Hard, stubborn and used to being obeyed. “No.”
“We’ll still be able to meet. I can still keep you safe. Tell them—”
“I said no.” Joey slid his arms around Gabriel, pressing his face against his chest and holding him tight. “If you get the lash, so do I. Let’s go to bed.”
“At least sleep up in your own bunk. If the lieutenant governor—”
“Gabe. The die is cast. And if I’m due for the lash, I damn sure mean to earn it.”
* * *
J oey woke twice in the night, dreaming of torches and unlocked doors, but McCrory never reappeared. Later the next day, word went round the cafeteria that McCrory’s mum had taken ill and he’d gone home to Clerkenwell to keep vigil at her bedside. Gabriel frowned.
“What is it?” Joey asked.
“His mum’s been dead for ages,” Gabriel whispered. “Hope the damn fool isn’t planning something drastic.”
“You could write him a letter. Say things were said in anger. Maybe he’s just afraid to face you.”
“Inmates cannot post letters or packages to Wentworth staff, or vice versa,” Gabriel said. “To prevent the exchange of contraband. For a man who reads as much as you, I don’t know why you won’t learn the handbook. And how’s your own letter coming along?”
“I’m finishing it tonight,” Joey said firmly, still uncertain of what he would actually say. “Hell or high water.”
But an hour after supper, he still had nothing, just a fountain pen and a fresh sheet of paper. Exasperated with himself, Joey thought, I’m literate. University educated. And an Englishman, for heaven’s sake . I can speak to anyone, under any circumstances, without rudeness or undue emotion. It’s in my blood!
Taking up his pen, he drew in a deep breath and wrote,
Dear Julia,
I hope this letter finds you well. It has been unseasonably warm here this autumn but with so little rain, that is perhaps to be expected.
I am well settled in my new routine. I work in the gardens most days and have ample quiet time at night. I am …
Joey paused, putting his pen to his mouth and nibbling thoughtfully on the end. After a moment’s consideration he couldn’t resist continuing.
… fortunate to have a cellmate whose company I enjoy. He shares many of my interests, including my love of reading. I expect when I leave here, my mind will be improved beyond recognition.
I hope you are quite comfortable in your cousin’s house. Life in London should suit you well and permit you to move in new circles. Never doubt that I think well of you and wish you the very best.
Your friend,
Joey
Before he could second-guess himself, Joey folded the letter and placed it in an envelope. There was no point sealing it; it would be read by the prison censors for approval before posting.
As autumn passed into winter, Joey grew more and more accustomed to life at Wentworth. McCrory returned after ten days’ absence, thinner, quieter, and no longer inclined to prowl F-block after lights out. Buckland’s wife gave birth to a son; he passed out cigars to several inmates, including Joey and Gabriel. Mr. Cranston wanted to renovate his old hothouse, long disused because of broken windows, but was denied permission due to the high cost of plate glass. Joey suggested the gardener look into old daguerreotype plates, as Lionel Coates had done back home. Sure enough, they could be obtained cheaply, as long as no one objected to ghostly images of unsmiling men and women in the mismatched panes. So Joey spent November helping another inmate repave the hothouse floor as Gabriel shored up the rafters and installed the new windows. It was the first time they’d shared a work detail. Several times each day, often for no particular reason, Joey caught himself looking at Gabriel, usually up a ladder with a hammer in his hand. It was nice to be together in the fresh air, especially with the promise of an undisturbed night to come.
On 12 December, F-block inmates were allowed
“We’ll still be able to meet. I can still keep you safe. Tell them—”
“I said no.” Joey slid his arms around Gabriel, pressing his face against his chest and holding him tight. “If you get the lash, so do I. Let’s go to bed.”
“At least sleep up in your own bunk. If the lieutenant governor—”
“Gabe. The die is cast. And if I’m due for the lash, I damn sure mean to earn it.”
* * *
J oey woke twice in the night, dreaming of torches and unlocked doors, but McCrory never reappeared. Later the next day, word went round the cafeteria that McCrory’s mum had taken ill and he’d gone home to Clerkenwell to keep vigil at her bedside. Gabriel frowned.
“What is it?” Joey asked.
“His mum’s been dead for ages,” Gabriel whispered. “Hope the damn fool isn’t planning something drastic.”
“You could write him a letter. Say things were said in anger. Maybe he’s just afraid to face you.”
“Inmates cannot post letters or packages to Wentworth staff, or vice versa,” Gabriel said. “To prevent the exchange of contraband. For a man who reads as much as you, I don’t know why you won’t learn the handbook. And how’s your own letter coming along?”
“I’m finishing it tonight,” Joey said firmly, still uncertain of what he would actually say. “Hell or high water.”
But an hour after supper, he still had nothing, just a fountain pen and a fresh sheet of paper. Exasperated with himself, Joey thought, I’m literate. University educated. And an Englishman, for heaven’s sake . I can speak to anyone, under any circumstances, without rudeness or undue emotion. It’s in my blood!
Taking up his pen, he drew in a deep breath and wrote,
Dear Julia,
I hope this letter finds you well. It has been unseasonably warm here this autumn but with so little rain, that is perhaps to be expected.
I am well settled in my new routine. I work in the gardens most days and have ample quiet time at night. I am …
Joey paused, putting his pen to his mouth and nibbling thoughtfully on the end. After a moment’s consideration he couldn’t resist continuing.
… fortunate to have a cellmate whose company I enjoy. He shares many of my interests, including my love of reading. I expect when I leave here, my mind will be improved beyond recognition.
I hope you are quite comfortable in your cousin’s house. Life in London should suit you well and permit you to move in new circles. Never doubt that I think well of you and wish you the very best.
Your friend,
Joey
Before he could second-guess himself, Joey folded the letter and placed it in an envelope. There was no point sealing it; it would be read by the prison censors for approval before posting.
As autumn passed into winter, Joey grew more and more accustomed to life at Wentworth. McCrory returned after ten days’ absence, thinner, quieter, and no longer inclined to prowl F-block after lights out. Buckland’s wife gave birth to a son; he passed out cigars to several inmates, including Joey and Gabriel. Mr. Cranston wanted to renovate his old hothouse, long disused because of broken windows, but was denied permission due to the high cost of plate glass. Joey suggested the gardener look into old daguerreotype plates, as Lionel Coates had done back home. Sure enough, they could be obtained cheaply, as long as no one objected to ghostly images of unsmiling men and women in the mismatched panes. So Joey spent November helping another inmate repave the hothouse floor as Gabriel shored up the rafters and installed the new windows. It was the first time they’d shared a work detail. Several times each day, often for no particular reason, Joey caught himself looking at Gabriel, usually up a ladder with a hammer in his hand. It was nice to be together in the fresh air, especially with the promise of an undisturbed night to come.
On 12 December, F-block inmates were allowed
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