by Maggie Joel
‘I find myself troubled,’ announced Mr Cannon in an oddly soft, almost conversational tone, and Bertha strained to hear, curious to find out what it was that troubled him. ‘Yes, troubled, my friends. And I shall tell you why. Our King has chosen to open an eighth wonder of the modern world: the Empire Exhibition, no less, at Wembley, not four months ago. Yes, my friends, a great exhibition to rival The Great Exhibition of eighteen hundred and fifty-one, an exhibition to show the world the might of England’s empire. Oh yes, a wondrous thing indeed. And in Paris! Paris, France...’ He paused to let this sink in. ‘In Paris, France, if you please, we have the Olympic Games. The Olympic Games, mind, not the people’s games. The Olympic Games.’ A murmur of unrest rippled through the onlookers. ‘Where, if you please, the winners of athletics races win medals, gold medals, for their efforts!’
The murmur rose to a growl and Mr Cannon’s tone rose too.
‘And my friends, that great seafaring vessel the Mauretania has this very week set a new record for the crossing of the Atlantic—a famous endeavour indeed!’
‘Shame!’ called someone from the crowd, and Bertha, who until that moment had thought the fastest crossing of the Atlantic a very fine thing, began to realise that it was not a fine thing at all.
‘And why do these things trouble me? I shall tell you.’ And suddenly Mr Cannon’s voice was no longer soft; it boomed across the raised faces, and the crowds who were turned away from him now turned to listen. ‘Because in our cities, in our towns, in our villages, in our factories and collieries there is poverty! Poverty and desperation and unemployment the like of which this nation has never before witnessed!’
He paused to let the swell of discontent that swept through his audience reach a crescendo.
‘Yes, my friends, whilst our King entertains the King and Queen of Italy...’
‘No!’
‘Shame!’
‘...of Italy, our friends in the north starve and have no work. And those few that do work are faced with wage cuts whilst the price of food goes up. And what does this government do? What, I ask you? It debates German reparations!’
‘They’re a disgrace!’ called out Mr Booth, his face flushed and excited.
‘Indeed, Brother Booth! A pitiful disgrace. For the first time in our history we have a government run by working men—and what have they done? Brought in the troops to break up the dockers’ strike, that’s what! Allowed the Germans to pay their war debt in coal and meanwhile our own coal industry is collapsing. Friends, the very enemy you sacrificed your youth to fight in the trenches, this very enemy is favoured over our own people!’
Someone held up a bottle of beer to him and Mr Cannon reached down and took a mouthful, wiping his sleeve across his mouth in a rather coarse way. Mr Cannon took a second swig and nodded to his audience, accepting the shouts of approval and the smattering of applause that broke out. It seemed that he had finished and Bertha thought it had been a very fine speech, though she wondered why he did not now go on to say how these things could be changed.
Standing beside her, Mr Booth was clapping enthusiastically.
She ought to remark that she had found Mr Cannon’s words very inspirational but if Mr Booth asked her what she was inspired to do, she would, she realised, be unable to say. So she clapped loudly, throwing in a ‘Bravo!’ for good measure.
‘A most inspiring talk,’ said a smartly dressed lady who had appeared next to Mr Booth. The lady, who was dressed in a long white coat with a fur stole and an elegant little hat, clapped silently with white-gloved hands. Bertha, whose gloves were black and a little frayed at the edges, felt a stab of unease.
‘Inspiring? What does it inspire you do?’ said Jemima, who had returned and was now standing on Mr Booth’s other side. For the second time that afternoon Bertha was glad Jemima had accompanied her.
Mr Booth spun around.
‘Oh. Mrs Grantham-Jones, may I present Miss Jemima Flaxheed and her sister, Miss Bertha Flaxheed.’
Oh, so now Jem’s the Miss Flaxheed, and I’m the sister, thought Bertha, silently outraged.
‘May I introduce Mrs Caroline Grantham-Jones. Mrs Grantham-Jones is a very good friend to the league, a sponsor and benefactor.’
‘Charmed,’ said Bertha, who wasn’t.
‘How wonderful,’ said Mrs Grantham-Jones, ‘to have more women supporters at the grassroots level.’
‘What are you a sponsor of?’ asked Jemima.
‘Why, of social change,’ said Mrs Grantham-Jones, raising her elegant eyebrows.
