Suffragette Girl

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘You’ll see,’ Isobel said mysteriously.

  When the debate on the Reform Bill began towards the end of January, there was much heated legal wrangling. The Speaker of the House announced that no amendment on women’s suffrage could be added and, only a few days later, the Bill was withdrawn – just as Lady Lee had feared.

  ‘Everything we’ve worked for,’ Lady Lee raged, pacing up and down her drawing room. ‘Well, they’ve asked for it now.’

  Florrie and Isobel glanced at each other. Until this moment, they’d only joined in relatively peaceful demonstrations and marches. Now, they must do more. Florrie felt a shiver of fear, and yet excitement too.

  ‘So, what’s been planned?’

  Lady Lee paused a moment, looking at the eager faces of the two girls before her. They were so young and Florrie was so lovely. She couldn’t bear to think of that clear skin and those innocent eyes being ravaged by prison life. She sighed inwardly, telling herself that she couldn’t shoulder the responsibility for others, and yet she did feel an obligation to look after the welfare of the members of her ‘little band of sisters’, as she referred to the group of women who met regularly under her roof.

  She sat down, clasping her hands in her lap. ‘How are you at breaking windows?’

  Isobel laughed. ‘With a toffee hammer?’ She glanced at Florrie. ‘I think we could manage that, don’t you?’

  Florrie nodded. ‘Is that all you want us to do? Nothing – nothing more?’

  ‘Not at the moment. I suggest you try some of the shops in Knightsbridge. Night-time would be best – when the stores are closed. But there are a couple of things you should remember. Firstly, no one, no one at all, must be hurt by your actions. We aim only to damage property, not to injure anyone. And secondly,’ she ran her tongue nervously round her lips, ‘you will run a greater risk of arrest and – and imprisonment than hitherto.’

  The two young women regarded her solemnly. ‘We’re ready for that,’ Florrie said, speaking for them both.

  Seven

  Late that night, dressed in dark clothing and with a black veil to cover their faces, the two young women set off. Quietly, they opened the front door and crept out.

  ‘We mustn’t wake Meredith whatever we do,’ Isobel whispered as they closed the door behind them. ‘He’d try to stop us. He thinks it his duty to look after me – and you too now. Especially as he knows how much Gervase thinks of you.’

  Florrie stopped suddenly halfway down the steps and stared at Isobel through the gloom. ‘Meredith knows?’

  Isobel paused and looked up at her from two steps below. ‘My dear girl, servants know everything about us. Especially someone like Meredith, who’s been with our family for centuries!’

  Florrie giggled. ‘He’s not that old!’

  Isobel tried to stifle her laughter. ‘Don’t start me off. Someone will hear.’

  Nervousness made them want to laugh all the more so that they hurried down the steps and along the street, stuffing their black gloved hands into their mouths. At the corner, they paused and pulled in deep breaths.

  ‘We’ll get ourselves arrested for being drunk and disorderly in the street if we’re not careful. Now, a little decorum wouldn’t come amiss, Miss Maltby, if you please,’ Isobel tried to say sternly. ‘After all, we’re supposed to be in mourning.’

  Florrie pulled her face straight and walked with her head bowed dutifully, but every so often a stifled giggle welled up inside her and forced its way out.

  ‘Stop it, Florrie. You’ll set me off again. Just concentrate on what we’ve got to do.’

  The thought sobered the girl at once.

  It was the first time Florrie had seen the busy streets in the hours of darkness.

  ‘It’s deserted,’ she said in surprise.

  ‘Not quite. There’s always someone about – even if it’s only a policeman,’ Isobel added, glancing nervously around her. ‘Come on, we’d better get on with it or we’ll get ourselves arrested for something quite different.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh nothing, dear.’ Isobel hid her smile. ‘Right – now this looks a good window to start with. Nice and big. It’ll make a lovely mess. Glass all over the clothes displayed in the window. You keep a watch out up and down the street while I. . .’

  Isobel stepped towards the huge window, took the little hammer out of her reticule and hit the window. It cracked, but didn’t break. She hit it again and this time the whole pane shattered, glass flying everywhere. The sound echoed through the still night.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Florrie asked anxiously, afraid that shards of glass might have caught Isobel.

