by Vicary, Tim
‘Yes, she did. But that was a political act, it had nothing to do with . . .’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Silence. Why does this woman look so cool, as though she knows everything and feels nothing, Deborah wondered. Why did she tell me this story, anyway? Oh God, Jonathan. What did he know?
The blood singing in her ears was worse now. To calm herself, Deborah got up and walked across the room, twisting a little piece of her skirt unconsciously between her fingers. She felt her horror and disgust turn to anger suddenly – it was a blessed relief. She turned and almost shouted at Mrs Watson.
‘You were supposed to be looking after my sister, weren't you, Mrs Watson? As a sort of paid nurse? And you knew she was still weak from her last stay in prison. But you told her this horrible story about children being prostituted by this monster Armstrong who is a friend of her husband's . . .’
‘I didn't say that! Please, Mrs Cavendish, credit me with some sense!’
‘What did you say, then?’
‘I only answered her questions in the most general terms because she asked me, that's all. I didn't even know the name Armstrong at the time and I certainly had no idea that he was a friend of her husband. Of course, if I had known that, I would have been much more careful about what I told Sarah, given her state of health and knowing that she is, well . . .’
‘She is what?’
‘An impulsive, strong-minded woman, given to dramatic, forceful action on behalf of the movement.’
‘Exactly!’
The two women stared at each other. The anger was still trembling in Deborah and she had an ominous feeling that there was more to this, more than Mrs Watson had already told her. Why are men so foul, she thought. And why is this woman so calm? There are more threads to this story than I can follow yet. Where does Jonathan fit in?
‘You don't think my brother-in-law knew anything of this? You're not saying that, are you? It would be terrible!’
‘No.’ Still that infuriating calm. And something else – almost pity in the older woman's expression. ‘I have no reason to think that. Mrs Cavendish, I am sorry if I have shocked you.’
‘Then why did you tell me this?’
‘Why? Because of your brother-in-law's faith in Dr Armstrong, Mrs Cavendish. He said, if you remember, that Dr Armstrong had spoken to your sister and persuaded her to abandon her hunger-strike. And you implied that your brother-in-law believed this because he trusted Dr Armstrong. I had to make it clear to you why I do not believe it. Your brother-in-law has nothing to do with this story, as far as we know.’
As far as we know, Deborah thought bleakly. But it's not impossible, either. I could believe anything after the way he behaved the other night. She felt herself trembling, and clutched the back of a chair for support. Mrs Watson watched her, choosing her words carefully.
‘As I said, I had no idea before I came into this room that Mr Becket even knew Dr Armstrong. But when you told me he did, I felt it was my duty to make it clear that this friend of your brother-in-law's is not a trustworthy character. Especially since he claims to have persuaded Sarah to give up her hunger-strike. Added to which we both agree that it seems strange that Sarah should give up her hunger-strike for no apparent reason. That's all. I don't know why she's given it up, if she has. I'm just saying that I don't understand it and I'm not sure I believe it. And, since she's your sister, I believe you should know.’
‘Yes, of course. But . . .’ Once, when she was young and on holiday in Ulster, Deborah had gone for a swim in what she had thought was a calm mill-pond, only to go too near the leat and be caught in the swirl and rush of conflicting currents which swung her this way and that and threatened to suck her under and drown her. The same sense of shock and panic seethed her now. Charles had thrown her a rope to rescue her then, it was the first year she had met him. But this time . . .
‘Why should Dr Armstrong lie to Jonathan? Even if he is a scoundrel as you say he has no reason to do that. This business of the poor abused girls has nothing directly to do with my brother-in-law or Sarah, has it?’
‘Not so far as we know, no. But I wish now that I had not told Sarah about it. I assure you I would never have done so if had thought there had been any connection with anyone she knew.’
