moment the door was opened with a rattle of keys and a wardress shouted for them to come out. They
stumbled after her, their limbs cramped and cold, as she led them to a room where a doctor waited to give them a cursory examination and pronounce them fit enough for their sentence to be carried
out. Then they were led to a room where they were made to discard all their own clothes and dress in a rough cotton chemise. Their clothing and belongings were handed to an officer and carried
away. For the next few hours they were harried and pushed here and there. There was another examination by an officer, this time more of a bodily search than for medical reasons. They were taken to
the dingy bathroom and told to step into almost cold water and then dress in some clothing heaped on the floor. Shivering, the four women sorted through the coarse green garments, picking out
chemises and drawers, skirts and bodices and thick woollen stockings. Most of the items, drab and shapeless, were marked with arrows. There was no escaping where they were and what they were. Next
they scrambled for shoes, but amongst the heap, Florrie couldn’t find a matching pair. One shoe pinched her toes; the other – far too big – flapped as she walked.
‘Be quick!’ the wardress snapped. ‘You’re not going to a garden party at the Palace.’
Lastly, they were each given a white cap, which tied with strings under the chin, an apron and a handkerchief. Then the four prisoners were marched through the forbidding building, through heavy
doors and along dismal corridors to the cells. Provided with a Bible and a hymn book, Florrie was at last alone in her cell. The room, about seven feet by five, had a stone floor and a tiny barred
window near the ceiling that would give little light even in the daytime. But there was a gas light, behind a pane of glass in an opening in the wall, which was lit from the corridor.
Resting against the wall was a plank bed, which was lowered to the floor at night. The mattress and blankets were rolled up in one corner, with a pillow and a small, almost threadbare towel on
top. There was a small tin washbasin, a slop pail, a dustpan and brush and a stool. On the table beneath the gas light was a well-used wooden spoon, a pint-sized tin vessel, a tin plate, a piece of
hard soap and a small scrubbing brush, a comb and some cards listing the prison rules and prayers. Florrie glanced about her, taking in the grim place that was to be her ‘home’ for the
next four weeks. The last thing she noticed was a prisoner’s badge: a circle of yellow cloth with the number of the cell – fourteen – printed on it.
‘Make your bed quickly,’ had been the last words the wardress said to her. ‘Lights out in ten minutes.’
Florrie moved stiffly to the plank bed and pulled it down into position, then unrolled the mattress and laid it on top of the rough boards. She was reaching for the blankets when the cell was
plunged into darkness.
‘Hey,’ she shouted. ‘I’m not ready. Put that light back on.’
But, of course, there was no response.
Feeling about in the blackness, she managed to make the bed after a fashion and almost laughed aloud to think that the first bed she’d ever made for herself was in Holloway jail! The surge
of amusement raised her spirits and she huddled, fully clothed, on the hard mattress, with a lingering smile on her lips. Surprisingly, sleep claimed her at once and she slept soundly through the
night until the early-morning banging on the door of her cell woke her.
Florrie refused to eat from the very first day. She left untouched the food that was pushed into her cell, though she drank the water. Days passed – almost two weeks
– and then the moment came that she’d been dreading and yet, with some perverse pleasure, welcomed. At last, she would really prove herself to her fellow suffragettes.
She heard the ominous sound of the footsteps of several people coming along the landing.
stumbled after her, their limbs cramped and cold, as she led them to a room where a doctor waited to give them a cursory examination and pronounce them fit enough for their sentence to be carried
out. Then they were led to a room where they were made to discard all their own clothes and dress in a rough cotton chemise. Their clothing and belongings were handed to an officer and carried
away. For the next few hours they were harried and pushed here and there. There was another examination by an officer, this time more of a bodily search than for medical reasons. They were taken to
the dingy bathroom and told to step into almost cold water and then dress in some clothing heaped on the floor. Shivering, the four women sorted through the coarse green garments, picking out
chemises and drawers, skirts and bodices and thick woollen stockings. Most of the items, drab and shapeless, were marked with arrows. There was no escaping where they were and what they were. Next
they scrambled for shoes, but amongst the heap, Florrie couldn’t find a matching pair. One shoe pinched her toes; the other – far too big – flapped as she walked.
‘Be quick!’ the wardress snapped. ‘You’re not going to a garden party at the Palace.’
Lastly, they were each given a white cap, which tied with strings under the chin, an apron and a handkerchief. Then the four prisoners were marched through the forbidding building, through heavy
doors and along dismal corridors to the cells. Provided with a Bible and a hymn book, Florrie was at last alone in her cell. The room, about seven feet by five, had a stone floor and a tiny barred
window near the ceiling that would give little light even in the daytime. But there was a gas light, behind a pane of glass in an opening in the wall, which was lit from the corridor.
Resting against the wall was a plank bed, which was lowered to the floor at night. The mattress and blankets were rolled up in one corner, with a pillow and a small, almost threadbare towel on
top. There was a small tin washbasin, a slop pail, a dustpan and brush and a stool. On the table beneath the gas light was a well-used wooden spoon, a pint-sized tin vessel, a tin plate, a piece of
hard soap and a small scrubbing brush, a comb and some cards listing the prison rules and prayers. Florrie glanced about her, taking in the grim place that was to be her ‘home’ for the
next four weeks. The last thing she noticed was a prisoner’s badge: a circle of yellow cloth with the number of the cell – fourteen – printed on it.
‘Make your bed quickly,’ had been the last words the wardress said to her. ‘Lights out in ten minutes.’
Florrie moved stiffly to the plank bed and pulled it down into position, then unrolled the mattress and laid it on top of the rough boards. She was reaching for the blankets when the cell was
plunged into darkness.
‘Hey,’ she shouted. ‘I’m not ready. Put that light back on.’
But, of course, there was no response.
Feeling about in the blackness, she managed to make the bed after a fashion and almost laughed aloud to think that the first bed she’d ever made for herself was in Holloway jail! The surge
of amusement raised her spirits and she huddled, fully clothed, on the hard mattress, with a lingering smile on her lips. Surprisingly, sleep claimed her at once and she slept soundly through the
night until the early-morning banging on the door of her cell woke her.
Florrie refused to eat from the very first day. She left untouched the food that was pushed into her cell, though she drank the water. Days passed – almost two weeks
– and then the moment came that she’d been dreading and yet, with some perverse pleasure, welcomed. At last, she would really prove herself to her fellow suffragettes.
She heard the ominous sound of the footsteps of several people coming along the landing.
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