Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  But Simon had no intention of being unpleasant. Charles had been successful and he hoped that the good mood that had engendered would bring to an end the unpleasantness of the last few days. He did not want to think of Charles in the way he had thought of his father, before he died. Not yet, at least. Perhaps never. He said: ‘If we do have to fight with these rifles, I shall be right beside you. I would be fighting because of you. You know that, don’t you, Charles?’

  ‘Of course.’ Charles glanced at the young man, surprised. The eyes, behind the driving goggles, were obscured, but the slightly nervous smile on the thin lips were perfectly pleasant, charming, sincere. ‘I never had any doubt of it.’ Even as he said it, he realised the young man had had no actual experience of soldiering, except over the past few months in the UVF. He thought, that is not the sort of thing a soldier would say. Would ever even think of saying.

  ‘Why would you be fighting, Charles?’ Simon asked. ‘I mean, apart from believing in the cause, being against Home Rule, and all that. What would be your personal reason for going out to fight?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Charles said. He was tired. He leant back in his seat and gazed out at the hedges and fields flashing by. No police, no soldiers, no roadblocks. A perfect operation. ‘I joined up because of the Union, after all. Personal ambition doesn’t come into it.’ But even as he had said it he was aware the words were not strictly true. He did want to be successful — if it came to a fight he hoped he would gain fame and respect from his peers. And why was that? What did he need that for?

  They passed a river, with a light mist hanging over it. A heron, startled, flew up from beneath a willow with long, dignified beats of its wings. Red cattle gazed at them through the mist, with the blue hills behind. Charles thought how often he had seen this sight, how the countryside belonged to him and people like him, and how he never wanted it to change. Suddenly it came to him.

  ‘I suppose it’s because of my son,’ he said, half to himself. ‘Yes, that’s it. I’ll fight for the Union if I have to — because of Tom.’

  Satisfied, he closed his eyes for a moment, and thought of the little boy cantering his pony through the fields at Glenfee beside him. The mud-spattered delight on the small boy’s face as he had jumped a three-foot hedge had filled Charles’s heart with joy. Yes, I would die for Tom, he thought, if I had to. He’ll be starting going into the classroom at St Andrew’s for today’s first lesson, in an hour or so. I hope the term goes well for him. Perhaps if I have time in the next few days, I’ll write to him and tell him what we did today. A boy should be proud of his father.

  Absorbed in the thought, he did not notice the slight tightening of Simon’s lips, or the tense silence with which the young man drove for the rest of the journey. So it never occurred to Charles for a moment, that the question had been important to Simon.

  Or that he had asked it, in the hope of a very different answer . . .

  PART FOUR

  Holloway

  18

  DEBORAH’S RETURN to Belgrave Square from the embankment by the Tower of London was a nightmare in itself. It was cold — increasingly cold, she realised, as she walked along shivering in the darkness by the river. She had been very foolish to come out in the morning with only a short blue jacket; but it had been sunny then. She tried to order a cab near London Bridge, but none would stop for her. Either they were all full, or she did not look respectable enough — her skirt was stained with mud and tar, and her face streaked with tears because she could not stop crying. Two men offered to help her but she saw instantly that the sort of help they were thinking of would be no good at all. She marched off briskly, frightened, towards Cannon Street, looking for a policeman, but there were none to be found. Then it began to rain. The men who had been following her disappeared, but she became soaking wet. At last, in a street not far from St Paul’s, she managed to persuade the driver of a dilapidated hansom cab to take her home, and spent the best part of another hour sitting cold, wet, and shivering as the horse plodded slowly in front of her through the night.

  When at last she reached Belgrave Square she went straight upstairs to have a hot bath, ordered a tray of soup and toast in her bedroom, and crept miserably into bed, resting her feet gratefully on the stone hot water bottle. The butler, Reeves, looked concerned, but said nothing, and luckily Jonathan was dining out, so she did not have to explain why she was so late.

