Various Flavors of Coffee (54 page)

Later that morning someone slipped a tray into her cell. On it was a freshly baked cake. It was not prison food: it must have been brought in specially. She folded her hands over her stomach to ease the pains and ignored it.

By the evening she was almost delirious with hunger.
I am lighter than air,
she decided, and the phrase seemed to reverberate round and round inside her empty frame.
I am lighter than air...I am lighter than air...

Sometimes she thought she could smell coffee, wafting through

the vent in the ceiling, but when she tried to identify the type, the fragrance shifted and changed like a will-o’-the-wisp.

The doctor came.“Will you eat?” he said brusquely. “I will not.”

“You are starting to stink, did you know that? It is the smell of ketosis—the body feeding off itself. If you go on with this, you will do irreparable damage to your system, starting with your reproductive organs.You may never be able to have a child.”

“I know what the reproductive organs do, Doctor.”

“You will ruin your hair, your appearance, your skin—all the things that make you so attractive.”

“If that is a compliment, it is a very roundabout one.”

“Then you may damage your digestive system, your lungs . . .” “I am not going to change my mind.”

He nodded.“Very well.Then we must save you from yourself.”

Her senses,
now, were extraordinarily clear—almost supernatu-rally so. She could distinguish between distant smells; could even will them into being. She caught a twisting, elusive whiff of fresh Kenyan—it had the aroma of black currant bushes; then, a mo-ment later, the lovely smell of barley stalks, left standing after a harvest. A fruity note—that was apricots, the intense fragrance of an apricot preserve. . . . She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, and it seemed to her the pain lessened.

Eventually
four wardresses came into her cell.They had chosen the biggest women for this task: it was going to be impossible to resist.

“Will you come to the doctor?” “No.”

“Very well. Pick her up.” Two came behind her and took her

by the arms. As they lifted her, another seized her feet. She struggled, but it made no difference. She was carried bodily to the corridor.

“Perhaps she’ll walk now,” one of the wardresses said.

There was a sharp pain under her arm. One of the women who had hold of her was pinching the soft flesh. Emily screamed.

“Come along, dear,” the woman said.

She was half pushed, half dragged along the wing. She caught sight of faces peering through the food hatches. After her little group had passed, the prisoners banged on the doors and shouted. She could not make out the words: the echo swallowed everything. At last they reached the infirmary. The doctor she had met earlier was there, along with another, younger man, both wearing rubber aprons over their suits. On the desk was a length of tube, a funnel, and a jug of what looked like sloppy porridge. There was also a glass of milk. It was so incongruous that she almost laughed out loud, despite her terror.

“Will you drink your milk?” the doctor said. “I will not.”

“Put her in the chair.”

The women maneuvered her by degrees into a large wooden chair. She had one on each arm now, pushing her down, and one on each knee. The younger doctor went behind her to hold her head back, while the other picked up the length of tubing. Dipping his fingers into a pot of glycerine, he worked them over the end of the tube.“Hold her steady now,” he said.

She gritted her teeth, clenching them shut with all her strength. But it was not her mouth he went for. Instead, he pushed the tube into her right nostril.The sensation was so repulsive that she opened her mouth to scream, but she found she could barely make any sound, only an inarticulate gasp.

Another inch, and then another. She could feel the tube in the back of her throat now, making her gag. She tried to shake her

head from side to side but the younger doctor had her too firmly in his grasp.There were tears on her cheeks; she felt a sharp pain in her windpipe, and then with a final sickening slither the thing was fully inside her.

“That should do it,” said the older man, standing back. He was breathing heavily.

He fitted a funnel to the end of the tube.Taking the jug of porridge, he began to pour it into the funnel, raising the whole assembly into the air as he did so. Warm, choking liquid filled her windpipe. She coughed and retched, but the hot, thick liquid would not budge. She felt as if her head would burst—there was a pressure behind her eyes, a drumming in her ears, and a sensation as if she were drowning.

