A Candle in Barbed Wire

©2003 Ian Hobson

Winifred removed her coat and scarf and hung them over the back of a chair before routing through her bag for the sign and returning to the door. The sign, hand written on green card, was getting a little dog-eared. She pressed it to the outside of the door with her thumbs, and the well-used Bluetack at the ends held it in place. The sign read ‘Amnesty International Meeting', and at each end of the words was a hand drawn interpretation of Amnesty's emblem: a candle in barbed wire.

The door squeaked as Winifred closed it behind her and walked back into the room. She routed through her shopping bag once more, removed most of the contents - a ring binder, three large envelopes, a diary and a ballpoint pen - and placed them on a nearby table. Winifred had been secretary of her local Amnesty International group for the last eighteen of her sixty-eight years; campaigning tirelessly for human rights, writing hundreds of letters on behalf of prisoners of conscience, hardly ever missing a monthly meeting - except for recently, due a spell in hospital - and faithfully recording what was said in the minutes of the meetings.

The door squeaked again, announcing the arrival of Christine, the group's chairperson. Like Winifred, she was grey-haired but a little younger and more smartly dressed, looking every inch the retired businesswoman that she was. ‘Hello, Winifred,' she said, 'What a dreadful evening.' She put down her briefcase, before taking off her raincoat and shaking it. Wind and rain rattled the leaded windows, as if to confirm her statement. The meeting room, part of an old building attached to the Methodist church, was used for various church related activities, but was also hired out to clubs and societies like Amnesty International.

‘Oh... is it raining again?' asked Winifred. ‘I must have been lucky. It was windy when I walked down, but it wasn't raining.'

‘Well, it's absolutely bucketing it down now. I managed to park near the entrance though, or I would have been drowned.' Christine pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, removed her frameless spectacles and began to wipe them dry.

‘Oh dear,' said Winifred, ‘there'll probably be a poor turnout then. I've already had apologies from Bernard and Rosemary... We may have a new member, though. “Angelina” I think she said her name was. She sounded keen.'

‘Oh, good, I hope she comes. We could do with some new blood... What happened to that woman that came at the start of the year?'

‘May?'

‘Was it? I thought she came earlier than that.'

‘No, that was her name. She came to the AGM in February and then she came again in March, but we've not seen her since.'

‘Oh.' Christine ran her fingers through her damp hair then reached towards her briefcase.

‘Can you give me a hand with these tables, Christine?' Winifred asked. ‘I should think two will be enough.'

Christine turned to face Winifred, then hurried to help her. ‘Let me do that. You shouldn't with your hip... Do you know if Mary's coming tonight?'

‘No, I've not heard from her.'

As Christine helped Winifred drag two tables together, to make one large one, the door squeaked again and a well-built, bearded man entered the room. ‘Evening, Ladies,' he said. ‘It's raining cats and dogs outside.'

‘I know, Roger. I almost got soaked,' said Christine, pulling a chair up to the head of the double table, sitting down, and then standing again to place eight copies of the typed agenda around it.

Roger propped his umbrella against the wall, walked over to the table and sat down. ‘How's the new hip doing, Winifred,' he asked.

‘It's fine, Roger. I'm walking without a stick again.' Winifred sat down opposite Roger and began to empty out her three envelopes and look through the documents that they'd contained.

‘That's good... Is Mary coming tonight?'

‘We don't know, Roger,' replied Christine. ‘We've not heard from her.'

There were voices outside the door and it squeaked once more as David followed Cynthia through it. ‘...and did you have good weather?'

‘It was showery the second week but the first week was very good.'

‘Hello,' said Roger. ‘Have you been on holiday, Cynthia?'

‘Hello...Yes, I've been to Turkey,' Cynthia took off her coat and looked for a chair to drape it over. She was small, slim and ginger-haired, and very sun-tanned.

‘Turkey!' exclaimed Christine. ‘I wouldn't go there. They've a terrible human rights reputation.'

‘Hello, David,' said Winifred. ‘I've not seen you since the Flag Day.'

‘They're very nice people, though, the Turks,' said Cynthia.

David scratched at his goatee beard as he sat down beside Winifred. ‘No, well, I've been very busy at work, and my mother's been poorly again.'

‘Oh dear,' said Winifred.

‘Christine, can I have five minutes on the Arms Campaign?' Cynthia asked, as she pulled a chair up to the table and sat down.

‘What's the matter with her, David?' Winifred asked.

