Читать книгу Son of Billabong - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 8

Table of Contents

MRS. BENTON her car in a quiet side-street and walked slowly for five minutes before she came to the frowning walls and the great iron-studded gates of the prison. She gave a little shudder, looking up at it. Would she ever get farther than the walls? It looked just as hard to enter it as to escape from it.

Even to walk along under those spiked walls gave her a sense of shame. She had never willingly looked at a prison: now, hesitating by the gates, it needed all her courage to ring the bell. When she had pressed it she felt a childish impulse to run away before anyone could come in answer.

A small door set in the gate opened a little, and a warder looked at her in some astonishment.

“I’ve a letter,” she stammered. “For the doctor.”

“All right: I’ll let him have it.” He put out his hand to take it. She grasped it more tightly.

“No, please, I’m to give it to him myself. It—it’s a special letter from the doctor at the hospital.”

“Well, I don’t know if he can see you,” said the warder. “Better come in, and I’ll find out if he’s in his office.” He opened the door a little more widely.

She found herself in a great square courtyard. The main building was opposite, with rows of barred windows set in a high wall. To her right was a lower building with many doors. More warders could be seen in a room close by: one, shouldering a rifle, marched slowly up and down on sentry duty. She was taken into a small room, very bare, and told to wait.

Ten minutes went by while she sat on the edge of a chair, holding her letter. Then another warder looked in.

“The doctor’ll see you. Come this way.”

She followed the trim figure in the neat blue uniform along a passage. The prison was an old one, built of grey stone. Everything was grey and cold, with a dreadful cleanliness and an all-pervading smell of disinfectant soap. The tramp of her guide’s marching feet echoed back from the stone floor. He paused in front of a closed door, knocked sharply, and ushered her in.

This was a more human place, she thought; the windows were large, even though they were barred, and sunlight streamed in, making a chequered pattern on the big coir mat that covered the floor. There were roses in a bowl on the doctor’s table. She was to remember them afterwards as the only patch of colour that she saw in the prison.

The doctor was an elderly man, erect and brisk. He looked stern; but then, she thought, a prison doctor couldn’t be anything else but stern. He certainly looked as if she had no business to be there.

“You have a letter for me?”

“From Doctor Gordon at the hospital, sir. He ... he hoped you wouldn’t mind me bringing it.”

“Sit down.” He read the letter, knitting his brows: evidently it did not please him.

“Doctor Gordon says you are the wife of the prisoner McGill, and you want to see him.”

“If I may, sir. I know he’s to be sent away from here, and it’s my only chance. I couldn’t see him before the trial.”

“Why not?”

“I live a long way from here, sir, and I couldn’t get here until the day of the trial. I ... I only saw him in the dock.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “Just for a few minutes, if you could manage it. I’d be ever so grateful.”

“It’s against the rules, you know. He is not supposed to see anyone until a certain part of his sentence is served.”

“Doctor Gordon told me that. But he thought there might be just a chance. I shan’t see him for five years, you see ...”

“Well, I don’t know,” said the doctor, hesitating. “It’s not for me to decide, and I would not consent if anyone but Doctor Gordon had suggested it.” His manner softened a little as he looked at her strained face. A decent, good-looking woman, he thought; how on earth she came to be the wife of a ruffian like McGill would puzzle anybody. “Oh, well, I’ll see what the Governor says. Wait here.”

She was left alone in the quiet room. One wall was covered with bookshelves bearing long rows of big medical books: she counted them slowly, one by one, to steady her mind. But they did not help her much. It was better to gaze at the roses on the table, gold and scarlet and pink: the gallant colours seemed to give her courage. A long wait, longer than in the first room: it was indeed a hard business to force one’s way into a gaol. She started uncontrollably as the door opened.

“Well, you’re to have a short interview,” the doctor told her. “Special concession, for Doctor Gordon’s sake. They’ve gone for your husband: a warder will take you to him presently.” He shot another of his penetrating glances at her. “Been ill, have you? You don’t look up to much now.”

“I’m just a bit shaky, sir. It’s nothing, really.”

“H’m,” said the doctor doubtfully. He went to a cupboard and mixed a draught. “Drink that and you’ll feel better. A gaol is a depressing place when you see it for the first time, eh?”

“It’s grim,” she said. “Does it get better when you’re here every day?”

“Not very much, but one gets used to it. I’ve been here fifteen years, and I couldn’t stand it without my garden.”

“They’re lovely,” she said eagerly, pointing to the roses. “I’ve been looking at them hard to cheer me up.”

“Well, I hope they have done their job. Don’t worry too much about your man: he has a chance to pull himself together and make good now. How about yourself? Have you anything to live on while he’s inside? You don’t look fit for work.”

“Yes, I’m all right for money, thank you, sir. I expect I’ll be better once I settle down to things. It’s been a shock, you see.”

“Well, don’t brood over it. Grow roses instead.” A knock came: the warder entered.

