by Ian Porter
Sylvia was used to Nash’s ways so did not take offence. She simply held up a palm to tell him to have patience and indulge her.
“If you will forgive me Nashey,” she said politely. “Once mother’s Women’s Social & Political Union had become established, the government got up to so many tricks to retard us in those early years, yet all it did was afford us publicity, which was of course what we craved almost above all else. Now, I suspect they have learnt their lesson. I believe they will refrain from arresting your chaps at the march because they will not wish to give Save the Children any additional publicity. They will want the procession to go off without incident and in so doing, not fuel the Albert Hall flame. They will be hoping that Miss Webb fails where I succeeded. They will be hoping for echoing walls in Kensington. So I am inclined to advise you to let the soldiers take their chance.”
“Don’t stop the coppers following my boys away from the House and then carting ‘em off, quiet like, as soon as they’re out of sight of the papers and their cameras do it?”
“I doubt that will be the case for the boy Freddie,” advised Sylvia. “I suspect the army may have no interest in what would be the embarrassment of court-marshalling a child who should never have been accepted into their ranks in the first place. But I agree they may well arrest your conscientious objector in some Westminster back street.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Nash, with grim determination.
The ex-Suffragette did not ask him to enlighten her. History told her that it was best not to know.
******
The march to the Houses of Parliament was going to be much larger than the police had expected. In fact, far better attended than even Ruby had thought likely. There were several hundred gathering, and almost as many spectators to see them set off. Most of the protesters were, as Ruby had assumed, women. Some had children along. It made sense given that the march was about children, but Ruby felt uneasy because there must be a chance the protest would meet with resistance along the route, and if it did, it would be no place for little ones.
Pemberton was in the crowd, as well as Freddie, and Nash’s conscience objector. And Ruby knew her husband was somewhere in the vicinity too, though she’d be damned if she could spot him. He really was a master of lurking undetected. Perhaps he was looking out the window of one of the pubs. Or peering round the corner from one of the surrounding alleyways. Down the side of Anderson’s India Rubber Company was favourite. Ruby looked around casually as if she was lost in thought, but her scan revealed no sign of her husband.
There were a few men dotted about, seemingly there with their wives and girlfriends. Ruby also spotted a couple of characters whom she knew to be nasty bits of work who were drinking friends of her husband’s. Apparently they owed him a favour, so once the speeches outside the Houses of Parliament had brought the procession to a close, it had been agreed that they would grab and manhandle the conscientious objector as if they were carting him off to give him a good hiding down an alley. The reality was that they would be getting him away to safety before the police knew what was happening.
Ruby was thinking about how she was going to ensure that she was as far away from these characters as possible when the march got to Westminster, when she noticed a slightly incongruous little knot of four other men who had just arrived. They were gradually easing their way through the crowd towards the front of the procession. Had they been a larger group she may have been concerned they were there to infiltrate and disrupt the march. But just four of them were not too much to worry about.
She reviewed their efforts with mild contempt. Typical men; they get here late but won’t take their rightful place at the back. She considered stopping and telling them to stay where they were, but the whole procession was lining up in such good natured fashion, with no abuse of the marchers issuing forth from any disapproving voices, she thought why show a police presence when it wasn’t needed? She thus kept to the periphery of things.
Another glance round the throng and there was still no sign of her husband. But even if she had known where her husband lay in wait, she wouldn’t have been able to see him.
Nash had been round to see Sylvia one last time. While there he had picked up a set of keys from her. They were to the shop she had rented as her first East London Federation of Suffragettes headquarters. The old double bay-fronted shop had closed down recently and Nash thought there was a good chance the locks had not been changed since Sylvia had rented the place. And even if they had, he could jemmy the back door easily enough.
Having earlier told the objector where to be and when, and also picked up Freddie from Bert & Elsie’s and dropped him nearby, Nash had let himself into the shop without any problem. He had been right about the locks. The shop looked out on to Bow Road, with a panoramic view of where the protesters were now lining up ready to start their march.
He stood in the unlit gloom several feet back and off to the side from the window. Nobody could see him, but he had his eyes on everyone, especially the men.
The soldier and the conchie shook hands as if they had never met before, though Freddie had in fact dropped off a message with Jameson in the past. Nash had supplied each of them with a piece of wood. Jameson’s was a six foot long plank; Freddie’s was a bit of four by two. And now, for everyone in the procession and the onlookers to see, the two of them were making hard work of hammering a few nails in to their pieces of wood to make a rough cross. Freddie suddenly pulled up a thumb shaking it in pain. Much laughter ensued from the surrounding audience.
Nash looked on shaking his head ruefully. Silly little sod can’t even bang a nail in, and that bleeding Quaker ain’t much better.
It was then he saw the man he had last seen outside the hall in Holborn. He was part of a group of four men. Nash recognised the man he had knocked out on the ferry, and although he only saw them from afar, and for the briefest moment, he was pretty sure the other two were probably the men lying in wait for him at Silvertown.
