Suffragette Girl

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘Oh, whatever’s happened? You’re bleeding.’

  ‘It’s nothing, Iso. Don’t fuss.’

  But his sister sat Gervase down and fussed over him like a mother hen. Whilst Isobel dressed the wound on his forehead, Florrie paced up and down angrily. ‘I was wrong and you were right – again!’ She paused and glared at Gervase as if it was all his fault. ‘They were like a pack of – a pack of – oh, I can’t think. They were an unruly mob, surrounding that poor tram driver and all the passengers on it. I bet they were all terrified.’

  ‘They didn’t look it,’ Gervase remarked mildly. ‘And the “poor” driver was an off-duty policeman.’

  Florrie rounded on him. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because I met him when I was signing on for special duties. He’s a regular.’

  Florrie was silent for a moment and resumed her pacing. Then she said, ‘But that doesn’t alter the way the crowd behaved.’

  Gervase, now sporting a white dressing on his right temple, grinned up at her. ‘Some of your suffragette meetings got just as unruly, if you remember.’

  She stared at him for a moment and then suddenly burst out laughing. She sank to the chair beside him. ‘You’re right. You are right. It’s – it’s different when you’re passionately involved and part of it all. But when you stand back and watch others – well, it is a little—’ She chuckled again. ‘Unseemly, as Father would say.’

  Isobel stood with her hands on her hips, regarding the two of them. ‘So, what are you going to do now?’

  ‘Go back on duty,’ Gervase said.

  ‘Try to find a peaceful protest,’ Florrie smiled.

  But, on the 12th May, the TUC called off the strike.

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ Isobel said with a heartfelt sigh. ‘Now perhaps we can get back to normal and you two can stop arguing.’

  ‘I do feel for the miners, though,’ Florrie commented. ‘They’ve been deserted.’

  ‘They’re going to carry on their fight, but the general strike was undermined.’ Gervase shrugged. ‘The city didn’t go short of supplies.’

  ‘Thanks to you and your cronies,’ Florrie said, but the accusation was without heat now. She’d been shocked that the crowd’s militant action had not stopped at the injuring of persons. At least the suffragettes had always said that only property, never people, should be their target.

  Gervase was watching her face. ‘You could still help the miners. Get involved.’

  Florrie wriggled her shoulders. ‘I don’t know enough about it. Besides,’ her eyes narrowed, ‘there’s something else I should do.’

  ‘What?’ Both Gervase and Isobel chorused.

  Florrie smiled and tapped the side of her nose. ‘Never you mind.’

  ‘Oh, Florrie dear, do be careful,’ Isobel pleaded.

  She would say no more, but becoming involved in the general strike had reminded Florrie just how much she needed to be busy. As Augusta had said, she needed a cause. And perhaps now the time was right to carry out the promise she’d given to her beloved brother.

  The cause of fighting to clear the names of all those – not just James – who’d been shot at dawn. It wouldn’t bring them back, but it would mean so much to their families, who lived daily with the shame and horror of how their loved ones died. But whilst there were still people around like her father, she realized it might take years. Perhaps more than her lifetime. It would be up to the next generation to bring it about. When Jacques grew older she would instil in him the need to carry on the fight to clear his father’s name.

  It would be a long, hard road, but she could – and would – make a start.

  Forty-Seven

  In the September of 1926, when Jacques had just passed his tenth birthday, Florrie enrolled him in the same London school that Isobel’s son had been attending for the past three years. Charlie was a kindly boy, merry-faced and cheeky, but good at heart, and he took the younger boy under his protective wing, shielding him from the bullying that new boys sometimes had to endure. But Jacques, a quiet, introverted child, did not take to the city or to the rough and tumble of school life. After months in the city he grew thin and pale, and caught colds and influenza during the winter months with disturbing regularity. Florrie, who’d hardly known a day’s illness in her life, was impatient.

  ‘I think he makes the most of it,’ she told Augusta during the long summer holidays when the boy returned to Candlethorpe Hall. ‘He doesn’t like London, or school, and I think it’s all a ploy to be sent back home. Look at him – cycling over to Bixley to play tennis with Charlie, row on the lake or go hiking. He’s hardly sickly now, is he?’

