Women of Courage Read online

  ‘Yeah.’ He glanced at her sharply, as though suspecting insolence in the flat monosyllabic answer.

  ‘Well, Mrs Becket is a distinguished lady of a certain social class that we would not normally expect to find in Holloway, and I appreciate how hard it must be for yourself and your colleagues to control such women. Particularly when they make appalling allegations that you might be tempted to believe. So …’

  He hesitated, cold grey eyes watching her carefully from under thick bushy eyebrows. The fingers writhed thoughtfully under the chin.

  ‘. . . so I have decided to take the unusual step of reassuring you about the nature of her illness. Mrs Becket is, I regret to say, suffering from a depressive illness which can lead to paranoid delusions about those who care for her. I am acquainted with her family doctor and am told that she has suffered from this for some time. It leads to precisely the sort of fantastic outburst we heard yesterday, which can be most upsetting for all who have to deal with her. Including her husband, poor man, from what I hear.’

  ‘You mean she’s mad?’

  ‘If you wish to put it that baldly, yes. But it is a form of madness in which the patient can appear perfectly normal for most of the time. She may appear so to you, I don’t know?’

  Again the smile, ingratiating, pleasant, the fat lips in the heavy, solid face. Like a concerned family doctor inquiring about how you felt.

  ‘Yes, she does.’ Ruth answered bluntly, without thinking. She regretted it almost immediately. Yet it was the truth, and if she challenged him with that, perhaps she would see what he really meant. After all, if he was lying . . .

  The smile faded. The thick fingers picked up the pipe, enveloped it, struck a match. ‘Well, that’s natural enough. Have you seen many madwomen, Miss Harkness?’

  ‘A few. An’ they was proper loonies, not like her. Seems to me she talks a lot of sense most of the time. Wrong-headed o’ course, bein’ a suffragette, but sense all the same. Not madness.’

  He sighed heavily. ‘Well, that’s just what I said. It is a form of lunacy in which the patient can appear sane for most of the time, until suddenly her outbursts become so fantastic as to burst the boundaries of sense. I have considerable experience of it, I can assure you. And Mrs Becket’s behaviour — first in slashing that painting, and then in making those absurd allegations — are classic symptoms of the disease.’

  Silence. Ruth stared at him, thinking. A coal fell in the fire and a puff of smoke drifted out into the room. The lines of a kindly understanding smile lingered on his face, but the message of the steely grey eyes was: there it is, young woman. Believe me or lose your job.

  Ruth remembered the prayers she made, every night, and the young ragged girls she sometimes saw, begging in the streets. Rescued, if Sarah Becket was to be believed, not by the Salvation Army, but to be whores for dirty old men.

  She said: ‘If she’s mad, like what you say, she ought to be treated for it, not punished. Why ain’t she being released?’

  The smile returned, but it was an effort, Ruth could see that. The eyes were grey as winter.

  ‘A good question. I can see we have recruited some intelligent wardresses this last year. But since you are so intelligent you will understand when I say there are two — no, three — prongs to the answer. Will you bear with me while I go through them?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Good. Well, the first point is, Mrs Becket was imprisoned for a crime which she claimed was a political protest, and she made no defence of illness or insanity. So she is still guilty, and it is clearly in the interests of justice that she serves her sentence if at all possible. Are you with me so far?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Excellent! The second point — and you will please keep this absolutely confidential, because you must appreciate that I should not normally be discussing it with you at all — the second point is that treatment for this form of insanity is, in any case, to confine the patient in a quiet room, which is precisely what happens here in Holloway. As it happens, I am unusually well qualified to carry out this treatment, so Mrs Becket is actually lucky to be here. She should be kept well fed — and we are trying to arrange that also — and in addition I intend to treat her with bromide, which will calm her down and clear her mind.’

  ‘Bromide?’

  ‘Yes. Surely you have come across it before? It is a mild sedative, that’s all. It brings calm and comfort to people of troubled mind. That was my third point. So you will see, although we cannot release her, she is receiving the best possible treatment where she is.’

