She turned quickly to leave but found herself trapped, wedged into the very heart of the crowd, her escape barred by people, all of whom appeared to be much taller than her. She strained upwards and peered over a man’s shoulder. To her horror, she saw a bobbing line of policemen’s helmets heading towards them and then, in the next minute, the helmets were inexorably closing in a circle all around them.
She ducked back down. She stood, head bowed, terrified that her brother would instinctively know she was there and call her forward to voice her opinions in front of the crowd.
‘…Do you know, ladies and gentlemen, on average five miners are killed every working day. Five families of orphans left with no breadwinner…’
The people stirred. As they listened, some with a disinterested air, some with informed passion, the miners’ plight swelled and became ugly in the dainty springtime park.
‘…Every single working hour thirty-two miners are injured…’
She felt instant terror as a ripple of suppressed violence ran through the knot of people listening and she saw the police armed and waiting, truncheons and the weight of the State ready to crack the skull of this ragged cry for Justice.
With all her strength she started to push to the edge of the group; she must escape this trap. But it was too late. The message heard, the embers ignited and the fire took light, the ferocious energy erupting and sweeping through the small crowd.
‘Shame!’ ‘Blacklegs are traitors!’
A howl, and arms punched up and out, shoulders barged. Lily felt a blinding kick to her shin. She reeled sideways, her fall stopped by frantically clutching at the mackintosh of a thickset neighbour who roughly turned, shrugging her off. There was nowhere to escape; the group pushed and shoved as one and Lily found herself trapped at the centre, her face mashed up against rough material, her hat knocked skew-whiff.
‘Bolshevik scum!’
A thin voice of dissent wailed up; an opposing gang had taken shape out of nowhere.
‘You and them fucking miners’ll bleed our Empire dry!’ ‘Commie shites!’
But the challenge was not picked up for all around the anger had started to flicker and fade, the power evaporating, and Lily saw the brief violent energy die as policemen pulled and separated the ragged crowd, which instantly fell apart.
Hobbling to the railings, her shin bleeding, her stocking torn, she hung on as nausea rose up again, a cold dreary sweat breaking out all down her back. She closed her eyes, trying to control the queasiness. The thought of being sick here in front of all these people was too awful. She must get away. What had possessed her to stay amongst this common wretched crowd? She had enough problems of her own and here she was in the middle of Hyde Park looking like a tramp, having almost been arrested! She straightened her hat and, limping, started to move hastily from the Park.
A few men were being rounded up. She skirted past the police van, keeping her head down. But dear God, where was Hughie? Was he being rounded up?
She swung and swung about but couldn’t make out anyone in the wandering crowds, people now moving freely again. She hobbled towards the little stage. A young woman with her hair severely plaited into headphones, shook a bucket under her nose making her jump. ‘A penny for our men.’ Lily found herself digging into her handbag, flustered and unsure as to her duty in the paying of this donation.
‘Girlie!’
Hughie’s voice. Thank God! Her big tall brother, her younger protector from all the ills of the world. Except now there were too many ills. For both of them, it seemed.
‘Girlie, you’re here. Terrific.’ Turning to Headphones, he announced, ‘This is my sister.’
The young woman nodded, unsmiling. ‘Nice to meet you.’ Then continued at once, ‘I’m going back to Eccleston Square. Don’t forget to relieve me at four. Mr Cook and Mr Smith must be at Number Ten by five.’ She turned briefly, acknowledged Lily and hurriedly joined two men dismantling the platform and re-furling the banner.
‘Charles let you off the leash.’ Hugh grinned at Lily. ‘Hey, old girl, you okay?’
‘Oh, Hughie.’ She buried her face in his coat and hugged him, not wanting to let him go. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Come on, Sis, don’t play dumb.’ Before she could say anything, he’d put his arm through hers and was wheeling her towards Marble Arch. ‘I’m starving. You can stand me lunch at Lyons.’
Over beef stew and sponge pudding, he carried on talking. It wasn’t until he was spooning up great custardy mouthfuls that he caught her expression. ‘Not a bite since yesterday breakfast so you needn’t look so po-faced, Sis.’ He grinned at her.