  ‘Well, he’s better now it’s summer again, I have to admit, but his cough never seems to quite go away, though,’ Augusta said worriedly. ‘You should get him checked. Take him to one of the Harley Street doctors. I’m sure Isobel or Gervase will recommend one.’

  ‘Oh, fiddlesticks! There’s nothing wrong with him.

  You watch – come September again, when he gets back to school, he’ll have a cold or a sore throat or a headache. Anything to try to get sent home again. I don’t know why he makes such a fuss. He’s got Charlie there. And it’s not as if he’s even a boarder, for Heaven’s sake. He comes home every night.’

  ‘But the beginning of term, when the pupils all come together again, is the time when they catch things from each other.’ Augusta paused a moment and then added with deceptive mildness, ‘James was just the same.’

  Florrie stared at her. ‘James was? I don’t remember him being ill. At least – not like this.’

  ‘Oh, he was. The school used to write to us, but your father would never allow him to be brought home. Don’t you remember, your mother getting in such a tizzy – always thinking he was ill?’

  ‘Well, yes. But I always thought that was just – just—’

  ‘Just your mother. Some of the time, maybe. But not always.’

  Florrie was thoughtful for a moment, then she smiled and kissed her grandmother’s cheek. ‘Well, Jacques seems fine just now and will be for the next five weeks, I’ve no doubt. So I’m going back to London. There’s rather a good party that Lady Lee is organizing and I understand the Home Secretary’s going to attend. I want to bend his ear.’

  ‘The Home Secretary? Florrie, what are you up to now?’

  ‘Never you mind, Gran.’

  ‘Well, whatever it is, just be careful.’

  But to that Florrie made no answer.

  By the time Jacques was fifteen, he was tall and thin and stooped a little. He had a hacking cough that never seemed to leave him, not even during the summer months now. On New Year’s Eve 1931, which was being celebrated at Candlethorpe, Gervase drew Florrie aside.

  ‘Florrie darling, forgive me for what I’m about to say,’ he began, his forehead creased with anxiety.

  She smiled up at him. ‘Forgive you, Gervase? I’ve forgiven you for the last – how many years is it now?’

  He stared at her for a moment, as if he didn’t know what she was talking about. Then his expression lightened, just a little. ‘Oh, that. Well, yes, of course, there’s that too. But this is something more serious.’

  ‘More serious than a proposal of marriage? Oh, Gervase, don’t tell me that all these years you’ve not been serious.’

  ‘Of course I have, Florrie dear, but – but this is something, well, delicate and you might think I – we’re interfering.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s Jacques. Iso and I are really worried about him. He’s not well. We – we both think you should take him to see a specialist. One who knows about chest complaints. We know a very good one in London.’

  ‘Gervase, it’s growing pains, just like Dr Miles said. He must be sick of seeing us, the times we’ve trooped into his surgery just recently. And it’s Christmas. He’s always ill at Christmas. He just doesn’t want to go back to school after the holidays. That’s all.’

  Gervase shook his head. ‘N
o, Florrie, it isn’t all. He hardly ate his Christmas dinner. I was watching him. And he looked to be running a fever.’

  ‘Nonsense. Why, he came over to Bixley yesterday to play football with Charlie.’

  ‘Yes, he did and he couldn’t run around the lawn for more than a couple of minutes before he collapsed wheezing and coughing. Florrie, you should seek advice. You’re neglecting—’

  ‘Neglecting him! How dare you say such a thing? No boy has ever had more than he’s been given. Or has been more loved.’ She choked back the words. Jacques was growing more and more like James with every day that passed. So much so that it hurt Florrie to look at him sometimes.

  ‘I don’t doubt you love him, Florrie. You see he has everything he needs. He wants for nothing. I know that.’

  ‘I’m always with him. We live with Isobel in the term times and we’re here in the holidays.’

  Gervase smiled sadly. ‘He is. You aren’t – not always. If there’s something more – more interesting in London, you’re gone. And even when you are there together, you’re out most nights. Iso says—’

  ‘Oh, been telling tales of me, has she?’

