Cat and Mouse (8 page)

‘Yes?’ She glanced at the younger wardress.

‘Suffragette. Won't bath.’

Without another word, or looking her in the eyes, the second woman strode straight up to Sarah and began to undo the buttons of her blouse. Sarah was appalled. It was like the behaviour of her maid but utterly, horribly different. Did this monstrous woman think she was a doll, perhaps, or a baby? Feebly, Sarah stepped back and raised her arms to push the woman away, but there was a wall behind her and the women were used to this, knew what to do.

Each of them gripped one of her arms with one hand, and continued unbuttoning with the other. Then the blouse was pulled down, off, thrown on the floor.

‘Skirt next.’

One woman pinioned her arms, the other unfastened her skirt, flung it down. And so on with her petticoat, camisole, corset, undervest, stockings, drawers. The two women were grimly efficient, relentless, swift. They undressed her with hardly a word between the two of them, and never a glance in her face. Just a slight grunt of effort as they pulled and tugged at the fastenings. As though she was just a huge doll being undressed in nursery by — what? Monster children, without words or souls?

As the clothes came off Sarah felt a sudden enormous urge to laugh. It was so ridiculous — it was not even humiliating, it was absurd! Here she was now, a grown woman of thirty-three, the wife of a Member of Parliament, being stripped quite naked in this grubby little cubicle by two . . . underservants, they might be, if they did not work here. Factory girls, coalheavers! Women whose husbands Jonathan was elected to help. Women she wanted to get the vote. It had the unreality of a dream.

Her body was limp in their hands, without will, stunned. She lifted her foot like an obedient mare as they nudged her leg and pulled off her shoes, stockings, drawers. It dazed her. Nothing in her social training had taught her how to deal with this.

The laughter which welled up inside her came out more like a sob. The older woman slapped her smartly across the face, as one might treat a hysteric. Then they both dragged her by the wrists to the edge of the bath.

‘You do what you're told here, first time. Get used to it.’

Sarah lifted a foot and stepped into the grey, tepid water. They let her go then and she sat down. The grime spread up over her waist to her breasts and she felt grit scratch her bottom and thighs.

‘Every time I've bathed here I've come out more filthy than when I went in . . .’ The mocking, superior tone returned to her voice, despite herself. It was the only way she knew to deal with such a situation. But even to herself it sounded feeble, false.

‘Head up!’ The younger woman lifted a large white enamel jug from the floor, filled it with bath water, and raised it above Sarah's head.

‘Oh no!’

Fingernails dug into her shoulders as she tried to get up. The water did not fall and Sarah stopped struggling. She spoke in the words of a child.

‘Please! I don't . . .’

‘Regulations.’

As the fingers let go the water sluiced down, drenching her hair, getting into her eyes. Then, while she sat shuddering, something cold on her scalp.

‘The nit shampoo. Rub it in well. Then rinse your own head in the bath water.’

Miserably, she did as they said. She understood now. She was quite naked, dripping, a baby in front of them. Covered with shampoo and dirty water in a mockery of cleanliness. And she had to co-operate with the process, wash her own hair. Each movement that she made to wash herself in this grime humiliated her more than when they had pushed and shoved and undressed her.

After the first grimy rinse, a thin smirk of satisfaction flickered across the face of the older woman, who was still staring away from her at the wall over the taps.

‘All for your own good. A clean prison is Holloway. No germs, no diseases. They all learn, in time. I don't think you'll have any more trouble now, Miss Harkness.’

It was always the same, on the first days. They brought you the best food, carefully cooked, to tempt you to break your fast. The porridge was in a clean china bowl on a tray, with a little jug of cream beside it, and a bowl of sugar.

Sarah had never imagined that porridge could smell so good. Before her first prison sentence, she had scarcely thought of it, except as a solid, reliable food which she had for breakfast on cold mornings. Now, after two full days in prison without food, the steaming bowl of hot porridge filled her cell with a scent like that of the food of the ancient gods.

She crouched at the end of her wooden bed, her knees clasped to her chin, savouring the memories the smell brought with it. It reminded her of the cold, early spring mornings on holiday in Ulster. Days when she and her sister Deborah would get up at first light to go across the fields to see their ponies. Their breath would steam in the crisp morning air, and frosty grass would crackle underfoot as they ran.

