When she reached the front, an inmate wearing a hairnet and gloves thrust a metal tray at her.Emily’s nose wrinkled at the small portions of oatmeal, meat, a piece of dry toast and what looked like a quarter cup of scrambled egg.She crafted the sentences for her article in her mind:
A grossly inadequate breakfast was provided on my first morning.I awaited dinner and supper with hungry anticipation to learn whether this pitiful meal was anomalous or standard to the institution.
She hadn’t received any instruction on where to sit, so she held her tray and looked around at the tables, uncomfortably reminded of her secondary school days when she and Eleanor had lunch at different times.Emily had never been in the popular crowd, though nor was she bullied or undermined.She was just sort of invisible, except to a couple of thegirlfriends she’d now fallen out of touch with.That was one thing about having a twin: people often thought you didn’t have any use or desire for friends; that all your social needs were inherently met by your doppelgänger.The few friends she had made eventually admitted they’d felt intimidated to penetrate the eerie barrier of twindom in the effort to forge a friendship with either Radcliffe girl.And so she was out of practice in an exercise that had never come very naturally to her to begin with: making friends, however temporary—or useful—they might be.
She would need to get to know some of the inmates so that she could learn the histories and experiences that would form the background of her piece.Whoexactly were these women?What lives had they lived before their incarceration at the Mercer, and how had it impacted them?
She took a deep breath and studied the tables.Most were now full of chatting inmates tucking hungrily into their meagre breakfasts.Off to the side of the hall near the kitchen door, she spied a table whose sole occupant was a slim woman with brown hair, who appeared to be somewhere in her thirties.Emily strode over.
“Hello,” she said.“I’m Emily.Do you mind if I sit here?”
The woman looked up from a piece of toast.She had dark circles beneath her blue eyes, but the eyes themselves were gentle, and pleasantly set off by her uniform, which was the colour of a clear June sky.On her way downstairs, Emily had only spotted two other inmates wearing blue rather than brown, and had assumed that they were simply old uniforms, or maybe new ones being phased in.The blue, at least, was some spot of colour in this depressingly monochromatic establishment.
After a moment, the woman nodded her consent, a hint of a smile tugging at her hollow cheeks.But she didn’t introduce herself, so Emily prompted her.“What’s your name?”
“Annie,” she said, looking surprised to be asked.“Annie Little.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Emily said, then looked down at her breakfast.She’d been given a spoon but no fork, and the dullest table knife she’d ever seen.The edge of the spoon was probably sharper.She scooped up some oatmeal, which was tasteless and stone-cold to the point ofmaking her gag, but she forged on, recalling the claims from the “Incorrigible” note—that there was never enough to eat at the Mercer.The meat languishing sadly beside the bowl of oatmeal was a greyish piece of beef hardly bigger than a tin of mints.
They ate in silence for a moment as Emily scanned the noisy room again, eyes on the other inmates as the thought occurred to her that the mysterious author of the note might be sitting at the very next table.She wondered whether she would be able to suss her out over the course of this project.But she was pulled from her thoughts when Annie spoke, her voice soft and gentle.
“Would you mind cutting my beef into smaller bits?”she asked.“I’m not allowed a knife.”
Emily paused, struggling to chew a piece of toast with no butter.“Oh, yes of course.”She was surprised; the dull knife could hardly be considered a weapon.She made to hand it over, but Annie shook her head, glancing at the open double doors, where matrons were standing watch on either side.
“I’m not allowed it.You’ll get into trouble.”
Emily hesitated, swallowed the dry lump of bread.
“Why aren’t you allowed?”she asked.
Annie took a deep breath.“Some inmates just aren’t.But I’m not going to hurt anyone.”
Emily ran her tongue over her teeth, eyed the dull knife again.She slid a finger over the blade.“I don’t think you could even if you wanted to,” she said, trying to smile.
Annie’s eyes grew wide, and she let out a breathy laugh, then clapped a hand to her mouth, eyes darting to the matrons.
Emily watched her with a mixture of pity and amusement.“Are jokes not allowed here, either?”she asked with a smirk.
Annie lowered her hand, shook her head.“You know, I’m not sure they are…”
Emily smiled, then passed the knife to Annie.They both glanced again at the matrons, who appeared not to have seen the exchange.
“Thank you,” Annie said, quickly breaking up the meat.
“You’re welcome.”Emily sipped her tea now.Predictably, it was tepid and weak, but she was thirsty.She thought of what her mother would have to say about this pitiful breakfast.
The chatter of voices swelled, and Emily noticed most people by now had empty plates.She glanced up at the clock over the doorway, recalled her schedule.Breakfast was nearly over, so she turned her attention to what information she might be able to glean from Annie Little in the next few minutes.
“Is breakfast always this bad?”she asked.
Annie scoffed.“Yes.Been the same for fifteen years.Hardly any fruit.Some vegetables, just what they grow in the prison garden.Tinned green beans, and tinned tomatoes, too, sometimes.Sometimes.”
Emily stared, mouth agape.“You’ve been here forfifteen years?”
Annie nodded.
“But…” Emily thought fast.She didn’t want to sound as though she had swallowed the Female Refuges Act.“I didn’t think they could keep us more than, what, a couple of years?Usually less, right?I’m here for six months.”
