A GUEST OF HIS MAJESTY:

A MONTH IN HOLLOWAY GAOL

 

The Christian Commonwealth

28 April 1909

 

By Miss Marguerite A. Sidley

© Marguerite Sidley

 

 

Marguerite Sidley’s stay at Holloway preceded Edith Thompson’s by thirteen years. Much of what Marguerite records about her experiences in the castellated prison – its routines, uniforms, chapel, exercise, eating utensils, inferior tea, milk, knitting, reading – also applied in Edith’s time and was commented on by her in letters and in conversation with her family.

Marguerite Annie Sidley was born in Nottingham in 1886, the third child of John and Lilian Sidley, and died in Scotland in 1983. When the family moved to London, Marguerite attended Camden School for Girls before learning shorthand and typing and taking first place in the country in the Royal Society of Arts typewriting examination.  Her interest in the suffrage movement was fired during a visit with her mother to listen to leading suffragists, after which they both joined the Women’s Social and Political Union.

Suffering from ill health, Marguerite gave up her office job and decided to offer her secretarial skills free to the cause while her savings lasted. In March 1907, aged 21, she took part in a deputation to the House of Commons and as a result spent twelve days in Holloway Prison. In 1908 she joined the Women’s Freedom League and worked for them until 1916.  During that time she travelled the country assisting in by-election and educational campaigns. From 1908 to 1911 she spent between eight and ten weeks in the summer travelling around the country in the Women’s Freedom League caravan. In February 1909, after trying to speak to her MP at the House of Commons, she spent a further month in Holloway, and it is that experience which she describes below.

In March 1914 she was arrested for speaking from the steps of the Board of Trade offices in Whitehall and spent a further four days in prison. She was issued as a postcard by the Women’s Freedom League, wearing her WFL enamel flag broach. This is the photo at the head of this article.

By the time Edith Thompson arrived at Holloway in October 1922 there was a new governor, Dr John Hall Morton, and also a lady doctor, as requested by Marguerite Sidley in 1909.

The 1911 census lists the entire staff and all inmates of Holloway Prison. One name that stands out is that of the Reverend Samuel Reginald Glanvill Murray (1869-1947). Like the governor, the chaplain too lived on the premises. Murray joined Holloway between 1901, when he lived in Hammersmith, and 1907, when Marguerite Sidley encountered him during a short first spell in Holloway. Writing after her 1909 stay, she remarked ‘I knew the gentleman of old, and expected that he and I would quarrel over every subject that was introduced into our conversation – and we did.’

From her description of him, there can be little doubt that she is referring to the same Church of England chaplain whom Edith Thompson met during her stay at Holloway. Murray was 53 in 1922 when he was instructed to minister to Edith. Her indignant response to him tallies with Marguerite Sidley’s, with both women resenting Murray’s self-righteous posturings.

Marguerite Sidley ‘found that this official of the prison, who is meant to give spiritual consolation and advice, was in reality one of the most narrow-minded, uncomprehending of men.’ She has more to say on his prissy shortcomings. Edith Thompson resented his presence intensely because, as she told her parents, the chaplain would continuously press her to confess to being guilty, however much she protested her innocence to him. Murray is the reason why Edith turned to Canon Palmer, a larger-than-life Roman Catholic priest from llford, and wanted him to be with her during her last few days.

Murray lacked the generosity of spirit to stand aside for Canon Palmer, and so was present during Edith Thompson’s last moments. But the horror of that morning of 9 January 1923 turned this flawed conformist into a committed abolitionist. When the Quaker prison reformer Margery Fry saw him in the governor’s office a few days after the execution, she noted ‘I was greatly impressed by its effect upon all of them. I think I have never seen a person look so changed in appearance by mental suffering as the Governor appeared to me to be. … Mr Murray was so much shocked by the whole experience that, after retirement, he spent much energy in writing and public speaking in favour of the abolition of the death penalty …’ In his testimony before Parliament years later Murray declared ‘When we were all gathered together it seemed utterly impossible to believe what we were there to do. My God, the impulse to rush in and save her by force was almost too strong for me.’ 