  ‘Yes – yes, I’m fine.’ Isobel stepped back and, arm in arm, they hurried away. ‘Walk slowly,’ she panted. ‘It looks more suspicious if we’re hurrying.’

  After a short distance, they stopped and listened. All was quiet.

  ‘My turn now,’ Florrie said, taking a deep breath as she held out her hand for the hammer. She stepped towards the window of another shop and, raising her arm high above her head, brought the hammer down. The glass shattered at once and a splinter hit her forehead just above her left temple. She turned and once more they hurried on, putting as much distance as they could between themselves and the scene of their crime.

  They had just broken the eighth window when they heard the sound of a police whistle in the distance.

  ‘Right, that’s it for tonight,’ Isobel pronounced. ‘Throw the hammer away.’

  ‘Throw it away?’ Florrie repeated. ‘But—’

  ‘We don’t want to be caught with it in our possession. Do as I say, just drop it on the ground. Come on, round this corner and into the next street. Now, if we’re stopped, our story is that we’ve just been visiting our dear sister-in-law. We’ve just lost our brother. If they want names and addresses, we both become too distressed to talk any more. No policeman will want a couple of wailing women to deal with when he has criminals to chase.’

  Florrie giggled. They walked and ran a little until they rounded the corner. In a different street, they felt a little safer, and now they bowed their heads and walked on, arm in arm, as if in deep mourning and comforting each other.

  Running footsteps sounded in front of them and they held their breath, but continued on slowly and sorrowfully. The policeman took no notice but ran by them, heading for the next street. They walked on, still afraid that any moment they would feel a hand on their shoulder and a gruff voice ordering them to stop. But at last they reached their own street safely and hurried up the steps. Once inside the front door of number six, their legs gave way beneath them and they sank to the floor in the dimly lit hallway, thankful to be home. They threw back their black veils and stared at each other.

  ‘We did it! And without being caught too—’ Florrie began triumphantly, but Isobel’s eyes were full of concern.

  ‘Oh, my dear, you’re hurt. Your forehead’s bleeding.’

  ‘Is it?’ Florrie put her fingers up to her temple. When she withdrew them, there was a smear of blood on her fingertips. Isobel pulled herself up and held out her hand towards the girl. ‘Come, let’s bathe it at once. Perhaps it isn’t as serious as it looks.’

  The cut was tiny, but quite deep. ‘It might leave a scar,’ Isobel said worriedly.

  But Florrie only murmured, ‘My first battle wound. Now I’m truly one of you.’

  ‘We never doubted it for a moment,’ Isobel said softly.

  Two days later their actions were headlines in the newspapers.

  ‘“Outrageous attacks were perpetrated on Monday night on Knightsbridge shops,”’ Isobel read out over the breakfast table. ‘“Nine front windows . . .”’ She paused and looked up. ‘Nine? We only broke eight, didn’t we?’

  Florrie, her mouth full of kipper, nodded. ‘The papers never get things right,’ she murmured as Isobel read on.

  ‘“. . . together with merchandise displayed therein, were damaged. The work is thought to have
been carried out by suffragettes. No one was caught in the act and therefore, as yet, no one has been apprehended for the offence. The police are still making extensive enquiries.” We were very lucky, you know, to escape,’ Isobel said solemnly. ‘We could be waking up in a cell this morning.’

  Florrie grinned. ‘But instead, here we are, eating kippers and planning what we’re going to do next.’

  Above the newspaper, Isobel eyed her with amusement. ‘Got a taste for it now, have we?’ Then her face sobered. ‘Quite seriously, I think we should lie low for a day or two.’

  As they were finishing breakfast, the telephone in the hall shrilled and they heard Meredith’s modulated tones answering. ‘The Richards’ residence.’ A silence and then, ‘One moment, if you please, sir.’ A pause and the door opened.

  ‘Mr Richards is on the telephone, Miss Isobel.’

  Isobel leapt up, casting aside the newspaper. ‘Oh dear, I hope nothing’s wrong.’

  As she hurried from the room, Florrie picked up the discarded paper to read the account of their misdeeds for herself. Vaguely, she heard Isobel’s side of the conversation.

