The Forgotten Gift by Kathleen McGurl

Author:Kathleen McGurl [McGurl, Kathleen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2020-08-28T17:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

George

Late March (I am no longer sure of the date)

I have been here for some time now. I am settling, if that is the right word, into a routine. Here’s how the days at Millbank are spent.

The bell rings at a quarter to six, whereupon I and, I suppose, the other inmates wake up cold and shivering, roll up our bedding, clean out the cell, slop out, dress and await inspection. Breakfast is dry bread and water. We make a brief visit to the chapel at eight o’clock, then we are returned to our cells and locked in. And then a pile of old ships’ rope, tarred, matted and ingrained with salt, is delivered, for picking to produce oakum. The idea is to tease apart the fibres with your fingers, so it can be used again, usually for caulking ships’ timbers. The work cuts your fingertips and strains your eyes and your back, as you lean over it in the poor light. You unravel each strand, rolling it back and forth on your knee, separate the strands and clean them. You must produce three to four pounds of picked oakum every two hours, and the pickings are weighed at the end of each day. If you have not produced a satisfactory amount you are punished.

We have an hour’s exercise in the late morning, which consists of walking around the prison yard. The prison exercise yard is a bleak place, bounded on all sides by high, featureless brick walls, which are topped with metal spikes. The other inmates look to be a fearsome lot – dirty, smelly, wearing ill-fitting prison garb and the wildest collection of footwear I have ever seen. I have been allowed to keep my own boots, being a first-class prisoner – that is to say: a prisoner who can read and write.

Exercise hour is the only hour of the day when I am out of my cell, and the only chance I have of getting a look at my fellow inmates. A look is all I can manage – we have to walk in line, no closer than six feet apart. If anyone catches up with the man in front a whistle is blown, and everyone has to stop and realign themselves. If the same man is caught walking at the wrong pace three times he is subjected to the silent system: solitary confinement for a period of a few weeks. I make absolutely certain to keep my distance, although I allow my eyes to roam freely.

The little irregularly shaped patch of sky above, that is sometimes blue and sometimes grey, the occasional sound of sweet birdsong, the scents that reach us from outside – these are my only interaction with the outside world and although they are few, I relish them and look forward to the exercise hour.

Lunch – thin gruel and weak tea – is at midday, and supper – a feeble stew – at half past five. Between these times we are back in our cells picking oakum or taking a turn on the treadwheel.

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