He had been worried that Ruby being on the march was a ruse for the police to get her, when in fact the authorities were getting their net ready to throw over him. Ruby was bait.
They must have received information about two army deserters, one of whom was also a conscientious objector, being supplied by Nash to head the march. Once they had captured the men they could probably beat information out of them about the man who had helped them escape justice. But that could not be taken for granted. And how much did these deserters know about their protector in any case? Much better to catch him in the act, actually delivering the men to the march. But there was always the chance he wouldn’t risk turning up at the march himself. That’s where Ruby came in. They wanted her to be suspicious as to why she had been chosen for the march. That way her loving husband would be there for sure, to protect her if nothing else.
The attempt to grab him at Silvertown was clearly by government men, but they may not have known at the time the identity of the man they only knew as Smith. But because of her connection with Sylvia, Holborn Man must have begun keeping a watching brief on Ruby around that same time, and in due course also became aware that her husband was the man his colleague had come into painful contact with on the Woolwich ferry. And when the information about Sergeant Granger’s suspicions of Ruby and the intelligence concerning her husband’s part in this march, crossed his desk, he must have got together with the police and come up with this little ruse.
Nash was furious with himself. As soon as they had tried to grab him at Silvertown he should have closed down his operation and gone to ground. He had gotten sloppy. He should never have used Kosher Bill. And God knows what Bert’s old woman Elsie might have told anyone who would listen. She never stopped talking. And if do-gooders like the Lester sisters knew all his business, no wonder the bloody government and police did as well.
He wanted to punch something in his anger. The shop had been
a general store selling anything and everything. The first object in Nash’s immediate reach was a glass jar of sweets. The sugar shortage meant specialist sweet shops were a thing of the past. Punching it would make a nasty mess of his hand, and he suspected he was going to need both of his fists in full working order before the hour was out.
The moment of anger had passed. He took a deep breath and cleared his head. The problem he faced was simple. The opposition were there to pick up him and his two charges. Pemberton would probably escort Ruby away too, but she was essentially a side show.
What to do? He looked around the shop for inspiration. The owners of the shop had covered most of the fixtures and fittings with sheets. There was not much to see. But an open tin box full of big thick paint brushes took his eye. Could he sneak to the corner and throw one to draw Ruby’s attention. No, Ruby would have a policeman’s hawk-eyes watching her.
He noticed that the paint brushes were not stock. Some of them had paint on them. There was also a tradesmen’s set of steps; a large collapsible five-step A-frame affair. Its two legs had been pushed together and leaned against a wall. Next to it was a trestle table. There were tins of paint and rolls of wallpaper everywhere. When he had first opened the door to the shop, his nostrils had been assaulted by the smell of paint, turpentine and wallpaper paste, but such had been his concentration on the task at hand, he had barely registered it. He now realised that the owners were in fact still in business. They had been in the middle of decorating when they had probably gone down with the flu. Or perhaps they had called in decorators precisely because they were down with the flu. Having a shop closed for once, which was usually open all hours, was an ideal time to get the place spruced up. Inspiration duly arrived.
The procession was starting from the Gladstone statue, just a few yards along Bow Road from the shop. Six years earlier, Nash had been half way up a ladder, painting the hands of Gladstone red, when a stranger, one Sylvia Pankhurst, had appeared on the street looking for a property to rent. Inquisitive about the lack of respect being shown a politician she herself had little regard for, she had asked him what he was up to. He had informed her that he was painting the hands red to comment that Bryant & May, the local factory owners who had commissioned the statue, and Gladstone himself, had blood on their hands. The former had run effectively the largest sweat shop in Victorian England, and such a horror had taken place on Prime Minister Gladstone’s watch. Sylvia had been impressed and a conversation had ensued that included Nash pointing out that a suitable nearby shop was available for rent. It had been the start of Nash’s indoctrination into the Suffragette fold.
Nash now looked around the shop on the off chance that the decorators had left a pair of overalls behind. No luck. He probably wouldn’t have fitted into them anyway. He would have to do as he was. Having opened the back door of the shop, which led into an alley, he grabbed hold of a large white sheet and carefully draped it over his head and down his back. A mirror on the wall offered him a chance to peruse his handy work. He thought the man in front of him looked like something between a bride walking up the aisle and one of them Arab fellers. Perfect. You couldn’t see who he was unless you stood right in front of him. A large paint brush and a can of paint were tossed into a metal bucket, which was then picked up with one hand, before he slid the other through the steps and hauled them up on to his shoulder. Ready.
He walked down a couple of alleys and into Bow Road. It seemed almost compulsory for workman to whistle, so Nash played the role to the full. The crowd ignored the whistling workman as he set up for work, leaning his ladder against the statue. In the unlikely event of anyone giving him any mind, they would probably have assumed that the council were about to paint those red hands back to their original grey.
Ruby was doing her duty, walking around the periphery of the crowd, arms linked behind her back in the prescribed manner. She had not even noticed the workman nearby. She was too busy looking at Sergeant Granger, who had just hove into view.
