Two for Sorrow

(untitled)

by Josephine Tey

First Draft

Holloway Gaol, Wednesday 14 January 1903

Amelia Sach sat in her cell on the eve of her trial, and waited for news of another woman’s fate. Eleanor Vale’s appearance in court was the talk of the prison, but Amelia had more reasons than most for anticipating the verdict: the similarity of the charges in their respective cases—she still refused to use the word ‘crimes’—was undeniable, and she hoped that Vale’s treatment would at least give her a sign of what she should prepare herself for.

She was unsure if it was the cold or the anticipation that made her shiver. In mid-winter, prison clothes consisted of a cotton frock; a thin vest and knickers made of once-white calico; and harsh, black woollen stockings with holes she could put her fist through. She had no idea if the drab uniform had a summer equivalent or if it had been carefully designed to jar with any season, but she prayed that she might be here to find out; two months ago, she would never have believed that the inhumanity of Holloway was the lesser of two evils, but the thought of her daughter made her cling to life at all costs. Beneath her feet, the stone floor made her colder still but she focused on the discomfort as an antidote to the pain which seared through her whenever she thought of having missed Lizzie’s fourth Christmas, and of the Christmases yet to come which might now proceed without her. She missed her daughter even more than she missed her freedom. The sorrow of a lost child and the sound of a mother crying softly in the night were imprinted on her heart, part of the pattern of her chosen life; for the first time, she understood how that felt.

From the moment she set foot in Holloway, Amelia had made Lizzie’s future her priority and it hadn’t taken her long to identify an ally. Celia Bannerman was younger than most of the prison officers, and had not yet served at Holloway for long enough to soak up its cynicism; neither had she learned to hide her horror at the way in which some of the prisoners were treated, and Amelia had known as soon as she met her that Celia’s sympathies could be harnessed if necessary. She had considered offering her money to look out for Lizzie, but sensed that this was not the way to deal with someone whose very desire to do good made her vulnerable; she could exploit that vulnerability if necessary and, although Amelia still firmly believed that she would be vindicated in court, she took comfort from the fact that Lizzie would not be left solely in her father’s care.

It was getting late, but she was too anxious to try to rest and, in any case, the plank bed was almost impossible to sleep on. She was fighting a cold—the blue serge cloak which she was expected to wear for exercise had been greasy with dirt around the neck from its previous occupant, so Amelia had scrubbed it repeatedly, preferring to shiver in it wet than wear it dry and filthy—and her hands were so chapped that they had begun to bleed from innumerable small cracks. She had asked for some ointment to ease the soreness, but the Stuke woman only laughed; in the end, Bannerman told her that the grease from the top of the cocoa, rubbed in well, was an excellent remedy, so she skimmed it off on to a plate each evening and applied it as it set. Grease was one thing that Holloway had no shortage of: a thin film of it covered everything she touched with such relentless thoroughness that she could almost believe it came from her own skin.

At least she would be allowed to wear normal clothes at the trial tomorrow, although she knew already that she would feel like a stranger in them: every last trace of her femininity had been systematically and efficiently eroded over the last seven weeks. She visualised the state of her hair after so long without attention, knowing from the evidence on her collar that her scalp was dry and full of dandruff, and that her skin would appear sickly and sallow in the harsh light of the courtroom. Not surprisingly, she had lost weight, but, more significantly, thanks to the psychological effect of appearing as a slut amongst dozens of sluts, she had lost her self-respect. What sort of impression would she make on the jury if she looked as bad as she felt? Until now, she had considered the absence of a looking glass to be a merciful omission; tomorrow, she would need all the help she could get to make herself presentable.

There was a noise outside in the corridor, and Amelia jumped up to hammer on the cell door. When it opened, she was relieved to see Celia Bannerman. ‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘What was the verdict on Vale?’

‘Two years’ hard labour,’ Celia said; there was the ghost of a smile on her lips, or so Amelia thought in the flicker of the gas lamp. Suddenly, she was overcome by a relief so intense that she could scarcely breathe. Hard labour—what could be harder than these hours of waiting, trying to guess what her future would be? She would gladly fill coal scuttles in the pouring rain or haul gallons of scalding liquid up three flights of stairs if it meant she could see her daughter at the end of it. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

‘You’ve heard then?’ Ethel Stuke came up behind Bannerman and smirked at Amelia. Wearing a dark-blue bonnet with strings hanging down on either side of her long face, jangling the bunch of keys and chains at her waist, the prison warder reminded Amelia of something from Dickens which had missed its appointment with Christmas but was determined to deliver the warning anyway. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, Sach. Yours is a very different case. Vale hasn’t killed anyone.’

‘Neither have I. The jury will understand that.’ Amelia tried to keep the doubt out of her voice.

Stuke laughed scornfully. ‘Not when Darling’s finished with them, they won’t. He’s not called the hanging judge for nothing, you know.’ She walked over to where Amelia sat on the bed and gently straightened her collar, allowing her hand to linger for a second on the back of her neck. It was a fleeting gesture, but its significance was obvious and Amelia felt the panic well up inside her. ‘Anyway,’ Stuke continued, ‘Vale was lucky with the prosecution—made a right mess of it, he did.’ She paused to make sure that her words were hitting home. ‘Trouble is, he’s defending you. Sleep well, Mrs Sach.’

She forced Bannerman out of the cell ahead of her, and the door clanged shut behind them. Their footsteps faded away, and Amelia listened as the calls for attention from further down the landing grew faint from exhaustion, then ceased altogether. Left alone with Stuke’s words, she was too frightened even to scream.