  But she could not sleep. The noise of the traffic kept her awake. She had her bedroom window open and all night long there was the clatter of horses’ hooves, the rumble of motor cars, taxis and omnibuses. Even in the middle of the night it seemed to continue – the good-natured shouts and laughter of people returning from theatres and dinner-parties gave way to the growl and clatter o lorries and carts bringing in produce from the county for the early morning markets; and then, as the birds began to sing in the trees in the square, there were milkmen, postmen, and the first omnibuses and trams grinding their way to work.

  She wondered how Londoners bore it. She remembered mother once telling how people spread straw in the road outside their house when she was ill, to deaden the sound of hooves and wheels, and she wished someone would do that now. But that was foolish. She was not ill. Just tense, muddled, frightened. Pregnant . . .

  I am carrying a child that no one wants, she thought. I am twenty-eight years old, a married woman with a son, a fine house in Ireland, a brother-in-law who is an MP, and I am as terrified as any sixteen-year-old chit of a servant girl would be!

  More, perhaps, because I have more to lose.

  No, that’s not right. A servant girl would have everything to lose, just as I have. It’s just that my everything is bigger.

  Towards morning she dozed, and dreamed of Charles. In her dream she told him about the baby and he slapped her across the face. Then he took a knife in his hand and walked up to a photograph on the wall. The photograph was like the big wedding photograph of the two of them in the church porch, except that in the one in her dream she was in her bridal dress but hugely, grossly pregnant, and she thought Dear God, no! He’s going to slash the picture of me and tear the baby out of my stomach! But he didn’t.

  He slashed the picture of himself in the photograph instead.

  Deborah screamed and woke up and thought, why did he do that?

  It’s just like what Sarah did. Turned the knife on herself, slashed a picture of a woman. But why?

  Towards morning she found herself thinking more and more of the knife that Sarah had used. She wondered how big it was, what it would feel like in her hands. She imagined Sarah going down the steps in this house, creeping into the kitchen before cook was awake — how early would that be? — taking the knife, hiding it. If it was a big knife, how would she carry it in her clothes? What would it feel like, to walk along the street with a carving knife hidden under your coat, ready to take it out and slash a picture with it?

  A beautiful picture of a sensual woman. Naked, lovely — the way she herself must have appeared to Rankin.

  It seemed to her an image of madness, of nightmare. Like something out of that horrible play Macbeth she had once seen. But even then, surely, the men had wielded the knives. And the women had gone mad . . .

  When at last she fell properly asleep she did not wake up until ten o’clock, and when she rang for breakfast, a maid brought the Observer in with her breakfast tray.

  She turned to the centre pages and saw the headlines.

  THE ARMING OF ULSTER

  Volunteers’ Night Surprise

  Stunned, she read the reports. The Ulster Volunteer Force, it seemed, had successfully landed some 20,000 rifles and three million rounds of ammunition. The police had been completely fooled, and had apparently spent most of the night trying to gain entry to the holds of a ship which contained only coal. The British Army had done nothing.

  Charles, she thought. He has done this. There will be war.

  She got up, agitated, and dressed herself wi
thout eating breakfast. I must do something, she thought, but what? There isn’t anything really for me to do. He won’t want me there now, especially not with the news I have to tell him. But he might be killed . . .

  She was astonished to find that she actually cared. After all, he had been away so many years, and might have been shot at any time in some battle in the far side of the globe. But this was different, somehow. If there was war in Ulster it might involve her home, Glenfee, and her son Tom — he would be in the middle of it too. Even with the horrible, nagging guilt of the baby inside her she felt she belonged there, not here.

  But first there was Sarah . . . After all, she had come to help her.

  She went downstairs and was relieved to find Jonathan working quietly at his desk in the library. He got up as she came in.

  ‘Ah, good morning. You have seen the news, I take it?’

  ‘Yes. Astonishing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed. Your husband has really excelled himself this time.’