We were such friends then, Sarah thought. And Deborah is probably walking across her own fields now, at Glenfee, while my bones ache from the cold of this wretched cell. She remembered the little girl who had run beside her, all those years ago. Deborah had always been such a cheerful, obedient child; it had been a pleasure to play with her. She had worshipped that pony, Blaze, which she had had to ride in the holidays. Probably it was then, when she was twelve and Sarah was sixteen, that Deborah had first met Charles.

Strange, Sarah thought. For a moment a tall, handsome young man rode into her memory — a young soldier with a lopsided smile and a proud new moustache, riding a bay hunter towards them across the fields. If anyone had seen us then, they would have expected Charles to marry me, not Deborah. I was sixteen, but she was only a child — even on her pony her head only came up to Charles's waist.

Oh, I wish I could go there again . . .

The cell door crashed open. A wardress came in and scowled at the uneaten porridge.

‘Not eating your breakfast again, I see?’

‘No. I told you, I shan't eat anything until I'm free.’

‘We'll see about that.’ The wardress picked up the porridge bowl and carried it out. ‘It's a long time, six months, you know.’

But I shan't be in here that long, Sarah thought. Three days already. They daren't let anyone starve to death in prison. They let me out after a week last time. I can last that long.

If only it wasn't so infernally cold . . .

Resolutely, she swung her feet over the side of the bed and began her daily walk. Four paces from the window to the door, four paces back again. Already she had worn holes in the lumpy stockings, but the prison shoes were impossible to walk in — two sizes too small, and stiff as iron. The clothes were little better: a rough serge dress with arrows stamped all over it, and a ragged, yellow-stained apron and cap. Already she felt so grimy she would have welcomed a bath even as filthy as the one she had had that first day. And always she was cold. On the first day she lad huddled on her bed with her blanket round her, but the wardress had taken that away during the day because she refused the ‘hard labour’ of sewing.

She paced up and down. She had not properly recovered from her previous fast, and her body felt curiously light and weak. But the walking made a little warmth flow through her. By counting the paces she could work out how far she had gone. Three miles this morning, she decided, then she would rest and write another text on the wall. Already there were two. She scratched them on with a slate pencil she had found, and then made them stand out with an ink she made from soap and the grime of the cell floor. On the first day she had written 'Votes for Women' and yesterday a text from Joshua, ‘Only be thou strong, and very courageous.’ Today she thought she might quote the Irishman, Wilde: ‘Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.’

That's right, she told herself. This is my morning walk and I have to make myself see the grass, hear the birdsong, feel the sunlight. Perhaps, when I am out again, I will confront Jonathan more calmly with what he has done, make him understand and stop it.

Make a new start . . .

There was a clatter in the corridor outside, and the cell door opened again. Two wardresses came in — one of them the big young slab-faced girl like a coalheaver who had forced her into the bath. This girl, Miss Harkness, took Sarah by the arms, pushing her back towards the window so that a man could come in behind them. A third wardress came in behind him, pushing a trolley.

‘What do you want now?’

The wardresses ignored her. The doctor said: ‘You haven't been eating, Mrs Becket.’

‘I refuse to eat anything while I'm unjustly imprisoned.’ The words came pat, she did not think about them. But she had seen the trolley and, despite herself, her thin body began to tremble uncontrollably.
This is not supposed to happen. They don't do this any more. The whole point of the Cat and Mouse Act is to get away from the horror of . .
.

‘Then we must feed you.’

She did not look at the man at first; all her attention was focused on the trolley. There was a white enamel jug on it, a bucket, two large mechanical devices rather like clothespegs, one wooden and one metal, a funnel, a jar of what looked like glycerine, and a rubber tube. The tube was about half the width of a garden hose and very long. It lay there, curled round and round and round on itself, like a sleeping cobra.

If I have to face this, she thought, I will. Maybe it's only a bluff anyway and when I refuse they will go away.

‘I don't want to be fed, thank you.’

‘Then will you eat your breakfast?’

‘No.’