‘I see.’ Deborah wandered distractedly up and down the room for a moment longer, then sat down abruptly at the little table by the window opposite Mrs Watson. ‘No, I'm sure you wouldn't. I'm sorry. You meant well, I'm sure.’ She passed her hand distractedly across her brow. ‘But if you're saying Sarah hasn't given up her hunger-strike, then that means she'll be released soon, doesn't it? Otherwise she'll die.’
‘It does. And, to do men credit, they have not so far been barbaric enough to let any woman starve herself to death.’
‘So if I stay in London for a few more days I may see her after all. And then I can ask her if she knew anything about this dreadful business of Dr Armstrong — that is, if she is strong enough . . .’
‘Yes, perhaps.’ A slight frown creased Mrs Watson's forehead. ‘Unless, of course . . .’
‘What?’
‘Unless of course she has given up her hunger-strike. That's what worries me. Not because Dr Armstrong talked to her, but for some other reason. In which case your brother-in-law is quite right, she will stay in prison and no one will know what is happening to her for at least a month. And she was not a strong woman when she went in.’
Deborah searched the dark brown bespectacled eyes of the older woman for reassurance, but found only, beneath the surface calm, a reflection of her own anxiety and confusion. I shall have to find out more about this, she thought, before I go home to Charles.
‘Oh dear,’ she said at last. ‘Perhaps I will come to the WSPU offices with you, if I may. I should like to have a look in those files.’
20
LIGHT BEGAN to filter through the curtains. As it did so, it caught the colours of the material, and patterns of orange, green, yellow and blue appeared on the ceiling. Faintly at first, then more strongly as the sun came up. Sparrows began their relentless chirp outside, and dustbins clattered as the cooks in the hotel across the yard began their morning's work.
Five o'clock. Ruth Harkness sighed, and sat up in bed. It was Wednesday, her day off. She had hoped to sleep in until six, but in fact she had scarcely closed her eyes all night. If only George were back, she thought. He would know what to do. But her fiancé was visiting his sick mother in Berkshire, so he would not be back until Monday. Ruth had to decide on her own.
She gazed at the swirling patterns on the ceiling. The curtains were the first things she had made when she moved into her own two-room flat, and she had bought the best material she could afford from the market. When she had discovered the way the sunlight glowed through them and filled the room with colour, she had been delighted. The colours were a symbol of everything the flat meant to her — security, prosperity, a good job, the hope of a happy marriage in the future. Her own private rainbow.
Now all that was in danger, because of this wretched suffragette, Sarah Becket. For the hundredth time Ruth went over the interview with Dr Armstrong in her mind. She wanted to believe him. It was enormously tempting. He was a man, a doctor, a figure of authority. All you have to do is believe me, young woman, his voice said in her mind. Say nothing, and nothing will happen to you. You will keep your job. I may even put in a word to help you get promotion. You will have your happy home, your security, your marriage.
Founded on a lie.
The sun outside was obscured by a cloud, and the colours in Ruth's bedroom faded. She saw the damp stains discolouring the ceiling, the peeling wallpaper in the corner which she had tried to paste back a dozen times and which always came loose. So much work to do, so much money to save before she could really afford somewhere decent. And there, on the wall, the framed and embroidered text which George had given her for her birthday. ‘He that putteth his trust in The Lor
d, shall never be confounded.’
If I keep my mouth shut and do nothing, I shall be damned, Ruth thought. Perhaps nothing will happen and I shall marry and be prosperous but I shall know, all my life, that I turned and passed by on the other side of the road. I will have ignored, not an injured Samaritan, but little orphan girls who are being corrupted and abused, and a woman who is being forcibly fed.
But she's a madwoman, the doctor's voice inside her said. A liar, a slanderer, a sufferer from paranoid delusions. A woman who could perfectly well eat if she chose to. A militant suffragette — Oh, leave me alone! I don't know which is right! What am I going to do?
Ruth flung the bedclothes aside, got out of bed, poured some water into a basin from a jug beside her bed, and began to wash herself briskly. The cold water revived her. For a moment she felt fresh and healthy and forgot all about the torments in her mind. Then as she was soaping her neck and under her arms she caught sight of her breasts in the little cracked mirror and thought: Oh no. This is what the doctor was thinking of when he looked at me that time. He thought of me as a naked woman to exploit as he does those poor little girls.