  There was a hint of sarcasm in Jonathan’s tone which she did not like. Once, it would have attracted her — it went with the pose of the suave, successful lawyer and politician, the man who was at the heart of things and could afford to despise the uncouth efforts of soldiers and colonials. But her view of him had changed. However much of an arrogant fool Charles is, she thought, at least he is not afraid to act for what he believes in. And he is still my husband. For a few more weeks at least.

  However, Jonathan was more likely to know what would be in the government’s mind. ‘Do you think there will be war?’ she asked.

  He frowned, sat down, lit a cigar. ‘It is certainly a great deal more likely than it was a couple of days ago,’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine what your husband’s friends are thinking of. To an extent, the Unionists have had the public’s sympathy so far, but this is hardly likely to increase that. Landing guns bought in Germany, of all places, to threaten civil war!’

  ‘But would Asquith dare to send in troops against the Ulster Volunteers?’

  Jonathan blew a smoke ring, still scowling. ‘He’s a cautious man. He will be angry, of course, but he will want to solve it by talks if he can. And there is the question of whether the troops would go if he sent them.’

  ‘So Charles may have called his bluff?’

  ‘Hardly! I would have thought the boot is on the other foot. It is the Unionists who are bluffing. A handful of men like that cannot expect to hold the rest of the country to ransom, however many guns they have. After all they are only rifles, not machine guns or artillery.’

  ‘They have some of those already,’ Deborah said, softly. As she spoke she felt the hairs rise slightly at the back of her neck, as they had when she had first seen the newspaper. She had known, of course, that there was a possibility of civil war for some time. The papers were full of it. But, like Jonathan, she had thought it was all hot air, a bluff, until today. Now she realised it was not. The whole province of Ulster could become a battlefield overnight, with smoking, shattered houses, maimed bodies, homeless children . . .

  Charles is a soldier, he won’t shrink from it. I should go home, to try to persuade him to take care.

  She had a vision of his lean, patrician face looking down at her coldly, as he had done that day in his bedroom. In front of that smooth unpleasant young man Simon Fletcher. Why should I expect him to listen to me, she thought. He won’t even treat me like a wife!

  Jonathan got up and strolled elegantly across the room to rest his elbow on the mantelpiece above the fire. He smiled.

  ‘Anyway, I have other news that may interest you. Good news this time.’

  ‘Oh? What’s that?’

  ‘I met Martin Armstrong yesterday. You know, the doctor I introduced you to at Holloway. He has seen Sarah.’

  Deborah shuddered as she remembered that man. There had been something . . . gross, overbearingly smug about him somehow. If she had been ill he would have been the last person she would have allowed to touch her. She wondered why Jonathan liked him.

  ‘Thank goodness! How is she?’

  ‘Quite well, apparently. The great thing is, Martin had a talk with her, and persuaded her to give up her hunger strike. Sarah’s started eating!’

  ‘Oh!’ Deborah was amazed. There were many things she did not agree with Sarah about, but she had always respected her sister’s determination. And she was not opposed to the hunger strike in the same way that she opposed Sarah’s other militant activities. After all, it was non-violent, and it embarrassed men. In her present mood she thought there was something almost attractive, appealing about it. A form of self-denial, a way of punishing yourself and furthering the cause at the same time. Like a hair shirt.

  If I starved myself, would that make Charles forgive me? It might kill the child — oh God, I don’t want to do that!

  But Jonathan seemed pleased with this news about Sarah.

  After all, Deborah thought, it would mean she was in less pain. ‘So it is good news, then?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Yes, in many ways I suppose it is. Of course it is good news.’

  Deborah observed her brother-in-law curiously. He turned casually, and flicked some ash from his cigar into the flames of the fire behind him. He seemed a little anxious, guilty almost, as though he wished she were not there.

