Chapter Twelve

2008

I wished, after she'd gone, that I'd found some way of making her stay with me all afternoon. Alone again, I felt the anxiety building up in me once more. I sang songs in my head to drown out the creaking gallows and the gate, which had begun to clank again. A cloud passed over the sun and removed all the long shadows, leaving instead a sheet of dull gloom over everything compared to the earlier brightness. A scruffy crow perched on the top of the wall and cocked its head to one side to look at me, cawing. I watched it as it flew away, and had a sudden feeling of being trapped, just like the prisoners here must once have been. It was so strong that I even went to check the doors to the yard, to make sure no one had locked them, as some sort of practical joke. They hadn't. For fuck's sake, I was going mad. Maybe it was finally time for a new job.

To distract myself, I went to read the crime boards again. My eyes were drawn back to Elizabeth Cooper. I wondered if she'd stood exactly where I stood now; if maybe in some layer of history she was standing here, dreading the death penalty that hung over her head. I wondered if she'd had any family to mourn her, any friends. I wondered what had compelled her to risk her life to steal the things she had done. They were small items to have cost her life. I thought of what I knew of the gaol in 1808. It was harsher in those days than the Victorian picture we presented to the visitors. Not so strict maybe, with less rules and routines, but the conditions were far worse. She'd have been executed in public too, on the steps outside. 1808. It was still the short drop then: her neck wouldn't have broken instantly, she'd have hung and strangled—a slow and horrific way to die. I shivered at the notion, almost feeling the rope around my own neck. How had she gone to her death? What sort of girl had she been?

I felt the hollowness of the history I spouted at the tourists every day. Did they ever really feel it? Did any of these names or crimes linger with them? I felt myself as negligent as the rest of them; I'd had no idea where I'd heard the name before, and I stood near this board every day. Elizabeth Cooper. I paused and tried to picture her. The girl from my gallows steps dream drifted back into my head: blond, small and terrified, younger than me. I tried to imagine what it would be like to face the gallows, and found I couldn't. Could anyone? And if we couldn't really connect with it, what was the point in what I did every day? It was a show, it was theatre, and I enjoyed it.

The notion made me feel ashamed, and my problems seemed small in comparison with Elizabeth Cooper's, whoever she had been. For a moment, I felt like our times really were layered with each other and I could feel her near me, her heart full of pain and injustice. Injustice? I wondered why I should have felt that particular sentiment.

Holding on to the thought that I was far better off than Elizabeth Cooper had been, I was much calmer by the time I met Aly on the top step outside the main entrance at four thirty exactly. I know Jim, who was cashing up the day's money, had seen her waiting and no doubt recognized her from earlier. As I met up with her, Jade breezed past us, glanced at us, and actually looked back over her shoulder. 'See you tomorrow, Jade,' I said pointedly.

'Yeah, see you,' she replied, still staring.

'You know it's me they're staring at, don't you?' Aly said, unperturbed.

'No, they're staring at me too. I'm with you after all,' I said to her, and watched the faint surprise and then the satisfaction that spread over her face as she took in my words.

'You're happier than before,' she said with an enquiring look.

'Yeah,' I replied, 'actually, I don't know that happier?, the right word. But I feel better than I did. I've been thinking that there're people far less fortunate than me.'

'You mean like starving orphans in Africa?' she asked, raising her eyebrows.

' Well, yes, since you say it. But I really meant condemned prisoners in the early nineteenth century actually.'

'Oh of course,' she said, 'naturally. Well, whatever makes you feel better. Come on, let's get the bus.'

1808

The warmer breeze and longer hours of pale daylight had gone, replaced by the chill of early autumn. Friendship had proved impossible with Mary and Constance Dunne, the younger sister entirely dominated by the elder, whose company was insufferable. No remorse, no worry for the future. No justice.

The previous day had brought a new arrival, straw-haired, pockmarked Alice Whitworth, who, she claimed, had known Jane Larkin. They had shared a profession, and were about the same age. Alice had that same tired look about her eyes that Jane had worn. The reminder of Jane turned Elizabeth's mind to a contemplation of Australia, the horrors of the journey, but beyond that, the hope of freedom. Alice, with a coarse voice but quick blue eyes, was no more friendly with Mary Dunne than Elizabeth or Gilly. Her conduct suggested she would prefer to be left alone to contemplate her future across the seas. Elizabeth was happy to oblige her. Tension in the cells, the only relief was Gilly.

Her belly was large and heavy now. She'd been forced to adjust her dress. It did not matter that the air that crept through the bars was colder now, she was too hot all of the time, and hungry, no matter how generous Mrs. Beckinsale was. Difficult to rest easily on the straw, but she welcomed every discomfort as a reminder of the new life that was drawing the goodness from her.

Tired, Gilly her only comfort. Together they shared their secret hope, the suffocating fear that they would not succeed. The other women were separate from them, insignificant. They drew away from them. Sleeping with hands entwined, days spent sewing, often in silence, but more shared between them than any words could ever convey. They were waiting for their moment, but they were also living the days of the only life they would know together. Dreadful and wonderful all at once.

It was a dull day, with rain falling outside. Elizabeth and Gilly were seated next to each other in the day room, the other women lurking in the night cell. They had tried to sew, but the failing light had made it impossible. Instead they sat, shoulders touching, lost in mutual contemplation. Elizabeth started suddenly, feeling the sharp kicks of the baby. Wordlessly, she took Gilly's hand and held it to her swollen belly, watching her face. Gilly's eyes were full of wonder as she felt the movement. 'Oh, darlin', I can feel it,' she breathed.

