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I looked around. Not that I had ever seen a workhouse, myself - but I had heard the stories whispered all around London. This charming little cell might actually give a good indication of what life in such a pigsty of humanity would be like. Criminals and poor people were about the same thing in
this glorious metropole[6] of the British Empire, and their accommodations were probably similar. Of course, as a poor workhouse inmate, I wouldn’t have the luxury of a cell to myself, and the food would probably be scarcer, because, unlike criminals, poor people don’t generate paperwork when they die of hunger. But it was only to be expected that criminals would get better treatment. After all, thieves and murderers were of some interest to the general public: they were the subject of heroic ballades and gripping newspaper articles. They had to be kept alive until they could be hanged to the cheers of the crowd. Poor people, on the other hand, were just dirty and dull. Who would want to waste food and living space on them?
And that was the bright future that awaited me. Unless… Unless Mr Ambrose…
Suddenly, I heard a faint noise. Was it really what I thought? Yes! The jingle of keys. Someone was coming. Quickly, I tucked the card away and looked up. Startled by the sudden bright glow, I blinked and shielded my eyes with my hand. I had been so deep in thought that I hadn’t noticed how the time had flown by. Now I saw a faint orange glow falling through the window into the cell. The sun was rising. The jingling from outside the cell grew louder and was joined by the sound of heavy footsteps.
I watched the cell door apprehensively. After a few more moments, a thick-set bobby appeared from around the corner. I could see him approach through the iron bars of the door. He unlocked it with a rusty key and pulled it open, gesturing for me to exit.
‘What now?’ I asked, not managing to keep apprehension from creeping into my voice.
The portly constable frowned. ‘What do ye mean, “what now”, Miss?’
‘What will happen to me? How will I be punished?’
He blinked like a little piggy. Then, he opened his mouth and started to laugh. He continued to laugh for some time, holding his belly all the while. The keys jingled in the rhythm of his merriment.
‘Oh my God, Miss,’ he gasped, still holding his belly. ‘We ain’t gonna punish people for things like that! A woman trying to vote? We might as well punish every nutter running around in the streets, and then we’d be busy till kingdom come. Why, only the other day I met a man in a pub who told me that we’re all descendants of apes![7]Clearly off his rocker, the chap. And I didn’t even reprimand him.’ He chuckled once more. ‘Now come on, Miss. It’s time for ye to go.’
‘I’m not going to be thrown into prison?’ I demanded, actually sounding a little offended. I had expected some horrendous punishment. After all, I had bravely defied the chauvinist establishment. That deserved some recognition, at the very least, didn’t it? A few years ago, at the Peterloo massacre, the authorities had come down hard on a crowd of working-class men demonstrating for their right to vote, resulting in twelve dead and three-hundred injured. And now they were simply going to let me go, just because I was a woman? There was no justice in this world! ‘That’s not fair! They’re not even going to put me on trial?’
The bobby shook his head.
‘Nay. We wouldn’t want to bother a judge with this, he’d fine us for wasting his time. Now come on, Miss.’
For a moment, I considered whether I should insist on my right to go to prison. But at heart I was a practical person, and I really didn’t want to spend another night on that bunk bed. So, grudgingly, I rose and followed the constable out of the cell to the small office of the police station, which smelled faintly of spit tobacco and bacon.
‘Just wait a moment, Miss, while I get your things,’ the still-smiling bobby said and waddled off to a cupboard in the corner. Opening the cupboard door, he rummaged around inside and came back with something big and black in his hand. ‘There ye go, Miss,’ he said in a stern and annoyingly fatherly manner, handing me all my personal belongings, contained in the top hat I had worn when I first set out on my little adventure. ‘I really hope this will be a lesson to ye.’
‘Yes it will,’ I assured him, adding to myself, too quietly for him to hear: ‘I’ll make sure not to curtsy next time.’
Yes, next time I wouldn’t get caught. Next time, I would succeed, because now I knew how hazardous good manners could be. I had never entirely agreed with my aunt, who had always thought them of such great importance, and now I finally knew I had been right all along. They were superfluous and dangerous - they could get you thrown into prison!
The bobby escorted me to the door of the police station, obviously wanting to make sure he would be rid of the madwoman, now that she was out of the cell and could start climbing up the walls or spouting feminist nonsense again at any moment. I was more than happy to oblige him and stepped out of the brick building into a glorious Saturday morning. The sun was shining and the fog was only slight today, the wind blowing in the opposite direction from the River Thames, making the morning air comparatively clear by London standards.
