Percy wrote to Jenny three times after that. None of the letters was answered. Maisie introduced him to another girl, but nothing came of that. As he looked out from his window to the faraway ridges across London, he still felt mournful.
1911
Helen Meredith had never felt so excited in all her life. Of course, she was used to being smartly dressed. Like most girls of her class, she was expected to put on a coat and white gloves even for a walk in Hyde Park. She was a child, to be dressed and treated accordingly. But not today. As she gazed at herself in the glass in her long white dress, with her sash of purple, white and green, she felt so proud: she was dressed exactly the same as Mummy. And they were going to march together, side by side in the Women’s Coronation Procession.
The Edwardian era, though unforgettable, had only lasted a decade. Already well into an over-indulged middle age when his mother, old Queen Victoria died, King Edward VII had been showing signs of being unwell for some time, and his death the previous year had not been entirely unexpected. Now, after a suitable period of mourning, his son George V – correct, monogamous and dutiful – was to enjoy his coronation with his devoted wife Mary.
On Saturday 17 June, the weekend before the royal event, the Suffragette movement had decided to hold a coronation procession of their own. It was going to be huge.
There was no question that in the last three years, the Suffragette movement had made astonishing advances. Some of the tactics of its members had seemed outrageous, some rather cunning. Their ploy of chaining themselves to railings in public places, for instance, not only brought publicity, but allowed them to make lengthy and well-prepared speeches while the police had to saw through the chains. Discovering that if they walked on the pavements they could be arrested for obstruction, they took to walking with their placards in the gutters at the edge of the roadway where the police were powerless to stop them. When some of their more enthusiastic members had broken windows because the government refused to see their deputations, they were arrested. When they went on hunger strike in prison, many people thought it unjustified. But when there were well-documented reports of policemen assaulting and even beating demonstrating women, and of brutal force-feeding in jails, there was public disquiet. It was not just publicity that the movement had achieved. A detailed plan for moderate legislation had been prepared and a truce on all illegal acts had been called while the government considered it.
But above all, the years had brought supporters. With their headquarters in the Strand and their own publishing house, the Women’s Press in Charing Cross Road, the movement was now large and professional. All over the country, affiliated organizations had sprung up. And today, symbolically marking the start of the new reign, the movement was going to demonstrate to all the world that it had come of age.
“Come on,” her mother said with a smile. “We march together.” Helen felt great pride as they set off together for Sloane Square underground station.
Lying immediately west of the walled grounds of Buckingham Palace and just below Knightsbridge at the eastern end of Hyde Park, Belgravia which belonged to the rich Grosvenor family, had been developed by Cubitt into a series of streets and squares of white stucco houses. Architecturally undistinguished, they were large, grand and expensive. The grandest of all was Belgrave Square. Then, running westward, the long rectangle of Eaton Square with the more modest Eaton Terrace, to which Violet had moved after Colonel Meredith’s death, at its western end. Sloane Square, which marked the border between Belgravia and the start of Chelsea, lay only a short walk away, and contained an underground station.
As the two Suffragettes walked through this fashionable quarter some of the other inhabitants looked at them with disapproval. Helen had never experienced such a thing herself.
“People are glaring at us,” she whispered to her mother. She never forgot her mother’s reply.
“Really?” Violet smiled airily. “Well I don’t mind. Do you?”
To Helen this seemed so free, so wonderful and so funny that she burst out laughing.
“I think that they all look terribly silly,” said Violet gaily as they entered the underground.
The procession, when they emerged on the far side of Westminster, was like nothing Helen had ever seen in her life. The Suffragettes had learned that the way to disarm criticism that they were unwomanly was to dress with great care. The women, in their tens of thousands, were all wearing long dresses, mostly white, and could have been taken for matrons, or their daughters, from the strictest days of republican Rome. The only exception was the figure riding a horse near the front and dressed as Joan of Arc, whom the movement had adopted as their own saint. There were deputations and floats not only from all over England but from Scotland, Wales, and even India and other parts of the empire. The whole procession was four miles long. It would wind its way from the City, past Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, and on to Hyde Park and the great rally – tickets all sold out long ago – in the Royal Albert Hall.
“And remember,” her mother told her, before the huge procession moved off, “our cause is just. You must be prepared to fight for a noble cause, Helen, my child. We are marching for our country, and for a better future.”
Although she never forgot these words, nor the amazing sight of thousands of women with their white dresses and sashes and banners, it was the extraordinary sense of marching that the girl remembered. Marching in unison, marching for a cause, marching side by side with her mother, into the new world.
There were other signs in these years that a new age was dawning. When, for instance, in the year that King Edward VII died, Halley’s comet was seen it was treated as a simple, scientific event. More significant, perhaps, was the development of the motor car.
The English had been rather slow to make use of the internal combustion engine. There were some motor-buses now and a few motorized cabs; but so far the small numbers of motor cars in use were only for the very rich. Rolls-Royce had only been going for half a dozen years, but Penny owned one and early on Saturday, 17 June 1911, he came to pick up old Edward Bull.