  ‘Well, yes, it was, actually . . . No, we weren’t caught. We’re quite safe . . . Just a little scratch on her forehead, but—’ Then her voice became shriller and Florrie listened more attentively. ‘She’s fine – it’s nothing and, no, there’s no need for you to come rushing down.’ There was another silence before she heard Isobel replacing the handset and returning. As she came into the room, Florrie looked up and noted Isobel’s bright eyes and pink cheeks.

  ‘My dear brother is most seriously displeased with me for leading you into danger.’ She threw her hands into the air. ‘Not a word about my safety, mark you. And I was foolish enough to say you had a little scratch and he wanted to come rushing down here at once.’

  ‘But how did he know about the other night?’

  ‘It’s reached our papers and he just “felt”, he said, that it was us. Oh, bother Gervase, he’s taken all the fun out of it now. He’s made me feel so guilty about you.’

  ‘Well, don’t be,’ Florrie declared. ‘I know exactly what I’m getting myself into. And he’s no right to be so – so heavy-handed. It’s not as if we’re engaged. Now the Hon. Tim, if it was him trying to stop you, that’d be different.’

  ‘He wouldn’t dare,’ Isobel chuckled, reaching for another piece of toast.

  Isobel and Florrie remained indoors for several days, but at last they could stand the inactivity no longer, so they walked round to Lady Lee’s house to take afternoon tea with her. As they sat sipping tea and eating home-made biscuits, Lady Lee told them, ‘Sylvia Pankhurst’s in prison and threatening to go on hunger strike and there’s something big being planned. I’m not sure what it is yet and we’re not involved, but – but it’s big.’

  ‘An act of violence, you mean?’

  ‘I – I’m not sure.’ Lady Lee seemed evasive and extremely agitated.

  Later, as they walked home again, Florrie remarked, ‘Do you think she’s involved with whatever’s going to happen, but didn’t want us to know?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Isobel was thoughtful. ‘I’ll have a word with the Hon. Tim tonight.’

  But Timothy knew no more than they did. ‘Mother can be very uncommunicative when she wants to be,’ he smiled, putting his arm around Isobel. ‘I do hope my wife is not going to keep secrets from me.’

  Isobel laughed heartily. ‘Only when it’s for your own good.’

  Tim blinked. ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’ Then his tone sobered. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll have heard yet – it’ll be in the news tomorrow. Poor old Captain Scott and two of his fellow explorers have been found dead in a tent returning from the South Pole. They were only ten miles from safety.’

  ‘Oh, that’s terrible.’ Tears sprang to Isobel’s eyes. ‘He was such a courageous man.’

  For a while news of the tragedy drove all other thoughts out of their minds. But a week or so later another event occurred that was to have repercussions on all their lives. A bomb, allegedly set by Emily Davison and others, severely damaged the unoccupied new house belonging to Lloyd George in Surrey. The following week Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst accepted responsibility and was arrested and charged with the crime.

  ‘Go home, both of you,’ Lady Lee urged them. ‘They’ll be pouncing on anyone involved with the Cause for the merest trifle. Go to the country out of harm’s way. Please!’

  ‘But. . .’ Both young women tried to protest, but the acknowledged leader of their group was adamant. ‘Just for a week or so.’

  Eight

  On 25th February, the day that Mrs Pankhurst’s trial began, the two young women travelled home to Lincolnshire.

  ‘I was hoping to go home for my birthday on the twenty-eighth anyway,’ Florrie said. ‘But only for a few days,’ she added hurriedly, in case Isobel thought she was beginning to lose her commitment to the Cause.

  ‘I suppose Lady Lee’s right.’ Isobel sighed. ‘They’re going to be arresting anyone in sight who’s sporting the suffragette colours. Perhaps we’re better out of the way until things have calmed down a bit. But then,’ her eyes sparkled as she clasped Florrie’s hand, ‘we’ll go back.’

  ‘Oh darling,’ her mother enveloped Florrie in welcoming arms. ‘How glad I am to see you. I’ve been so lonely. But everything will be all right now you’re back home.’

  ‘Mother dearest, I’ve only come home for my birthday. I – I’m going back again next week.’ Mentally, Florrie crossed her fingers, hoping that it would be safe to do so by then.

  Clara’s face fell and tears welled in her eyes. ‘Oh. I – I thought you’d come home for good. I—’ She broke off, startled as the door of the morning room was flung open and Edgar strode in.