'He or she's going to be strong,' Elizabeth told her.

'Like their mother,' Gilly said.

'Like the mother they'll know,' Elizabeth replied, feeling the hope above the sadness. There was a way after all and it was to that she clung in the darkest hours of the night.

She saw the sadness in Gilly's own face, but also the determination. 'They'll know their real mother too, darlin',' she whispered. She dropped to her knees in front of where Elizabeth sat on the bench, and pressed her cheek to where the baby still moved.

'What if I'm a terrible mother?' Gilly asked, a cloud in her expression.

'You won't be, I know it,' Elizabeth said. T hope this child grows up to have your kindness.'

'Just be glad he or she will have your look about them, not mine,' Gilly said, more lightly.

'But you're beautiful, Gilly,' Elizabeth said, without a thought. She put her hand on Gilly's head, then pushed her cap back to stroke her auburn hair. Suddenly she felt like the older woman of the two. Gilly's hand came up to press her belly, to feel the baby as it stirred. Elizabeth noticed she was crying, softly.

'Gilly, please don't,' she murmured, fingers caressing first auburn hair and then pale skin at Gilly's temple, as Gilly laid her head in Elizabeth's lap. Gilly would carry her child into the future, she would find freedom, but Elizabeth understood the weight of that responsibility. Her future was decided, Gilly's was not.

'But how will I do it without you?' Gilly demanded, her voice weak and racked with pain.

‘I don't know,' Elizabeth told her. There were no ready words of comfort. 'But I know that you will. And I will be with you. If this child has my look about him or her then you'll see me when you look at them.' It wasn't just for Gilly. She had to believe she would be there too, not in the ground, not forgotten.

'I wish there was another way,' Gilly said, for even the hope they clung to was only a last glimmer in the darkness.

'But there isn't,' Elizabeth said, resting her hand on Gilly's shoulder, as the baby moved once more. 'You know it's the truth.' Tears stung her own eyes now as Gilly raised her head to look into her eyes.

'You know you'll always be in my heart, darlin'. No one will ever take your place.'

Elizabeth looked back into the green eyes. Her tears fell. No point in promising the same, but a thought of a future she would still have a part in. She cradled Gilly's face in her hands, wiped Gilly's wet cheeks with her thumbs, and smiled through her own tears.

2008

I had never enjoyed sitting on a bus as much as I did at Aly's side. Even my usual motion sickness had vanished. The seats were narrow and I felt the pressure of her hips and the length of her thigh warm against mine as the bus bumped and rocked. Aly laid her hand on my knee, but her display of affection was subtle and hidden from the other passengers. Part of me wanted her to slide her arm around my shoulders, as the man in front of us did to the blonde who sat beside him, but I still felt constrained by the gaze of the other people on the bus. Though I was grateful for Aly's sensitivity after what had happened in the night, I was irritated by my own insecurities. I looked forward to reaching her house, having her to myself again. The closer we got to the end of our journey, the more excited I felt, and the easier I found it to forget my smashed window.

My improved mood lasted until we reached Aly's front door. Then we both stopped suddenly and stared in a kind of curious horror. Smeared all over the door was a brown substance we both hoped was soil from the garden, and, in white paint, stark against the red door, in huge untidy lettering, was written filthy dyke whore.

'Well, my insult's better than yours,' Aly said, but her voice was empty of laughter. The terracotta pot of petunias had been smashed on her doorstep. The strewn compost and shards of terracotta looked so disorderly, so violently destroyed; it seemed such a vindictive thing to want to do to a pot of pink flowers. I think it frightened me more than the words on the door.

'What the fuck's going on?' I demanded, not really of Aly, the panic rising in me. We'd both made the connection now; someone knew where we both lived. The chance of the rock through my window being some dreadful coincidence had disappeared completely. The whole thing seemed suddenly more sinister.

'The guy in the pub?' I ventured, since he was the only person I could think of who would have any sort of grievance against us both.

'I'd agree, but he was just a drunken bastard,' she said, 'and he was still in the pub. I don't know—it just doesn't seem right to think that it's him.'

'But who else is there?' I said, my anxiety evident in my tone. I really was frightened by the turn events had taken. Aly caught the edge in my voice. I saw the grave concern in her own expression, but she put her hand out to me.

‘I don't know,' she said, pressing my fingers reassuringly. 'Come on, let's go inside.' I hated going closer to the door, stepping through the smashed terracotta and strewn flowers, but I kept my grip on her hand and drew some strength from the fact that she didn't seem to be as scared as I was.

When we were sitting in the kitchen, both cradling mugs of hot coffee, I asked her if she was frightened. Her demeanor was certainly agitated; I noticed the way she chewed the tip of her left thumb and fiddled with the bracelets at her wrist, before drumming her fingertips on the table.

'Not frightened,' she said, eyes hardening as though she slightly resented the suggestion that she should be. 'But I'm angry.'

'Has this ever happened before?'

'Yeah, all the time,' she replied, heavy with bitter sarcasm. She looked at my expression. 'Sorry,' she said, reaching for my hand once more. 'No, it's never happened before. I get crap a lot, from stupid ignorant idiots who can't cope with the way I choose to dress and cut my hair. But not this sort of hate.'