I immediately set out towards home. I wasn’t sure what my aunt had made of my overnight absence. She might not even have noticed it. With six of us in the house, and ninety per cent of her brain cells occupied with saving housekeeping money, she sometimes forgot one or another of her nieces. Sometimes I got lucky and it was my turn. Maybe, if I was really lucky, that had been the case last night.
At least I knew she hadn’t completely run haywire and contacted the police, fearing I had been abducted or some such nonsense. If she had, the police would have informed her that her dear niece was perfectly safe, though a bit bedraggled and sitting, dressed in men’s clothes, in one of their cells. If she had heard that, my aunt would have come to get me. And I don't know whether I would have survived the encounter. As it was, I had hopes of escaping relatively unscathed.
As if in answer to my hopeful attitude, the rows of dark houses parted before me and granted me a beautiful view of Green Park. In the warm glow of the sunrise, the small park looked like a fairy kingdom planted between the strict, orderly houses of middle-class London. A few birds were hopping on the grass, and the wind rippled the surface of a little pond surrounded by wildflowers. Through a clump of trees on the opposite side of the park, I could see the houses of St. James’s Street.
My Uncle Bufford had lived on St. James’s Street ever since I could remember, and we had lived with him and his wife ever since I could walk. We - that is my five sisters and I - had had to quit our family’s country estate years ago, after our mother and father died and the estate went to the next male heir of the line. If you believed the stories of my older siblings, who could still remember the place, it had been a veritable palace with hundreds of servants and doorknobs made of gold. I didn’t. Believe their stories, I mean. But I did somewhat resent the thing about this supposedly ‘rightful heir’ snatching away our family’s estate just because he was a dratted man!
Oh well, to tell the truth, I didn’t remember our childhood home in the country well, and I didn’t want to. I was a city girl, and the few trees and lawns of Green Park were as much country as I could deal with at any given time.
Squaring my shoulders, I made my way through the park, enjoying the songs of the birds in the trees and the fresh morning breeze. The country was a nice thing, as long as it was in the middle of town and you could reach a civilized place with shops, libraries and newspapers within five minutes or so.
Five minutes and thirty-seven seconds later, I had reached the wall that encircled our little garden, a rare thing in the city of London. Over the wall, I could see the plain, orderly brick house with its plain, orderly windows, plain, orderly curtains and plain, orderly smoke curling out the chimney in a discreet and economical manner. The flowerbeds around the house were well-kept, but strict and simple. Everything was rectangular and neat. There wasn’t a piece of decoration in sight. Sometimes, when I looked at this house I had been living in for years now, I thought it should have a sign over the door saying, ‘Fortress of the Bourgeoisie, centre of the realm of hard work and stinginess. Beware of the aunt. She bites!’
There was only one bright spot among all the neat tediousness: the window of a first fl
oor room. It afforded a wonderful view over Green Park - which was why, when we had arrived at this house years ago, the room had been dusty and unused, and my uncle had never set foot in it. He had probably been afraid the annoyingly beautiful view might distract him, or worse, tempt him to actually take a walk and thus waste valuable time he otherwise could have spent working.
But that had been just fine with me. When we had arrived at my uncle’s, I had seen the dusty, deserted old room, fallen in love with it and taken possession before any of my sisters could complain. I had defended my conquest with my very life! Only Ella, my youngest sister, and of all of them the one I could stomach best, had been allowed to enter my dominion and make her abode there along with me.
Right now, the fact that my room looked out over the back garden came in handy in a way which had nothing whatsoever to do with the beautiful view. Hurrying across the street, I opened the little door in the garden wall with the key I had secretly ‘borrowed’ from my uncle, along with his clothes and passport. Inside, I quickly made my way to the garden shed. Taking out the rickety old ladder that had been in there since time immemorial, I carefully put it to the wall of the house and started climbing up to the window which I had taken care to leave unlatched. If I was lucky, I would get back into the house without anybody being the wiser.
Climbing up the ladder proved to be considerably more difficult than climbing down had been. My muscles were aching from the night in the cell, and there seemed to be several large lead weights tied to my behind, pulling me down. Or maybe it was just my behind that felt so heavy…