Jemima sniffed and looked vaguely off towards a family of mallard ducks frolicking on the surface of the Serpentine, and Bertha suddenly found that she liked Mrs Caroline Grantham-Jones a great deal.
‘How wonderful!’ she said, to make her own position quite clear. She was rewarded by a smile from Mrs Grantham-Jones and a beaming grin from Mr Booth.
‘Are you for social change, Miss Flaxheed?’ inquired Mrs Grantham-Jones with an encouraging smile, and Bertha decided that she was, very much so.
‘And I believe that it is every woman’s duty to get involved,’ she said firmly.
‘Well said! Our sex has fought a long, hard battle to reach these giddy heights of equality, Miss Flaxheed, and we must be on our guard not to retreat one inch!’ declared Mrs Grantham-Jones with a chilling glance at the ladies from the League of Women for a Return to Domestic Duties who were, at that moment, launching into a full-blown denunciation of birth control and the evils of wearing trousers.
‘Well, Ronnie lad, how did we do?’
Mr Cannon, his oration completed, came over and clapped Mr Booth vigorously on the shoulderblade.
‘Splendid! First class!’ said Mr Booth. He grabbed Mr Cannon’s hand and pumped it up and down energetically.
‘Oh yes, very inspirational,’ agreed Bertha, not sure whom she was trying to impress, but suspecting it was everyone and anyone.
Mr Cannon turned to inspect the young woman who had said this.
‘Well hullo, and who might you be?’ he said. ‘Introduce us, Brother Booth.’
‘Oh, ah, Miss Bertha Flaxheed, Mr Jamie Cannon. Miss Flaxheed is, uh, is a fellow West Londoner.’
Bertha forced a self-conscious smile as Mr Cannon clasped her hand in a grip that seemed, for a moment, as though it would never end.
At the temples of Mr Cannon’s strong face were two squiggly veins that reminded her of worm casts on a beach first thing in the morning.
‘And what brings you to our humble gathering, Miss Flaxhead?’ he said. ‘Are you here to lend a hand in the struggle for social justice?’
He had mispronounced her name. Well, she could live with that but not the tone of mocking irony in his question.
‘No, I’m here because Mr Booth invited me,’ she replied tartly.
‘Ah.’ The worms wriggled. ‘Ronnie’s a good one for the recruiting, I’ll say that for him. That’s how we got Caroline there,’ he added, with a nod and a wink towards Mrs Grantham-Jones, who had marched over to confront the League of Women for a Return to Domestic Duties.
Bertha smiled stiffly. She did not like the familiar way he called Mrs Grantham-Jones ‘Caroline’. Mrs Grantham-Jones quite clearly was not that sort of person. But what had he meant by implying Mr Booth had recruited Mrs Grantham-Jones? Or, for that matter, herself? Had she been recruited? She looked across to where Mr Booth was explaining to Jemima the various elements of the crest embroidered on the Socialism Through Unity banner. Jemima was studying the seam on her left glove and Bertha knew her sister would not put up with this for very much longer.
Did Mr Booth call her Caroline?
‘I believe we shall turn you into a very fine socialist, Miss Flaxhead,’ murmured Mr Cannon in a low voice, weighing her up with his head on one side as though she were an unknown port whose vintage was questionable but most likely still drinkable. Then he reached around as though he would put his arm around her waist and Bertha prepared to be outraged, but instead he plac
ed his hand on her bottom and held it there and she was so shocked she was unable to move.
‘Really, it makes me quite incensed!’ declared Mrs Grantham-Jones, reappearing before them with a dark scowl.
Bertha used the interruption to dodge out of the way of the offending hand, almost landing on her rescuer’s toes.
‘We women need to be striving onwards, not scurrying back into our domestic holes!’ added Mrs Grantham-Jones, aiming this remark at Bertha and obviously anticipating Bertha’s own thoughts on the subject. But Bertha was busy smoothing down her dress and willing her face to return to its normal colour, wondering why Mr Booth had introduced her to this loathsome man and then deserted her. Perhaps now that Mrs Grantham-Jones had joined them Mr Cannon would leave her alone.
‘Quite right!’ declared Mr Cannon, clapping his hands together and then rubbing them as though he were about to commence something enjoyable. ‘And Miss Flaxhead here has agreed to join our little gathering. More hands to the wheel, eh, Miss Flaxhead?’