  ‘She’s worried about Jacques,’ Gervase insisted. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Just because I don’t smother him, like she—’ She broke off, realizing how petty she was being. Gervase chose to ignore what she’d obviously been going to say about his sister. ‘He’s well cared for,’ she said instead. ‘Gran—’

  ‘He needs his mother. Florrie, if he were fit and well and busy – robust would be the word – with a young boy’s activities, it would be different. Like, I have to say it, like Charlie. But he’s not. He’s sickly. He needs to be seen by a doctor and he needs you with him.’

  For a long moment, Florrie stared at him. Guilt flooded through her. She’d been so wrapped up in her effort to start a campaign to clear her dead brother’s name – and all those she felt had been executed without a fair trial or just cause – that she had forgotten the living.

  Gervase was right. She had neglected James’s son.

  Florrie took Jacques first to their local, family doctor. When he’d examined the boy and then sent him out of the consulting room, he turned a sober face to Florrie. Before he could say anything, Florrie took a deep breath and said, ‘I want a second opinion, Dr Miles. No offence – you’re a wonderful doctor – but—’

  To her surprise the doctor was nodding agreement. ‘No offence taken, my dear. In fact, I was about to suggest that Jacques see a colleague of mine. One who specializes in chest complaints. This is more serious than a recurrence of the common cold or even attacks of bronchitis.’

  Florrie felt a stab of fear. If Jacques had a serious illness, she would never forgive herself for her absences from his life. She should have kept a better watch over him.

  ‘Now,’ Dr Miles pulled a pad of paper towards him and began to write. ‘This is a note of introduction. I would recommend a Dr Harris in Harley Street. He’s a consultant physician.’

  Florrie gasped. ‘Why, that’s the name that Gervase – I mean, Mr Richards – mentioned. How strange.’

  Dr Miles looked up and smiled. ‘Not so strange at all, Florence.’ Knowing her from her childhood – indeed, he had attended her birth – the doctor had earned the right to use her Christian name. ‘Dr Harris is a well-known specialist in his field, respected by all his colleagues. I’ve been privileged to know him for a number of years. There—’ He folded the piece of paper, placed it in an envelope, sealed it and handed it to her. ‘This is a note for you to take to him, but I will contact him myself and arrange an appointment for you and the boy. You will have somewhere to stay in London, I presume?’

  Florrie nodded. Her hand trembled as she took the letter.

  ‘And whatever Dr Harris says, my advice to you would be to keep him here at home at least for the spring school term. The damp city, with its smoke and fumes, is not the best place for him just now.’

  Florrie contacted the school and told them that, due to ill health, Jacques would not be returning to school for the new term.

  I will, of course, she wrote, continue to pay the fees and I would like you to keep his place open for him. I am very hopeful that he will be able to return for the summer term. In the meantime, perhaps his tutors could let me know what work he should be doing so that he does not fall behind in his studies.

  In the middle of January 1932 they travelled to London to stay with Isobel and Charlie and to see the specialist.

  ‘They all miss you at school,’ Charlie told him. ‘All the chaps in your form keep asking after you and when you’ll be going back.’ The older boy’s merry eyes were unusually anxious, his manner less boisterous.

  Jacques smiled thinly and glanced at him as if he didn’t really believe him. Isobel and Florrie looked at each other but said nothing, watching as Charlie tried to involve Jacques in a game of chess. But he soon lost interest, pleaded tiredness and went to his room.

  ‘Is he really ill, Auntie Flo?’ Tall and broad for his age, Charlie looked older than his sixteen years. He’d soon be seventeen, Florrie realized with a shock. Old enough to fight for his country. She shuddered, praying that his generation of young men would not get caught up in a dreadful war.

  The following morning, Florrie and Jacques took a cab to Harley Street. Dr Harris was a jovial elderly man, who nevertheless regarded his patient with shrewd eyes. After a long consultation and several tests he called both of them back into his consulting room. For a long moment he watched Jacques coughing wheezily into his handkerchief before saying, quietly, ‘I don’t hold with the practice of keeping the diagnosis from the patient himself or herself. I trust I am right in thinking you are a sensible young man?’