 

A GUEST OF HIS MAJESTY:

A MONTH IN HOLLOWAY GAOL

 Marguerite A. Sidley

From the moment of the pronouncement of sentence in the police-court until that of being thrust back into the strife and bustle of life the prisoner becomes non-existent so far as the world is concerned. Between those two decisive moments we criminals are dependent upon the national exchequer for our existence.

Sentence of one month’s imprisonment in the second division was passed upon me at 12.15 on Friday, February 26 [1909]. The gaoler, an exceedingly pleasant man, very much upset at the treatment meted out to the Suffragists, conducted me through long passages to one of a row of little cells, to await Mrs Despard and Miss Fitzherbert. At about 1.15 Mrs Despard was brought to the same cell; then our kind friends who had come to hear our “trials” brought us lunch, and stood around the door talking to us for some time. This door has a little square opening, through which we conversed. Presently the gaoler came to us, saying that Sir Albert de Rutzen had sent down a message, saying that if we liked we might travel to Holloway in taxicabs instead of in His Majesty’s coach – “Black Maria” – and that we might return to the room where we had awaited our summons to the court. This room contained nothing save a few benches round the walls and a hot-water stove. Miss Fitzherbert joined us at about three o’clock, and at about four o’clock we were informed that two taxicabs were waiting for us.

On our arrival at His Majesty’s “Castle” we were each locked in a reception cell, very small and dark, and ill-ventilated. I was surprised and pleased to see that these cells had been cleaned quite recently, the floors still being a little damp. We waited here some considerable time before being taken across the passage to see the doctor. As we returned to our cells we saw the matron, who recognised us all as “old offenders”. Presently supper was brought round. It consisted of a greasy tin of cocoa, which had a thick layer of oil on its surface, a 6-oz loaf of brown bread, and a piece of meat. I do not know if Mrs Despard and Miss Fitzherbert partook of their supper. I did not. Soon after seven o’clock a wardress opened my door and said, “Bring your things and come with me”. I followed her into a room on the other side of the passage, and was “handed over” to two other wardresses. I was told to go behind a large screen, where I found a set of garments, and change my clothes. The blouse and skirt are made of a rough dark green material, marked with the broad arrow. The skirts apparently are all made to fit (more or less) the short woman, and the bodices to fit, in like fashion, the tall, big ones. The blouse is loose from the collar, fastening only by one button. It is put on over the skirt, and kept in place by the apron. Consequently, it is always coming up, giving one the appearance of a sack tied up in the middle. The apron is a blue and white check, with red bars. There are two dusters, also of blue and white check, with red bars – one for a neck-cloth, the other for a handkerchief, which must be hung over the apron-string, as no pocket is provided. Indeed, no pocket would take such a large square. The stockings are made of a dark worsted and are very thick – They also have red bars. It is but seldom that one gets stockings to cover the knees. The shoes are very heavy and clumsy, but in time one gets accustomed to the weight. The undergarments are all so big that one is obliged to use hairpins to make large pleats in them. Surely some man must have designed the clothing – there is no feminine taste or contrivance to be found. The one picturesque feature is the little white cap on the head. On reappearing from my shelter I was weighed, measured, and questioned as to my name, address, place of birth, nearest relative, religion, charge, sentence, etc. My money, watch, brooch, and all articles I had with me were taken from me, and an inventory made, which I signed. Then I was given a towel, two sheets, and a pillow-case – all of very coarse unbleached material, with red stripes and brown “broad arrows” on them – and told to sit in one of the reception cells. Here I chatted with a wardress while Miss Fitzherbert went through the same proceedings. Mrs Despard had already been taken to the hospital. The rules were read to us, and we were conducted across a yard to the ‘D’ ward. We went up to the top of the ward and were given our cells. Miss Fitzherbert was put in cell “Dx3/7”, and I in cell “Dx3/12”. Thenceforward for a month we were known only by these numbers. The cells are 10ft 6in.by 7ft.

