‘We wouldn’t leave these people to sink,’ said Doctor Brewer.
Time to take control. ‘That’s a moot point,’ she said, ‘since it isn’t going to happen. Alderman Fordyce, I have the honour of being accompanied by Mr Barnaby Clough.’ Might as well lay it on with a trowel. ‘It was through his generosity that the clinic, which is of such value to the people of these deprived streets, was founded. Mr Clough has an important announcement.’
The generous benefactor didn’t speak. Helen glanced round. Mr Clough had gone an interesting shade of puce.
‘Come, Mr Clough. This is no time for modesty.’
Mr Saunders stepped forward. ‘If I might address the meeting on Mr Clough’s behalf? It appears there has been a misunderstanding regarding the clinic’s future. While it is true that Mr Clough was approached by a businessman who expressed an interest in taking over the clinic’s premises, no formal or binding agreement was made between them. Indeed, Mr Clough would never jeopardise the future of the clinic in which he takes such an interest.’
‘Mr Clough is to be commended for his philanthropy,’ Helen threw in for good measure. ‘My late brother, the High Court judge, often said so.’
‘So the clinic is to stay open?’ asked Alderman Fordyce.
‘Through the generosity of Mr Clough.’ She had thought it would hurt to butter up the odious Mr Clough. Instead she was having trouble keeping a straight face.
‘So the clinic won’t become a factory and the local men will be unemployed?’
‘And Doctor Cottrell and I will remain at the clinic,’ said Doctor Brewer, ‘should there be any need for us to lead a local project.’
‘Alderman Fordyce,’ Helen said in honeyed tones, ‘under the circumstances, will you reopen the hearing?’
Alexandra Park was heaving – women waving placards, plenty of men too. For a second, Mary’s heart lifted at the thought of so much male support, then it hardened as she saw the men were strong-arming the women, trying to clear them out of the way, while the women – good for them! – were giving as good as they got.
She hurried through the gates, her ears ringing with the roar of the demonstration. Men! Votes for women demonstrations were peaceful – unless the male spectators decided otherwise. She paused to take in the scene, alarmed by the boisterousness. Women were being manhandled. She felt vulnerable, but she set her lips in a determined line.
‘This is no place for you, miss.’
She turned to see a bobby. ‘Shouldn’t you do something? Look – three men against one woman. They’re picking her up. It isn’t decent.’
‘They’d probably say it’s votes for women that isn’t decent.’
With one hand diving into her bag for her notebook, she stepped forward, only to have a strong hand clamped round her arm.
‘I’d advise you to take a closer look.’
She tried to pull free, but the hand didn’t let go. As she realised what she was looking at, her resistance melted away out of sheer astonishment.
The bobby released her. ‘See?’
She had heard of these before: pretend riots. These women were men dressed up – hamming it up too, some tottering and squealing, with rouged cheeks and ridiculous hats, while others had entered into the spirit of the event by wielding their placards like giant fly-swatters.
‘It’s outrageous!’
‘Hoity-toity. Important training, this is. It’s a competition between the firemen and the tram drivers. They have to suggest possible injuries and how to deal with them. It all adds up to a fine old ding-dong.’
She wanted to wade in and drag the whole ignorant lot of them apart like the stupid little boys they were. A group was standing by the ornamental pond, observing the proceedings. Two had clipboards, another was consulting a notebook. One looked lofty and important, letting the others point things out to him. And one was Mr Treadgold.
She marched across.
‘Mr Treadgold!’
‘Good gracious – Miss Maitland!’
She said what Mr Treadgold used to say when he was displeased with one of his minions. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’
The gall of the man! He smiled as he surveyed the scene. ‘I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you this is a make-believe riot.’
‘With make-believe women.’
‘It is essential training. You never know when these abnormal females will cause a disturbance of the peace.’
‘The only time a women’s demonstration becomes a riot is when men turn it into one.’
Mr Treadgold looked down his nose at her. ‘I shall, of course, report your insolence to your father.’
‘Really? Then tell him this as well.’
Darting forward, she delivered a hefty shove that caught the pompous oaf off guard and sent him stumbling sideways. He cannoned into the important-looking man, who tripped and landed with a splash in the pond, followed a second later by Mr Treadgold, arms windmilling fruitlessly, who landed on top of him.
From nowhere, a photographer appeared.
A policeman, two policemen – three. Mary was pulled in all directions while being shouted at to stand still. The last thing she saw was Mr Treadgold puffed up like a bullfrog before she was marched away with her hat askew.
The police station didn’t come as a surprise. Neither did the small, windowless room where she was asked questions, or the writing of the statement. What did surprise her, what made her heart leap into her mouth, was being informed that she would be detained overnight.
‘But all I did was duck a town hall clerk.’
‘A senior clerk,’ the sergeant corrected, as if someone had insisted upon the distinction, as was undoubtedly the case. Thank you, Mr Treadgold. ‘You’d probably be spending the night in your own bed if that was the extent of it, but not when you duck two in one go and the other is the deputy mayor.’
‘My parents don’t know where I am. Could you send them a message?’
‘Think me and my men have nothing better to do?’