The Penny family had always remained close to their Bull cousins; and thanks to his marriage to Gorham Dogget’s daughter Nancy and to the huge success of the Penny Insurance Company, he was quite as rich as old Edward. The plan was that they would drive over to pick up Bull’s two grandsons, the Meredith boys, who were both at Charterhouse now, and take them back to Bocton. The following day at tea-time, Penny would take them back. Even old Edward Bull, who had scarcely been in a motor car, was secretly rather excited by this expedition. “Though I don’t know whether I should let you drive me in this contraption with your short sight,” he had cheerfully remarked.
The day was fine, the country road beautiful. They averaged nearly twenty miles an hour and arrived at Charterhouse comfortably before lunch. Far from being tired, old Edward felt in excellent spirits and was considerably put out when Penny, having been given a telephone message by the boys’ housemaster, announced that he had to go back to London.
The boys’ faces fell too. It seemed the drive in the car and the week-end were to be lost, but Henry leaned forward.
“I wonder, grandfather,” he said politely, “if I could make a suggestion.”
There was no doubt about it, Bull thought, as the Rolls-Royce bowled into London two hours later: his grandson Henry Meredith was a fine young man. He knew what he’d been through at school, and not just on his own account either. Several times he’d been in scraps defending his younger brother from merciless bullying after their mother’s name and photograph had appeared in newspapers. Finally Henry had declared that he personally supported the Suffragette cause – which he didn’t in the least – and that anyone in the house who didn’t like it would have to fight him first. As he was now tall and very strong, few cared to dispute with him.
“I do respect Mother because she believes in her cause,” Henry had told his grandfather. “It may even be that women should
have the vote, I suppose. I hate the Suffragettes’ methods, but when she tells me that the polite, old-fashioned way gave women nothing, I can’t deny it. I wish she could drop them, or at least support them quietly, but she feels she cannot. So in the end, grandfather, I support her because she’s my mother.”
“If you’re going to return to London anyway,” he had suggested, “couldn’t we go too? We could spend the night at home instead and go back on the train to school tomorrow.” And then, giving his grandfather a sidelong glance, “We’ve seen the newspapers, grandfather, so we know Mother’s going to be out marching today. Why don’t we all of us go round and give Helen a surprise? We could take her out for tea.”
It was early evening and Helen’s feet were quite sore when she and her mother reached the house. Even so, she felt a sense of triumph: they had marched on a famous day. She was surprised when the maid who opened the door looked rather frightened, and said something to her mother that she did not hear. Then, from the doorway to the drawing room she heard a familiar voice. Her mother whispered, “Go up to your room, Helen,” but she didn’t, and a moment later, unnoticed, peeped round the door.
Her grandfather was in there; so was Henry. If Frederick had come with them, he must have been sent to another part of the house. Her grandfather looked frightening and even Henry looked grave, and somehow older. Her grandfather spoke first.
“Am I to understand that you have dressed up Helen, an innocent child, as a Suffragette?”
“Yes.” Her mother’s voice was defiant.
“And taken her to a demonstration that could have turned into a riot?”
“It was perfectly peaceful.”
“They have turned into riots before. In any case, a child’s place is in the nursery. You have no business dragging her into such affairs. These things are not for children. She shouldn’t even hear about them.”
“She is only eight, mother,” Henry added quietly.
“Are you telling me I shouldn’t even mention the subject of votes for women to my own daughter?”
“I see no need,” Bull said evenly.
“That’s just because you don’t agree with it.”
“No. She can decide for herself one day. But she is a child. Children should be protected from ideas.”
“It would be wrong to take her to church then. She might hear ideas.”
“That is blasphemous,” Bull said quietly. “You are speaking of our religion. I must tell you, Violet,” he went on steadily, “that if you ever use this child in this disgraceful way again, I shall remove her from you. She can live with me at Bocton.”
“You can’t!”
“I think I can.”
“I’d take you to court, father.”
“And a judge might well agree with me that you are an unfit guardian for a child.”
“This is absurd! Henry, say something.”
“Mother, if such a thing ever happened I should testify against you. I’m sorry. You’re unfit.” And he burst into tears.
Helen shook with terror until a pair of hands seized her from behind and carried her upstairs to the safety of the nursery.
There had not been a morning like it at Tom Brown since anyone could remember. The worst of it was that Lord St James himself was in one of the fitting rooms when it happened. What if he wanted to come out?
A lady had entered the premises.
She was very old. Very respectable, certainly. All in black, walking with an ebony stick. She had asked for Mr Fleming who, as it happened, was due to deliver some trousers that very morning. “Do you suppose we could hide her in another fitting room?” the salesman whispered.
“You will do no such thing,” said Mr Brown calmly. “You will offer her a chair and make sure his lordship is fully dressed before he leaves the fitting room.”
It had not been easy for Esther Silversleeves to decide what to do. She had respected Jenny for her decision to send Percy away, and as the months had passed and the letters from Percy finally ceased, she had sighed to herself and decided that this was fate. She had sent the girl on a week’s holiday to Brighton that summer to cheer her up, which it had seemed to do – until a week ago, when another letter had come and Jenny had been visibly upset.