In the Cell

I noticed at once several improvements since my visit of two years ago. Instead of a stool there was a wooden chair; instead of a tin plate, an earthenware one; and instead of a wooden spoon, a leaden one, which was later changed for a nickel-plated one. In the right-hand corner, as you enter the cell, is a small wooden shelf which serves as the table. Against it, of course, is the chair. The board which is one’s bedstead stands lengthwise against the wall. The mattress is rolled up and placed on the lower of two small shelves in one corner; on the mattress are the pillow and bedclothes – the latter carefully wrapped round each other. On the upper shelf are found a slate and slate pencil, a case containing prison rules, a schedule of prison dietary, a library card, and a card headed “Things which a Christian ought to know”, a mug without a handle, a small hairbrush also without a handle, an exceedingly small, weak comb, and the five devotional books – the Bible, book of Common Prayer, hymn book “The Narrow Way”, and “A Healthy Home and How to Keep It”. Right through the back of the cell, about 8ins above the ground, is a large hot-water pipe. Leaning against the pipe are all the tin articles for toilet use, a dustpan and brush, also a bag containing several rags, and a piece of bathbrick with which to clean the tins. In the centre of the back wall, slightly above the pipe, is a small round ventilator. High up in the wall is an oblong ventilator; both these can be opened or closed as the prisoner wishes, but on warm days the cell is indescribably stuffy and un-aired. Immediately above the top ventilator is the window, which, of course, does not open. It contains forty panes of glass 4ins square. By standing on the chair below the window I could see two other wings of the prison, a large corrugated iron shed, part of the high wall surrounding the prison, and the backs of a row of houses. In the door is a small circular piece of glass, covered on the outside by a black slide. The wardresses can move the slide and look in at any moment of the day or night. Contrary to my previous experience, and greatly to my relief, I found that this peephole was seldom used by the wardresses. The cell is lighted by electric light, switched on from the corridor outside.

When I was left alone I made my bed, and was preparing to retire, when I heard a knock and a voice I knew saying “Who are you?” Thereupon ensued a brief conversation, and I found that my neighbours were also members of the Women’s Freedom League.

The Day’s Routine 

At six o’clock next morning I was awakened by the clanging of a bell and the switching on of the electric light. Before I had completed my toilet (without the aid of a mirror) the door was unlocked and a wardress said, “Any applications?” meaning did I want to see the chaplain, governor, matron, or doctor. Then I was allowed to fetch clean water. I took in a pail of water with a scrubbing brush and floorcloth, that one of the ordinary prisoners had put against my door, rolled up my bedding, cleaned my tins, and washed my floor. At about 7.15 breakfast came round; this was a 6oz. loaf of brown bread, 2ozs. of butter (this lasted all day), and a pint of the most appalling tea imaginable; it tasted like a mixture of tea and cocoa. At 8.20 the door was again opened by a wardress, who said “Chapel”, and passed on to the next cell. I took my prayer and hymn books, and went with the others to chapel. Here, for the first time, I saw the majority of my fellow-suffragist prisoners. We sat to one side of the pulpit, out of sight of most of the ordinary prisoners. On this first morning I could not look at the hundreds of faces in the body of the chapel – one has to grow a little used to prison before trusting oneself to that. Chapel lasted twenty to twenty-five minutes. On returning to my cell I found the librarian had left me two books – an educational book and a novel; these books are changed twice a week. At 9.45 some of us went out to exercise, the remainder going down to the ground floor and sitting in rows for “associated labour”. Most of us made nightdresses, but a few knitted socks. In my month I made 10 and a half nightdresses and knitted half a sock. I consider I well earned my board and lodging. At 10.45 those who were out on exercise came in to work and the rest went out. This exercise is simply walking round a yard – sometimes a large rectangular one, but mostly a small triangular yard. From the former we could see the top back windows of some houses. In one of these lives a sympathiser who had placed outside her window a green, white and yellow flag of the Women’s Freedom League and a purple, white and green flag of the Women’s Social and Political Union. Naturally these

Caused Great Excitement.