‘Hughie, honestly.’ Always the appetite of a gorilla, he’d been a dustbin to which she could turn in their nursery and dispose of any hated food. But as he’d grown taller and taller, his strength had decreased and he’d been ever-prey to childhood ailments. But now, at six foot three, he sat opposite, stooped in his seat, blooming with health and energy, his bony middle-aged face young again.
‘And you should have a pud, Girlie, you looked all washed-up.’
‘Don’t you start!’
Hugh stopped eating. ‘Hey, old girl, what’s up. All not well?’
‘Don’t want to talk about it. Go on with what you were saying about Oxford.’
She watched him as he spoke. He’d returned from the war a stranger, his eyes turned within, never once talking of the horrors he’d witnessed nor his endless dreams of despair. And in the years since he had aged, become a solitary man, an academic, escaping into books, eschewing crowds, keeping to himself, spending his spare time out of doors, walking. Usually alone. But now, here in Lyons Corner House, Lily saw the energetic, wilful playmate of her childhood. Alive again.
‘It’s the mobilisation of a ruthless provocative State intent on total victory over the labour movement. The wretched Government knows the strike can only be broken with the use of troops – and volunteer labour, of course. My students are bicycling all over Oxford from one Government agency to the next, frantic to be engine drivers and tram drivers. Not a thought to the actual cause of this bloody strike. Just Hurrah Patriotismus! Fun, fun, fun!’
His meal finished, Hugh sat back and lit his pipe. Lily got out her cigarette case.
‘But Charles said this morning that all the buses and trams were still running—’
‘Don’t be so dim, Girlie, of course he did. That’s the official Government line to keep up so-called public morale. But the strike’s rock solid. No buses, no trams.’ He looked triumphant. ‘All the factories that depend on electricity have shut their doors. At last we’re going to right this terrible wrong.’
‘But, Hughie, really, how can any of us make it better?’ Her head was hurting horribly and this damned cigarette was making her feel sick again.
Hugh looked at her. ‘You really don’t have any idea what’s going on, do you?’
She stubbed out the cigarette. ‘I’m sorry, no, I don’t. Charles tends to speak in short sentences at the moment. I don’t really know much about any of it.’
‘No, nor do most people. And nor do they want to. And if this fat complacent government of puritanical reactionaries has its way nor shall they.’
Lily giggled; it was the unsayable. ‘If Charles heard you—’
But Hugh didn’t laugh back. ‘If only he would.’
She stopped laughing.
‘Lily, listen to me. I never realised such appalling poverty existed. The squalor these men and their families live in – and I’ve seen it – it wouldn’t be endured by anyone with sufficient wages to get out of them. Now I must go. Thank you for my lunch.’
He rose, gathered his coat from a nearby stand and wound a scarf round his neck. But at once he sat down again. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to preach. It just seems to me the only way I can make sense of the war and what we all went through. Oh Lord, here I go again.’ He sat sideways on to her, the coat bunched in his lap, his frame too big.
‘It
’s just that—’ He began again, less confident, looking down. ‘I wanted to have lunch ’cos it’s very important to me that you – you of all people – know what I’m up to.’ He looked up at her. ‘Which side I’m on.’
‘Well…um…yes, of course. But have you thought of what Father—’
‘Father would have a fit; I’m fully aware of that. But if I’m arrested—’
‘Arrested, good God! Have you done something wrong?’
‘No, for goodness sake.’
She sat silent. Family. Duty. Our side. Their side.
Hugh started again. ‘Listen. If I’m arrested, I need to know there’s someone, someone close to me I can telephone. For help.’
‘You absolutely believe in this, don’t you.’ She had never seen him look so certain.
‘More than anything, Girlie. I wish I had more time to talk to you, to explain.’ He smiled at her gently. Her little brother always the more grown up.
‘So what can I do to help?’
‘Dear old Girlie, that’s a brave offer. Nothing for the moment. But if I get into hot water, I’ll telephone. All right?’
She gave a tiny nod. ‘Just try and make it when Charles is at the House.’ The thought of her husband’s reaction too frightening, she dismissed it by asking, ‘Where are you staying while you’re in London?’