“It’s Percy,” Jenny said. “Says he’s waited a year before writing, but that he’d like to see me again. Just as a friend. Says he’s been sick, but didn’t say what so I don’t know if it’s serious or not.”
“You could see him, couldn’t you?”
“Oh, madam, I don’t know. I just don’t think I could bear it.” And the tears had welled up.
Esther Silversleeves had been meaning to go down to the West End for some time. Two years before, an American gentleman named Selfridge had opened a huge new department store in Oxford Street. When she was younger, Esther had always liked to go once a year before Christmas to the huge emporium of Harrods in Knightsbridge. Selfridges, she had heard, not only planned to rival it but had so much, including a restaurant, that you could spend the entire day in there. So she had instructed her old coachman to leave her there at ten and return at three; and no sooner had he gone than she had walked rather stiffly along to Regent Street and down to the premises of Tom Brown.
Neither she nor Lord St James knew who the other was when that nobleman emerged from the fitting room, shot her a glance of amusement, and made his way back to the quiet bachelor quarters of Albany, where he now lived, in nearby Piccadilly.
When Percy arrived at half past eleven, he was greatly surprised to encounter Mrs Silversleeves, whom he had never seen before. At her request he escorted her back to Selfridges and took her to the restaurant where she ordered a little cake and a cup of tea. She asked him a few questions about his health, nodding slowly, then asked him if he still cared for Jenny. Having satisfied herself with his answer, she explained her mission.
“Jenny herself, Mr Fleming, has no idea that I have come to see you, and I do not wish her to know. But I am going to tell you something. What you do with the information, of course, is entirely up to you.”
It had taken a little gentle persuasion from Mrs Silversleeves before Jenny had agreed to go. The second letter, saying that he was going away for the whole winter on account of his health had done it. “I think, if you can bear to, that it would be a kindness to see him,” Esther said when Jenny consulted her. And so, two weeks later, in a nice little café called the Ivy, just off the Charing Cross Road, she found herself sitting opposite Percy again, having tea.
He looked cheerful enough, though a little pale. They made the usual enquiries. Her life was the same as ever. She had been to Brighton. Mrs Silversleeves was well. Maisie and Herbert were involved in a Christmas pantomime with Maisie’s drama club. His lodgings at Crystal Palace were as nice as ever. Not until after the first ritual cup of tea did Jenny approach the big subject.
“So, you’re going away.”
“That’s right.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “It’s silly really, I suppose, but the doctor said I should.” He smiled a little wanly. “It was that cough of mine. They were afraid it was tuberculosis, actually.” It was the curse of the time. “It wasn’t, but the doctor says to me: ‘If you really want to get well, you should go somewhere warm for the winter.’”
“That’s just like the rich people, Percy. They go to the south of France.”
“I know.” He smiled. “Funnily enough, that’s just what I’m doing. It turns out if you go to a little guest house or something, it’s much cheaper in France than in England. And I’ve actually got quite a bit saved up now. Not being married,” he smiled a little sadly. “I’ve nothing to spend it on. So,” he continued cheerfully, “it’s off next week for a five-month holiday in the south of France! They think when I get back in the spring I shall be fit as a fiddle.”
“Oh, Percy! Parlez-vous?”
“No. Not a word. I’ll have to learn I suppose.”
“You’ll be meeting all those French girls, Percy.” She ma
naged to laugh quite easily and was pleased with herself. “You’ll bring back a French wife.”
Percy frowned and seemed to hesitate. Looking at her a little oddly, he remarked: “I’m not sure about that, Jenny.” He was silent again for a moment or two. “Actually, it turns out you did better than you knew when you turned me down. When they were doing all these tests on me trying to find out what was wrong with me, they told me something else. I can get married – and all that – if you see what I mean. But it seems there won’t ever be any children. No little Percys. Pity really, but there it is.” He nodded thoughtfully.
“Oh,” she said.
It was dark when old Edward Bull came out of the lodge and walked from the Wallbrook up towards St Paul’s. He intended to spend the night at his club.
There had always been a great many Freemasons in the City of London. Some found their secret ceremonies, their initiations and hidden membership sinister. Personally, Edward Bull had never found it to be any such thing. He had become a Mason as a young man, knew a great many City men through it, and regarded the whole business as a sort of club, with admittedly some rather quaint and medieval rules, but which was mainly concerned with doing charitable works, rather like a medieval City guild. It was the pleasure of these associations that had brought him into London that spring day in 1912, for a meeting of his lodge.
He had just started up Watling Street when he picked up a newspaper from a stand and saw the headline.
He found Violet in a cell. The police had been very kind to him, taken him to see her at once, even asked him if he’d like a cup of tea. They seemed to think it was a pity for such a respectable old gentleman to have such a daughter.
She was astonished to see him. “I’ve been trying to get a message to the lawyers,” she explained, “but by the time I was brought here they’d gone for the day. You’ve got to bail me out, father. I need to get home to Helen.”
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