Prison food.

Another world, a different history. A world recovering from a devastating great war. Their values, their lives are still firmly entrenched in the 1900s even though it is 2019. Diah Stephens, after running afoul of a corrupt magistrate is sentenced to prison. This is his first meal...

Out of the cell, down to the ground floor, through a lot of barred doors, the canteen area was huge. Possibly big enough for five hundred men.

Will picked up a tray and joined the queue. More were joining them constantly as they completed their showers. It took a few minutes but finally, at the front, a prisoner stood on kitchen duty with a ladle and an array of mugs.

Diah watched as each man held his tray out and with a splat, a mound of grey… something. Not even a bowl, just splat, onto the tray. The kitchen assistant picked up a mug, dunked it in a huge vat and put that on the tray too. The line moved on.

For some men, the mound of mush looked a more healthy colour and their mugs vanished out of sight behind the wall.

Finally, it was Will’s turn.

The man behind the counter’s eyes widened and mouthed “Really?” He chuckled.

Diah looked at Will. He was making some odd moves. Tweaking his ear, nodding Diah’s way. He seemed to be twiddling his fingers too. The man behind the counter nodded and when it was Diah’s turn, a spoonful of sugar mysteriously appeared and dropped into his mug of tea.

They moved on, sat at a table and Diah looked at it.

He looked around. He couldn’t see any sign of cutlery. Will took a spoon out of his pocket and started to tuck in.

“Wher”

“Shhhhh!” Will put his finger over his mouth.

Diah sighed and mimed eating his.

Will rolled his eyes, pointed at the spoon and held up a finger. One. Then he mimed grabbing it and shoving it into his mouth.

Diah sighed and nodded. He stuck a finger into it. At least it was warm, whatever it was. He sniffed it, then shoved it into his mouth.

Tasteless gloop. So, not foul, but hardly appetising either, he scooped it up and shovelled it in. Then he took a sip of whatever it was in the mug. It looked a bit like tea but god, what had they done to it? It was incredibly bitter. Even with that sugar, he grimaced.

Will pointed at the tea, then at his chest and tugged on his hair.

Diah sniggered and mimed back. Tugging on a chest hair, a shaving motion and shook his head.

Will chuckled, pointed at Diah’s mug and took a huge gulp of his own.

Diah sighed and nodded, taking a swig. He finished the glop, held up his hand and shrugged.

Will nodded, pointing at a sink on the other side of the canteen, then at the tray, pointing at a rack for used ones.

Diah drained his mug, shook his head in disgust and walked to the rack. He slid the tray in one of the slots and put the mug on the bottom shelf with some others before jogging over to the sink to wash his hands.

Leaving the canteen, finally, speech.

“You did well in there, lad.”

“What was that slop?”

“Porridge.”

“But I’ve had porridge. It’s not normally that colour is it?”

“Didn’t say it was good quality porridge did I? They boil the life out of it.”

“What was all that about in there anyway? Why couldn’t we speak?”

“Think yourself lucky, lad. From what I’ve been told by some who’ve been on ten stretches before, it used to be prison wide until about the seventies.”

“God! Really? Why?”

“Victorian thing, I think. Stop the prisoners from talking, stop ’em from organising riots, causing trouble or passing on their skills to the younger ones, like you. They relaxed that when they realised a lot of the men in prison after the war were just veterans who’d made mistakes, found it difficult to adjust back to civvy life after so long. Besides, it didn’t stop us from talking, as you saw. We found ways around it with a little mime and sign language.”