A Five Year Sentence Read Free

people and smells and sighs and horror. Somebody stuffed something into her mouth, and in the morning when she woke up, matron was standing by the bed, telling her over and over again that she’d had a bad dream. ‘A terrible dream, dear.’
    â€˜Yes, yes,’ Hawkins was happy to agree. ‘It was a nightmare.’
    And she got up and went about her orphan-woman’s business, trying not to notice that Morris wasn’t there.
    Miss Hawkins stared out at the crowded assembly and shivered. She glanced again at Jim Connell’s ill-spelt memoranda which no longer bore any relation to what he was saying. By his droning repetition, he seemed to be running out of expressions, and she was grateful that it would soon be over.
    â€˜And on behalf of the staff and management, I would like to present you with this gift as a small token of our appreciation.’
    He was handing it to her. She half stood up to accept it, her hands trembling. She thought of Morris again. I never really cried for her. I must mourn her, she decided, before I go. The tears were already pricking behind her eyes. She sniffed audibly and the audience saw her trembling. They whispered among themselves that she was overcome and they were embarrassed, and the more human among them hated her for the guilt she bred in them. ‘Open it, Miss Hawkins,’ someone shouted from the back of the hall. She pretended not to hear. But the shout came again, louder this time, and it was an order. And she, who all her life had obeyed, began clumsily to untie the silver knot beneath the plastic instant bow. Her hands trembled so that she was incapable of untying it, and with great fury she tore the ribbon apart, tearing at the paper, hating them all for their pitying charity. She was like a ravenous dog with a bone, and the audience shifted uncomfortably, deciding that it was probably the first present poor Miss Hawkins had received in her whole life. Then they regretted the ungenerosity of the gift they had given her.
    At last, she’d stripped the package. It was a book. She’dguessed that by its shape as she tore the last lining of tissue. But not an ordinary book. For it was fastened with a gold Gothic lock with two small keys attached. On its green leather binding was inscribed, ‘MISS HAWKINS’ FIVE-YEAR DIARY’. She stared at it, somehow gratified that the apostrophe was in the right place. Then her knees buckled and she had to sit, gripping the edge of the table as if it were the rail of a dock. As if they had passed their verdict on her forty-six years of service. A gilt-edged inscribed five year sentence. Anything, she whispered to herself, anything on earth would have been better. With total obedience, a book would have detained her no more than a week. A simple bar of soap, with diligent bathing, would have held her for less than a month. But a five year sentence took five years to serve. No more, no less. She fingered the golden keys. Lockable too. From whom should she hide it, and for what purpose? What secrets, dark and beautiful, could it ever hold?
    â€˜Speech, speech,’ that same insistent voice came from the back of the hall. She wondered when, if ever, the vultures would be satisfied. She gripped the table and raised herself, digging her heels into the carpet. ‘Thank you,’ she spluttered. ‘It’s exactly what I wanted.’
    As soon as she reached home, Miss Hawkins turned out the gas-fire in her bedroom. For a while she sat in the room, holding on to its warmth and the shadow of death’s embrace that obedience had denied her.
    Five years. It was the longest and the most unjust order she had ever been given.

Chapter 3
    During the first week of Miss Hawkins’ sentence, the entries in her diary read as follows: ‘Monday. Got up 8.30 a.m. Washed, dressed, had breakfast. 1 p.m. had lunch. 4 p.m. had tea. 7 p.m. had supper. Went to bed 8.30 p.m. Nothing