  Ruth did not know what to think. On the face of it, the doctor’s arguments made sense, but if the situation was as clear as he said it was, why did he have to explain?

  As if reading the doubt in her face, he said: ‘I understand what you are thinking, young woman, believe me. You are wondering why I am telling you all this. Well, let me be honest with you. Mrs Becket made some very serious and unpleasant allegations about me personally the other day, and I would take it very seriously indeed if anyone repeated them. Indeed, I would sue that person for malicious slander, do I make myself clear? As I would sue Mrs Becket, if she were not my patient. But as I am an honest man, I would also like to convince you, as the only other person who heard these allegations, that they are, in fact, untrue. I have no connection with any impropriety whatsoever.’

  ‘You don’t think . . .’ Ruth hesitated. The man’s candour had captured her. Despite her personal dislike of him she almost believed him now. He seemed truly to want to explain, and he was a doctor, after all. Nonetheless, in her life in the East End she had met too many liars to take everything she heard at face value. Since he had asked her here, she had one more question.

  ‘Come on, out with it, Miss Harkness. If you have any more questions let’s hear them.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Ruth swallowed. ‘‘Course it was crazy what Mrs Becket said about you corruptin’ young girls an’ orphans an’ all — anyone could see that . . .’

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’

  ‘But what if not everything she said was true? If she’s got ‘old of the wrong end of the stick, like. If what she said does ‘appen to some o’ them young girls in the orphanage where you work, and you don’t know nothing about it. If it was ‘appening, as you say, it would be a pretty nasty business, like, and someone ought to look into it. Even if she is a few farthings short of a penny she might ‘ave ‘eard something from someone else.’

  There was a silence. Maybe it lasted less than a minute, but to Ruth it seemed like ten. Somewhere far away in the prison a door clanged shut, and the wind rattled at the windows of the consulting room. Martin Armstrong tapped his pipe thoughtfully on an ashtray.

  ‘I suppose it’s possible. But hardly likely. After all, I can hardly trouble the police about the ravings of a madwoman.’

  ‘I could ‘elp, sir.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Behind the look of amusement and surprise there was definitely a sense of alarm, Ruth thought. Quickly hidden. She pressed on.

  ‘I could give you a bit of ‘elp. Just to sort of check the story out, like.’

  Another silence. The grey eyes watched her, thinking. If he refuses, then maybe he’s got something to hide, she thought. But if he accepts and there is some truth in it — then what?

  ‘What help were you thinking of, Miss Harkness, exactly?’ The fat fingers toyed unconsciously with the pipe, reflecting the turmoil of the man’s thoughts.

  She swallowed again. Why had she said this? ‘To keep an eye on them girls and wardens in the ‘omes, maybe. It would be easier for me to talk to ‘em than for you. An’ I know how girls like that think.’

  ‘Oh you do, do you?’

  Up until then she had almost believed him, but those five words changed her mind. Not the words, but the way he said them. Being a big girl, powerfully built, Ruth had very seldom been looked at in quite that way by men, but she had seen it happen often enough to other girls, and been at on
ce jealous and disgusted. Now, suddenly, there was an unmistakable knowing leer in Dr Armstrong’s eyes, a cynical smile on those puffy lips that made her shiver. She felt as though her apron and thick serge dress were not there any more, and he, the Doctor, could see her standing in front of him as naked as when she washed herself alone in the morning. She watched his eyes and the hairy backs of his hands, carefully, ready to run or fight if he got up and came near her.

  She heard her voice answer: ‘Oh yes, I think I understand girls like that. When you’re poor an’ come from a criminal background you could be tempted to do almost anythin’ for money. But it’s a dreadful sin, o’ course. Mrs Becket’s dead right about that. That may be why she got so terrible upset, like.’

  ‘Quite the young philosopher, I see.’

  ‘You learn to think a bit, in this job.’