Pemberton was patrolling the other side of the crowd, close to the sergeant. Granger must have seen his male constable but ignored him, and made a beeline for his copperette.
“WPC Nash,” he said, nodding in greeting. “We received information that this protest was going to be rather larger than anticipated. More than a two officer job clearly. But we’ve got so many off with the flu at the moment, I thought I’d get out from behind my desk, stretch the old legs and do a bit of crowd control myself for a change.”
“Thank you sergeant, it’s all very good natured at the moment as you can see,” said Ruby, looking around to add emphasis to her words. “But no doubt the sparks might fly a bit once we set off and people see what’s written on the placards.”
“Indeed,” said Granger. “Well, I’d better get along and introduce myself to the leaders of the march. Carry on WPC Nash.”
And with this, Granger disappeared into the throng, leaving Ruby suspicious. She had noticed that he did not look up to glance at the placards. He should have. It would have been natural enough for anyone to do so in response to what she had just conveyed, let alone a police sergeant charged with keeping order at a march full of placards that could incite trouble.
Nash kept an eye on this conversation while he went through the motions of a workman setting up. Thanks to the regular wallpapering work he had done at home, he had acquired the confident, efficient movements of the seasoned professional decorator. He draped the sheet between the top of the ladder and the statue, forming a thin white wall between himself and the crowd, while trying to keep one eye on the four government men. The numbers assembled for the march had become so large that it was becoming increasingly difficult to do this, but it also meant it was now very difficult for the opposition to keep an eye on his wife.
He was aware that when he walked into a crowded pub, the multi voices all drowned each other out. He couldn’t hear a word of what was being said. But should someone mention his name, or something else that was very specific to him, somehow his ears latched on to it. No doubt it was the same for everybody. And with this in mind, Nash waited for his wife to come within earshot. She needed to be close enough so he could speak to her without overly raising his voice. And simply calling out ‘Ruby’ would not be a good idea with so many prying ears about.
Nash used lots of old Cockney phrases. One was ‘Funny Cuts!’ The term was the name of a comic newspaper. He used it in the same way others might use ‘clever Dick!’ When his wife made a witticism at his expense, it was his retort of choice.
A long minute later, said wife wandered, deep in thought, close to the statue. Nash quickly flicked a glance around the crowd. None of the opposition appeared to be looking his or Ruby’s way.
“Funny Cuts! Don’t look round sharp!” said Nash, just loud enough to make sure his wife would hear it within the din of the crowd.
She might have stiffened a fraction. Or it could have been his imagination.
He need not have worried. Ruby had heard her husband and repelled the impulse to ignore his instruction. Instead, she looked casually across at Pemberton and caught him peering at her. He quickly turned and walked in the opposite direction, appearing for effect to busy himself doing a kindly policeman routine talking to a woman with a small child. Another casual tilt of the head had her focussing on Granger. His attention wasn’t on her. Rather, he was looking at the group of men she had noticed earlier, and one of them was looking directly back at him. Something was wrong.
Ruby looked back at Pemberton to ensure he had not returned his gaze, but he was still on his haunches with his back to her talking to a four year old, so she slowly turned and looked around the crowd as far as the statue. Her husband was glaring at her. He nodded almost imperceptibly over his shoulder for her to follow him.
******
As the procession set off, five men were gathered together in heated argument. There was quite a blame game goi
ng on. The government men were furious with the police in general and Sergeant Granger in particular. As far as they were concerned, it must have been Granger’s arrival that had spooked her. If he had not insisted on being there to arrest her himself, an act of pure indulgence, they would have got her and her conchie loving husband.
Now a decision had to be made. They had no interest in arresting the boy soldier in any case. His usefulness had only ever been in his potential for luring Nash to deliver him to the procession. But do they now cut their losses by going ahead and arresting the conchie? Or do they leave him as bait on the off chance that Nash will still attempt to help him escape?
Granger needed to check what to do with his superiors back at Leman Street. But he knew he was in trouble. He decided that he needed to pluck a rabbit out of a hat. He would act on his own initiative for once. It could not make matters any worse, and it just might save the day. And his bacon.
The sergeant had come to know that there was friction between his copperette and her landlord over the non-payment of rent. He now hoped to use this to his advantage.
The police were not allowed to enter someone’s home to arrest them. And Granger knew he must abide by the law. Breaking it would have the hot water in which he was already in, have its temperature raised to scalding, and might even result in some clever lawyer getting Nash off on some technicality. But the war’s Defence of the Realm Act, which was still in operation despite the end of hostilities, gave government men much more far-reaching powers.
Granger went to find Pemberton, who had sneaked off to have a lie down in the Black Maria which had been brought from Leman Street to take away their prisoners. Pemberton was not feeling well but Granger was far too stressed to worry about his constable’s well-being. He told Pemberton to hurry up and track down the Nashes’ landlord and tell him that he was urgently required to immediately go round and knock on his tenants’ door. Some government officials would be accompanying him.