘What did you say?’
Ruth repeated herself. Her voice was low, urgent, just above a whisper. ‘I saw a Mrs Watson and another one, calls herself your sister, Mrs Cavendish. I told 'em what you said to Dr Armstrong and they believed it. They want me to get you out.’
Sarah laughed. She felt quite light-headed. ‘You can't, silly. This is a prison.’
‘There may be a way, though.’
‘What? Tell me.’
Ruth hesitated. She was used to wild swings of mood amongst prisoners, but Sarah Becket seemed to have deteriorated drastically since she last saw her forty-eight hours ago. Was this the effect of the bromide, or the thirst strike? Whichever it was, it made the woman less reliable, dangerous even.
‘I can't tell you now. But when the time comes, you've got to trust me — do exactly what I say. It can't be for a day or two, anyway. Just keep yer mouth shut, for heaven's sake — and trust me.’
Sarah felt dizzy standing up and her mind was hazy too. Perhaps what this wardress was saying was important but she seemed immeasurably distant somehow, irrelevant. With an effort, Sarah tried to focus her attention. Surely the girl must be lying, sent to deceive her.
‘How did you get to the WSPU?’
‘I walked, didn't I? Went up to the front door and walked straight in. Why?’
‘Who did you see first?’
‘A young woman. Fair-haired, shortish. I don't know what 'er name was. She was giving out newspapers, like.’
‘And then you met Alice Watson and my sister, Mrs Cavendish, you say?’
‘That's right, yes.’
‘I don't believe you! My sister lives in Glenfee, in Ulster. She never comes to London. And she's not a suffragette, anyway.’
‘Well, I can't help that. I met her. She was there.’
‘So what did she say?’
‘Say? Nothing at first. Then, when I told 'er what you'd said about Dr Armstrong and your husband, she cried.’
‘Oh my God.’ Sarah turned round feebly and leaned against the wall. ‘Surely to God you didn't tell Deborah that? You couldn't have!’
‘Why ever not? She was there, wasn't she? She had to know. Listen, Mrs Becket, I ain't got much time . . .’
‘Don't you understand? Look, this is between me and my husband, no one else! What right have you to go round telling everyone things that are shameful and private?’
‘They're not private, they're important! Look, why d'yer think I went to the WSPU, risking my job? Not because I approve of your silly suffragette crimes. I don't! But because what you say Dr Armstrong's doing is much worse. It's got t
o be stopped, ain't it? And if your husband's part of it then he should be stopped, too. Whoever he is.’
Sarah shook her head, desperately, and ran her hands through her hair. She had a headache and spots before her eyes and she wanted to lie down and go to sleep. It was all too much. Hours of private torment and then sudden, bitter argument and decisions.
‘Not Jonathan,’ she said. ‘I can't do that to him. I should never have told you.’
‘Why? Ain't it true?’
‘I don't know! He's my husband, damn you!’
I hate him, I'll tear his eyes out. But on my own!
‘Why don't you leave me alone?’
‘If I leave you alone here, you'll die.’
‘What?’ Sarah stared at the young wardress, bewildered. Again the stars in front of her eyes. She put one hand against the wall, to steady herself.
‘You ain't eating, and now you've stopped drinking. He'll carry on force feeding you but you puke half of it up anyway, so that don't do much good. You'll get weaker and weaker an' in the end you'll die.’
Sarah wanted to sit down because of the trembling in her legs but she ignored it. ‘You just don't understand, do you,' she said. ‘The pain of starving yourself is something we all have to face up to before we come in. Of course we get weaker, and of course it hurts, but that's what forces the authorities to let us out. They daren't let us die in here. It would look too bad.’
‘Normally it might.’
‘What do you mean?’
There was a clatter of pails along the corridor and the sound of another wardress opening a cell door and ordering a prisoner out. Ruth Harkness glanced nervously over her shoulder to ensure that she was standing with her back to the little judas spyhole in the door, so that no one could see in.
‘Listen to me, Mrs Becket, please. I didn't want to get mixed up in your troubles but I am, and if I get this wrong I won't just lose my job, I'll end up locked in 'ere like what you are now. So do me a favour and trust me, and try to think straight, will yer? Mrs Watson wants to send a party of suffragettes round to expose what goes on in these 'ouses of Armstrong's but she daren't, not while you're in here.’