‘You offering a billet?’ She pulled a face. He smiled. ‘Don’t worry. Just joking. Eccleston Square. The Trades Union Headquarters. If you telephone, ask for the Oxford Strike Committee, that’ll find me. I’m driving Mr Cook and Mr Smith. I took them to Downing Street yesterday.’ His face suddenly registered boyish pride.
‘But what if Charles sees you?’ Lily burst out.
‘Don’t worry, old girl, I think he’s got more important things on his mind. At least I hope he has.’
He was gone, nearly running through the cafeteria.
And now she, too, should go. She checked her watch; Doctor Mallard mustn’t be kept waiting. Back in Oxford Street, there wasn’t a taxi to be had for love nor money. She decided to walk and arrived in Harley Street with three minutes to spare.
In the formal waiting room, the clock quietly ticked. She collected a copy of The Queen from the large oval table covered in smooth magazines and sat, trying to gather her thoughts for her appointment. But her mind remained in a hateful whirl; her walk hadn’t pacified her at all and her shin still throbbed painfully. She crossed her ankles to hide her dirty holey stocking and glanced to see if any of the other people in the room had noticed.
Opposite, a man was hidden behind a copy of The Times and, to one side, a child dressed in a smart little blue coat with a dark velvet collar coughed incessantly, a uniformed nanny in attendance. ‘I’ve told you, Winifred, use your handkerchief.’ The nanny’s whisper was hoarse and loud. She held a hanky in front on the child’s face while it coughed, a dense scratchy rumble. As the handkerchief dropped away, Lily caught sight of a wizened little profile, gazing exhaustedly frontwards.
‘Ahem, Lady Sutton? The doctor will see you now.’ The receptionist intoned her name with all the discreet hauteur of royalty. An elderly woman with a grey helmet of ridged permed hair, she trod carefully along the hushed hallway. Lily followed. Neither woman said a word; they had known each other for over ten years.
Doctor Mallard welcomed her into his consulting rooms. ‘Well, Lady Sutton, I’m delighted to see you looking much sprightlier. Do take a seat.’ After a few delicate questions, he examined her and, having re-dressed, she sat back down whilst the doctor made his stately way around his immense desk. He bathed her with a courtly smile.
‘Well, Lady Sutton, I have some rather good news. I’m very pleased to inform you that you are expecting a baby. I suspected – Oh! Lady Sutton—’
But Lily didn’t hear anymore, she was sobbing and sobbing. She was pregnant. Thank God, now Charles would love her again.
Chapter Five
SS Etoile. Friday, mid-afternoon
The ship clanged out six bells. It was three o’clock and the afternoon session in the gymnasium was in full swing. Billy Bottle pushed through the double doors, telegram in gloved hand, and called into the big echoing room, ‘Lord Henry Clairmont. Message for Lord Henry Clairmont!’
Nobody took any notice; everyone was too busy exercising. Today, in the middle of the floor, half a dozen men were straining and heaving on a variety of machines, rings and clubs, fighting the fear that five days at sea would leave them flabby and unfit. Dressed in a mixture of waistcoats and shirt-sleeves, Billy could see they all looked very hot and bothered. He grinned. No doubt they’d had a good old tuck-in, dinnertime. A chubby gentleman, frantically towelling a salmon-pink face, puffed towards him and Billy, standing to attention, held the door. Then leaning back into the gym, he called out, ‘Telegram for Lord Henry Clairmont!’
Sweeping a glance around the room, this time his eye was caught by a young boxer exercising down the far end under the eye of his trainer. Kitted out in tight, white sporting trousers and a dazzling vest, the young fighter was rapidly and accurately punching a sandbag. Billy stared at the speed; not a catch in his breath, not a break in his swing, until the trainer looked up from his stopwatch, gave a command and instantly the young boxer slowed and dropped down onto his haunches.
‘I say,’ said a chirpy voice. Billy turned to find a little man in plus-fours and a tweed cap at his side. ‘And who might that fine specimen be?’
‘“The Bermondsey Bomber”, sir,’ the young bellboy replied. ‘Ship’s champion boxer.’
‘That the trainer? Chap with the stopwatch?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The little man shot off down the gym, and needing to find Lord Clairmont, Billy moved up behind him.