“That’s a square meal’s worth,” the doctor said.

The tube was pulled from her nostril—a long, agonizing withdrawal. As it left her she vomited.

“We shall have to replace that,” the doctor said.“Hold her still.” So the whole ghastly process was repeated. This time they waited a few minutes before taking out the tube.The doctor carried it over to a sink while Emily coughed and retched and spat. “Take her back to her cell.”

She said, “I’ll walk back. And you’re a despicable cat’s-paw, to treat a woman this way.”

“Oh, so a woman should be treated differently, now, should she?”

“If you were a proper man you wouldn’t go along with this.” “Wouldn’t save your life, you mean?” He waved for the

wardresses to take her away.

That night
she set fire to her cell, pulling apart her pillow and pushing handfuls of straw onto the gas burner. Then she barri-caded herself in, wedging the plank bed under the door handle to

stop them opening it. They had to chisel the hinges off to get to her. After that she was stripped and moved to a cell that had an iron bed, screwed to the floor.

That night, and all the next day, someone came and looked at her every ten minutes.At first she thought they were simply com-ing to gawp, and shouted at them.

“You are being close-watched,” a voice answered coldly. “We are charged with making sure you cannot do yourself harm.”

At lunchtime the matron came with a glass of milk, which she refused.“Try to eat a little,” the woman coaxed. Emily shook her head. Now that she knew what it was like, she was dreading the feeding. By the time they came to take her to the doctor again she was almost sick with fright. But there was nothing she could do: they knew what they were about now, and the tube was pushed in quickly. She cried as they did it, tears and vomit and the sour smell

of the porridge all mixed up together.Then she fainted.

When she came round the doctor was looking at her anxiously. “You had better stop this,” he said.“You are a delicate woman,

you are not fit for this sort of thing.” “Is anybody?”

“You are not used to rough treatment. It may damage you.” “You are a doctor.You should refuse to do it.”

“Nobody cares,” he said suddenly. “That’s what I don’t understand.You are sitting in here doing this to yourself and nobody on the outside gives a damn.What’s the point of it?”

“To show that you can only govern with the consent of the governed—”

“Spare me your slogans.” He waved at the wardresses.“Take her away.”

As they escorted her to her cell one of the women said quietly, “They take taxes on my pay, so I don’t see what right they have to say I can’t vote.” She glanced at Emily sideways. “And you were brave in there.”

“Thank you,” she managed to say.

“It’s not true what he told you, anyway.You’re in all the papers.

Not the details, but people know what’s going on.”

That night she could not breathe properly—there was something in her windpipe, like a bit of food that would not budge. Then she was sick again, and there were streaks of blood in her vomit.

She could not face the tube the next day. She accepted a glass of milk from the matron, and then a little soup. But after that she went back on hunger strike.

[
eighty-five
]

was in the café, cleaning the coffee-maker, when her

husband came. It was mid-morning—a quiet time. I suppose he had chosen it for that reason.

“So this is where you disseminate your poison,Wallis,” a voice said.

I looked up. “If you are referring to my coffee, it is the finest there is.”

“I was not referring to your coffee.” He placed his hat on the counter.“I have come to talk to you about my wife.”

I did not stop what I was doing.“Oh?”

“The doctors tell me that if she keeps this up, it will kill her.” “Would these be the same doctors who once pronounced her

hysterical?”

“This is different.” Something about his tone made me look at him. “She has been hurt. An attempt at forcible feeding that went wrong. It appears to have damaged her lungs.”

I stared at him, appalled.

“We need to get her out of prison,” he said. “Or at the very least, out of danger.”

I found my voice.“Then prevail upon your government to give women the vote.”

“You know that’s not going to happen.” He ran his gloved hand over his hair. Suddenly I saw how tired he looked. “This government will never give in. Quite apart from anything else, it would send the wrong message to our enemies. The Empire may look impregnable, but there are those in Europe who would take advantage of any domestic crisis. . . . What Emily is doing is dangerous for all of us.”

