Free A Petrol Scented Spring by Ajay Close Page A

help to see the light. She knows better now. She has been mocked, and insulted, and called obscene names by men who dine with bishops and professors. She has been shouted down by rich men’s wives who couldn’t care less about their destitute sisters. It is hard to decide whom she detests more: the society women who use the position they have gained through marriage to deny other women a more honest influence, or the men who find the idea of women voting too killingly funny. Today she hates neither as much as she hates the prison functionary who doesn’t care enough to form an opinion on the question.
    He is behaving oddly this morning. When he examines her, her nostrils detect the usual tobacco and shirt-collar starch, mingled with a new scent of sweat, though the air feels no warmer than yesterday. She is given a bed bath, after all, and her hair is brushed and plaited. Her heart leaps. Is it possible that by tonight she will be held in Muriel’s arms? She composes a pithy, defiant, witty speech for the women at the prison gate. If her appearance is truly unaltered, as the doctor claims, she can go home. Mother will make her cloudy lemonade with the perfect balance of bitter and sweet. She will climb Arthur’s Seat right to the top, looking out over all Edinburgh, feeling the wind that blows up there on the stillest of days; or take her sisters to pick wild strawberries by the water of Leith, find a patient toad on a shady path, touch a fingertip to his dear dry back to make him jump.
    Early in the afternoon, when the sun burns a patch of whitish-gold on the floor just beneath the window, they come. The doctor’s tread and less familiar footsteps. The door opens. She last met Doctor Dunlop in Calton Gaol. Older than Doctor Watson, short and stout, with mutton-chop whiskers and a better cut of frock coat. The sort of roguish uncle who offers you a sip of whisky behind Mother’s back. She sits up, ignoring the wardress’s command, and smiles at him. He does not reciprocate. So now she knows: she is not getting out.
    Doctor Watson’s face turns beetroot when he catches sight of her. He rasps at the wardress to get her down , then, in a new, unctuous voice, tells Doctor Dunlop that the prisoner has gained two pounds since arriving at the gaol. The calomel has sorted out her bowels, which moved twice overnight.
    It is intolerable to be spoken of like this, and the disappointment is worse, having come so close to freedom in her head. Tears prick her eyes, but she won’t weep.
    Our mothers brought us up to exercise self-control. Our brothers might lose their tempers, but it was the duty of we women to exert a moral influence. We were not always angels but, year by year, the habit of restraint became more entrenched. It was for men to make their mark in the world. Women’s sphere was internal, a space which must remain spotless. Socially, we existed as a stillness: a half-warming, half-blinding glow from our corner of the room. To raise your voice or, heaven forbid, your hand, to throw back your head and show your teeth in a laugh – or even a terrible glimpse of tongue! – to be present as a creature of flesh-and-blood and impulse and error, was to become at once conspicuous and invisible. Outcast. Arabella knows women who suffer agonies just stooping to chalk a meeting place on the pavement, dreading the chivalrous gent who will see a swooning maiden and rush to her aid. In the beginning, she managed the embarrassment by creating a sort of shame spot, a blur on her left side she was forever looking away from. But here, now, there can be no looking away. She lifts her head, fills her lungs, and roars.
    Are the Commissioners aware her treatment is in breach of their rules?
    Doctor Watson forces her head back against the mattress.
    When she cries out at the indignity, she sees Dunlop wince. She tells him Doctor Ferguson Watson is a disgrace to his profession, and to the Commission.