Chapter 13 Emily
EMILY
The drive to the prison took less time than Emily had imagined, and, sitting in the back seat of the bailiff’s car, she was filled with a mix of emotions.
Never in her life had she done anything so audacious, and she was surprised by the exhilaration it wrought.
But there was also nervousness, and fear.
Shock, too, at how easy it had been for two men to arrange the incarceration of a woman who wasn’t a minor and had committed no crime.
She was also in disbelief that she would be in the Mercer for twice as long as she’d bargained for.
But she couldn’t dwell on that. She did her best to focus on the thrill of this chase, the adventure that awaited her.
The thing was done now; there was little point in regret.
I said I could, and I would.
The bailiff pulled up at the curb outside the prison on King Street, and she was ordered out of the car.
It was after six o’clock now, and the early-summer sun was beginning to lower in the sky to the west, cooling the air.
Emily had worn an outfit appropriate for court: a brown tweed skirt and cream button-up blouse with an olive-green cardigan—both of which the wind now cut through.
As she waited for further instructions, she looked up at the prison, thinking how it hadn’t been long since she’d wandered around its perimeter and spoken with June Jones.
“This way, come on. Front door,” the bailiff said, hustling. She sounded bored, as though she had done this three times already this week.
Emily gathered herself, and focused. If this woman did in fact do this often, she might have good information to offer. “How many girls have you dropped off in the past month?” Emily asked as the bailiff unlocked the gate and they made their way down the gravel path.
The bailiff looked sideways at her and scowled. “What an odd question,” she said, not answering it. Emily didn’t press for more. She couldn’t risk drawing suspicion before she’d even set foot in the place.
They were nearing the doors now, and Emily looked up at the sign above them, carved in capital letters in aged stone: MERCER WOMEN’S PRISON.
A surge of adrenaline hit her then. She was walking into a prison, something she’d never dreamed would ever happen in her middle-class, law-abiding life.
And for a fleeting moment her nerves threatened to choke out her determination.
Maybe this was too dangerous, or even mad.
Maybe she couldn’t, or shouldn’t do it. What if she was risking herself, and there wasn’t even a story here?
But she knew in her heart that there was.
The bailiff rang a doorbell that Emily couldn’t hear inside, and a moment later, a female guard clad in a pressed white uniform and cap answered the door and greeted the bailiff by name, confirming Emily’s suspicion that there was some regularity to these proceedings.
“Radcliffe, Emily Carolyn,” the bailiff droned.
The matron waved them through. “Warden Barrow is expecting you. You’re late.”
Emily didn’t have much time to take in the foyer before she was shunted to an open door on the right. She saw Warden’s Office stencilled on it as she passed through, then stood awkwardly, hands clasped in front of her.
The office was surprisingly homey, with shining wood floors.
Dark-blue curtains hung from the large windows, which Emily noticed were not barred, though she was sure she’d seen bars on the other windows from the outside.
But this boded well; perhaps the place was not the concrete block she’d been envisioning.
There was a woman seated at the desk who must be the warden. Emily reckoned she was about the same age as her own mother, somewhere in her late forties. She wore a deep rose-coloured lipstick but no eye makeup, which was counter to the current trend.
The warden and the bailiff hardly exchanged a dozen words between them as Emily waited. The bailiff thrust some paperwork at the warden, who signed something. The bailiff handed her a file and departed without a word to Emily, passing the guard who had greeted them.
“Sit down,” the warden instructed. Emily sat in the chair across from her and peered over the warden’s shoulder out the window.
She could just make out the traffic in the distance at the corner of Fraser and King, and the dark-brown brick and arched glass windows of the Toronto Carpet Factory, the prison’s closest neighbour to the west. She looked back at Warden Barrow and waited.
“Emily Radcliffe,” Warden Barrow finally said in the tone of a strict schoolteacher, scanning the file in front of her. “I understand you are here by means of the FRA, is that correct?”
“Yes.” Emily looked at the brown file on the warden’s desk, aching with curiosity to know how the court record had characterized her.
She looked up at the warden, took in her brownish-red hair swept back in a roll.
She was a curvy woman with wide shoulders, but her expression was as flat as a prairie desert.
“Our rules at the Mercer are simple,” Warden Barrow clipped. “Adhere to your schedule, obey the matrons, and don’t stir up trouble. Wait out your time until your release, and do not do anything to get sent back here. And if you step out of line, Miss Radcliffe, there will be consequences.”
Emily opened her mouth to ask what sort of consequences the warden referred to, but Barrow plowed on.
“Your file tells me you harbour a certain disregard for rules. I hope your time at the Mercer will serve to remedy this unfortunate blight on your character.” She fixed Emily with a sharp look.
“I expect better of you than what I see here, Miss Radcliffe. And you should expect better of yourself, too.”
She thrust a sheet of paper at Emily.
