Honeyville

by Waugh, Daisy

  ‘And I am learning to smoke!’ she said, some time in December. ‘Lawrence thinks it’s charming to see a lady who smokes. I’m finding it perfectly disgusting – but I think it fits. Don’t you Dora? As a modern woman …’ She giggled.

  ‘Our little fat general will have you chucked in jail. What with the smoking and that ridiculous hat of yours, he’ll have you for an anarchist.’

  ‘Oh, Dora! And he wouldn’t be far wrong!’ she said.

  I warned her to be careful.

  Inez and I spent all our free days and free evenings at her small cottage, drinking Lawrence’s bourbon. We talked about anything and everything. Politics, of course, was much on Inez’s mind, since she had only just discovered it; and sex too – also on her mind a great deal, and on the matter of which, she was convinced, I had much wisdom to share. We discussed clothes fashions (appertaining to the modern woman) although neither of us was certain what they were. And above all, we discussed Lawrence, and Lawrence, and Lawrence and his intentions; and what would happen to Inez and Lawrence after the strike was over.

  ‘It feels,’ I said, ‘as if this strike will never end.’

  ‘It has to end, Dora. The Union is running out of funds. And then …’ She was stretched out on the small couch before the fire in her little cottage and opposite her, as usual, I was stretched out on the other. We had both been drinking enough bourbon to feel it coursing nicely through our veins – and the end of Inez’s nose was shining. She leaned forward rather unsteadily, resting her weight on one elbow. ‘And then …’ She frowned, forgetting where the sentence had been taking her. ‘In any case, it’s why there has to be action, Dora. Our pockets aren’t as deep as the company’s. We don’t stand a chance. Not unless we …’ And she stopped. Fell back on her cushion and fell silent.

  ‘Unless we?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  It was unlike her. ‘Unless we what, Inez?’ I persevered. ‘It sounds lousy. Whatever it is. What are you planning?’

  ‘I said, nothing!’

  ‘Be careful. I keep saying it and I know you think I’m tiresome. But Lawrence O’Neill is filling your head—’

  ‘I fill my own head. Thank you, Dora. I am not simply a receptacle, for thoughts to be poured into.’

  ‘Well I know that,’ I said, unconvinced.

  ‘As if I had no filtering system of my own.’

  ‘I think your filtering system is contaminated. That’s all. Contaminated with your desire. And I think it’s dangerous. Lawrence is a good man, I dare say. On a good day. But he is dangerous. He cares too much about his cause and not enough about your welfare.’

  ‘Meanwhile, of course, while you are dispensing all this advice, I suppose you have everything in your life so well worked out.’

  ‘I didn’t say that. That’s not what I meant.’

  But she wouldn’t let it go. I had annoyed her. ‘You’re not happy, Dora. Anyone can see it!’

  ‘I’m happy enough, thank you.’

  ‘You simply let the days slip by, one after the next, and you do nothing to help yourself. You’re so busy offering me advice. But what are you going to do … when Phoebe throws you on the street? Which she will, you know. Eventually.’

  ‘I’ll think of something,’ I said. ‘I have a few years left in me yet.’

  ‘I dare say you do. But time is slipping by. And since you have given up entirely on our previous plan – which might have worked, you know.’

  ‘You saw what happened, Inez. It was impossible.’

  ‘But you might at least have tried. You might have stuck around and not simply run away at the first, smallest hurdle. You can think I’m a fool – and by the way, I know perfectly well you do,’ she said, watching me. ‘I know Lawrence does too. And I am determined to prove him wrong. Both of you. But Dora, at least I am willing to fight for something. And at least I know what I shall do, if – when – Lawrence attempts to leave town after the strike ends, and if – when – he doesn’t offer to take me with him. I’ll follow him! That’s what I shall do. But what are you going to do?’ It was the single question I most hated, and she knew it. She looked at me and sighed. Waved her glass, splashing liquor onto her new, revolutionary skirt. ‘Oh, forget it!’ she said. ‘I’m only being so vile because I am afraid. And I suppose we all are, really. Aren’t we?’

  We were silent, lost in our own worries.