She dragged her eyes away from the trolley and looked at the doctor. He was a well-built young man, not much taller or older than she was herself. He had a solid, square, dependable face, with a luxuriant brown moustache. Sarah could imagine him preening it in the mornings and dabbing at it genteely as he sipped his soup. It was a pleasant, presentable face, like that of thousands of other normal young men.

The face said: ‘Lay her down on the bed.’

‘No!’ Sarah struggled, but the wardresses were ready for her. They each held an arm and backed her towards the wooden bed until it touched the back of her knees, and she sat down. A moment later she was lying on her back. Each wardress held one of her arms immobile with a hand and a knee. She stared up at the young man, who had one of the mechanical clothespeg things in each hand.

‘I shall have to use one of these, Mrs Becket. They are gags, to hold your mouth open. The steel one is more effective, but it will hurt, so I would prefer to use the wooden one if you will co-operate.’

Sarah said nothing. She began to writhe and kick but it did her little good. Miss Harkness, the heavy slab-faced girl, sat on her legs, while still keeping a grip on her arm.

The young doctor sighed. ‘I'll try the wooden one first, anyway.’

The third wardress held Sarah's head, and the doctor began to try to force the wooden thing into her mouth. Sarah pressed her lips together as hard as she could. Even as she did it, she could feel the lines of tension spreading out from her mouth, all over her face, and the thought flashed through her panic-stricken mind that she must look like a grim, disapproving old spinster. But the young man peeled her lips back with his fingers, and thrust the wooden gag between them. It banged against her teeth. He changed his grip, and with the wardress's help, used his strong fingers and thumbs to try to lever her lower jaw down. Slowly, horribly, she felt a gap opening between her teeth.

He thrust part of the wooden gag into the gap, and reached behind him for the tube. But as he did so his grip loosened slightly. Sarah bit the edge of the gag with her teeth, twisted her head violently, and spat it out with her tongue.

The sudden twist had wrenched her neck. But there was no time to think of that. The wardress gripped her head firmly by the hair and ears. Sarah stared up, helpless, at the young man's reddening face.

‘All right, it'll have to be the steel one, then, if that's the way you want it. I warn you, Mrs Becket, the more you resist, the more this is likely to hurt. This thing is just a device to hold your mouth open while I feed you, nothing more. But whatever you do, keep your tongue down when I put it in, or it'll get trapped. If you behave sensibly, no one will hurt you.’

‘You're already hurting aaaaaauuugghch!’

It was a mistake to open her mouth. He must have been watching for that, and he was quick — much quicker than she had imagined. The steel gag was in her mouth, filling all of it, hard cold sharp metal forcing her tongue down and her jaws apart, banging against her teeth. She tried to turn her head but the big young wardress held her firmly, immobile. The young man was bending over her, intent like a dentist, twiddling with some knobs or levers that set the thing more firmly in place, stretching her jaws apart to the maximum extent. She tried to spit it out but there was no way. Her tongue was flattened, trapped.

Satisfied, the young man turned away, back to the trolley. There was nothing Sarah could do — arms, legs, head, all were gripped tightly by the wardresses. She tried to scream, but a high, thin, gurgling sound came out, terrifying her. Even her voice was imprisoned by this gag, and the scream brought saliva into the back of her throat, so that she thought she would choke, drown in her own spit.

The young man turned back, the tube in his hand. He was rubbing glycerine from the jar around the end of it.

‘I'm going to pass this tube down into your stomach, Mrs Becket, and then feed you through it. It isn't dangerous, but I advise you to lie still and co-operate if you don't want it to hurt.’

The tube came towards her, like a black snake in his hand. Sarah's eyes were wide open, and she screamed again — she couldn't help it. And then it was in — going in, down into her throat. Despite the glycerine, the end of it scratched, but it went past her throat and on down, more and more and more of it. The tube filled her throat so that she could make no noise, only suffer. She felt herself begin to vomit, but the muscles contracting around the tube had no effect on it so that nothing came up. More and more tube went in. Her wide lidless eyes stared at him as he methodically fed it in and in and in and she thought, that must be two feet, maybe three, nearly a yard of tube inside me, surely he can't possibly need so much, when will he ever stop?