It's because of that look that I know he's not telling the truth. It's not proof, any more than Sarah Becket has clear proof. I just know.
As she does.
Ruth got dressed and had breakfast and did her housework and went shopping — and still the dilemma was there. What to do. Who to approach for help. Which choice was the right one.
She boiled herself an egg at lunchtime but she could not eat it because it was slightly underdone and the white reminded her of the bile that had come out of Sarah Becket's mouth after the forcible feeding last night. Sarah had continued retching long after all the soup had come up. That woman will die of it if we go on, Ruth thought. Bromide treatment or not. She is being tortured. And I am one of the torturers.
At one o'clock she got up, put on her coat and a long scarf over her head like a factory girl, went out into the street and caught a tram. Half an hour later she was in Clements Inn. She walked up and down it for another half hour.
Each time she came near number 4, she screwed up her courage to go in, and failed. It was a double-fronted shop entrance with plate glass windows either side and a large clock projecting out into the street above the heads of the shoppers. The window frames and doors were painted blue and slightly tattered, as though they had been damaged by vandals. On the face of the clock, in place of the numbers and across the middle, were the letters VOTES FOR WOMEN. And in the shop window were dozens of posters, books, leaflets and newspapers, all proclaiming more or less the same message. There were also hats, scarves and handkerchiefs in the suffragette colours of purple, white and green.
As Ruth went past she saw a number of women going in and out. A few were well-dressed, but most, she saw with relief, wore quite ordinary, even dowdy clothes. There were a number of young girls who looked more like shop assistants or factory workers than anything else, as well as middle-aged matrons and the sort of women who might well have been running a small hospital or giving orders to half a dozen servants in their own homes. The distinguishing feature, Ruth thought, was the business-like, purposeful air they all had. A cheerful energy which suggested that there were a dozen vital things that had to be done and they all had to be finished now.
Ruth felt superfluous and embarrassed. I don't belong in there, she thought, I'm not like them at all. I might agree with their aim but certainly not with their methods. Most of them are militants — criminals, for heaven's sake!
They don't abuse children, though . . .
The fifth time she walked past, she turned and went in.
The door did not have a bell that rang when it opened, and nobody looked up when she came in. The inside of the shop was filled with a number of tables, piled high with books, newspapers, pamphlets, leaflets and clothes. Around and behind the tables women were writing, typing, reading or talking busily. They all seemed to belong and know exactly what they were doing.
Ruth almost walked straight out again.
‘Ah, good. Lucy Shaldon?’
‘Sorry?’
Ruth turned and looked into the face of a cheerful, fair-haired young woman of about twenty. There was a welcoming smile on her face and she was holding out a large bundle of copies of a newspaper called The Suffragette. She smiled and said: ‘These are yours.’
‘Why?’ Ruth stared at the newspapers in confusion.
‘To sell, of course.’ The young woman frowned. ‘I'm sorry, you are Lucy Shaldon, aren't you?’
‘No. No, I'm not.’
‘Oh, I do apologise. I've been waiting for her for twenty minutes and I was told she was tall, like you, so I just assumed . . .’ She laughed, a friendly, happy laugh that reassured Ruth despite her embarrassment. ‘You must think I'm a fool. I haven't seen you here before, that's all. Can I help you?’
‘Yes. I want . . .’ What did she want, really? Ruth had spent so much of her energy just deciding to walk through the door that she had not worked out exactly what she would say when she got in. She flushed and said: ‘I want to talk to someone about Sarah Becket.’
‘Oh.’ It was the young woman's turn to look surprised. ‘But I'm afraid you can't, you see. She's in prison.’
‘I know. I've seen her there. That's what I want to talk about.’
‘You've seen her in prison? Good heavens, I didn't realise. When did you get out?’