  ‘Sometimes this war,’ she said after a while, ‘and the things that Lawrence expects from me – and from himself, too, of course … I get frightened, that’s all.’

  ‘Then you should say No to him,’ I said. ‘It’s not your battle, Inez—’

  ‘Oh!’ she cried, cutting me off, bursting back to life. ‘You’ll never guess what!Darling, silly Xavier has sent me a catalogue! He’s such a naughty boy! And it has the most wonderful things in it, Dora. It’s a spy catalogue. Or a police catalogue. Or heaven knows. A catalogue for detectives! Did you ever hear of such a thing?’

  I asked to see it but she was already standing up, rummaging through the papers on her desk to show it to me.

  ‘How could he ever have guessed?’ she continued. ‘It’s the most magical little catalogue I ever set eyes on. I can’t imagine where he laid hands on it, but there is invisible ink disguised as hair lotion, and little pistols and little swords disguised inside walking sticks, and hair combs with absorbent tips for poison, or something along those lines. I’ve gone quite mad with it! Do Not Tell Lawrence! It’s only for fun, really. But he won’t find it amusing … I have a whole box of stuff arriving soon; I have no idea what I shall do with it. And I ordered them to send the walking stick to Xavier. He’ll die laughing when he sees it. Shall we open another bottle?’ she sighed. ‘I don’t suppose Lawrence will be coming round tonight.’

  18

  In January, four months after her last, fateful visit, Mother Jones returned to Trinidad. The small fat general had her arrested within the hour and locked her up in a makeshift jail a mile or so out of town. The miners’ wives, we were told, organized a protest march through town a day or two later. The townsfolk stayed away.

  ‘You watch,’ we girls said to one another. ‘There’ll be a riot. No mistake.’

  A riot ensued. From my rooms at Plum Street I heard the sound of the women singing – so full of defiance; I heard the sounds of their shouts and jeers and, at one point, a most wonderful explosion of raucous laughter, and then, almost immediately after, the sound of the general, commanding his men to open fire.

  I did not venture out to witness it. I wanted nothing to do with it. The thought, the sound – everything about it sickened me. I despised them all, and that’s the truth. So I buried myself in a filthy French novel and waited … for nothing. For the noise to stop.

  An hour or so later I was summoned from my room by Kitty, with instructions to come downstairs at once. It was barely teatime. I was not prepared for work and found myself (as was increasingly the case) intensely irritated by the summons. I dressed quickly and carelessly. No doubt if Phoebe had seen me first she would have sent me back upstairs.

  It didn’t matter. When I glimpsed Lawrence standing by the fireside, it was clear that he was sober, in a state of agitation – and very much on business.

  He watched me crossing the long salon, which always smelled stale and wretched to me in the daylight hours. ‘Looking gorgeous as ever, Dora,’ he said politely. ‘Even if I got you out of bed.’

  ‘You didn’t get me out of bed,’ I snapped, although he had. ‘How can I help you this afternoon? I’m not working today, so—’

  ‘You heard there’s been trouble?’

  ‘There’s always trouble,’ I said.

  ‘In town. This afternoon.’ His expression lifted a moment, and suddenly a smile spread across his face. He said: ‘The general took a topple. He fell off his horse, Dora. Right there, in front of the women! Landed in a puddle of snow in front of everyone: his own men, in front of all the wives …’

  I could feel,
in spite of myself, a broad grin stretching across my face. It was impossible not to be delighted by the image. General Chase – small, pompous, aggressive – was loathed by everyone, even his own side. ‘I wondered what it was,’ I said. ‘I heard great gales of laughter from my room.’

  ‘Good, huh?’

  I nodded. ‘I hope he hurt himself.’

  ‘The women were laughing so hard,’ he said, ‘they couldn’t see the guns pointing at them. Either that, or they didn’t care. You heard the gunshot? Maybe not. It’s the other side of town.’

  ‘I heard it, yes. You too?’

  ‘Did I hear it?’ He was surprised by the question. ‘Of course I heard it. Anyhow. No one was killed. So that’s something. And there’ll be photographs in the papers tomorrow. Men on horseback shooting into a crowd of women. Mrs Drayton – you know her?’