‘Oh bravo, Miss Flaxhead!’ said Mrs Grantham-Jones, and now she too was party to the mispronunciation of Bertha’s surname and where on earth was Mr Booth?
‘I’m sorry, I must go, I must... I just have to... Do excuse me.’ She gave an apologetic smile and hurried after Mr Booth, whom she could now see a little way off in the crowd.
‘Mr Booth!’
‘Miss Flaxheed!’
He waved to her and, as she approached, smiled that wonderful green-eyed smile which quite took away her breath and, with it, all the discomfort of the last few minutes.
‘Miss Flaxheed, do join us. I’ve been explaining to your sister a little about our organisation, our aims and methods.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘I must say, having you both here and being able to talk about—about—’ he waved his arm expansively, ‘all this, is quite—quite invigorating!’
Beside him Jemima stifled a yawn.
‘It is invigorating!’ Bertha agreed emphatically, to counteract Jemima’s yawn and because, after all, Mr Booth had invited her to attend. And he had such lovely green eyes. ‘I feel like I could stay here all afternoon!’ she added, turning to take in the impassioned voices and the bustling crowds that surrounded them, and pushing the horrid Mr Cannon to the very back of her mind.
‘And yet we must be home for tea,’ said Jemima, ‘and the next tram is in a quarter of an hour.’ She nodded pointedly at the fob watch Mr Booth wore attached to his waistcoat.
‘Oh, but you can’t leave yet,’ protested Mr Booth, looking from one to the other of them in disappointment.
For one heady, insane moment, Bertha imagined Jemima departing on the next tram and herself staying on alone with Mr Booth, with nothing but the evening and a lifetime together ahead of them.
‘And yet we must,’ sighed Jemima, gazing mysteriously off across the sea of heads towards Victoria and Belgravia as though some force greater than themselves was propelling them onwards. It was: the London United Tramways Sunday afternoon timetable.
‘Then I shall escort you to your tram,’ Mr Booth declared, proffering his arm with a little bow.
‘You needn’t bother, we can find our own way,’ said Jemima and she strode into the crowd. Bertha lost sight of her almost immediately, and felt a little spurt of panic. She turned back to Mr Booth in anguished indecision.
‘I am sorry, we must—we do have to—my dad—tea will be ready...’
It sounded a bit lame. Could she, dare she, stay here on her own, with Mr Booth? Allow Mr Booth to bring her home, later?
She swallowed. ‘I mean, there are probably later trams—I could, if—well...’
Mr Booth looked horrified. ‘And if you were to miss this one, you would be late? Of course, Miss Flaxheed, you must go, I understand perfectly,’ he said obviously not understanding her meaning at all. ‘But you will lose your sister,’ he said, scanning the crowd in the direction Jemima had just taken.
‘It’s—no, I shall be fine. Thank you so much. Goodbye, Mr Booth. I... Perhaps we shall—? I shall—?’ Bertha paused in an agony of fresh discomfort.
‘But of course! We are here often, you must come again. And I shall look out for you at the post office!’ and he grasped her hand in farewell. Bertha turned and skipped through the crowd weaving, no floating, in a way that transformed her heavy coat and the hot sun into things lighter than air.
‘Do come on!’ called Jemima crossly. She was already standing at the tram stop on Park Lane, hailing her from across the road. ‘Lord, what a dreary bunch,’ she added when Bertha had floated over and drifted to a halt. ‘That odious Mr Cannon would have put his grubby paws all over me if I’d given him half a chance.’
(And Bertha stopped drifting and felt her face redden in humiliated recollection—had she given Mr Cannon half a chance?)
‘And as for that simpering Mrs Whatsit-Thingummy, who did she think she was? Lady Muck?’
‘I liked her,’ Bertha declared. ‘She was...graceful.’
‘Graceful!’
‘Caroline,’ mused Bertha. ‘If I have a baby girl, I shall call her Caroline.’
‘Ha!’ said Jemima.
‘But what about Mr Booth?’ Bertha asked, this being the only question that really mattered. Not that it mattered a fig what Jemima thought. Still, she was curious. She glanced sideways at her sister and held her breath.
‘Oh, if you like dreary little music teachers, I suppose he’ll do, but really!’