But her family must have been informed, because when she was led into the dock the next morning, her parents were sitting on the public seats – and there, too, was Granny, looking … surely not smug? Yet what other word would describe it?
‘You’ve given your name as Maitland,’ the magistrate said, ‘but the court has received information that you are in fact a Kimber.’
Interest fizzed around the room. Granny preened.
‘I’m not a Kimber.’
‘You state for the record that you are not related to the Kimber family of Ees House, Chorlton-cum-Hardy?’
‘Well, I am related to them, but—’
‘Which means I cannot hear this case. No local magistrate can, since we’re all acquainted with Sir Edward. You’ll have to be shipped off at public expense to a court sufficiently far away that the old and respected name of Kimber is unknown.’ He let her stew while he sorted his papers and capped his pen. ‘It so happens a magistrate from Shropshire is visiting these parts. Arrangements are being made for him to hear this matter, assuming it fits in with his social engagements. Take her away.’
A hand grasped her arm. She was taken back down the same flight of steps she had walked up a while ago and deposited in the same tiny room. When would this Shropshire magistrate make himself available? The possibility that it might not be today made her press a hand to her heart.
She wanted her mother – both her mothers, her adored Mam who had been torn from her, and Lilian, kindly and capable, whom she had sensibly accepted into her family, only to realise, years later, that Lilian had crept into her heart. When this nightmare was over, when Dadda had stumped up the fine and they went home, all she wanted was to hurl herself into Lilian’s arms and sob her heart out. Dadda could be as angry as he wanted, just so long as she could have some motherly comfort.
It was midday when she returned to court. The chamber was packed. Granny’s mad idea of declaring her a Kimber had turned her into a peep show.
/> She confirmed her name and address, then she was asked her age and whether she was married.
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Louder, if you please.’
‘I’m not married.’
‘I can’t say that surprises me,’ the magistrate remarked.
Mr Treadgold appeared and Mary tried not to be dismayed as he was treated with the utmost courtesy as he described what had happened.
‘Of course, it was not just myself, sir,’ he ended. ‘It was also’ − and he dropped his voice impressively − ‘the deputy mayor himself.’
‘You say the defendant selected you as her target because you’re known to her?’
‘She worked in my department for a number of years.’
‘It must have been a relief when she left.’
‘At the time I felt let down by such ingratitude, but now …’
‘Quite so. That’ll be all, sir, other than to congratulate you on your part in organising the splendid training exercise that ended so unfortunately for yourself.’ The magistrate glanced at the clerk. ‘I believe there is a character witness?’
Angela was brought in. Mary could have cheered. Looking round, she saw Josephine in the public seating and the tightness in her chest relaxed as some of her burden lifted.
But the magistrate cut short Angela’s statement.
‘Your praise is of no interest. You’re another such female as the defendant. I prefer to accept Mr Treadgold’s testimony as to character.’
The clerk murmured something.
‘Another character witness? Oh, very well.’
Alistair entered and took his place. When he had finished, the magistrate asked questions about the clinic.
‘Will you continue to employ the defendant after this, Doctor?’
There was the tiniest of pauses, but a pause nonetheless.
‘We would be reluctant to dispense with Miss Maitland’s services.’
The magistrate delivered a level look in her direction.
‘Let’s hear from you, then, young woman. Why were you at Alexandra Park? The event wasn’t advertised.’
‘I was passing and I saw it.’
‘And decided to join in?’
‘I intended to write about it.’
‘In your diary?’
‘I write articles for newspapers and periodicals.’
‘Do you indeed? An amusing hobby for a girl with a smattering of education.’
‘It isn’t a hobby. I take it seriously.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Others take me seriously, too. As a matter of fact—’
‘As a matter of fact what?’
Cripes. This wasn’t how she wanted to tell her parents. ‘I was on my way home from – from an interview for a job as a journalist.’
She lifted her chin, ignoring the murmurs. The magistrate shook his head. She felt stung but kept her mouth shut as his expression altered, disapproval hardening into something sterner.
‘It was your intention to write for profit about the training exercise?’
‘To write an article, yes, but I didn’t realise what was happening at first. I thought it was a proper rally.’
‘And when you discovered it wasn’t, did you start writing?’
‘Well … no. I saw Mr Treadgold and went to speak to him.’
‘To harangue him, you mean. I see it all now. Denied the opportunity to write in praise of women who should know better, you decided to make a headline of your own, thereby avenging yourself on your former superior and pandering to your silly views into the bargain. Disgraceful. Seven days without the option.’
It was stifling in the carriage, even with the windows down. Lady Kimber would have liked to fan her face with her hand, except that she wouldn’t stoop to such unpolished behaviour. Never let it be said she conducted herself with anything less than perfect taste and refinement. A long time ago, she had thrown dignity, seemliness, good taste, the lot, to the four winds, and just look what that had done for her.
Strangely, on the surface it hadn’t done her any harm. Here she was now with two prominent marriages to her credit. Underneath, though, it had ruined her – ruined her for other men. There were still moments when she was hot and willing, and it was Greg her body was ready for. Marital duties with Henry had left her as dry as a bone, with a raging soreness that had nearly torn her in two each time she visited the water closet.