  But I didn’t tend to know many of the miners’ wives. Why would I?

  ‘She lost her ear. Sliced off with a bayonet. Someone picked it up and gave it her and I don’t know what she’s supposed to do with it now. Send it to the newspapers maybe? Defenceless woman … all that … losing her ear …’ He was muttering, more to himself than to me.

  ‘Are you looking for Inez?’ I interrupted. ‘Because if you are, she’s not here.’

  ‘Hm? No, I’m not looking for Inez. No. Matter of fact, the opposite. I know just where she is. Young Cody watched her getting thrown in the back of a goddamn paddy wagon along with a bunch of others. I wanted you to go fetch her out. She’s in the city jail. Stupid kid—’

  ‘In the jail!’ I cried. ‘Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘I just said, didn’t I?’

  ‘But you didn’t say she was marching …’

  ‘I told her not to.’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘I told her to spend the day at home. But she wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Has she been hurt?’

  He didn’t seem to hear. ‘She’s a liability to us, Dora. I wish I’d never got her involved.’

  ‘Lawrence – she was trying to help!’

  ‘Help who?’ he asked. He sounded suddenly very angry. ‘Not us, I assure you. She’s not helping us any more. When she insists on making such a show of herself. How can I help her when she is so darned wilful? How? She won’t listen to me.’

  ‘Is she all right? Has she been hurt?’

  He shrugged, too annoyed to give the question much thought. ‘She’s all right, or she’d be in the hospital. There’s plenty of girls up there. Anyhow,’ he added, ‘she can’t be left in the cells. It’s too dangerous. I came to ask if you might fetch her out.’

  ‘Me?’ I said. ‘But why? She was fighting your fight, Lawrence. And you’re the one she cares for. Why can’t you do it?’

  ‘Why can’t I do it?’ he repeated. ‘Well, Dora – I think that’s about the dumbest question I’ve heard yet. Right now, she’s just a silly little girl, out of her depth. We want to keep it that way. It’s important we keep it that way.’ He handed me a folder of dollars. ‘Get her out of there – can’t you? Pay them whatever it takes. Only for heck’s sake, do it before she starts squealing. If they get a sniff she’s with us, they’ll never let her out of that place again.’

  19

  With his mix of surliness and familiarity, the police sergeant made it clear that he knew my line of business. As if I cared. When I gave him Inez’s name, he looked down the list of the women in his charge, and couldn’t find it. He twisted the paper across the counter so I could see for myself. And there it was: among the long list of foreign names, Greek and Welsh and German and Swedish, ‘Miss Dora Leopaldi’. I suppressed a smile. Inez wasn’t such a fool then, after all.

  ‘I do apologize,’ I said. ‘She’s new to our house. I confused her name with someone else entirely. That’s the one. Miss Leo-whatnot. That one. God knows. It’s hardly worth remembering. She won’t last long with us after this.’

  He took Lawrence’s dollars in his meaty chop, pocketed half, slid the rest into a locked drawer by the counter, and led me through to the back of the building. I followed him down narrow stairs and along a cold, dark corridor, to the single basement cell where the women prisoners were kept. The sound of their chatter rose up the stairway to greet us. It grew half deafening as we drew closer.

  Inez sat silently among the women, bolt upright, wide eyes shining, hat and hair and clothes awry. There were fifteen or twenty women squeezed into the cell along with her, most of them deep in conversation. They paused when they heard their jailor’s keys clank, looked briefly from the sergeant to me, and turned back to one another. Inez rose quickly to her feet.

  ‘Dora!’ she cried. There was a thick gash on her cheek and a smear of blood running from the gash to the collar of her shirtwaist. Her hair had been wrenched from its knot, her hat was crumpled, and her face was alive. Perhaps in the light of what happened afterwards, my memory exaggerates. But I know that when she stood and called my name (beneath the bitter blow that it was I, not Lawrence, who had come to fetch her), she shone with a wildness, an excitement at her surroundings that I might have envied, if her surroundings had been more conducive. As it was, I felt a jolt of horror. She looked half crazy with life.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked stupidly. ‘I have come to fetch you out.’