‘Yes,' replied Christine, answering Cynthia's question. 'Will it do under any other business? No, I'll tell you what. We'll tag it on to the end of the Torture Campaign.' She made a note on her copy of the agenda.

‘She keeps having dizzy spells,' replied David, answering Winifred's question. ‘The doctor's put her on some new medication... I think it's time we got her into a home.'

‘Is Mary coming tonight?' asked Cynthia.

‘I think she might be,' answered David. ‘I saw her in Sainsbury's at the weekend.'

The door squeaked, interrupting the conversations, and in walked Michael, tall, gaunt and also bearded. ‘Evening all. Lovely weather.' He propped his umbrella against the wall beside Roger's and walked over to the table.

‘Hi, Mike,' said Roger and Cynthia, simultaneously.

They all chatted for a while before Christine said, ‘Shall we make a start, then? It's almost twenty to eight.'

‘Ready when you are,' said Roger.

‘Does anyone have any apologies for absence, then?' asked Christine.

‘Just from Bernard and Rosemary, as far as I know,' Winifred answered.

‘Susan sends hers,' said Michael. ‘Her mother's ill.'

‘David's mother's ill, as well,' interrupted Cynthia.

‘That sounds like a contradiction in terms,' said Roger. Cynthia gave Roger a puzzled look.

‘Can we move on, please?' pleaded Christine. ‘Shall we take the minutes as read?'

‘Fine by me,' said Roger. There were nods of agreement around the table.

‘Okay, any matters arising from the minutes?' This was met by blank looks. ‘No? Well, we'll move on to the Secretary's Report, then, please.'

The door squeaked again and in walked a tall and elegantly dressed blond. ‘Sorry I'm late.'

‘That's okay, Mary, we've just started,' said Michael.

‘Hello, Mary,' said Cynthia.

Mary slipped off her coat and scarf and laid them across one of the spare tables before sitting down opposite Christine. She smiled at her fellow group members, then picked up the nearer of the two remaining copies of the agenda and began to read it.

‘We were just about to hear from Winifred,' Roger explained.

Winifred moved her copy of the agenda to one side and scanned the letter that had lay beneath it. ‘I've had a letter from a group in Australia,' she began. ‘They're working on the same Action File as us: the one for the Vietnamese Prisoner of Conscience. They're suggesting that all the groups involved send petitions asking for his release to the Vietnamese authorities in time for their New Year festivities. For them, that's at the end of January.'

‘That's a good idea,' said David.

‘How many groups are involved?' asked Mary.

‘Oh, I think...' Winifred looked through her papers. ‘Oh, yes, there are eight all together including us, and in... four different countries. I wrote to each group about six months ago, but I only got a reply from three of them.'

‘We could ask people to sign a petition at the Victorian Fair in December,' suggested Cynthia.

‘Have we got a stall booked for that?' asked David.

‘Yes it's err... December the fifth,' confirmed Winifred, after looking in her diary.

‘Are we doing the Mulled wine, again?' asked Cynthia.

‘I should think so,' said Mary. ‘I hope we get a better night than this, though.'

‘Shall we discuss that when we come to it on the agenda?' suggested Christine, trying to keep the meeting on track. She looked pointedly at Winifred.

‘Err, I've also had a letter from the Bristol Group,' continued Winifred. ‘They're very keen on female genital mutilation.'

‘I would have thought they'd have been against it,' said Roger, maintaining a serious expression, but managing to turn most of the grimaces around the table into smiles.

‘Well, you know what I mean,' said Winifred, with a chuckle. ‘They want us to write to the authorities in...' She looked through her papers again. ‘It's here somewhere... a country in Africa... Err, I seem to have mislaid it. Err, shall I write on behalf of the group?'

‘Yes, if you don't mind,' replied Christine. ‘Is there a deadline?'

‘No, I don't think so.'

‘What about drafting a letter for us to sign at the next meeting, then?'

‘Excellent idea,' proclaimed Roger.

‘Okay, I'll do that, then... Err... we've a Quick Action to do on Saudi Arabia. Amnesty UK want us to sign this letter to the Foreign Secretary about the arbitrary use of torture by the Saudi police.' Winifred passed the letter to David, who signed it and passed it to Michael. Michael took his time studying it, preferring not to sign anything without reading it first.

‘Is that all, Winifred?' Christine enquired.

‘Yes, apart from a survey about the USA Campaign, but I can fill that in and send it off myself... Oh, and there are three copies of the groups magazine and two more books of raffle tickets.' Winifred laid them in the centre of the table, and Roger picked up a copy of the magazine and began to leaf through it.

