Arthur & George

family. His mother was pressing a handkerchief to her face; his father staring dully ahead. Maud, whom he had expected to be wailing, surprised him. She had turned her whole body in his direction and was gazing up towards him, gravely, lovingly. He felt that if he could retain that look in his memory, then the worst things might possibly be bearable.
    But before he could think further, George was being addressed by the Chairman, who had taken barely a few minutes to make his decision.
    ‘George Edalji, the verdict of the jury is a right one. They have recommended you to mercy in consideration of the position you hold. We have to determine what punishment to award. We have to take into consideration your personal position, and what any punishment means to you. On the other hand, we have to consider the state of the county of Stafford, and of the Great Wyrley district, and the disgrace inflicted on the neighbourhood by this condition of things. Your sentence is one of penal servitude for seven years.’
    A kind of under-murmur went through the court, a throaty yet inexpressive noise. George thought: no, seven years, I cannot survive seven years, even Maud’s look cannot sustain me that long. Mr Vachell must explain, he must say something in protest.
    Instead, it was Mr Disturnal who rose. Now that a conviction had been achieved, it was time for magnanimity. The charge of sending a threatening letter to Sergeant Robinson would not be proceeded with.
    ‘Take him down’ – and Constable Dubbs’s hand was on his arm, and before he had time for one last exchange of glances with his family, one last look around the light of the courtroom where he had so confidently expected justice to be delivered, he was thrust down through the trapdoor, down into the flickering gaslight of the crepuscular basement. Dubbs explained politely that, given the verdict, he was now required to put the prisoner in the holding cell while awaiting transport to the gaol. George sat there inertly, his mind still in the courtroom, slowly going over the events of the last four days: evidence supplied, answers given in cross-examination, legal tactics. He had no complaints about his solicitor’s diligence or his barrister’s effectiveness. As for the prosecution: Mr Disturnal had put his case cleverly and antagonistically, but this had been expected; and yes, Mr Meek had been correct about the fellow’s skill at making bricks despite the unavailability of straw.
    And then his capacity for calm professional analysis ran out. He felt immensely tired and yet also over-excited. His sequential thoughts lost their steady pace; they lurched, they plunged ahead, they followed emotional gravity. It was suddenly borne in upon him that until minutes ago only a few people – mostly policemen, and perhaps some foolishly ignorant members of the public, the sort who would beat on the doors of a passing cab – had actually assumed him guilty. But now – and shame broke over him at the realization – now almost everyone would think him so. Those who read the newspapers, his fellow solicitors in Birmingham, passengers on the morning train to whom he had distributed flyers for
Railway Law
. Next he started picturing specific individuals who would think him guilty: like Mr Merriman the stationmaster, and Mr Bostock the schoolteacher, and Mr Greensill the butcher who from now on would always remind him of Gurrin the handwriting expert, the man who judged him capable of writing blasphemy and filth. And not just Gurrin – Mr Merriman and Mr Bostock and Mr Greensill would believe that as well as slitting the bellies of animals George was also the author of blasphemy and filth. So would the maid at the Vicarage, and the churchwarden, and so would Harry Charlesworth, whose friendship he had invented. Even Harry’s sister Dora – had she existed – would have been revolted by him.
    He imagined all these people looking at him – and now they were joined by Mr Hands the bootmaker. Mr Hands would think that George, after having himself expertly fitted for a new pair of boots, had gone calmly home, eaten his supper, deceitfully retired to bed, then crept out, struck across the fields and mutilated a pony. And when George imagined all these witnesses and accusers he felt such a wash of sorrow for himself, and for what had been done to his life, that he wanted to be allowed to stay in this subterranean dimness for ever. But before he could even hold himself at this