by A. J. Cronin
‘Didn’t they give you anything to help your insomnia?’
‘You may be sure, sir, I was well drugged a’ the time I was there.’
‘Sleeping draughts?’
‘Would you understand what I mean, sir, when I say it was the needle?’
‘Ah! Hypodermics! Much more potent I assume.’
‘Ay, they knocked me out as if I had been pole-axed, and next morning when I came to, I felt like hell.’
‘Ah! What a splendid phrase! Might one say, you felt you were in hell!’
‘That was my exact meaning, sir.’
‘Did you have interviews with the Mother Superior?’
‘Several, sir.’
‘Of what nature?’
‘As sweet as sugar. She was full o’ pretended pity, telling me to forget the past and begin a new life.’
‘With her in the convent?’
‘Aye, she would love to have nabbed me. I would have been what they call a reclaimed sinner!’
‘I believe that you have spoken elsewhere of cells. Did you see them? Were you ever actually shut up in one?’
‘I saw them all right. I was looking around the premises one wet day, and there they were, two together, right at the back.’
‘Made you shiver, I suppose, you poor girl?’
‘Oh, sir, I could tell you . . .’
The interview continued on these lines for a further half-hour then, with a smile, Mr Douglass pushed his notepad towards her, ‘Just sign here, my dear young lady, and the cheque is yours.’
She signed with alacrity, and the cheque was immediately in her hand. With the most cordial good wishes Mr Douglass then departed.
Giving him a bare ten minutes to get clear, the bold Alice took the cheque to the bank, cashed it, and received the entire amount in brand new crisp bank notes: three hundreds, two fifties, and the remaining hundred pounds in tens and twenties.
After locking the larger notes safely in her suitcase, Alice set off into the town on a wild spending spree, lashing out on a snappy yellow hat she had already seen and fancied in the local milliner’s, pairs of sheer stockings from the same shop, a large box of Fuller’s best chocolates, new light doeskin gloves, a sweet little bunch of dainty fresh violets for her lapel, a pair of patent leather shoes and a tiny bottle of Mille Fleurs, her favourite perfume. Finally she popped into the local Woolworth’s and picked up a cheap tie for Albert in a very serviceable grey that would go with anything.
What fun she had! What a splendid time! She gave a little boy a penny to carry home her booty.
As Albert had not returned, she tucked away her treasures safely in her bedroom, bringing down only the presentation tie, from which she had carefully removed the Woolworth’s label and price tag.
All that afternoon and evening she enchanted Albert with her gaiety, and when evening came and he tucked her into her little bed he said, lovingly, ‘Not long now darling, till we are cosy together in the big bed.’ He added, ‘It was sweet o’ you to buy me that fine tie, out of your own wee purse. I can tell it’s an expensive yin, for there’s nae label or price on it.’
‘Darling Albert! Nothing but the best for you!’
Libel!
Next morning dawned fine and warm. Finlay awoke early, sensing that his favourite season of the year, glorious summer, was on hand. He leaped out of bed, put on shorts, sweater and canvas shoes, then set out on his usual three mile run round Gielston Old Toll, up Garston Hill and back home by Church Street.
Although he concentrated on his running, it became apparent that many more people than usual were on the streets. And all, without exception, were reading the Herald. When he reached home he called to Janet, who was busy preparing his coffee, ‘The paper in yet?’
She came to the kitchen door to look at him. ‘Ay, it’s in, Finlay, sir. And there’s something in it that will interest you.’
‘Just hold it a minute, Janet, until I have my shower.’
He ran upstairs, showered in cold water, rubbed down with a rough towel, put on his underwear and, in five minutes, was down by the kitchen fire in his dressing-gown.
‘Here’s your coffee, sir,’ said Janet, ‘and I beg o’ ye to drink it before you touch this dirty rag!’
‘Something really bad, Janet?’
‘Ay, sir, it doesna concern us, thank God, but it’s enough to make ye spew.’