“Ready, sir.”

“All right. Bring the visitor back to my room when she has seen the prisoner.”

“Yes, sir.”

Again she was following the blue back along stone-floored passages. There was dead silence everywhere, broken only by the sound of their feet. All doors were shut: she wondered what went on behind them. Light came only from electric bulbs very high up, each caged in strong wire. The place seemed shut very far away from the daylight.

The warder opened a door into a long narrow room. A guard sat inside: across the room ran a heavy, narrow table with a chair on each side of it. On the farther side, blank amazement on his face, sat her husband.

“You sit opposite him,” she was told. “You can shake hands, but nothing whatever is to pass between you—no note, nor money, nor tobacco, nor anything else, see? Leave your ’and-bag where I can see it—better take your ’ankerchief out,” added the warder, reflecting that most wives were likely to need one. “Ten minutes is your limit: I’ll warn you when you’ve a minute left.”

She was glad to sit down; her knees were shaking.

“Well, what on earth brought you here?” was McGill’s greeting, spoken angrily.

“I had to see you, Joe. I couldn’t bear not to.”

“You’d much better have stayed away. What’s the use of coming to see a man in a hole like this?”

“I had to know how you were ... if you wanted anything I could get for you....”

“Cigars and whisky?” he said bitterly. “They don’t allow ’em here, much less where I’m goin’. You’d have been a darned sight better to have stayed on the farm. What did you want in that Court House? You were the last person I wanted to see there. Bad enough without your white face lookin’ at me.”

“Don’t be angry with me, Joe,” she pleaded. “We’ve no time to waste on that.”

“You shouldn’t have come,” he persisted. “An’ then you had to scare me blue by faintin’. Are you all right now?”

“Yes, I’m all right, Joe dear. Don’t worry about me.”

“Did those Linton people know who you were? I saw them lookin’ at you.”

“No: nobody knew. How could they?”

“I’ll get me own back when I come out!” His voice dropped to a fierce whisper. “All those rich swine that framed this up on me—I’ll make ’em pay if it takes me years to do it! I’d no chance against their lies an’ their influence; but wait till I’m out, an’ I’ll make ’em sorry they ever ran up against me!”

“Oh, don’t, Joe—don’t talk like that. They’re too strong for you.”

“I suppose you’d like me to swallow everything an’ say ‘Thank you.’ Much you care——!”

“I do care,” she said, trembling. “I’d punish them myself if I could.... I’ve lain awake thinking about that woman that wouldn’t give you food. I’d love to pay her out for that.”

“Set her dog on me, too, the fine lady did!”

“Joe! She never!”

“Didn’t she, though! A great savage brute of a cattle-dog—he was on me before I could do a thing. She’ll pay for it yet!”

“Joe—did the dog hurt you?”

“What do you reckon a savage dog does?—kiss you? I was lame for days after. Got the mark of his teeth on my leg yet.”

“My goodness!” she breathed. “An’ just because you asked for tucker! I wouldn’t have believed a woman could do a thing like that. Your lawyer made her husband look silly, anyway, Joe.”

He looked at her sharply for a moment.

“Yes—that was just before you flopped over, wasn’t it? Best bit of the trial, that was. I suppose you’ve read all the papers since?”

“No. They took me to hospital, and I was too sick to read. I tried to get a paper this morning, but they hadn’t any left in the shops—it’s four days ago now, you see.”

“Well, let ’em go. I’d just as soon you didn’t read ’em. Pretty rotten reading for a man’s wife, I reckon. You let ’em alone, d’you hear?”

“All right, Joe dear—I won’t read them. Joe ... you will do your best in ... in gaol, won’t you? They’ll let you out sooner if you’re a good-conduct man. And I’ll have everything as nice as I can on the farm for when you come home. Do come back and work it with me. Sydney’s no good for you.”

“Isn’t it? Lord, if I could only see Sydney now!” he uttered. “Farmin’ ’s the last thing I could stand, old girl. I’ll have better fish to fry: I’m goin’ to pay the Lintons out if I swing for it.”

“Too much whispering there!” said the warder sharply. “Cut it out!”

“Sorry, boss. But I won’t see me wife again for five years.”

“Well, you’ve only one minute more,” said the unmoved warder.

“Joe, you’ll write when you can, won’t you? And I’ll have the car waiting for you the day you come out, and your good clothes ready and everything you’ll want ... you just write and tell me when you’re coming, and I’ll be there....” The words fell over themselves in her eagerness—so little time, so many things they might have said instead of useless things. Ten minutes out of five years!

It did not seem to trouble McGill.

“Nothing like comin’ out like a real gent, is there? I’ll be doin’ it in style, car an’ all.” He laughed loudly. “We’ll go an’ paint Sydney red for a start!”

“Time!”

The warder stood up. They looked at each other across the table. McGill’s eyes were mocking, the woman’s full of bewilderment and shame. She found herself stumbling from the room. The door closed behind her: she leaned against the cold stone of the wall, panting.