One day we saw our friend leaning out of the window waving other flags of the colours. It was impossible not to wave in return, and each time we passed within sight of our waving sympathiser, we waved our handkerchiefs in greeting. This greatly vexed one of the wardresses on duty, who said we were mad, ridiculous, etc., and told us to “behave properly”. We saw no improper behaviour in waving to our friend, and continued to do so until our hour of exercise was over. We were all reported to the officer in charge of our ward; since then we were not allowed in that yard, but were kept strictly to the small triangular one, to which the sun seeks an entrance in vain.

At 12 o’clock came dinner – 6oz. loaf of brown bread, 6ozs. potatoes, a few carrots, greens, turnips, onions or beans, an egg and a pint of hot milk. A knife was handed in for each meal; this knife is a piece of tin about 6in or so long, and 2in wide, with a narrow hem round the edges. It refuses to cut anything except butter. On these knives were written sentiments ennobling and otherwise. We were left severely alone until nearly 2 o’clock, when we were allowed to wash up mugs, plates, and spoons at the sink half-way up the gallery. At about 2.30 or 2.45 we went down again to associated labour until 4.45. Then we were brought a basin of hot water – the only hot water during the day. Supper came at 5.15. This was a 6oz. loaf of brown bread and a pint of that dreadful cocoa, which I refused. Later I asked the doctor for milk instead. I must say that I noticed a very marked improvement in the food upon that given us two years ago. The eggs were good, and the vegetables were not diseased. After tea we were left alone. We usually spent this time in reading and holding frequently interrupted conversations through the wall. At about 9 o’clock, just when we were all dropping asleep, the night wardress came round and knocked at the door until she received an answer before putting out the light. When complained to about this, the matron said “It is to see you are not dead”, quite forgetting that if one were dead knocking would not give back life.

This was our daily round. There was but little variety. Wednesdays were looked forward to with joy, for then we were allowed a hot bath, and clean clothes were sent round.

On the first Tuesday of my captivity one of the ordinary prisoners said to a member of the Women’s Freedom League, “Things are

Different Since You Suffragettes Came 

here. God bless you all.” That message cheered us tremendously. We were so delighted, so thankful to know that we have really made life in prison a little easier for the women who are sent there. And I noticed that the wardresses are much kinder than they used to be – some of them are exceedingly kind, humane women. Of course there are others who are very cruel, always trying to get not only prisoners, but wardresses into trouble.

One day several of us were reported to the governor for talking. The head doctor came round, examined us, and told the governor which of us could stand being shut up for two days in her cell. One or two were given two days’ close confinement, one was sent to the hospital for two days, and I was merely cautioned. 

     Occasionally one of our number would be sent to the hospital for a day or two, and on her return would give us news of the Suffragists there. In this way we learnt with joy of Mrs Despard’s release six days after her imprisonment. According to the rules, a second-class prisoner is not entitled to receive a visitor until she has been twenty-eight days in prison. However, my father had some family business to discuss with me, and was able to have two interviews of fifteen minutes each with me (a wardress being in the room all the time). Other Suffragists also had visits from their friends. Some of our members belong to the Unitarian Church, and their spiritual adviser was permitted to visit them twice a week. Thus news of the outside world filtered to us in various parts of the prison.