Thus warned, Finlay dispensed with his coffee and a slice of toast before glancing at the paper. Then, as he saw the headlines, he turned pale and a look of sick anger dimmed the brightness of his eyes:
BON SECOURS AT LAST EXPOSED: THE HORRORS
AND MISERIES OF A PAPAL PRISON FINALLY
REVEALED BY ESCAPED NUN
Only the courage and daring of a brave young Scottish lass, one of the finest in Tannochbrae, has enabled us to publish this true story of her life in, and escape from, this Popish hell. Yes, dear readers, our own Alice Lane, risking horrible punishments, even incarceration in the dreaded dungeon cell has risked her life to give our star reporter, Donald Douglass, the true story, signed on oath, of her life in and her escape from this damnable sealed enclosure, where under the threat of fearful ghastly punishments – so called penances – young girls are moulded to the iron will of that relentless, inscrutable woman, the Reverend Mother.
Alice Lane first came to this woman, brought by her doctor, another unspeakable character in this fiasco, for a slight ailment that quickly cured itself. Induced by false promises and other blandishments our young innocent was induced to become a Postulant to the Order.
Alas! Once she had donned the black robe of service and muttered the Latin balderdash of initiation, she was anointed with the Seven Oils and accepted into the Secret Sisterhood.
For weeks, bound by fear and dread of punishment in the underground cell, this poor young woman submitted to the iron discipline of the convent. But at last her brave Scottish spirit revolted. She attempted to escape, was caught and punished so severely that her health was almost undermined. Nevertheless, though her body was almost broken by punishments for supposed faults, her spirit was undaunted, her brave heart still beat steady, and true within her noble breast. ’Twas this courageous spirit that said, one unmentionable day, ‘thus far and no further’.
Calmly, bravely, staunchly and steadily she made her plans and, in full knowledge of her fate were she caught, set herself courageously to carry them to a life-saving conclusion. A coil of thin rope, left by one of the nun gardeners for future use in the orchard, was secreted under her robe and smuggled up to her room where it was pushed far back under her bed. The window of her little bedroom was barred, making her tiny private cubicle a prison cell. However, next door was another, smaller room the window as yet unbarred, since it was destined to be a guest room. But as our little heroine inspected the long fall to the ground her heart almost failed her. Yet, one starless night, after a day of terror and oppression, she realised with all her being that it was now or never. Better a clean death from this precipitous fall than months, perhaps years of incarceration in a dungeon cell. Bravely she made her preparations. She carried the rope to the unbarred cubicle, fastened one end to the iron stanchion of the bed, opened the window, dropped out the free end of the rope until, far down it dangled, almost to the ground.
It was now or never. Offering herself to the God of all good Protestants she climbed out through the window and clung to the rope. Oh, dear heaven, what terror struck into her young heart as she dangled, a hundred feet above terra firma. Why not let go and finish it, now, once and for all? No! She had borne the terrors of the nunnery, now she would not yield. Dangling, swinging wildly on the rope, she slid down, tearing the skin and flesh from her hands. At last she was at the end of the rope but, dear heavens! Her feet did not reach the ground, With a stifled cry she released the rope and fell, with the help of the Lord, only one or two feet.
So far so good. Bravely, she picked herself up, but there was another difficulty ahead. The huge iron-spiked
gate of the convent was locked and bolted, as immovable as that guarded by Cerberus, the keeper of the Gates of Hell!
Again, there was no recourse. She must climb. And climb our little heroine did. Struggling, straining, clutching the iron spikes with her torn and bleeding hands, breathless, agonised, she finally surmounted the top spikes and slid down, half dead, on the far side of hell.
Yes, she was free, but not yet safe. Five miles lay ahead to Tannochbrae. Perhaps a country bus would pass, or a car with a friendly driver. Alas, no such good fortune for our brave Alice. She must foot it all the way, arriving spent and breathless at the Royal Hotel, where she begged a room for the night. On the morrow she was received into the fine home of our worthy citizen and church member, Mr Albert Caddens where, thank God and Mr Caddens, she lies slowly recovering from her wounds.
Citizens of Tannochbrae, the Herald calls upon you to arise and strike this plague spot from our neighbourhood. Let the fateful story of Alice Lane be your weapon and your cause!
Janet had remained with Finlay watching his face all through his long perusal of the paper. And now timidly she asked, ‘Is it bad, Finlay dear?’
‘Stinking, filthy bad, Janet. It is bigoted lying evil, every ridiculous word of it.’ He paused. ‘I’m going out now Janet and may not be back for a few hours. Tell any important cases I’ll be here this afternoon. Dr Cameron will look after the others.’
To implement this remark Finlay went along the passage, knocked at Dr Cameron’s door and went in. The good doctor, lying back on a nest of pillows, was enjoying a hearty breakfast from a well-stocked bedside table.
‘Sorry to disturb you, sir. I have some urgent business in town. When you’ve done the surgery, which should be light this morning, would you mind seeing to anything urgent coming in for me?’
‘Certainly, certainly, my boy. Take all the time you need. I’ll hold the fort.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll be back after lunch.’
Finlay then went into the garage, opened the doors and stepped into his car. It was not a long walk to the top of the town but the matter on his mind was urgent. In four minutes he drew up before a beautiful, large old house which bore discreetly on the door a small burnished plate inscribed with the words: ‘Alexander Cochrane & Co., Solicitors and Officers of Law’, the name of the oldest, and best and most widely known firm in the west of Scotland.
Finlay walked in directly to the room at the back where a large man in a tweed jacket and another of subordinate appearance were bending over the morning’s Herald, laid flat on the table before them.
‘Hello, Finlay!’ said the big man, looking up. ‘Gold again this morning?’
‘Another day, Alex,’ said Finlay, drawing a chair up to the table. ‘This morning I want to hit something bigger than a little white ball.’
‘I understand, Finlay. Scott and I have just been through this rot for the third time. It would be funny if it were not so damnably serious. It is of course actionable on every damn paragraph. That afternoon after our golf when you took me in to the Mother Superior for tea, I thought I had never met such a sweet, gentle person. And now this . . . with her dungeon cells . . . Didn’t old Colonel keep his dogs there before the house was sold to the convent?’
Finlay nodded. ‘The two Great Danes. Rather too much for the Sisters to handle. The two kennels were used for storage – old boxes, garden tools, anything bulky and unwanted.’
‘The escape is the best bit. As I understand it, the big wooden gate is never locked.’
‘Never, it stands wide open day and night. Many a stranded wayfarer, an old tinker or a gypsy has walked through to find a night’s refuge, free of charge.’
‘I loved the bit about the long walk to Tannochbrae,’ Alex laughed. ‘Davie here rang Jock Boscop, who makes that night run. He picked her up at the open convent gate and delivered her to Tannochbrae near the Royal Hotel.’
‘Where she walked in and ordered the Princess Suite, the best in the house,’ said Davie.
‘Then she picked up Fatty Caddens, and now I believe she has the best of everything in his house.’
‘Well, Finlay, it’s up to you now, the big Number One question: how much should we sue for? The Herald is stinking rich and they should damn well be punished for this double page o’ lies.’
‘You name it Alex! You are the expert.’
‘I’m going to stagger you, Finlay. For that dear Mother Superior held to shame and ridicule, I am going to get five thousand pounds.’
‘What a heavenly godsend that would be for her, Alex. The old Colonel let his house run down a lot and if she had the cash Reverend Mother could bring it into shape again, and add to it, too.’
‘Splendid,’ said Alex. Then, after a pause he asked seriously, ‘Finlay, old boy, when I was at Rossall and you were at Stonyhurst, and we met on several occasions in fierce conflict on the football field, did I ever regard you as unspeakable?’
Finlay laughed, ‘No, Alex, I should think not. We were too busy killing each other.’
‘My dear, very dear old friend, I raise this matter since in this totally filthy article you have actually been referred to as “an unspeakable character”. Now that is a slur that in itself is actionable.’
‘Well, Alex, we’ll not get in the way of the big action or the big money, but you can refer to it when you have me in the box and I’ll not fail to speak the truth.’
‘Good lad, Finlay. Now, how about lunch?’
‘Another time, Alex. I’ve left Cameron on his own, and I must first run out to console Reverend Mother. They take the Herald there. So I’ll brief her on what we’re going to do.’
‘Right, Finlay. Bye.’
‘Bye Alex! And bless you!’
Dr Cameron Triumphant
When, with the rapidity common to all Scottish towns, the news percolated in Tannochbrae that their beloved Herald was being sued for damages by the Reverend Mother Superior of Bon Secours, a shock-wave of disbelief passed through this snug little community. Any temptation to laugh the matter off was checked not only by the enormity of the sum but by the astounding fact that the sponsors of the action were none other than Finlay, their well beloved doctor, and Alexander Cochrane, the best and most highly regarded lawyer in the county.
‘It’s just a try-on!’ This first impression was immediately countered by, ‘What! Wi’ Finlay and Cochrane baith ahint it?’
In the great Herald building which housed the offices of the paper there was something like panic.
‘It’s that damn stupid adjective we pinned on Finlay, “unspeakable” that has put his back up. Could we offer him a hunner to withdraw?’
‘He’d spit on your hundred and throw it back at you!’
‘Should we offer to compound the damages, say about five hundred?’
‘Dinna be a bloody fool, man! That wad undermine our whole position.’
A quiet voice, that of the Chairman of the Board, quickly stilled the meeting. ‘Gentlemen, we have made a crassly stupid and damaging blunder. Now there is nothing for us but to face the music and make the best o’ a bad job.’
When it became known that the Herald would fight the case, the date being set for the fifth of next month, excitement in the town ran high and intensified in a rush to secure places in the gallery of the court, admission being only by stamped ticket. These precious squares of cardboard were bartered in the local pubs and as the date drew near changed hands for unbelievable amounts of cash.
During this preliminary turmoil both Finlay and Alex Cochrane remained perfectly quiet and in good spirits. In fact, they played several games of golf together, returning to take tea at the convent. On one of these visits Finlay left behind a large oblong box which carried the label of a first-class women’s shop in London.
At last, in a final surge of excitement the fateful day arrived. From an early hour crowds gathered outside the Assize Court, so impatient for news that it took a solid barrage of police sergeants to keep the more boisterous
from rushing the gates. When the Herald management arrived, accompanied by their legal advisers, they received a greeting of mingled cheers, boos and hisses. Nothing was seen of Finlay and his lawyer, who had reached the court by the upper entrance accompanied by a lady who, naturally, was veiled. Below, as the lucky holders of tickets poured in, they were greeted jealously by shouts, groans and every conceivable variety of filthy abuse, together with abortive attempts at ticket snatching.
At last the town clock struck ten sonorous strokes and, with the court filled to capacity, the proceedings began.
When the jury had been sworn in, the Clerk of the Court read out the charge against the owners and management of the Herald: that the article printed in the issue of 26th July was false, bigoted and seriously damaging to the persons specified therein.
The order was then given that the specified article be read aloud. In an even, unemotional voice, the Clerk of the Court slowly read the article in question, a performance greeted in the gallery by cheers and laughter, immediately suppressed.
Mr Alexander Cochrane then rose. His first question was to the lawyer for the defence, a Mr J. M. Taylor, from the City of Edinburgh. ‘Do your clients stand by every word of the article in question?’
‘They do, sir, every word is the living truth.’
This brought more cheers from the gallery.
Mr Cochrane then proceeded to call to the witness box the various individuals mentioned in the specific article.
The first to be called was Mr Jock Boscop. When Jock was in the box, freshly shaved and sharp as a whip, Alex Cochrane said, ‘Jock, is it correct to say that you make the night run from Whinberry for your employers, past the convent to Tannochbrae, returning by the same way?’
‘It is correct and a fact, sir!’
‘On the night of the supposed escape did you pick up a young lady who hailed you outside the convent gate?’