Thank heaven for Eleanor, whose arrival had provided her heart with a reason to carry on beating. Eleanor made up for the childlessness of her second marriage, too. Of course, it was a disappointment not to have produced an heir, but that hadn’t lasted, dashed aside by the glorious possibility of Eleanor’s becoming the next Lady Kimber.
Disposing of Charlie had been easy. And if the Maitland girl took the bait, she would vanish before he returned. Writing to darling Pa, pouring out her concerns, had done the trick. Judge William Rawley had fingers in many pies and if he wanted the proprietor of The Gentlewoman’s World to offer a job to a budding journalist, then offer a job he would.
She smiled her satisfaction; then she caught sight of the board outside a newsagent’s and her smile turned to a death mask.
LADY KIMBER IMPRISONED.
No, not LADY KIMBER – she looked again. KIMBER LADY. That made no sense either.
She pulled the check-string and, when the coachman drew the vehicle to a halt, sent him to get a paper. There it was, on the front page. Following an incident yesterday afternoon involving the ducking of the deputy mayor and a town hall official, a young woman had been up before the bench this morning.
Not a Kimber lady. Not a lady of any description. How had the Evening News got hold of the Kimber connection? She must have flaunted it in open court, believing it would buy clemency.
The Maitland creature.
Mary couldn’t eat, couldn’t face it, though the other women at the long, scarred table fell upon the food.
‘What are you in for?’
‘I pushed the deputy mayor and a town hall official into a duck pond.’ She hoped to raise a chuckle, but all she got was cold stares.
‘Oh aye? Thought you was being clever, did you? Make me sick, your lot do. Some of us have committed real crimes. Not like you, arsing around, trying to shock.’
‘Ain’t you gonna eat that?’ her neighbour demanded.
‘No.’ She tried for a rueful smile but couldn’t pull it off.
Knowing grins went round. She felt baffled and uneasy.
‘One of them, are you, chuck?’
‘Aye, one o’ them bloody fools.’
She wanted to ask, but missed the chance, because, with a loud, ‘Give it ’ere, then,’ her plate was grabbed and squabbled over.
She reached for her tea, but it was stewed to the point of having turned a strange orangey-brown and it tasted like … well, not like tea, anyway. She pushed it away, only to garner more looks.
‘Earl Grey not to your taste?’
Under everyone’s eyes, she deemed it wisest to draw her mug back again and take a sip, trying to keep her expression neutral, but apparently failing, as the collective shout of derisive laughter informed her.
‘Aw, leave her be. Don’t you pay no attention to them lot, love. Like a spot of water, would you?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Give us your mug then.’
She pushed her mug across the table while the woman swilled down the last of her tea and set down her empty mug with a bang. Mary looked for the water jug. It took her a moment to hear the sniggers. She looked back at the woman and received a wide smile in return.
Locking eyes with her, the woman worked her mouth, then spat copiously into the empty mug, holding Mary’s appalled gaze as she passed it to her neighbour, who also worked up a hefty spit and spewed it into the mug. Mary watched in horror as it was passed round and each woman gobbed into it. Dear heaven, would they force her to drink it?
‘That’ll do. Back to your cell, Maitland.�
��
With cries of ‘You haven’t drunk your water, chuck’ and ‘Aren’t you thirsty no more?’ ringing in her ears, she stumbled from the table.
Chapter Seventeen
‘Wake up. We want you moved before morning bell.’
Mary struggled to her feet. Her situation came flooding back, sending through her a wave of dread so potent she staggered. Her sleep had been deep and thorny; she had lurched into wakefulness any number of times. Once, it was her bladder that woke her and she had been forced to use the bucket in the corner. When she again slept, the stench from the bucket had invaded her dreams.
There was a wardress beside her, hurrying her along, another in front setting a brisk pace along the landing with its bleak row of locked doors. A face appeared at a grille and a voice set up a cry of, ‘She’s going! She’s going!’
Next moment, there was a ghostly face behind every grille and a clamour filled her ears. A sharp yank on her arm prevented her from cannoning into the wardress in front, who had stopped to unlock the door. Down a flight of steps. When the steps dog-legged, they peeled off onto a corridor – along there, up more steps, waiting for the door to be unlocked, then onto another corridor, a short one this time, its cell doors standing open.
‘Inside.’
She had barely stepped in before she felt a swish of air behind her as the door banged shut, followed by the sharp rattle of the key.
Why had she been moved? It was a relief to be away from those women. She would take more care with her new companions – though did those open doors mean there weren’t any?
The key turned and the door banged open.
‘Water.’ A wardress thrust a jug into her hands. ‘I hope you’re still drinking?’
‘Why—?’
But the woman was gone. A chipped mug stood on a shelf. How long had it been there? She poured some water, swilling it round before emptying it into the inevitable bucket. Finally, she poured a drink, not without reservations, but she was too parched to hold back.
She was hungry too, with a wishy-washy sensation in her head. It couldn’t be long until breakfast. The wishy-washy feeling invaded her empty stomach and she had to lie down. Gradually her stomach steadied.
The Poor Relation Page 18