  ‘No doubt. Well, Miss — er — Harkness, you may have a point after all. I see I am dealing with an intelligent young woman, and I understand your concern. It does you credit. Though as far as I am aware the homes are run in a most proper and excellent fashion.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘But maybe there is, as you say, a grain of truth in Mrs Becket’s ravings. A very small grain, I hope. Nonetheless, I shall reflect upon your suggestions about how to investigate them. And also whether to take up your offer of help. Since you have shown such concern I shall let you know what I propose to do in a day or so. Is that fair?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Good. In the meantime, I hope you will accept the truth of what I have told you about Mrs Becket’s medical condition, and treat that knowledge in the strictest confidence. She is, I repeat, suffering from paranoid delusions, which is a form of insanity. And this condition will only worsen with shortage of food, so the forcible feeding must continue. I trust you have no objection to that?’

  ‘Oh no, sir. It’s her own choice not to eat.’

  ‘Quite. I’m glad you see it so clearly. So, Miss Harkness, if that is all . . .’

  He rose to his feet, pressing his hands on the top of his desk, and Ruth took an involuntary step backwards. But he had only got up to escort her to the door, like a valued patient. All the way across the room, Ruth wondered how she would disguise the shudder, if he were to be so polite and patronising as to put his arm across her shoulder.

  17

  ‘IT’S VERY quiet, sir, isn’t it?’ Simon Fletcher said.

  Charles Cavendish glanced at his young ADC. As usual, the boy looked trim, smooth, unruffled. Simon was one of a minority of the UVF who had so far managed to procure an acceptable military uniform, and he wore it with style, the battledress blouse neatly pressed, the Sam Browne belt gleaming with polish, the cap, with its distinctive badge, tilted slightly to the side of his head. Charles smiled, reassured for the moment by his presence.

  ‘It’s always quiet in Bangor, lad,’ he said. ‘Especially at eleven o’clock at night.’

  But he knew what Simon meant. As they paced slowly along the promenade, the sound of their boots echoed eerily back at them from the silent boarding-houses on the other side of the road. There were hardly any lights on in the houses, and almost no other sound at all. Just the swish of the sea on the beach to their right, and the rattle of a broken gas lamp in the thin drizzling wind that blew in out of the darkness across Belfast Lough. And the occasional murmur of the other men as they waited, smoking and talking quietly, in small detachments where Charles had posted them around the quay.

  ‘Do you think anyone knows we’re here?’ Simon asked.

  Charles glanced at him sharply. It was a question that had begun to gnaw at his mind, now that all the arrangements had been made, and every picket posted. Certainly, no one from the outside world was supposed to know they were there. So far as Charles knew, the entire town of Bangor was sealed off, and had been for the past three hours. The telephone exchange had been occupied, and all the lines earthed; every road in and out of the town was blocked by a detachment of UVF soldiers; no boats could leave the harbour. The police and coastguard stations were surrounded, and such RIC policemen as continued to patrol the streets were accompanied everywhere by a superior force of Charles’s men. Charles had planned meticulously, and he believed he had done everything necessary. And still no one, even in the force of nearly a thousand UVF men who occupied the little seaside town, knew for certain what the purpose of the exercise was.

  No one, that is, except himself, his three company commanders — and Simon.

  Simon, who a few days ago had threatened to betray everything to a foreign journalist, if Charles ever talked of ending their affair again.

  Simon saw, by the look on Charles’s face, that his casual remark had been misunderstood. It had been a nasty moment, that afternoon, when he had come into Charles’s room to find his wife there. Since then, Deborah Cavendish had gone to London, but Charles had remained unusually cold, aloof. Simon regretted the threat he had made, and wanted to make amends.

  He laughed lightly. ‘I was only wondering about the old ladies in the boarding houses,’ he said, waving his hand casually at the darkened windows. ‘I mean, do you think the old biddies turned their lights out so that they could stare at us out of their darkened windows, or do you think they are all tucked up with a hot water bottle and not a care in the world?’

