Prisoner: Life Behind British Bars

The old coach, leaving behind the familiar scent of petrol and rumbling on, soon disappeared into the dusk, leaving the woman quite alone. She looked about her; this lane hadnt changed a bit. The road was still muddy, thick with inky puddles and the verges lined with scrappy, rain-speckled hedgerows. In the distance, the village stretched in a slender ribbon along the edge of the woods, warm yellow window squares already glowing in the twilight. Down the lane, you could just catch the barking of dogs and the cross honking of geesemusic of home.

Yes, nothings changed here in six years, Eleanor mused. Well, almost nothing. The only difference was the dark patch to her right, up on the hillno longer did a row of farm machinery loom beneath flickering lamps. That place, once owned by Harold Bell, was now empty. She imagined his heirs had sold everything.

Eleanor walked towards the village High Street, unsure what to expecthalf wondering if someone might step from behind a privet hedge and fling a stone at her. She fancied every cottage window hid a pair of scornful eyes. Pulling her shawl snug over her head, she moved quietly, hoping not to be seen. What waited for her here? Did her home still stand at all? There was nowhere else for her, thoughno family, no other villageand so she returned, bitterness or not. It was, after all, her doing that nearly half the village had lost its livelihood six years back.

Since then, so much had changed. She hardly recognised herselfthe carefree, striking girl with lively blue eyes who once bewitched Harold Bell, gruff master of the farm. Eleanor had no onebut life on the edge of the village suited her, quiet and unremarked. Harold had been something of a squire, folk almost worshipped him. Most worked his land.

When Eleanor moved in with Harold, she thought she’d drawn lifes winning ticket. But things never turn out so simple. Harold fancied himself the lord and Eleanor his servant, meant for no more than amusement. She, dazzled by his attention, failed to see his true nature. First, he drove her friends away, then forbade certain dresses, then banned all make-up. Gradually, every part of her life turned into another rule, another ban. She spent her days waiting for him at home, stewing and tidying, forbidden from seeking work. Harold grew convinced she was hiding something and tormented himself with jealous suspicion. No amount of pleas or tears could reassure him.

When at last it came to blows, Eleanor left, retreating to her little house down by the dell, desperate to forget. But fate was not done with her. The following day, Harold came around. She was washing the kitchen floor, all doors wide open as fresh country air breezed through. She found solace in her chores, losing herself in the motion of a wet cloth on the boards.

He kicked her bucket overthe water washed through the kitchen, a small lakeand inside, she braced for what always came next. The rest blurred: her memory, perhaps out of mercy, refused to replay those moments. When she finally came to, the yard bustled with constables; neighbours crowded behind the gate. Inside, the kitchen was a messchairs upturned, curtains torn downand Harold Bell lay in the middle of it all. Someone waved a bag with a sharp kitchen knife inside before her face.

Shes broken the man! called one voice from behind the hedge.
She should have behaved herselfHarold kept her in clover!
A good man ruined, is what it is!
What will we do now? He provided for us all!

There were no answers. Eleanor was sentenced to six years at Her Majestys pleasure, a common prison. Those years were hard, yet not as cruel as she had feared. Her gentle spirit, her ear for troubles, won her true friendships among the other women. Together, they softened the blows of captivity. The mirror no longer reflected the beauty shed been. She grew stouter, silver threaded her hair, and she had lost all taste for fine things. Never had Eleanor thought shed end up in gaolshe always assumed such places were for the hopeless and the lost. Yet, as the old saying goes, Never say never to need or a cell. Life can shatter in a heartbeat. Now, she was a convict.

She walked on, face still hidden, heart pounding. Was her house even standing? Maybe by now, it had been taken for timber. But at the far edge of the dell, between two grand old birches, the outlines of her home were clear. The familiar damp drifted from the hollow, and she heard the plume of water and the croaking of frogs. Countless times, she had pictured this, longed for these sights, dreamed them behind bars. Beyond the dell was the woodstheyd be fat with mushrooms now: russulas, slippery jacks, brown caps. She almost ran for a basket.

Like a shadow she slipped through the gate, found the spare key in its old hiding spot, and stepped inside. Expecting nothing but the reek of damp and abandonment, she was startled by the clean air. With a flick of the switch, golden light poured from the kitchen lamp. Everything was in orderpots shone, a geranium blossomed pink on the sill. Eleanor stared, dumbfounded. She wandered through the rooms, nothing disturbed. Someone had looked after the place.

Eleanor? Elll-eeeee-nor! It was her neighbour, Mrs. Goodwin, bustling in from the porch. Goodness, she gasped, how youve changed She set a jar of milk and a loaf wrapped in a tea towel on the table. Saw your lamp and hurried over. Youll need a bite after the road.

Thank you, Eleanor managed. Was it you who tended the house?
Of course, who else? Mrs. Goodwin said briskly. No one in their right mind leaves a house to go to rot.

Eleanors eyes brimmed, voice trembling. Thank you, thank you so much.
Mrs. Goodwin patted her arm. Id better be offthere are those who still hold a grudge. If my Bert knew I was here, thered be words!

Eleanor felt a little warmth melt the chill inside. One soul had stood by her. She poured herself a glass of the warm milkjust as someone shyly knocked at the door. On the steps stood a boy of about thirteen, awkward and mousy, holding out a bundle.

Mum sent this he mumbled and thrust it at her, scampering off before she could thank him. She didnt even recognise him; children grew so quickly. From the bundle came the enticing aroma of smoked bacon.

Then, without warning, Molly charged in, arms wide for a hug. Theyd once been inseparable, before Harold. Eleanor broke down in tears: I thought no one would ever speak to me again

Nonsense, Molly replied. Women stick togetherit was self-defence, no matter what the men say. They never understand, do they? Mrs. Goodwin told us you were backI brought you some veg from the garden. Have a good rest. Well chatter your ear off tomorrow!

So overwhelmed was Eleanor that she struggled to eat. How wrongly shed judged her neighboursat least the women had understood. As she lay back on fresh sheets, barely had she closed her eyes before a knock came at the window. Even in the gloom, she recognised the solid frame of Mr. Clarke, the villages unofficial leader.

Best you stay in, he said quietly through the casement. Weve talked it over, and holding a grudge is foolish. Truth is, it wasnt your fault. Harold brought his end upon himself. Sure, times are harder without him, but thats life, isnt it? Take thisweve all chipped in, to tide you over. Dont say no.

Eleanor hesitated, but Mr. Clarke tossed a little purse of coins onto the sillpounds and pencebefore fading away into the English night.