On Sunday morning, February 28, when we went out to exercise we found the pathway in an exceedingly dangerous condition; it was almost like walking on ice. One of our members, Mrs Macdonald, slipped and fell; another Suffragist helped her to rise. Putting her foot to the ground caused intense pain, and she had to go indoors without assistance, the wardress who accompanied her not dreaming of giving her a helping hand. However, there was a very kind officer inside, who helped her to her cell and did what she could to ease her, but it was not until eight o’clock at night that our friend was taken to hospital. Then it was found that her knee was injured, also her spine, her thigh broken, and she had also sustained an [illegible word] injury. Afterwards on slippery days sand and ashes were thrown down on the pathway. When Mrs Macdonald was released on March 18, she was taken to a hospital, and is being kept there at the Government’s expense. It is feared that she will be lamed for life.

A Church Army missioner came to hold an eight days’ mission in the prison. He was a very sincere, well meaning man, but quite incapable of helping women. Every sermon contained two or three illustrations, all from the lives of men. One day he talked about the great liberty we enjoy in this country – political, social, and industrial liberty, such as no other country in the world can boast. A Suffragist sent for him and explained what “liberty” the women have. He confessed quite frankly that he had never worked with women, he did not understand women, and he knew nothing about women! And yet he was sent as a missioner to a women’s prison!

On the first morning of one’s imprisonment one is honoured by a

A Visit from the Chaplain

I knew the gentleman of old, and expected that he and I would quarrel over every subject that was introduced into our conversation – and we did. I found that this official of the prison, who is meant to give spiritual consolation and advice, was in reality one of the most narrow-minded, uncomprehending of men. He said to one of our Women’s Freedom League prisoners that unless she believed in certain Church of England doctrines she was of no use to anybody in the world! And once he dared to say, to that chapel full of women, that a woman must never, under any circumstances whatever, leave her husband! He showed over and over again that he knows nothing of a woman’s life, of a woman’s trials – nothing of the life of the class of woman that is usually found in prison. I longed so much to put one of our Suffragists in the pulpit. In five minutes she would have had those women in touch with her, whereas neither the chaplain nor the missioner ever succeeded in moving them. On Fridays, after saying the Litany, we practised the hymns for Sunday, the chaplain beating time with a pointer. One Friday the volume of sound was not quite so great as usual, and the chaplain requested everyone to sing, in much the same tone and words that a school teacher uses. Finding his request had no effect he said, before leaving the chapel, in a very displeased tone of voice, that he hoped everyone would sing on Sunday. I do not want to mock at religion, but I do say that in prison the only religion we got was from the missioner, and that was not made to bear on women’s lives; it was not a religion that helped women. I must say for the chaplain that I never saw a man go through a service looking quite such a martyr.

One day I was so irritated by the sermon that on returning to my cell I wrote on the back of my door in lead pencil a parody of a hymn we had sung. Of course, I had no business to have a pencil at all. Now, the sight of one piece of writing made me realise that this door was a delightful writing-board, and I proceeded to put thereon quotations from Shakespeare, Tennyson, Carlyle, verses of suffrage songs, suffrage sayings, mottoes, etc., until there was not a spare inch left. It was, as I told the governor, a very interesting collection. It was on a Monday morning that I was reported for decorating my door. When the governor came, instead of charging me at once with this, as I expected, he charged me with speaking in chapel on Sunday afternoon – a thing I had not done. Consequently I denied the charge most emphatically. The wardress declared I had spoken, and the governor said, “Well, you must have one day’s close confinement. That will do for all the times you have spoken and not been reported”. This procedure is exactly the same as that of the police-court. A paid official says you have broken a law and you are punished, whether you are guilty or innocent. Indeed, a prisoner is quite helpless – absolutely in the power of officials. Therefore, I was very glad that there was another charge to be brought against me. Two days’ close confinement was my punishment. This means that I was not allowed to go to chapel (showing that chapel is considered rather as a relaxation than as a religious exercise, since a refractory prisoner should be allowed extra chapel instead of none), to exercise, nor to associated labour, nor was I allowed to fetch clean water unless all the other prisoners were safely shut in their cells. I heard the governor, matron, and wardresses go to the next cell. Number 13 had already had two days’ close confinement for writing on her knife (an offence committed by us all, but No.13 was caught in the act). Since then she had been given a new knife, and had written a lengthy poem thereon. She was also falsely charged with talking in chapel and with writing with a knitting needle on the back of her door and on the walls of her cell. For these three offences she received two days’ close confinement. Being next door to one another, we talked through the wall when the rest of our party of prisoners were either taking exercise or at associated labour. During this time we let our needlework take care of itself.