  ‘Have you paid my bail?’ she asked. ‘Or did—’

  ‘I paid it,’ I interrupted, to shut her up. (I would explain later.)

  ‘You?’ She seemed to shrink. And then, like a flower reaching out for sunlight wherever she might find it, she asked: ‘But does he know I am here? Perhaps he doesn’t realize—’

  ‘I have come to fetch you out. That’s all I know. I’m sorry to find you here. That’s a deep cut,’ I added. ‘You need to clean it.’

  She touched it, vaguely, and looked about her at the other women, some of whom had paused again and were watching us. ‘But what about the others? What about my sisters here? I can’t simply abandon them.’

  Those who were nearest to her, and whose grasp of English was strong enough to understand, patted Inez on the back, not much concerned. Inez might look on them as sisters, but there was no doubt that they looked upon her as a stranger; a woman from another planet, where women didn’t live out the winter under canvas tents, but slept in warm beds and woke to breakfasts served to them by maids, of hot tea and griddled toast and fresh eggs and honeycake.

  ‘Aw now, don’t you vorry about us,’ one of them said, in an accent I couldn’t place. ‘Git going, now. Git yerself out of har vhile you can.’

  Inez looked to the other women, most of whom were already half turned away. ‘I want you all to know,’ she said, her voice shaking, ‘that when I leave this place, I am not leaving you, whose bravery humbles me. You are always in my heart. And I will fight for you. For your rights as women, and wives, and mothers …’

  The women looked at her with dead-eyed bemusement. She had forgotten, perhaps, that the majority of them didn’t speak English.

  ‘And I want you to know,’ she continued, a little louder, ‘what an honour it is—’

  ‘Inez,’ I snapped. ‘Come along. Come with me.’

  A couple of the women pushed her, not quite so gently. ‘We shall keep up the fight!’ she cried as she half tripped through the cell door. ‘As Mother Jones tells us we must, so we shall. We shall fight until there is no life left in our bodies! Until Mr Rockefeller himself comes before our great Union on his knees and he surely begs us to negotiate with him!’

  ‘Fer heck’s sake,’ came a weary voice from the back of that dank cell, ‘git her outta here.’

  We turned to the police sergeant. His gaze flicked between us, resting briefly on Inez with lazy dislike, before leading the way back up the dark corridor. Behind us, the cacophony of mother tongues returned to its earlier volume, our intrusion forgotten. Beside me, Inez limped a little. She took my arm and pulled at me to slow down. And over the noise, she whispered:

  ‘Where is
Lawrence, Dora? Why didn’t he come?’

  ‘I have come,’ I said. ‘Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Let’s discuss it when you’re home.’

  But she only clutched my elbow, so hard that I yelped in pain and snatched my arm away. ‘What in hell’s the matter with you?’ I snapped, rubbing my arm. She shook her head. ‘Let’s just get you home,’ I said impatiently. ‘You need some rest. And I have work this evening.’

  ‘But I can’t go to the cottage,’ she whispered fran- tically. ‘I can’t!’

  As we waited, and the sergeant completed his paperwork, he remarked several times on his disbelief that a young woman, ‘and a hooker to boot’, would want to be involving herself in such matters. I waited for Inez to launch into one of her tirades but she said nothing. Her hands were shaking as she sat, waiting for permission to leave, and I wondered if the experience in the cells might, after all, have frightened her to silence at last.

  But her fear seemed to intensify as we reached the street. She didn’t thank me for fetching her. We scurried silently through the cold streets and, as we were passing the spot where, only hours before, anarchy had reigned, the fat general had lost his seat and poor Mrs Drayton had lost her ear, Inez stood still. There were puddles of muddied, bloodied snow at her feet, and tears were rolling down her cheeks. ‘Stop!’ she said, but I was cold, and frightened to be out in the town so close to dusk. Any men not at home by now would soon be drunk, if they weren’t already, and feeling trigger-happy. I wanted to get back to Plum Street. I kept walking and ignored her.

  ‘You have to listen,’she said. She tugged me back towards her, forcing me to halt. Her eyes darted left and right, she leaned into my ear and whispered: