Angels at War (19 page)

The peaceful action didn’t save her. A great brute of a policeman grabbed her by the ankles and began to drag her away. Livia made no protest, save to shout at him. ‘Don’t you have a wife, or daughters? Think of them. Don’t they have rights too?’

Over fifty women were taken away in a fleet of Black Maria police vans. Spirits had risen by now and everyone was happily singing and cheering, almost as if they were off on holiday. But the instant they drove through the grim gates leading to the women’s section of Strangeways Prison, a heavy silence fell.

I’ve really done it this time, was Livia’s last thought.

They were lined up along a corridor, guarded by silent wardresses as they waited to be dealt with one by one. When Livia was called she was asked for her name, age, address, place of birth, and any previous convictions. It grieved her to have to admit that this wasn’t her first arrest, even if she
had been let off with a warning the last time. Yet a part of her felt a surge of pride over the night spent in a police cell, for it was in a good cause and not for criminal activity.

But Livia’s fragile strength crumbled when faced with the prospect of a most undignified medical examination. ‘Is this really necessary?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t we to be brought before the magistrate first thing in the morning?’

‘He’ll see you when he’s ready. All in good time. Now strip off.’

She had no choice but to obey and allow herself to be poked and prodded by the fat fingers of a severe looking wardress. Never had Livia felt more humiliated in all her life.

‘By heck, it’s like the workhouse all over again,’ moaned Mercy, and when she made to resist was instantly man-handled to the floor by the huge wardress, her wrists manacled by handcuffs while she was none-too-gently strip-searched.

Livia was appalled. ‘For goodness sake, there’s no need to be so rough with her. It was only an idle comment.’

‘Shut your mouth. No one invited you to speak either.’

‘But this isn’t right. She isn’t a criminal. She’s my sister, I won’t have her bullied like this. If we aren’t treated right, I shall make a formal complaint to the proper authorities.’

‘Oh, you will, will you?’ Flexing her powerful shoulders, the wardress picked up the admissions book. ‘And who might you be to throw your weight around? Mrs Lavinia Flint eh? Well, a posh name won’t get you anywhere in here. I’d learn to button up, if I were you, and teach your sister to do the same. This ain’t the Ritz, or even the Midland Hotel, and I doubt you’d care to be kept in here longer than absolutely necessary.’

Livia longed to retaliate but at a fierce glare from Mercy, managed to bite her tongue and keep silent. Poor Dolly, having suffered similar humiliation, was quietly crying, and Livia tried to offer her what comfort she could.

Possessions had to be handed over next: Livia’s purse and handkerchief were all stowed away with her clothes in a brown paper bag. Presented with a prison dress, she reluctantly scrambled into it, hating the scratch of the rough fabric against her skin. Then she was marshalled into line with Dolly, Mercy, Connie and Stella, and the rest of the women.

They were marched down a gloomy passage, the sound of clanging doors and the grinding of locks and bolts along the way filling her with a deep foreboding.

Dolly was put in a cell with Stella and Connie.

‘I wish I could be with you,’ the young girl cried as Livia gave her a quick hug.

‘Oh, so do I. Chin up, Dolly, I’m sure we won’t be kept in here long, and they’ll give us time out of the cells each day for exercise. We can chat then.’

Despite her brave words Livia felt close to tears as she and Mercy were led away into the next cell, fervently wishing they could all have been together. In it were two beds, each little more than bare boards with a single blanket.

‘At least in the workhouse we got a pillow,’ Mercy grumbled.

A grim-faced wardress attached a yellow badge to a button on each girl’s prison uniform. It bore a number six, the same as that on the cell door.

‘Is this in case we get lost?’ Mercy quipped.

‘Hush,’ Livia warned.

‘Aye, watch your lip, girl,’ warned the wardress, a different one this time, but equally unfriendly.

Livia thought she might never forget the sound of that door banging shut. The cell, lit by only a narrow barred window set high in the far wall, suddenly felt exceedingly claustrophobic. Mercy seemed to be doing a tour of inspection. It didn’t take long.

‘So this is your plan for me to improve myself, is it?’ she asked, the sarcasm in her tone all too evident. ‘This is how I should behave in future, by putting others before myself.’

‘Not now, Mercy, please. I’m not in the mood for an argument. Try to get some sleep. I think we may need it.’

But there was little hope of that tonight. Apart from the vile stench of stale sweat, urine, and what was probably vermin, the atmosphere in the cell was dank and cold. Then there was the noise. An endless litany of snuffles and sobs, cries and ravings, and even screams from the other inmates in the block. Livia lay on the hard plank bed shivering with cold and fear. What on earth had possessed her to think that this noble cause was worth the sacrifice of her freedom? Oh, but it had to be. Something good must come out of this. Even a stubborn government must surely be obliged to listen if honest, decent women were prepared to get themselves locked up.

Window-breaking was described as an incendiary act and when they appeared before the magistrate a day or two later, they were each given a fine of ten pounds or two months’ hard labour. Neither Livia nor Mercy pleaded innocence, or offered to pay the fine, although they’d done no more than sit in the middle of the road. Solidarity with the other women was the order of the day.

But Livia’s heart filled with dread at the prospect of incarceration. How on earth would they survive?

Livia felt she was in a confusing nightmare and instinctively shrank from the reality of her surroundings, unable to quite believe what was happening to her. At regular intervals an eye would peer through a peephole in the iron door, watching her, always watching.

Every morning she would be woken by the rattle of keys, the bang of doors, and the approaching heavy footsteps of the wardress. The two girls would peel their aching muscles from the unforgiving boards and face yet another day of endless chores. The first task was to empty their stinking chamber pot, then scrub the beds and their cell. After that they would be obliged to sweep the long corridor outside, scour pans, or any one of a dozen similar menial tasks.

‘Why should we do all of this?’ Livia complained.

‘Missing your servants, are you?’ Mercy caustically challenged her.

Livia cringed. Why couldn’t she learn to keep her mouth shut?

When the chores were done, the rest of the day was spent knitting stockings, and for the first time Livia was thankful for the teaching she’d received in this skill from Jack’s mother, and said as much to Mercy.

‘Not that Jessie had any great opinion of my work, mind,’ she confessed with a smile. ‘I shouldn’t think I’ve improved much either. Oh, look, I must have dropped another stitch. Help me pick it up, will you, Mercy? It’s boring, I know, but at least it helps to pass the time. Better than scrubbing and cleaning.’

Mercy, who was skilled in the task, having spent much of her early years helping her mother with the knitting and the hand-loom weaving, stubbornly refused to cooperate. She too dropped stitches, deliberately in her case, forgot to turn the heel and was constantly made to unpick her work and start again.

‘Why make life difficult for yourself?’ Livia asked.

‘Why make it easy for them?’

Livia had to smile. This girl had far more grit than she’d given her credit for.

‘You think this is boring? Back in the workhouse them boys I had to look after might as well have been in a flaming prison. They were given nowt to do: no books, no tools, no work of any kind. They stood about all day, bored sick. I once asked why they couldn’t be found work outside. Apparently that wasn’t allowed as workhouse labour would undercut prices and the profitability of more deserving folk. People might actually lose their jobs if workhouse inmates were employed instead. I expect the same is true of prisons. We’re confined to pointless tasks: the men to breaking stones or grinding animal bones, the women scrubbing floors or sewing sacks. I’ll do this knitting, since I’ve no choice in the matter, but why should I do it well and undermine the stocking industry?’

Livia didn’t comment on her attitude again.

Mealtimes were the only other markers to relieve the boredom. The food consisted chiefly of bread and thin gruel or skilly, with the occasional addition of potatoes. Mercy ate it all without complaint, but Livia frequently gagged on the mess.

‘I’m beginning to long for plain mutton stew, greasy and tainted though it might be.’

When they’d finished eating, they were expected to clean their tin plates and drinking mugs with soap and brick dust, known as
bathbrick, as no water was permitted for this purpose. Nonetheless, these items had to be thoroughly cleaned and polished, a task Livia came to hate almost as much as the flavour this unappetising solution left on the next helping of stew.

‘Now you know how I suffered in the workhouse,’ Mercy chuckled, watching her
cellmate
struggling to cope. ‘It was no better than this, I promise you.’

Livia was viewing her half-sister with new respect. ‘So how did you manage?’

‘The wardress is right. You have to learn to do as you’re told and keep your head down. It’s the only way to survive. I never did learn, so ran away instead. But I don’t think that’s possible from this hellhole, so we’d happen best learn to keep our traps shut.’

Livia did her best to follow Mercy’s wise advice, but it wasn’t easy. Each day was an endless litany of chores, each one merging with the next in mind-numbing weariness. At exercise time the girls from Angel’s would keep together, forming a solidarity between them. And when a wardress began to bully Dolly, smacking her about her head for dropping a plate of skilly, Livia was quick to step in to protect her. ‘Leave her alone, you great bully.’

The officer stared at Livia with a dangerous gleam in her eye. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said leave her alone. She didn’t mean to drop the plate, it was an accident. You probably made her nervous. Dolly is gentle and kind. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘And what has it to do with you?’

‘She works for me so I feel responsible for her.’

‘Do you indeed? Well you won’t mind doing the punishment for her then.’

Dolly was excused but Livia was locked up in solitary for insubordination, which proved to be the longest three days of her life. The cell was little more than two strides in any direction. She spent the entire time walking round and round it like a caged animal. The first morning she refused to eat the skilly and single slice of bread they brought her, which earned her a telling off and an extra day of punishment. She ate everything after that. There wasn’t even the knitting to keep her occupied, and as dusk fell they would come and take the lamp away. Then she would curl up on the floor and try to sleep, although it was near impossible on the cold stone flags. More often she would weep a little, and then feel ashamed of her weakness.

When she was returned to the wing, Dolly hugged her, apologising profusely for having 
landed her in trouble. ‘It was all my fault.’

‘Don’t be silly. It was an accident.’

‘You didn’t have to stand up for me like that, though. I don’t deserve it,’ Dolly said, cheeks pink with secret guilt.

Livia smiled. ‘Of course you do, you’re my friend. Someone has to make the necessary protest about their bullying. These people can’t be allowed to treat us as criminals.’

‘They see us as just that: criminals,’ Mercy said, seemingly far more willing than they to accept the reality in which they now found themselves. She didn’t offer one word of sympathy over Livia’s four days spent in solitary, and Livia didn’t ask for any.

Homesickness was Livia’s biggest problem. She ached to be home in her little cottage, to be free to enjoy the simple things in life such as a walk by the river on her way to the store, to smell the daffodils in the park, or watch the sparrows squabbling over the few crumbs she threw them each morning. She tried not to think about Ella, or Jack, and certainly not Matthew, for all he haunted her dreams.

It didn’t surprise her that none of them had come to see her. Ella wouldn’t know where she was, Grayson wouldn’t care, and Livia was well aware of Jack’s disapproval of her involvement
with the suffragette movement. Besides, Livia couldn’t possibly allow them to pay her fine, were any of her friends and family to offer, so what did it signify?

The following night as they lay sleepless on their hard plank beds, Livia thought she heard Mercy cry out. The girl sounded dreadfully distressed and Livia crept out of bed to go and kneel beside her. She put her arms about this fragile, difficult half-sister of hers and gently brought her out of the nightmare.

‘What is it, what’s wrong, dearest?’ Livia thought Mercy might pull away but she didn’t, she clung to her fiercely as if desperate for comfort. After a long silence a small voice whispered in her ear. ‘It brought it all back when you were in solitary. I were thrown into a hellhole of a punishment pit too.’

‘Oh, Mercy, don’t. I can’t bear to see you so upset. You mustn’t dwell on the past. Think of the future. You’re young with all your life before you.’

‘I know you despair of me,’ Mercy sobbed. ‘I despair of myself sometimes. And I know you mean things for the best, that you only want to help.’

‘Of course I do, you’re my sister.’

‘Half-sister.’

‘Half. Full. That part isn’t important. Now
dry your eyes and no more talk of the workhouse, please. I do wish we’d found you sooner, really I do.’ Livia’s heart went out to her as she smoothed back the girl’s hair and felt the sweat on her brow, although her teeth were chattering with cold.

‘There were cases of folk disappearing in that workhouse. I reckon Batty Brenda put them in that hole then forgot all about them.’

‘Put it from your mind for good and all. We love you, and want your life to be better from now on. I’m so sorry I got you involved in all this suffragette business.’

A cold hand gripped hers in the darkness. It felt surprisingly firm and strong. ‘I’m not sorry. We have to fight the bastards, one way or another we can’t let them win.’

Once Mercy was calm again, Livia went back to her own bed. It was far too cold to kneel on that stone floor for long. She’d always been careful not to upset Mercy by asking too many questions about her tortured memories of the workhouse, hoping they would ease with time. The girl didn’t even talk much about the farm, for as things had turned out, the seemingly idyllic life on the Lakeland fells had been no more successful.

Livia pulled the thin blanket up to her chin, wishing her toes didn’t feel like blocks of ice.
‘You must be hurting badly at having lost George. If you want to talk about that, I’m a good listener. I won’t judge.’

After a long while the disembodied voice spoke out in the darkness. ‘I just can’t imagine life without him. He saved my life, d’you see? If it weren’t for George, I’d probably be dead by now.’

‘Don’t give up hope. You might very well get back together.’

A snort of derision. ‘Not likely if he plays for the other team. I’m not shocked, or surprised come to that. I know these things happen, and it was daft of me to hope that he truly cared.’

‘I’m sure George does care. Sometimes people can’t help being what they are. Can’t you at least be friends?’

There was a silence as Mercy considered this, and then, ‘No, I don’t reckon we can. He’s allus been a practical joker, but this is serious stuff. He shouldn’t have lied to me, pretended to be what he wasn’t. But then you can’t ever trust folk. I learnt that long since. Not your father, not your own husband. No one.’

‘You can trust me,’ Livia said, but the silence this time was long and absolute.

On the Monday of the second week they all trooped out for their half hour of exercise in the prison
yard as usual. Livia always stayed with the group on these occasions but Mercy often made a point of mingling with the other inmates, gossiping and asking questions. She generally came back with some tit-bit of information, but on their return to the cell today she had more startling news.

‘They say as some of the suffragettes are on hunger strike, and they want everyone else to join in.’

Livia looked at her in stunned disbelief. ‘They want us to stop eating?’

‘That’s generally what a hunger strike means, aye,’ Mercy wryly commented.

‘I’m not sure I could do that.’

‘You don’t eat enough to keep a sparrow alive anyroad, so why would it be a problem?’

‘I … I don’t know.’ Livia felt as if she were being drawn deeper and deeper into this cause, not exactly against her will, but perhaps a bit more than she’d bargained for. ‘The food is awful, I’ll admit, so it would be no great loss, I suppose. But how long might it go on for, and what do they hope to achieve by it?’

‘Attention? Publicity? Early release? I don’t know. The prison authorities wouldn’t dare let us all starve to death, would they?’

Livia shuddered at the thought.

‘Mind you, there was talk in the yard of a game called cat and mouse. That’s what’s
happening in London. Once someone starts getting sick as a result of a hunger strike, the authorities let them go home. Then a week or two later when they’ve had time to recover, they re-arrest them and bring them back to jail to finish their sentence.’

‘But don’t they go on hunger strike again?’

‘Exactly, and so it goes on, like a cat playing with a mouse. It’s happened to Emmeline Pankhurst and both her two daughters, Christabel and Sylvia, more than once. Gradually it makes them pretty sick. They lose their health, not that the authorities care.’

‘Oh, but that’s terrible. All this to stop women being given equal rights.’ Livia was growing angry now, incensed at this treatment. ‘We can’t let them get away with it.’

‘My sentiments entirely.’