“Here, you hang on to me, Missus,” said the warder gently. She was glad of his strong arm round her: it had not occurred to her that a warder could be kind. But he was just a friendly lad as he supported her, going slowly back through the passages to the doctor’s room. “Don’t you worry, Missus: they always take it a bit hard at first, but they settle down soon enough. His time’ll slip by before you know where you are.” In which the warder was more sympathetic than truthful, since it was already agreed by the staff of the gaol that whoever had the handling of McGill for the next five years would handle a packet of trouble.

“She’s bit all in, sir.” He put her carefully into a chair, glancing over her head at the doctor.

“Yes, I thought that would be likely. Right, Ford, you can go. Take your time, Mrs. McGill. This is my time for morning tea: I told them to send in two cups. Just lean back and relax—don’t bother to talk.”

She was thankful for the order, closing her eyes as she slumped in the chair. Her brain raced with bewildered thoughts. The visit, planned with such care and difficulty, had been only pain and disappointment. She had pictured Joe’s pleasure at seeing her, his astonishment that she had been smart enough to contrive it: pictured herself able to give him a little comfort, heartening him with dreams of a new future. The astonishment had been there, certainly, but there had been no welcome in his eyes or kindness in his voice. That he had wasted their time with railing and threats against his enemies was nothing, compared to the crushing certainty that he had given her no word or look of affection.

“Even when he asked me if I was all right now, he rapped it out just like he’d ask about a dog,” she thought. “If I died before his time’s up I don’t believe he’d be a bit sorry. Very likely he’d be glad.”

The door opened again: there was a heavy step, the clattering of a tray: the door shut. She did not open her eyes. Presently the doctor’s voice came.

“Here’s your tea, Mrs. McGill.”

She was on the point of correcting him about her name, but she checked herself just in time. What did it matter? Dr. Gordon had probably only said that she was the wife of the prisoner, and she might as well let it stand at that. Better, perhaps, if she dropped right out of Joe’s life, if he did not want her. The less she told anyone about herself the better. Joe would know where to find her—if he cared enough.

The hot tea brought at least physical comfort. Some of the deadly coldness left her limbs, and she ceased to tremble. The doctor talked quietly; she found herself wondering how she could ever have thought him stern and hard. He talked of gardens; with his words came a sudden homesick longing for her own little garden on the farm, and she felt that she could not get back there quickly enough.

“That was lovely, Doctor.” She put her cup on the table. “Nothing like a good hot cup of tea, I always say—specially when you’re in trouble. I’ll be going now.”

“Got far to go?”

“Back to New South Wales,” she said vaguely. “I’m driving.”

“Alone?” She nodded. The doctor raised his eyebrows.

“Not what I should have prescribed for you, just out of hospital as you are.”

“Oh, I’m all right. I’m used to it.”

“Well, I suppose you know your own business, but you would be wiser to put off starting until to-morrow. This business hasn’t been too good for you. Why not take it easy to-day?”

“I couldn’t,” she said. “I couldn’t stay in this town, Doctor ... it’s too near ... everything. I’d not be able to sleep for thinking of ... this place.” The last words were a whisper.

“H’m—very likely. Well, be sensible about it, Mrs. McGill: drive very slowly until you come to the first township that looks inviting, and rest there for twenty-four hours. It will pay you in the long run. I suppose Doctor Gordon has given you medicine? He explained the condition of your heart in his letter.”

“Oh yes, a big bottle. I’ll do as you say, Doctor, I promise. I know I’d better.” She stood up, stumbling over words of gratitude. The doctor brushed them aside.

“That’s all right. We’re not really ogres in gaol, you know. Try not to worry: it’s a good plan to practise looking beyond a trouble, not into it. Here, take these with you to keep you company in the car.”

He took the roses from the bowl, and wrapped their stems in paper, putting them into her hand; refusing to listen to her stammering protest.

“I’ve plenty more. Come along: I’ll see you out.”

She loved him for that. Had he guessed, she wondered, that she had hated the prospect of being escorted out of the gaol by a warder, for passers-by in the street to turn and stare curiously? So different, to go out walking beside the Doctor himself, carrying a bunch of roses, with wardens saluting as they passed. And he did not stop at the little wicket in the great gate: he went out upon the footpath first and helped her through: stood there bareheaded, chatting to her for a minute, so that anyone who saw her could never dream she was a convict’s wife. Almost she was able to forget it herself in her gratitude.

“You don’t know how you’ve helped me, Doctor. I’ll ... I’ll remember it always.” She did not dare to put out her hand, but that did not matter: she found it gripped comfortingly.

“You’re a brave woman, I know,” he said. “Carry on, and remember what I told you.” He watched her for a moment as she walked slowly away. “Much too good for that animal inside, eh, Smith?” he remarked to the warder as he dived back through the wicket.

“Too right, sir,” said the warder. “But then the wives that come here mostly are!”