7:00 Wake and breakfast
7:45 Prayer time
8:15 Laundry duty
10:30 Exercise
11:30 Lesson—typing
12:30 Dinner
13:30 Lesson—domestics
14:30 Cleaning duty OR factory
16:00 Meal prep’n duty
18:00 Supper
19:00 Recreation
21:00 To cell
22:00 Lights out
Note: RADCLIFFE, Emily C.—Block D, Cell 216 to bathe WEDNESDAYS / 20:05 / 2nd floor prisoner WC
Note: Wed-Thur no cleaning duty / report instead to factory
“Follow your schedule to the letter,” Warden Barrow said. “Listen for the bell and don’t be tardy, or there will be consequences.”
“Yes, and what exactly—”
“And exercise hour takes place indoors now,” the warden continued, ignoring Emily. “You may walk around at your leisure.”
Emily paused. “Isn’t there an exercise yard?”
The warden vented her irritation in a dramatic sigh. “Normally yes, but outdoor privileges are on suspension. Some inmates chose to abuse that privilege by trying to interact with…at any rate, until further notice, you may exercise indoors.”
The hair on Emily’s arms stood up. Had the inmate who passed the note to Ted the delivery driver caused outdoor time to be suspended? Or, rather, had Doris’s phone call referencing it?
“Now,” the warden continued, “you’ve arrived well after supper, and I’m meant to be gone already.
” She said it with a huff, as though it were entirely Emily’s fault.
“I’ll have a matron try to scrounge something from the kitchen.
They will bring it up to your cell. Now, go with Matron White.
I don’t expect to see you back in my office until your release date.
Behave yourself.” She raked her eyes over Emily and then snapped her fingers. “Your handbag.”
Emily wasn’t surprised by this, but passed it over reluctantly.
“I brought a toothbrush, underwear,” she said. “Do—”
“They will be provided for you.”
Emily watched her bag disappear into a drawer. Clutching her schedule, she rose and followed Matron White, who was waiting at the door, from the office.
They made their way out into the small foyer, off which Emily spotted three more doors, all shut. They were labelled “Storage,” “Salon,” and “Janitorial.”
Salon?
She knew from studying the outside of the prison that it was laid out in a cross shape, and she was led now to the centre junction and over to two staircases—one leading up, the other down.
She followed the tall and broad-hipped guard—matron, they apparently called them—up to the second floor, and then down one of the four corridors that led off it.
It was lined with cells, their barred doors open.
They were small, and dim inside. She glimpsed narrow beds low to the ground, all tidily made with the same grey blanket.
Her throat tightened. It was quiet here, but Emily could hear loud women’s voices on the floor above.
“It’s the recreation hour right now,” Matron White answered her silent question. “The women are mostly upstairs in the rec room. You’ll see it tomorrow, I suppose, as they’re due to return to their cells soon.” She suddenly stopped. “You’re here.”
Emily looked at the plaque outside the cell—216. She swallowed and stepped over the threshold. The matron shut the door behind her, locked it. Her heart pounded harder.
“I might return with some baked beans and bread, if I have time,” she said, and left.
Emily took a deep breath and observed her new living space—if one could call it that.
A bed was shoved into one corner but still took up most of the floor, even though it was narrower than the one she had at home.
It was already made, and on the bed was a small pile of items, which Emily pawed through: a nightdress and day dress with an apron and shoes.
A toothbrush and a tin of toothpowder rested on top, along with a supply of cloth sanitary pads and a belt.
I suppose the hairpins I’m wearing now will have to last six months, Emily thought wryly.
She noted a metal chamber pot on the concrete floor with a roll of toilet paper that felt more like butcher’s paper to the touch, thick and rough.
A tap stuck out from the wall a couple of feet up from the floor.
She assumed it was for drinking water when the inmates were stuck in their cells each night for hours on end, but Emily didn’t see a cup.
Did they have to use their hands? There was also no drain, so any dripping water would pool until it dried naturally.
There was no desk or table, and nothing on the brick walls except a bare light bulb, high up near the ceiling.
No rug. Nothing, Emily realized, that an inmate could use as a weapon against herself or the staff.
There was, at least, natural light. Hers and the cells she could see across the hall each had a small window, high up and barred.
She stepped around the perimeter of the room to estimate the size.
It was about seven feet wide by eight feet long.
She’d used water closets bigger than this.
Emily gingerly sat down on the bed, taking it all in.
She’d rarely slept in a room that wasn’t hers; her parents couldn’t afford to travel much beyond day trips to the beach or to see a play at the new theatres in Stratford when the girls were young.
She’d never been to a sleep-away camp, or stayed in a hotel.
Doris had described her as sheltered, inexperienced.
And it hit her then, not with the creeping realization that slinks its way over your shoulders, but with the force of a slap to the face, that she would not retain those labels for much longer.
For better or worse, they would be shed like outgrown skin, and she wasn’t entirely sure what she would find underneath.
But once more, Nellie Bly’s words came back to her. Taunting. Galvanizing.
I said I could, and I would.