  Jacques glanced at Florrie, before saying quietly and with such adult dignity that Florrie’s heart twisted, ‘Yes, I’d like you to tell me what the matter is. I’ve been feeling ill for so long now, I am quite – prepared.’

  ‘I fear you may have consumption, my boy. Tuberculosis of the lungs.’

  Jacques accepted the terrible news calmly – it was Florrie who cried out in agony. ‘Oh no. No!’

  She wanted to scream and rage against an unfair world, but she did none of those things. The image of James, standing with his back to the post, came into her mind. She remembered his courageous demeanour, his composed acceptance.

  It was that same serenity she was seeing now in the face and bearing of his son. Her heart overflowed with love and pride, just as it had on that fateful day.

  ‘There are several things I can suggest you do,’ the doctor went on, still speaking to the patient, yet involving Florrie with a glance in her direction every so often. ‘You could go to a sanatorium – there are several very good ones throughout the country. I would recommend one in a mountainous region, as high as you can get. Or you could stay at home and be nursed by a private nurse, though in this case you must have no contact with the rest of your family, not even,’ again he glanced at Florrie, ‘with your mother.’

  ‘We have a large house. We could live in one wing, well away from everyone, but a nurse, no. I – I’ve done a little nursing. With your and Dr Miles’s help, I’ll look after him.’ When Dr Harris seemed about to argue, Florrie added in a tone that brooked no argument, ‘No one else.’

  The doctor spread his hands and smiled helplessly at Jacques. ‘You have a formidable mother, my boy.’

  ‘She was a suffragette,’ he said and Florrie heard the note of pride in his voice. ‘And a VAD nurse in the war. She went right near the front line.’

  ‘My goodness me,’ Dr Harris was suitably impressed. He turned to Florrie. ‘Then you must have encountered the disease before?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, there were a few from the trenches who’d contracted it. They – they were sent home, of course.’

  They exchanged a look, and the doctor was fully aware that perhaps those poor boys never made it home before the disease – or a sniper’s bullet – ended th
eir lives anyway.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’re well qualified then, my dear. Between us, we’ll have this young fellow here well in no time. Plenty of rest, fresh air and good food, and we’ll see how you are in a few weeks’ time.’

  Isobel and Charlie were devastated.

  ‘I must telephone Gervase at once. He’ll meet you at the station tomorrow. Oh, Florrie dear, is there anything else we can do?’

  Florrie shook her head. ‘I just want to take him home to the Hall and get him started on the treatment Dr Harris has set out. He’s sending a letter to Dr Miles too, and I’ll be able to call on him at any time for help.’

  For once poor Charlie didn’t know what to say. He was always merry and bright. He revelled in excitement and activities, sports and games. Being fit and healthy himself, he didn’t know how to react to illness – especially a sickness as serious as tuberculosis.

  He hugged Florrie and, ignoring her warnings, put his arm around Jacques’s shoulders. ‘You’ll soon be all right, old chap. Chin up.’

  But Jacques sought her gaze and held it – just as James, under sentence of death too, had done all those years ago.

  Forty-Eight

  A grey-faced Gervase met them at the station. He enfolded Florrie in his arms and held her close whilst she rested her face against his chest. Then he turned to Jacques and, as his own nephew had done, he put his arm around his shoulders.

  ‘Uncle Gervase, you’re not supposed to come near me. You might catch it.’

  Gervase smiled at him. ‘As your mother would say, “Fiddlesticks”. Come on, let’s get you home. At least, if that is where you want to go.’ He looked across at Florrie. ‘You’re very welcome to come to Bixley, you know. For as long as you like.’

  ‘I know,’ she said softly, ‘but Candlethorpe Hall is where he should be and – for once – I shan’t leave this particular battle to my grandmother. I’ll see Father.’

  She stood before him in his study later that evening. On the way home, Jacques and she had agreed that nothing be said to anyone else until she’d had time to talk to Edgar. ‘We’ll make the excuse that you’re tired from the journey and need to go straight to bed. I’ll bring you something to eat, and then I’ll face your grandfather. After that, we’ll make proper arrangements.’