Arthur & George

under the eyes of a guard. These visits were excruciating to George: not because he did not love his parents, but because he hated to see their suffering. His father seemed shrunken nowadays, and his mother could not bring herself to look around at the place where her son was incarcerated. George found it hard to strike the proper tone with them: if he was cheerful, they would think he was putting it on; if gloomy, he would make them gloomier themselves. Instead, he found himself adopting a neutral manner, helpful but inexpressive, like that of a booking office clerk.
    Maud was initially judged too sensitive for such visits; but one year she arrived in the place of her mother. She had little chance to say anything, but whenever George glanced across at her, he encountered that steady, intense gaze he remembered from the courtroom at Stafford. It was as if she was trying to give him strength, to convey something from her mind to his mind without the medium of word or gesture. Later, he found himself wondering if he – they – had been wrong about Maud and her supposed frailty.
    The Vicar did not notice. He was too busy telling George how, in the light of the change of government – a matter of which George was scarcely aware – the indefatigable Mr Yelverton was renewing his campaign. A fresh series of articles was planned by Mr Voules in
Truth
; while the Vicar intended issuing a pamphlet of his own about the case. George made a show of being heartened, but privately judged his father’s enthusiasm to be foolish. More signatures might be acquired, but the essence of his case would not have changed, so why should officialdom’s response change? He, as a lawyer, could see that.
    He also knew that the Home Office was flooded with petitions from every gaol in the country. Four thousand Memorials were sent in annually; and a further thousand arrived from other sources on behalf of prisoners. But the Home Office was neither equipped nor empowered to retry a case; it could neither interview witnesses, nor hear counsel. All it could do was examine paperwork and advise the Crown accordingly. This meant that a free pardon was a statistical rarity. It might perhaps be different if there were some court of appeal, able to take a more active part in overturning injustice. But as things stood, the Vicar’s belief that a frequent reiteration of innocence, backed up by the power of prayer, would bring about his son’s release struck George as naive.
    It grieved him to admit the fact, but George found his father’s visits unhelpful. They disturbed the orderliness and calm of his life, and without orderliness and calm he did not think he could survive his sentence. Some prisoners counted off each day until their future release; George could only get through prison life by treating it as the only life he had or could ever have. His parents upset this illusion, as did his father’s hopeful trust in Mr Yelverton. Perhaps if Maud were allowed to visit him by herself, she would fill him with strength, whereas his parents filled him with anxiety and shame. But he knew this would never be permitted.
    The searches continued, the rub-downs and the dry baths. He read more history than he knew existed, had despatched all the classic authors and was now proceeding through the lesser ones. He had also read his way through entire runs of the
Cornhill Magazine
and the
Strand
. He was beginning to worry about exhausting the library’s resources.
    One morning he was taken to the Chaplain’s office, photographed in both full face and profile, then instructed to grow a beard. He was told that in three months’ time he would be photographed again. George could work out for himself the purpose of this record: it would be there for the police if he gave them future reason to search for him.
    He did not like growing a beard. He had worn a moustache since Nature permitted, but had been ordered to shave it off at Lewes. Now he did not enjoy the daily prickle that spread across his cheeks and under his chin; he missed the feel of the razor. Nor did he like the look of himself with a beard: it gave him a criminal mien. There were remarks from the warders about him having a new hiding place. He carried on picking coir and reading Oliver Goldsmith. There were four years of his sentence left.
    And then things suddenly became confusing. He was taken to be photographed, both full face and in profile. Then he was sent to be shaved. The barber told him he