Wattle Circus: Chapter Twenty
Of course nobody had any time-pieces of their own, but so regular was this daily routine and so lacking in variation that the prisoners began to drift towards where they were meant to be moments before the official call went out, so attuned were they by the vast emptiness of their own existence beyond this ordered delineation.
This seemed to Abigail to be less so for the younger prisoners on board the ship. While they were clearly the most restless and had with more energy than they could feasibly burn in such confined and constricted circumstances, they also seemed less prone to the bouts of empty gazing and ghostly daytime sleepwalking that she saw in some of the women.
Despite knowing that she hadn’t acted criminally and that most of these women probably had, she thought of them first and foremost as people. Whatever act they had carried out to be in this situation, whether spontaneous or planned from beginning to end, she felt they had been more than punished enough already. She of course knew that transportation had likely saved many of their lives, with hundreds of crimes still punishable by death if the magistrate so saw fit, but it seemed to her an outrageous response to the minor infractions and desperate undertakings of these women, many in situations of dire need.
The women who sold themselves could hardly be to blame for so many men seeking them out. Those who stole for their family did not do so for gain or comfort but for survival – Abigail was distraught to learn just how widespread London and England’s problems were and how many people were in situations of such grim and quiet desperation.
For the most part the prisoners either got along or at least tolerated their fellow travellers. Inevitably, living in such close quarters and with such a mix of personalities, trouble did flare. This was usually a case of simmering tensions boiling over and the guards would often turn a blind eye to minor scrapes and scuffles, only stepping in if they appeared to be getting out of hand. Letting off steam in futile little skirmishes like this typically led to situations moving on with few grudges. Occasionally, however, someone would take such a dislike to another prisoner that things weren’t so easily resolved.
Abigail’s new friend Mary Ann found herself in exactly this situation, her life made miserable by the constant taunting and frequent threats at the hands of ‘Mad Maureen’ a larger-than-life prisoner who had taken an instant dislike to the pretty Mary Ann, calling her ‘Precious’ in a sarcastic, seething tone. She once called her Charlotte while in a fury, which hadn’t made sense at the time but became all too clear when she learnt more about her antagoniser from another prisoner later on.
Heavy-set, with tight, oily brown curls and mottled, waxy skin, Maureen Daley was being transported for the murder of another woman in the small southern village of Lewes. She had discovered a perfumed letter concealed in one of her husband’s locked desk drawers, which set off the unfortunate chain of events. Her husband Stanley was a reasonably respected stock agent who had married Maureen while only quite young and before making his way to his present station. While divorce was out of the question, he had certainly considered the marriage to have been free of love for the past 20 years and had assumed his wife saw things the same way.
When he met Charlotte Dalfoy, he knew nothing could happen, yet part of him also knew things could never be the same again. She was working for John Willis, another agent in the area, with whom Stanley had an amicable rivalry. He would conjure reasons for visiting Willis’ office simply to catch the merest glimpse of Charlotte, rarely being so bold as to trade more than a polite greeting. He finally found the courage to write her a note, feverishly and foolishly declaring his truest feelings for her. On his first visit to the office following its discreet delivery, she did not even look up. He knew he had made a mistake and shattered their fledgling friendship in his foolish haste.
But as he went to leave he saw a wax-sealed note was sitting on the very edge of her desk. He swept it up and into an inside pocket of his coat, where he could have sworn it was glowing for all to see. Locking himself into his home office, after a walk home that seemed like an eternity as he willed his feet not to run, he withdrew the note with trembling fingers.
As for you, for me
to be continued…
