‘Is there a waiting list?’ I said, knowing the answer. Paula just laughed without humour.
‘Where are they all going?’
She shrugged. ‘The big primary in Blyton, I imagine.’ Blyton was the nearest town and had a newly built primary school.
‘It’s quite a distance.’
‘It is, but it’s a good school. It’s a modern school with lots of bells and whistles. Some parents obviously think the journey is worth it.’
I picked up a pen and tapped out a rhythm on the desk, thinking. ‘What went wrong here, Paula?’
She sighed. ‘I think we all got a bit set in our ways.’
I met her eye. ‘All?’
‘As you know, the old head was quite old-fashioned,’ she said diplomatically. ‘We’re looking forward to you shaking things up.’
I smiled, even though I had that knot of anxiety and guilt in my stomach again. I didn’t mind shaking things up, but I hadn’t had any idea that pupil numbers were falling so fast. It didn’t sound good, to me. ‘Any ideas about what we should do?’
‘Lots,’ Paula began, then paused as Emma knocked on the door.
‘There’s a phone call for you, Paula,’ she said. ‘Lily Johnson’s mum. She says Lily’s been having nightmares about starting school and she wonders if you can pop in and see her?’
Paula smiled. ‘Bless her,’ she said. ‘I’ll sort it out. Sorry, Lizzie.’
She went off to take the call, leaving me marvelling at the thought of a teacher popping into to see a nervous four-year-old before she started school. It was a privilege, I thought, to be able to look after the kids like that. This was a lovely school.
Above my desk, Esther Watkins looked down at me, her expression unreadable.
‘Oh, shut up,’ I said.
April 1910
I flinched as the huge metal gate clanged shut behind me. After everything that had happened, I was jumpy and nervous. Would that stay with me? I wondered. I thought it probably would. I was changed forever now.
Beside me, was my friend Minnie, looking shrunken and pale. She stumbled and I caught her arm.
‘Easy, there,’ I said.
‘Anyone coming for you?’
She shook her head.
‘Me neither. I’ll walk with you.’
We were both unsteady on our feet. Both feeling the effects of a few weeks in prison. We’d been on hunger strike and had suffered the horrors of being force-fed shortly before we were told we were being released early. But Minnie had been inside longer than me. She was feeling it more. I looked at her in concern, hoisted my bag on to my back and offered her my arm. She hung on to me in a fashion very unlike my independent friend. I thought about just how long the Holloway Road was. I wasn’t sure she would make it.
We took a few steps forward and I looked back over my shoulder at the prison behind us. It was a huge, grey stone building, squatting like a giant slug on the side of the road.
‘Where are you going?’
She shrugged. ‘Dunno. I lost my digs. You?’
‘Home,’ I said, though the word felt strange in my mouth. ‘Back to my mother.’
‘You never talk about her,’ Minnie said. ‘She a suffragette, is she?’
I laughed out loud for the first time in weeks. ‘No,’ I said. ‘She’s … disapproving.’
We shuffled along a bit further and then paused as a hansom cab drew up next to us.
‘Minnie Gantry and Esther Watkins?’ the cabbie asked, leaning out of the window. His horse stamped its foot, eager to get going.
‘Yes?’ I said, cautious. I had no money and I doubted Minnie had any either.
‘Mrs Pankhurst sent me to see you home,’ he said. ‘Jump in.’
I was still wary. ‘We have no means to pay you.’
‘All done.’
I exchanged a glance with Minnie. ‘Minnie has nowhere to go.’
‘I got an address here, from Mrs P,’ he said. ‘Are you getting in or not?’
I helped Minnie inside then followed. She slumped in the corner and I thanked our lucky stars – and Mrs Pankhurst – that the cab had shown up when it did.
I’d only been inside Holloway for a few weeks, but as soon as my cell door had clanged shut on that first awful night, I’d put pen to paper and started writing about my experiences. I’d always written letters, since I was a child. I never sent them, just wrote them – to school friends who’d wronged me or who’d helped me, to my mother when she annoyed me, to the king, to teachers I liked, to characters in the books I read. And even to my father when he died. So when I went to jail, it seemed obvious to start writing about it. And this time I sent the letters and Mrs Pankhurst wrote back, asking for more. I’d only met her once or twice but I felt like I knew her – and perhaps she felt the same because she was obviously looking out for us.
I must have dozed off myself because it felt like just a couple of minutes before we were pulling up outside my mother’s terraced home in Wandsworth. I didn’t even remember crossing the river.
Bleary-eyed, I sat up. ‘Good luck, Minnie,’ I said. ‘I hope we meet again.’
She gave me a sleepy smile, without opening her eyes. ‘And you, Esther. Our paths are bound to cross soon.’
I thanked the driver and slid out of the cab, clutching the bag that contained my meagre belongings. At the front door, I took a deep breath, bracing myself, before I knocked.
It took an age – or perhaps it just felt that way – before my mother answered.
‘You’re back are you?’ she said.
‘I am.’
She left the door open and walked away back to the lounge, I supposed.
‘There’s no food,’ she said over her shoulder.
‘Not hungry.’ I paused. ‘Can I have a bath?’ I felt grubby and dusty, covered in prison muck.
Mother looked round at me, her mouth a pinched knot of disappointment. ‘Do what you like,’ she said. ‘You always do.’
I went up the steep steps to my bedroom. It was tucked under the eaves in the roof of the house, cramped and uncomfortable. My narrow bed was neatly made with clean sheets and a blanket and I managed a tiny smile; it seemed Mother hadn’t completely given up on me.
Looking at my bed, I was suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness. It wasn’t easy to have a proper night’s sleep in prison. Sharing a cell with other women, the cries and sobs and shouts that carried on long into the wee small hours, and the discomfort of the hard beds all made for an unpleasant experience. Which was the point, I supposed.
I pulled off the dress I was wearing, which still smelled of Holloway, and balled it up. I knew I wouldn’t throw it away – I didn’t have the luxury of having so many clothes that I could afford to discard them on a whim – but I didn’t want to wear it for a long while. I couldn’t sleep while I was so filthy, though, so I plodded back downstairs and heated some water for the bath, my arms aching with fatigue as I filled it.