“And why are you telling me this?”

“Because she might listen to you, even if she will not to me.”

I thought,
It must have taken some courage, or at least an iron nerve, to come here like this.

“I doubt that,” I said, shaking my head. “But you must try.”

“As I understand it, it is not her wish to have anyone dis-suade her.”

“Do you love her?”

It was strange to be discussing such a thing, and with him of all people. But they were strange times. I nodded.“Yes.”

“Then help me save her.Write to her,” he urged. “Tell her she has done enough, that others can take up the fight now. Tell her you don’t want her to throw away her life like this.”

I said, “If I do write, and it weakens her resolve, she may never forgive me.”

“But it must still be done. For her sake, if not for ours.” He picked up his hat. “There’s something else you should know. The government is talking about enacting a new piece of legislation. It will allow them to release hunger-strikers on probation.”

“Why would they do that?” I said, puzzled. “To avoid them dying in prison, of course.”

the various flavors of coffee
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“But if they release them, they will go out and create more un-rest.”

“Only if they are well enough. And if they are well enough, they will be re-arrested and returned to prison. That way, if they die, they will not do so in prison, as martyrs, but in hospital, as invalids. So you see, her protest will not make any difference in the end, not even to her own cause. You must write that letter. Will you do it?”

“I make no promises. I will think about it tonight—”

“One final thing,” he interrupted.“If you can get her to stop all this, I will give her a divorce.”

I said slowly,“I don’t believe she wants a divorce.”

“No, she doesn’t. But it’s not her I’m talking to. It’s you.” His eyes met mine levelly.“If you can persuade her to stay alive,Wallis, she’s yours. I’m washing my hands of her.”

When he had gone
I thought about what he had said. I was un-der no illusions about his motives—whilst I had no doubt that he did care for Emily in his own way, he was a type of man for whom love was indistinguishable from his own interests. If what he had told me was true, and Emily died, it would reflect badly on him. They would say what I had said—that he had let his own government kill his wife, while he stood by and did nothing. Better from his point of view to divorce her.

Brewer was a politician: he had known the best way to make his appeal to me. But it did not alter the fact that he was right. A letter from me saying she had done enough, couched in the right way, might change Emily’s mind. She could be willful and stubborn, but I knew her well enough to know how to be per-suasive.

I could not contemplate a world without her in it. I loved her,

and I wanted her to live. As to whether she would ever marry me...I knew her too well to take that for granted, but I could hope.

Finally, after so long, we had a chance at happiness.

I stayed up late, drinking cup after cup of coffee.At last I took a piece of paper and a pen, and by the time dawn came I had written my letter.

[
eighty-six
]

mily died in Paddington Hospital, four weeks later.
Just as Brewer had predicted, the government released her on medical grounds rather than allow her to die in prison.There had been some hope that with proper medical care she might improve.

But it was too late.

By the time of her death the suffrage movement had, despite all the government’s efforts, achieved the unthinkable—a conciliation bill supported by the majority of MPs. The militants declared a truce. But even as it seemed that victory was finally within their grasp, Emily was fading.

I managed to see her a couple of times in the hospital, but she was very weak by then. She never regained the weight she lost in prison: her beautiful face, which had once seemed so fresh and full of passion, was reduced to angles, like something that had been hacked about with a knife. Her hair had lost its brightness, and her skin was very dark—when you looked closely it was lined with fine textures, like a piece of old muslin. Even her eyes were dimmed, and her voice, which was little more than a whisper,

caught on her words as if she were stumbling over something in her throat.

Her mind, though, was as sharp as ever. I had brought flowers. “Thank you,” she said hoarsely as I held them up for her to smell. “They’re lovely, Robert, but next time you must promise to bring me something else. Cut flowers die so quickly: they make me think of death.”

“What shall I bring you?”