  ‘Sarah is eating and co-operating with the authorities,’ he said. ‘That is good news, marvellous news. Though I agree, it is strangely out of character.’

  He laughed softly to himself, in a way that she remembered from when she had first met him. She had liked that laugh then. It had seemed to suggest he found the world amusing, and knew a number of fascinating secrets about it which he might share, if he chose. Now she found it merely irritating.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Sarah has never been one to give in easily.’

  ‘No. But Martin — Dr Armstrong — said that he had persuaded her she was injuring herself to no purpose. He must have a silver tongue, that man.’

  ‘Do you trust him, Johnny?’ After yesterday’s meeting with Rankin, Deborah thought there was no man left in the world whom she could trust. Except possibly Charles. At least he was straightforward, and predictable. And about as sensitive as a stone.

  ‘Trust him?’ Jonathan glanced at her in surprise, then looked away, into the fire. ‘Yes, of course. Why should I not?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. He’s not — exactly my sort of man. Too full of himself, I thought.’

  ‘That’s just his manner. I’ve known him quite a while now. He’s a doctor, he understands — what people need.’ Jonathan glanced at her again, searchingly this time, as though trying to read her mind. Then he stood up abruptly and crossed the room to pour himself a drink.

  ‘So when can we see her, Jonathan?’

  ‘We can’t. That’s the worst of it. Not until she’s been inside a month, Martin says. Prison regulations.’

  ‘But that’s monstrous! You mean she can’t have any visitors at all for a month?’

  ‘Not if she’s confined in the third division. She’ll probably have to work, too, cleaning floors and so on. I can’t see Sarah doing that willingly, can you?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Deborah stood up, and walked across the room distractedly. She pressed her forehead against one of the cool windowpanes, thinking. She had so many troubles of her own, now. She had not known life could be so difficult. Last night she had thought she might as well die, just throw herself into the Thames. But she couldn’t do that, because of her baby. A few minutes ago she had thought she should go back to Ireland, to be with Tom, and Charles, in this time of danger. But she had come to London, after all, to be with her sister. And there was something very strange in this news about Sarah.

  ‘Jonathan, I can’t believe this. It’s all wrong from beginning to end. I can’t understand it!’

  ‘What can’t you understand, Debbie? It’s simple enough, isn’t it? My good wife took it into her head to slash a famous painting with a carving kni
fe, and as a result the courts of this country sentenced her to prison for six months in the third division. After a brief flirtation with self-starvation she has come to her senses enough to eat and obey the prison regulations, and as a result she will learn how to clean floors and wash dishes or whatever else they do. In just under a month I shall be able to go to see her. Meanwhile I have to arrange to see that odious little jack-in-office at the National Gallery to pay for the repairs to his painting. That’s all there is to it. End of story.’

  He tossed back his brandy and turned away to pour himself another. How bitter he is, Deborah thought. Suave. Self-assured, like all men. But bitter. Even callous.

  Callous?

  ‘Johnny, you can’t mean that!’

  ‘Can’t mean what?’ He held the brandy between himself and the fire, admiring the morning sunlight through the glass. It’s very early in the day to be drinking, she thought. She crossed the room towards him.

  ‘You can’t mean that this is the end of the story! That you’re not going to do any more to help her.’

  ‘What else can I do?’ Jonathan looked at her in surprise, one eyebrow raised, mocking. ‘Do you want me to break down the gates of Holloway with a hammer? Lead a march of suffragettes to storm the place like the Bastille?’

  ‘No, of course not, but . . .’

  ‘But you would like to do just that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I’m not a suffragette. But Johnny . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I would like you to care!’

  ‘Oh.’

  Jonathan stepped away from her very deliberately, and stood with his back to the fire. There was still a trace of that charming, elegant smile on his face. But his voice was harsh, bitter.

  ‘You think because I face facts that I don’t care, do you? That because I accept that Sarah is a responsible woman who has brought all this upon herself that I somehow don’t love her, is that it?’