Gertrude laughed, which only infuriated Thelma even more.She tried to take another swing, but the matron intercepted.
“To your cells, all three of you!No dinner!”White screamed right next to Emily’s ear.She blinked as her eardrum protested.Her heart was racing.She’d never been in a fight before and hadn’t meant to be in one now.Ladies didn’t get into fights.But still, there was something about the adrenaline she felt now that was undeniably appealing.She looked at Thelma and Gertrude and wondered if their inexplicable antagonism and quick fuses weren’t born of a need to simply feelsomethingin this desolate place.
“Go!”Matron White shouted.“And consider yourselves lucky you’re not headed to the hole.The rest of you: to dinner.No dawdling!”
Thelma left first, followed by a swaggering Gertrude who appeared utterly unfazed by the encounter, smoothing her dishevelled hair down as she made her away across the main hall to the stairs.Emily trailed behind her.Thelma stomped up the stairs, casting nasty looks over her shoulder at Gertrude and Emily, who ignored her.
“Thanks, Gertrude,” Emily said quietly as they reached the second floor.It was even hotter up here.“But you didn’t have to do that.She’s not worth losing dinner over.”
“Ah, I can’t stand her,” Gertrude said with a huff.“She needs to be put in her place every so often.Looks like a poodle with that stupid hair, and needs training like one, too.Yapping all over the place.Wish we could just put a muzzle on her.See you later, Em.”
Gertrude continued up to the third-floor cells, and Emily made her way to her own, suppressing a smile despite the fact that she was already sorely regretting having to miss dinner.Her stomach ached, even for the horrid stew or whatever scraps that would be on offer that day.
She’d be ready to faint by suppertime, especially after all the exertion of cleaning duty in between.She’d always been a sharp person, blessed with a good memory and a quick mind; it didn’t take her long to get a joke or do sums in her head.But she’d noticed over the last two weeks that her brain was not as sharp as it used to be—and she was certain malnutrition was a factor.How could a person think straight on a diet of runny eggs, fatty meat, and bland starches?
A thought suddenly came to her: Would she be able to remember the details of her experience six months from now, when it came time to write the article?She hadn’t planned to take notes for fear of them being found, but the matrons hadn’t done any kind of cell search since she’d arrived.She didn’t want to forget certain details, and had trusted her mind to recall them, but she wondered now if it would be riskier tonotwrite them down.
She lay down on the concrete floor of her cell, seeking cool.The midday light was weak in her window now.It faced west, so she got the most light toward the end of the day, which was not particularly helpful when trying to fall asleep, especially at this time of year.
If she were to take notes, she might be able to hide them beneath the mattress.Though that seemed like the first place the matrons would look if her cell ever was searched.Emily chewed on her lip and looked up at the ceiling.There was paper in the warden’s office for writing letters home, along with a jar of crayons—no pens or pencils, which must be considered too sharp.But you could only get the paper when the warden wasinher office.Would she even notice if Emily took paper but didn’t come back to submit a letter every time?She wasn’t sure.Warden Barrow rarely left her office; in fact, Matron White, the head matron, seemed to run the place more than the warden, in practice.Emily’s stomach grumbled at the smells of dinner that wafted up to her floor.She forced her mind to wander, trying to ignore it, eyes sliding a little out of focus.They landed on the chamber pot on the floor, the tap above it.Then on the roll of crunchy toilet paper.
She rose from the floor and walked over, sounds from the dining halldrifting gently up the stairs.She crouched down, picked up the roll of paper and unfurled it into her hand.She massaged it between her thumb and index finger.It was off-white, and really not much thinner than wrapping or butcher’s paper.She could write on it, certainly.And no one would be checking how much toilet paper she was using.Inmates had access to new rolls from a basket in the washroom, and could bring a new roll back with them in the morning after the Chamber Pot Parade, as Emily had come to call it.
But even if she were to take notes on the toilet paper, the question still remained: where to hide it?There were no floorboards in her cell, nothing on the walls to conceal something behind.She tore a length of paper and experimented with it, folding it as small as she could and then coiling it tightly, though gently, as though she were rolling a cigarette.She tried again, with a longer length, wrapping it around the outside of the first.It hardly grew in girth.That was good.But still, where to hide it?She shook her head, already feeling the effects of her inadvertent fast, and tried to think.
Her eyes fell to the water tap in front of her.It was an inch and a half wide at the mouth, and curved a little where it protruded from the wall—about six inches.With a surge of excitement, Emily inserted the little roll into the pipe.It was dry in there; she hadn’t used the faucet in a couple of days, and it was deeper than it appeared on the outside.
She smiled, wiping her sweaty brow.This could work.
CHAPTER 19
EMILY
July, 1961
Day 17 (166 to go)
I was pleased about the hiding place I had procured for the toilet paper notes upon which I was recording the details of my incarceration.Time would tell whether I was in fact able to keep it a secret, but for the moment, at least, I was calmed somewhat by the assurance that I had a reliable backup record if, months later, my memory failed me.As I could no longer use the tap for water during the night, I resolved to have my evening drink in the inmate washroom before returning to my cell at lights out.
Two days after Emily had decided how and where to take her notes, she finished recording the entry with a sharpened crayon she’d swiped from the warden’s office the day before.The morning bell clanged out in the corridor, and she vowed to try to do a little writing early in the morning every few days, or when there had been a development or observation that called for it.She rolled it up as tightly as she could and fed it back into the tap on the wall.
She’d given a lot of thought to her mission the night before, now that she was a little more settled into life at the Mercer.She was used to her routine now—unpleasant as it might be—and had been recording herobservations about the matrons, her fellow inmates, the physical prison and its conditions.She missed her parents, her sister, and even Jem, a little.She missed hot baths and privacy and her mother’s cooking.And God, she missed the office.But she was coping well with the immersion so far, approaching it all from a place of curiosity in the hope that it might feel like more of an adventure than a misery.
Emily had several questions that she needed answers for, but currently, her biggest fascination was with Annie Little, and how she had come to be incarcerated at the Mercer for the past fifteen years when the maximum sentence was meant to be two.That seemed like a monstrous abuse of the Female Refuges Act, and Emily needed to learn more.
As she waited outside her cell for the Chamber Pot Parade, Emily’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of whistles from the psychiatric wing.She’d noticed that the matrons had whistles tied to a string on the belts of their dresses—not unlike old-fashioned housekeeper’s chatelaines—which were used to call for assistance in the event an inmate became unmanageable.Emily had heard them used twice since she’d been in the Mercer, both times in the psych wing.A drawn-out shriek echoed down the hall.
“Enough, Rose.Quiet now!”Emily heard.A muffled shriek again, then silence.
After she’d been to the bathroom, Emily got back in line in front of Lizzie as the inmates made their daily stampede downstairs to the dining hall for breakfast.But as she stepped onto the main floor, Emily was suddenly shoved into the brick wall.Looking up in alarm, she saw Thelma, who sneered before turning her back on Emily.
“She’s such a shit,” Lizzie said beside her.“Are you okay?”
Emily’s shoulder hurt where it had hit the brick.“What’s her problem?I haven’t done anything to her.”Inmates swirled around them as they stood still, like rocks in a stream.Emily wasn’t easily intimidated, but this situation with Thelma unsettled her.She hadn’t come here to make enemies, and having someone intent on antagonizing her would be a waste of valuable energy.
“She’s just a creep,” Lizzie assured her.“She’s picking on you because you’re new and you’re nice.She thinks she can bully you.My advice is don’t let her.”
“But why is she such a creep?”