And even though she knew she should be glad that Jemima didn’t care much for him, Bertha sat on the tram and stared out the window and refused to speak to her sister the whole way home.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MARCH 1925
THE ELM TREES THAT LINED the pavement either side of Wells Lane had burst into fresh green buds and the cherry tree in Mr Jack’s tiny front garden at number seventy-five had thrown up an early confetti of pink blossoms. Carefully arranged vases of daffodils and early carnations and scarlet geraniums stood in the windows of neighbours’ houses and Mr Creely at number fifty-five had polished and waxed his brand-new black Baby Austin.
There was to be a spring wedding in Wells Lane.
At number eighty-one the frenzy of activity resembled below-stairs in a great country house during a pheasant-shooting weekend. The sort of weekend, observed Dad, who had experienced such occasions, when most of the staff had gone down with the flu and a peer of the realm had turned up unexpectedly and without a valet.
On the morning of the wedding, Mr Cyrus Flaxheed, retired butler and father of the bride, was swaying dangerously on the top rung of a stepladder outside his front doorstep attaching two white streamers to the porch. The white streamers were homage to some vague rural custom that no one had ever heard of, but everyone was too afraid to question. His elder brother, Alan, retired dairy farmer and up from Shropshire especially for the wedding, stood at the bottom of the ladder, holding it steady and calling instructions.
‘Left a bit, Cyrus—no, no, left. Left. Too far. Right. Right.’
‘Make your mind up!’ said Mr Flaxheed, leaning his forehead on the brickwork above the door, a white streamer in each hand high above his head. His face was red, the tendons in his neck taut like cords where they shot out of his very high, very starched collar. It was warm for late March and a bowler hat and frock coat were not the most practical attire for this sort of work. But Mr Flaxheed, who had moved to this area upon his retirement from the post of butler to Lord and Lady Parker-Soames of Leadheath Hall in Sussex some ten years earlier, was not the sort of man to be seen out of doors without a hat or coat on. His brother Alan, who had inherited the family farm, was bareheaded, in shirt sleeves and braces.
‘Left one’s too low,’ he announced and Cyrus Flaxheed tutted crossly.
In the kitchen, Mrs Flaxheed—Alice—was overseeing the baking of the wedding breakfast. Her sister, Nora Lasenby, and Nora’s youngest, Edie, were busy steaming puddings and baking custards and icing cakes and slicing fruit loaves and cutt
ing out gingerbread shapes. Alice stood in the middle of the kitchen tapping a stub of pencil against a long list and pursing her lips.
‘Cider,’ she said. ‘The men will want cider and that brother of Cyrus’s hasn’t been out and fetched it yet even though he said he would. And there’s meant to be someone at the church hall with the curate opening up and if we don’t get those extra trestle tables from the vestry the boy scouts will have them for their goings-on. Now, there’s cream in the ice box for those fruit trifles but Edie, you’ll need to go out to the shop and see if you can’t get some extra currants and some of those glace cherries. And...’
She paused long enough to glance up at the ceiling. ‘What is going on? I shall have to go upstairs and see where they’ve got to with that dress.’
At the kitchen table Nora and Edie stirred and baked and cut and sliced with silent urgency.
Upstairs, that dress, a creamy-white muslin affair, cut down, restitched and reseamed, had last seen service at Alice Flaxheed’s own wedding in the tiny chapel at Leadheath Hall, a modest ceremony attended by the housekeeper, two footmen and a scullery maid on a frozen January morning more than a quarter of a century earlier. It was now lying slung across the back of a chair in the girls’ bedroom and was the centre of a spirited discussion.
‘But it’s so dreary!’ complained Jemima, who was perched listlessly on the window sill watching her father as he attempted to string up two rather tatty streamers. Beside her stood a glass vase and ten white roses, delivered that morning from the groom. Ten! Whoever heard of the groom sending ten white roses! She supposed music teachers at grammar schools did not earn much of a wage.
‘Oh, but I think it’s got class!’ exclaimed Elsie Stephens.
Jemima observed her sister’s friend silently. Elsie thought a ride in a tram to Putney was ‘class’.
‘And it’s so wonderfully old! Look at it, all kind of... yellowy.’ Elsie fingered the intricate lace of the bodice reverently. She wore apple-green herself, an unwise choice that made her and anyone standing near her look ill.