  ‘Ah, you’re back,’ he stated unnecessarily.

  ‘Father.’ Florrie moved dutifully towards him to kiss his cheek, but before she reached him he said harshly, ‘So, we’ll have no more of this suffragette nonsense.’ Florrie drew in a breath sharply and her eyes widened in surprise as her father nodded grimly. ‘Oh yes, their antics have even reached our local newspaper now. And as Miss Richards’s name was mentioned, it doesn’t take a great leap of imagination to realize that you too have been involved. Well, my girl, it’s at an end now. You’ll settle down and marry Gervase and we’ll say no more about it.’

  Florrie stopped and returned her father’s glare steadily. ‘I’m sorry, Father, but I will not marry Gervase. Not now or ever. And I intend to return to London as soon as I can. I only came home for my birthday on Friday.’

  Edgar’s face grew purple and the veins in his forehead stood out. For a moment Florrie’s heart skipped a beat, afraid that for once she’d gone too far. Stand up to him she might, disobey him she might, but she’d no wish to cause him harm. If he should have a seizure because of her rebelliousness, she’d carry the guilt for the rest of her life.

  When he could bring himself to speak, through gritted teeth he muttered, ‘Then you can return this instant. You’re no longer welcome in my house.’

  ‘Now, now, what is all the shouting about, Edgar?’ Augusta said, coming through the open door behind him. ‘Ah, the return of the prodigal, I see.’ She came towards Florrie, her arms outstretched. ‘This is cause for celebration indeed. How long are you staying?’

  Florrie cast an uncertain glance at her father. ‘Well—’

  Edgar gave an angry ‘ha-humph’, turned and marched out of the room. Serenely, Augusta seated herself on the couch and patted the seat beside her. ‘Sit down and tell us all about it. We want to hear everything you’ve been doing, don’t we, Clara?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Poor Clara wasn’t so sure, but she sank back into her chair and took a deep breath as if steeling herself to listen, even though she might find the conversation worrying.

  ‘I’ve been staying with Isobel, as you know, but I’ve met all sorts of interesting people. Lady Leonora Smythe, for one.’ She paused
, eyeing her grandmother before she said more.

  Augusta raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh – a member of the aristocracy. How exciting!’ It seemed that her grandmother still wished to keep her acquaintance with Lady Lee a secret.

  ‘Oh, darling,’ for a brief moment Clara’s face was animated. ‘Did she take you to balls and soirees?’ She clasped her hands together in happy expectation that perhaps her wayward daughter’s visit to London had been more fruitful than she’d dared to hope. ‘Did she introduce you into Society? Would she arrange for you to be presented at court, d’you think? I’m sure your father would forgive you if. . .’ Her voice faded away as she caught Augusta’s amused expression and her daughter’s anxious one.

  ‘Mother—’ Florrie bit her lip. ‘Lady Leonora is a stalwart of the WSPU.’

  ‘The – the what?’

  ‘The Women’s Social and Political Union. It’s the organization Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst founded.’

  Clara’s face fell and she shuddered. ‘The suffragettes. Oh dear! I did so hope you might have forgotten all about that. Once you got to London and went to balls and such, I thought. . .’ Her voice trailed away in disappointment. She sighed heavily and then asked, ‘So – what have you been doing?’

  For the next hour, Florrie recounted some of the activities in which she’d been involved. She described the rousing rallies, the meetings where all classes of women met together as if they were of equal rank. She spoke of the MPs and other gentlemen of standing who were sympathetic to their cause, but she omitted – in front of her mother – to mention the more militant acts in which she’d recently taken part. She’d save that for later when she was alone with Augusta.

  ‘Is James coming home for my birthday?’

  The two older women exchanged a glance. Clara’s eyes filled with tears, but Augusta’s mouth pursed with indignation. ‘Your father won’t allow him to come home during term time and miss his schooling. And for once, I could not sway him.’

  Despite the acute disappointment that her beloved brother would not be home for her birthday, Florrie couldn’t help but be amused at her grandmother’s reaction. She was sure that Augusta’s annoyance was caused as much by the fact that she’d lost a battle with her son as by the fact that her grandson would be missing from the celebrations.