‘Okay, thank you, Winifred. We'll move on to the Treasurer's report then, please.'

David put on his glasses, referred to his notes, and cleared his throat. ‘There's not a lot to report, really,' he said. ‘We have a balance of three hundred and nineteen pounds and thirty-six pence in the bank... I've had a letter from AIUK thanking us for the five hundred pounds I sent them after the Flag Day. Some of that came from the concert that the Clayton Ensemble held for us at Saint Mary's... oh, and the money from Eileen Shaw.'

‘Who's Eileen Shaw?' Michael enquired.

‘She used to be a member. She has Coffee Mornings for us sometimes and still comes to some of the letter writing meetings,' replied Christine. ‘She's turned eighty.'

‘She's eighty-three, I think,' said Winifred.

‘How much did the Flag Day make?' asked Roger.

‘Three hundred and eighty-eight pounds,' answered David. ‘Err... I think that's me done then. Unless there are any expenses.'

‘I've got some,' said Winifred, handing David a receipt slip. ‘It's just for postage for the letters I sent after the last meeting.'

‘Shall we break for coffee, now?' Cynthia asked. ‘I think it's my turn to make it.' There were nods of approval as Cynthia pushed back her chair and stood up.

‘I'll give you a hand,' David volunteered, following Cynthia into the small adjoining kitchen.

‘Have you ordered the Christmas cards?' Winifred asked Mary.

‘Yes, and the diaries and the calendars, and the Amnesty brooch that Cynthia wanted.' Rain lashed against the windows again. ‘It's an awful night, isn't it?'

‘Does everyone want coffee?' David shouted from the kitchen.

‘I'd prefer tea if you don't mind,' replied Winifred.

‘I hope we manage to sell them all this year,' remarked Christine. ‘Didn't we have two calendars left over last year?'

‘Tea for me too, please,' said Michael.

‘Yes, but I bought them and gave them as Christmas presents,' replied Mary.

‘Two teas, five coffees,' confirmed David. The remaining group members chatted with each other whilst signing and passing on the Quick Action letter, and leafing through the three copies of the Groups Newsletter.

‘Errm... Shall we make a start on the campaigns now?' asked Christine, generating a few nods of agreement. ‘Anything to report on the Torture Campaign, Roger?'

‘Yes, I just received an update from the Groups Office the other day. As usual, there's a lot of repetition of what's already been said, and they've sent more postcards and another sample of the poster...'

‘What, the one with the horrible photograph?' Cynthia asked, as she set a plate of biscuits on the table.

‘No, not that one. That one was for the... you know, that campaign that Bernard did... It was a bit bloody.'

‘It was horrible.'

‘Anyway,' continued Roger, ‘they want us to do more to raise awareness and to try and get some publicity in the local papers... Ah, coffee.' Mary cleared a space at the end of the table for the coffee tray, and David set it down.

‘What about holding a stall in the high street again?' suggested Cynthia. ‘Like we did for the Arms Campaign.'

‘I think they'd prefer a publicity stunt of some sort,' said Roger, as he reached for a chocolate biscuit. ‘Like that time when we put David and Bernard in a cage in Market Square and their photo was on the front page of the Gazette.'

‘Can you pass the sugar, please, Mary,' said Michael.

‘Shall we all give it some thought and bring our ideas to the next meeting?' suggested Christine.

‘Yeah, that's okay with me,' replied Roger.

‘I'll minute that, then' said Winifred, making notes. ‘Oh, has everyone signed the Quick Action letter?'

‘Yes, I think so,' replied Christine, realising that she still had it in front of her and handing it back to Winifred. ‘Do you want to talk about the Arms Campaign now, Cynthia?'

‘I thought we'd finished the Arms campaign,' said David, before taking a sip of his coffee.

‘No AIUK have extended it,' said Cynthia. ‘They want us to write to our Member of Parliament and to the Trade and Industry Secretary. I've drafted a letter.' Cynthia handed out three photocopies of the letter, and there were a few seconds of quiet as they were read.

‘This is very well written,' said Roger.

‘Oh, thank you, Roger,' said Cynthia. ‘If I take care of the letter to our MP, can some of you send similar letters to the DTI?'

‘I'll write one,' volunteered Winifred.

‘Me too,' said Roger.

‘And me,' said Mary.

‘I will as well, if you have another copy,' said Christine. ‘Shall we move on to...' She looked at her copy of the agenda, ‘...the Newsletter? Anything to report, David?'