‘I didn't, exactly. I mean, I work there, I’m a wardress. Look, can I talk to someone — I mean, someone who knows her? It's very important.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. Just stay there.’
The young woman disappeared into the depths of the shop, and Ruth stood awkwardly beside the table with the pile of newspapers on it. All around her the women continued to talk and work energetically. Ruth glanced at the newspaper and saw the banner headline CABINET OF TORTURERS printed above a number of small photographs of the Prime Minister, Asquith, with Churchill and Lloyd George and his other government colleagues. She shuddered, and glanced away through the window. Two police constables were strolling along the pavement, observing the suffragette shop with considerable interest.
Those are my people, she thought desperately. What am I doing in here? This is all wrong.
Her feet began to edge their way towards the door. Then, when she had almost reached it, the cheerful fair-haired young woman reappeared, marching briskly towards her. Behind her was a middle-aged lady with glasses, and another woman. All three of them looked anxious and excited.
‘There she is, Mrs Watson,’ the young woman said. ‘Over there by the door!’
‘You say you saw her yesterday evening?’
‘Yes. I told you once already.’
‘At what time?’
‘Four o'clock, about. When we force fed her.’
Alice Watson shuddered and, beside her, Deborah Cavendish's eyes misted over with tears. The conversation was extraordinary, but so, from Deborah's point of view, was the entire day. She had begun the day thinking about her letter from Charles, and spent most of the rest of it in the WSPU headquarters with Alice Watson, looking through their files on prostitution. The evidence, she thought, was depressing, but lacking precise, relevant details. The name of Dr Armstrong cropped up once or twice, but there was nothing definite, nothing completely damning that would have held up in court. She began to wonder if Mrs Watson was blaming the man unjustly.
She had come to the suffragette headquarters with Mrs Watson expecting long tiresome arguments about the rightness of militant tactics, and had prepared what she thought were clear reasons why burning post boxes, smashing windows, and pouring weedkiller on golf courses — not to mention slashing the Rokeby Venus — were bad ideas. But none of that had been necessary. The women she had met had been friendly, open, talkative, but also brisk, extremely busy, and unnervingly sure of themselves. Since she was Sarah's sister, and had come with Alice Watson, they assumed that she supported their caus
e. In any case, to them, the necessity for militant action was so transparently obvious that it was not worth discussing. More important were the day's press, the points they were going to make in speeches that afternoon, and the most cogent articles from The Suffragette.
When she had read everything Alice Watson had to show her, Deborah sat for a while in an upstairs room, staring into space and thinking. She supposed she ought to be thinking about Sarah. Clearly Sarah was in a terrible position if this Martin Armstrong was as bad as Mrs Watson thought. But Deborah didn't see what she could do about it, other than warn Jonathan. And then what? The problem kept drifting away into the distance, and Deborah thought instead about Rankin walking away from her with his hands in his pockets, and the baby, growing inside her.
I am surrounded by women who might help, she thought despairingly, but I daren't say a word. I don't know any of them well enough and anyway, they might despise me. None of them would be so foolish or immoral as to do what I've done and get found out. And what help could they offer except tea and sympathy and gossip later behind my back?
I'm on my own.
No, you're not. There's me.
For the first time ever she thought of the baby inside her as the person it would become. It would have blue eyes at first and black hair, and then maybe the hair would stay black and the eyes shade to green. The skin would be sallow and smooth like Rankin's — and, whatever I've done, it will love me.
We're on our own, my baby. You and me against the world. Oh God what will Charles say when I tell him?
Suddenly, a young fair-haired woman, Mary Lemprier, to whom she'd been introduced earlier, burst into the room. She was bubbling with astounding news. A prison wardress from Holloway was actually downstairs, and she had seen Sarah Becket! Deborah gazed at her vaguely, and then dragged herself back into the present. This is what it is like, she thought, I remember with Tom. The longer the pregnancy goes on the more distant everything around you becomes. Of course it's very important that someone has news of Sarah but I can't feel it.