‘This rowing johnny,’ the little man announced brightly, ‘Thought I might have a go.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ replied the trainer and the man climbed awkwardly aboard. He gave half a dozen feeble pulls on the oars and stopped, wheezing and puffing. ‘Well, that’s my lot for today. Try again, tomorrow. Toodle-pip for now.’ Struggling to his feet, he adjusted his tweed cap and pottered away up the gymnasium.
Billy grinned. ‘That should keep him in the pink.’
‘More money than sense, half of them,’ said the trainer sourly.
‘You seen Lord Clairmont?’
‘Been gone half an hour.’
‘Right-ho. Thanks, mate.’
With Lord Henry Clairmont being a regular passenger on the SS Etoile, known to maintain a daily routine, it was with some certainty Billy set off up to A deck and the Paris lounge. He ducked into the crew’s accommodation and moved through the ship along a curving passageway flanking the portside, cheerfully known for no reason anyone could remember as Scotland Road. Then ascending to the aft second-class companionway, he emerged into the passenger’s dining saloon on C deck. The air was warm and smelt of rabbit stew. Billy broke into a trot; he was starving again. He cut across the crowded room – boisterous with people and the sound of cutlery – and on into a quieter smoking room which led through to the ship’s library. A smattering of people, having partaken of a large lunch, were ignoring the now-sunny weather and snoozing happily in armchairs. Billy quietened his drumming feet.
Gently, he pushed through the double doors onto an entrance lobby and started to climb the wide grand staircase, the spine of the ship, off which ran the six decks. High above, the afternoon sun shone down through the vast glass dome, the buttery light catching the cut-glass jewels of an enormous chandelier. Little rainbows danced on the carpet. No one around, Billy galloped up and up.
He reached a set of double doors opening onto B deck and pushed through, only to be immediately pushed back by the noise of the great waves and a gust of sea-sprayed wind yanking at his pill-box hat. His hands shot to his head. He stood in the doorway catching his breath.
Capricious March sunshine had lured people from their afternoon naps, a hardy few even ignoring the bracing North Atlantic breez
es and reclining swathed in travelling rugs on wooden loungers. All around, the joyous shouts of children rang out, released from the stuffy boredom of indoors. Billy set off along the deck. A quoit skidded towards him, pursued by three young women, all arms, legs and laughter, the bright air releasing them from the strictures of their otherwise elegant attire. He sidestepped it and ducked into a passageway where, at the far end, he pushed through another set of double doors. Crossing a wide foyer, he finally arrived at the Paris lounge and, collecting a silver tray from his post by the door, placed the telegram squarely upon it.
‘Lord Henry Clairmont. Telegram for Lord Henry Clairmont!’
Several heads bobbed up and a pair of lorgnettes were discreetly raised – after all a cable, even in first class, was something of an event – but nobody waved him to their side. He stood surveying the large room.
In the middle of the lounge, set in a sea of little tables and chairs, four sturdy women in tweed were sitting talking quietly and earnestly. Heads tucked together, the brims of their hats seemed to nudge and knock. Billy grinned; the hats looked liked fat birds bobbing on a telegraph wire. Suddenly the birdies flew apart – a stout gentleman had arrived from the bar and jovially joined them.
Billy set off across the room, and passing an elderly woman fluttering a tiny gloved hand at a waiter, cheerily called, ‘Afternoon, Comtesse.’
‘Garçon, une coupe de champagne,’ he heard her order.
‘Lord Henry Clairmont. Telegram for Lord Henry Clairmont!’
At last, in the far corner from behind a winged armchair, a hand shot up. The bellboy smartly crossed to its owner, a thin young man with an eager face and an outstanding pair of ears.
‘Good morning, Mr Bottle. How goes it?’ the young man breezily greeted him.
‘Fine, m’lord. A wire’s just come through for you.’
His lordship scooped up the telegram but didn’t open it. ‘Results of the Totaliser in yet, Mr Bottle?’
‘Not yet, m’lord. They’ll be sorted through by four o’clock and we’ll get them around half past.’ Billy dropped his voice. ‘Word is from the bridge we’ve averaged 26.9 knots the last few days.’
The Hidden Dance Page 9