  ‘The latter, I hope,’ Charles grunted. Despite the silence, he was not in the mood for idle chatter. He had always found waiting the most arduous part of soldiering. It was the time when there was nothing to do but think, and hope, and worry about what you had forgotten. It was always bad, but tonight it was worse, because so much responsibility rested on him. If anything went wrong in Bangor, he would be blamed, and his position in the UVF, on which he had staked so much, would be lost.

  But more than his personal reputation, that of the UVF itself was at stake tonight. So far, everything they had done to resist the extension of Home Rule to Ulster had been an enormous bluff. The rallies at Craigavon, with the dozens of speakers and the biggest Union Flag ever made; the thousands who had signed the Covenant, many in their own blood; the parades and drilling and military operations in which they had practised, over and over again, occupying towns like Bangor — all these had been, fundamentally, a bluff, simply because nine out of ten UVF soldiers had no arms to fight with. They drilled with pick-handles and wooden staves, not rifles.

  Tonight, they were here to get those rifles.

  While Charles paced along the silent promenade at Bangor, other elements of Operation Lion, the most important task the UVF had ever undertaken, were falling into place along the coast of North Down, Belfast, and South Antrim.

  In Larne, about now, Charles hoped, the steamer Clydevalley, with 20,000 of the most modern Austrian Mauser and Mannlicher rifles, and 3 million rounds of ammunition, was about to arrive. A convoy of cars and motor lorries from the UVF motor division — the first such convoy ever organised in military history — should be there, waiting to take them off. Most of the rifles were to be loaded into the cars, but smaller consignments were to be loaded into the smaller ships Roma and Inismurray. They were to be taken by the Roma into Belfast, and by the Inismurray south to Donaghadee, on the North Down coast, where a detachment of men similar to Charles’s was waiting to take them off. The last consignment was to be left on board the Clydevalley, so that it could bring them across the mouth of the Belfast Lough to Bangor, where Charles and his men were waiting.

  At the same time, in the centre of Belfast itself, a decoy steamer, the Balmarino, was arriving, carrying a perfectly legal cargo of coal. A large UVF detachment was ostentatiously on parade in the centre of Belfast Docks to welcome the Balmarino, and ensure her arrival did not go unnoticed. Both the UVF men and the steamer’s crew had orders to be as uncooperative as possible towards the police and Customs officials. On no account were they to be allowed to inspect the Balmarino’s hold until late tomorrow morning, by which time the real guns should be speeding away far in
land, in hundreds of cars taking them to their future owners.

  In theory, then, everything had been thought of. But then, in theory, only twelve men in the entire UVF had these details clear in their minds. And Charles knew that was not true.

  What if Simon had told someone?

  In the silence, a sound began to bother him. Beyond the swish of the sea and the click of their boots, there was the roar of a motor-cycle engine, somewhere near the edge of the town. Charles glanced past the peak of Simon’s cap, and saw a single headlight, and then another, flash into sight at the end of the promenade, and rush towards him.

  As they drew nearer, the shattering roar of the motorbike engines re-echoed from the walls of the boarding houses, and Charles felt a twinge of pity for the old ladies asleep inside. Then the first rider spotted him and drew up in a swirl of gravel.

  As he killed the engine and saluted, the words came rushing out. ‘Sir, a detachment of troops left Holywood Barracks, sir, half an hour gone, maybe. We didn’t see them on the road but we had to run to fetch our bikes first, sorry sir but we hid them in a wood while keeping watch, or we’d have been here sooner.’

  ‘Wait! Control yourself, man! Start again!’ In the roar of the second bike’s arrival Charles had missed half of what the man was saying, but in a couple of minutes he had the picture clear. The two motor-cyclists had been set to watch the army barracks at Holywood, five miles towards Belfast along the coast road. At 10.40 they had seen a detachment of British Army troops march out.

  ‘Were they armed, man?’

  ‘Yes, sir, fully equipped in marching order.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘About company strength, sir.’

  ‘But you didn’t pass them on your way here?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Charles considered the man. Young, but short, square, confident. Cullen, he thought his name was; had served in India as a sergeant before leaving to join the UVF. He would know what he was talking about.