‘No, not really. I've made a start on it, but I think I'm still a month or two away from publishing. Oh, that reminds me. An IT pall of mine has offered to do us a web-site. I'm in touch with him by e-mail.'

‘Excellent,' said Roger. ‘Several groups have them now, and I think there's a web-ring.'

‘What's IT?' asked Cynthia.

‘Information Technology,' replied David and Mary in unison.

‘I thought high tea was something served at six o'clock,' said Roger.

‘You get worse, Roger,' observed David.

Winifred thought about asking what a web-ring was but decided not to.

‘Did you say you'd ordered my brooch?' Cynthia asked Mary, quietly.

‘Okay then,' said Christine, ‘that just leaves the Greeting Card Campaign and the Victorian Fair.'

‘Yes,' Mary replied. ‘I've ordered one for my sister as well.'

‘How is your sister?'

‘She's fine. She's pregnant again.'

‘Can we move on please?' said Christine, raising her voice a little.

‘Sorry,' said Mary, as another gust of wind rattled each of the windows in turn.

‘Yes,' Winifred replied. ‘The Card Campaign's organised for Saturday fifteenth of November, outside Sainsbury's as usual. I've not got the details of the prisoners yet, but they always arrive in time...'

‘If the prisoners come, that'll save us sending the cards to them,' joked Roger, undeterred by David's last remark.

‘...and I already have a list of volunteers for that,' continued Winifred, ignoring Roger's interruption. ‘And the Victorian Fair stall's booked for December the twelfth. We just need to decide who's going... oh, and will your Andrew be able to do mulled wine again, Mary?'

‘I thought you said it was December the fifth,' said Roger.

‘That's what I thought you said,' added Christine.

‘Well, I've got the twelfth down on this sheet.' Winifred reached for her diary.

‘Whenever it is,' said Mary, ‘Andy and I will do the mulled wine. And I'll bring the Christmas Cards.'

‘Yes, don't forget those,' said Cynthia, ‘they always sell well.'

‘I think the fair was going to be held on the twelfth, but it was brought forward a week,' explained Michael.

‘Oh yes, you're right, it's Friday the fifth of December,' confirmed Winifred. ‘I can't go though. I'm going to stay with my daughter that weekend.'

‘Coming back to the prisoners,' interrupted David. ‘My boss thought that Amnesty worked for the release of all prisoners, including criminals.'

‘I hope you put him right,' said Michael.

‘I did. I explained that Prisoners of Conscience were people imprisoned for their political or religious beliefs, and that those are the ones that we try to get released.'

‘Good for you,' exclaimed Cynthia.

‘Any more volunteers to help with the Victorian Fair, then?' asked Christine.

‘Put me down,' said Roger.

‘Best suggestion you've made all evening,' replied David.

‘I'll come,' said Cynthia.

‘I'll come if I can,' said Christine. ‘Any other business, then, please?... No? Well I declare the meeting closed, and thank you all for attending.'

‘Oh, there's just one thing,' said Cynthia, halting the scraping of chairs. ‘My next-door-but-one neighbour's a teacher at the Comprehensive School, and she's going to try to arrange for me to give a talk to one of her classes, if anyone would like to come along.'

‘I'll come,' said Winifred, as she stacked her papers on top of the ring binder and put them back into her shopping bag.

‘Thanks, Winifred. I'll phone you when I have a date.'

‘I can't come on a Thursday afternoon, though. I'm doing a yoga class.'

‘Really?' exclaimed Mary.

‘Good for you,' said Roger, obviously impressed.

Mary collected the cups, and she and Cynthia carried them back to the kitchen to wash them, whilst Roger helped Christine put the tables back into their usual positions. And gradually, after a few private conversations, the group members put their coats back on and collected their umbrellas, and one by one, said their goodnights and, to the accompaniment of the squeaky door, were on their way home.

The door squeaked for one last time as Winifred retrieved her Amnesty International sign and turned out the lights before dropping the latch on the outer door and stepping out into the street where, to her surprise, the rain had stopped.

Thousands of miles away in a different time zone, a man imprisoned for writing a song that was less than complementary to the government of his homeland, was hauled out of his cell and taken to the governor's office. The prisoner was shaking because he thought that he was about to be tortured again. He had not been tortured for many months.

The governor looked up from the papers on his desk. ‘You have caused me far more trouble than you are worth,' he said, glancing at two sacks full of letters in the corner of the room. ‘Now go.' He gestured to the guards, and they led the prisoner to the gates and set him free.