There were two things I complained very bitterly about to the governor of the prison. One was that there was

No Woman Doctor. 

In an institution containing about 600 women surely at least one resident doctor should be a woman. I petitioned the Home Secretary to have the baths enamelled and to keep them coated always with enamel. Anyone will know that baths without any sign of enamel cannot be kept clean and healthy. The baths in which we had to take our weekly tub were in an abominable condition. It must be remembered that thousands of women of all kinds and of all classes use these same baths. The Under Secretary of State replied to my petition that he had inquired into the subject thereof, and saw no cause for interference. I wish that gentleman had been obliged to visit the prison and make an inspection himself. I see from the Daily Telegraph of March 24 that, in answer to a question raised in the House of Commons by Mr. Swift MacNeill, Mr. Herbert Samuel said that the majority of our complaints were unfounded, and that some of the minor ones had been attended to. Very few complaints were made to the Home Secretary. The only changes made were those of the spoons and cooking of our beans. At first these were cooked with bacon fat. The Suffragists had all asked for a vegetarian diet, consequently we complained to the governor and the doctor, who ordered that meat fat should not be used in the cooking of our food.

After a few days’ imprisonment one began to grow accustomed to the sight of numbers of women in prison dress, and able to look at them with, at any rate, outward composure; and as one looked and studied those faces one saw that there were women of all kinds and of all ages, some quite young girls, some old, white-haired women, some with open, innocent faces, some with hardened, bad faces. One could trace all the changes wrought by prison life on the faces and characters of these victims. There were the innocence and purity, the pained surprise, the shame, the sullenness, the indifference growing harder and harder, and then the badness. And I thought, “What a terrible crop we are sowing – a crop of evil instead of good.” In prison one cannot help but see that the whole system is rotten to the core; that it is one that crushes out everything that is good, and develops everything that is bad in the character. With such a system how can we wonder that our prisons are full? And how dare we continue peacefully to go on our way and stir not a finger to help the thousands of men and women who are being ruined by us? There are women in Holloway who have no business there, who ought never to have been sent there at all. There were women in prison during the whole of the month I was there, on remand, still awaiting their trial; and these women were treated as criminals, most of them wearing prison dress, and all of them subject to prison discipline. And in this country we say we treat a man or a woman as innocent until they are proved guilty! Oh, ‘what a bitter mockery!’

One girl there was mentally deficient. Anyone looking at her could see that. A wardress told me that she had terrible outbreaks of swearing and could not help herself. And we in England send a mentally deficient girl to an ordinary criminal prison, instead of a home where she could receive proper treatment! Such things as these are going on every day and we do nothing to remedy them. Characters are being ruined by a national institution all the time and we take no notice! We wonder that men and women get so hardened that they will be sent again and again to prison! It is because the inmates of a prison are taught fear and degradation; they are taught to feel that they can never again respect themselves or anybody else; they are taught to hate all that have power or authority; they are taught to feel that nobody cares what happens to them; that once having made a slip it is impossible to recover. Let us alter the whole prison system. Let us teach self-respect, faith, love, and kindness. Let us deliberately set out to cultivate all that is good in these unfortunate individuals who are sent to prison and to starve out the bad. Thus, and thus only, can we hope to cure our erring brothers and sisters of their disease.

                                                                                     Marguerite A. Sidley

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