Dutifully, Polly kissed them each in turn – Great Aunt Millicent smelling of face powder and freesia perfume, Great Uncle Victor of pipe tobacco and coal-tar soap. “Quite the image of your mother!” her great aunt continued. “And she says you’re being such a help, in her confinement!”
“Am I?” Polly turned to her mother.
“Darling, of course you are.” Mama summoned Polly to stand beside her. “Miss Rutherford, I believe you’ve met my daughter Polly?”
“Yes, indeed. How do you do, Polly?” said Edwina. She was wearing a dress of aquamarine silk with the fashionable square neckline, her fair hair was sleekly dressed, and she looked quite at home in Mama’s elegant drawing room – as decorous as Mama could have wished.
“Very well, thank you.” Polly felt shy, as if this were a different Edwina from the one she had met before.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Rutherford,” Mama said. “I interrupted you. You were telling us about your acquaintance with the Earl of Belmont?”
“Oh yes. You see he’s a second or third cousin, or something like that. It was through another cousin of mine, Edward Holdsworth – do you know the Holdsworths of Eaton Square? – that I heard the flat was to fall vacant. He and the Belmonts know each other from shooting parties, and I’ve met them myself at the odd dinner party…”
Polly sat on a stool and listened with amazement as Edwina played the part of the perfect drawing-room guest, giving no hint of the passions that drove her. So fascinating was the impersonation that Polly had accepted and eaten a slice of coffee cake before she remembered her hunger strike. She could imagine Mrs. Dalby – and even her mother – at the haberdashery counter of Peter Jones, remarking loudly, “Our new neighbour’s a cousin of the Earl of Belmont – our landlord, don’t you know. Yes, we had tea together just the other day.”
When Edwina had finished explaining about the flat, Maurice’s mother ventured, “What a pity your friend, Miss Cross, wasn’t able to join us! Now tell me – I’m not quite clear what her role is. Is she your secretary, maybe?”
Edwina gave a gentle smile. “No – I am not her employer. She is my friend – we share the flat, and work together.”
“Oh! At what kind of work?”
“We are campaigners for women’s suffrage,” said Edwina.
She spoke matter-of-factly, but Polly’s eyes darted quickly round the room to take in everyone’s reactions. Mama’s hostess smile hardly wavered, but Mrs. Dalby shot her a keen, almost triumphant glance, signalling wait-till-we-discuss-this-later. Great Uncle Victor took a sharp breath, and clutched his walking stick more tightly. “Well!” said Great Aunt Millicent, closing her eyes as if needing to assimilate the news in private.
Mrs. Dalby was first to recover. “And what exactly,” she asked, silky-smooth, “might this campaigning consist of?”
Chapter Seven
That Sort of Person
Gossip, gossip, gossip! It must be Meredith Dalby’s favourite pastime, Polly thought. She couldn’t imagine anything more pointless.
When everyone left, at the end of the tea party, Mrs. Dalby wished Edwina a cold “good day”, and went downstairs to her own flat, only to return half an hour later. Polly wasn’t at all surprised. She guessed the reason: to discuss Edwina with Mama, in private. The two women settled in the drawing room, side by side on the sofa, and Mama rang the bell to order a fresh pot of tea from Mrs. Parks. They never seemed to tire of drinking tea and talking.
“Well, my dear!” Mrs. Dalby told Mama, with a trophy-hunter’s relish. “You’ll never guess what I’ve just found out from my Elsie! She’s been talking to their maid, and she said—”
Polly was supposed to be practising the piano, but with Mrs. Dalby and Mama in firm occupation of the drawing room, she had the perfect excuse for slacking. The door was ajar; as soon as Mrs. Parks had taken in the tea, Polly stood just outside, anxious not to miss a single word of Mrs. Dalby’s revelations.
“Holloway Prison…violent conduct in the street, attacking a policeman, if you can believe it!” Mrs. Dalby went on, in shocked delight.
“Meredith! No!”
“It’s true, I assure you! Only out on licence…may well end up back there…yes, really, my dear!… A meeting there the other night…posters and leaflets everywhere, a sort of headquarters…well, who knows? Weapons, a bomb factory? You know some of these women will stop at nothing, they’re quite fanatical… What if the police raid the premises?… She’s been completely disowned by her parents, Elsie told me…they’re related to the Rutherfords at Kew…and I can’t say I’m the slightest bit surprised… Yes, completely unsuitable…and enticing Polly up there!”
A startled sound from Mama: Polly shrank back, though her ears strained for what Mrs. Dalby said next.
“Oh yes! Maurice told me. He was with Polly in the garden, when one of them called to her from the window and invited her in, and of course – such a docile little thing she is! – she trotted straight up there.”
Polly felt herself going hot all over. Docile little thing! She wasn’t entirely sure what docile meant, but would find out later. As for Maurice – what a tattle-tale, running straight to his mother to tell on her! She’d have something to say to him tomorrow –
But Mrs. Dalby hadn’t finished yet. “My dear, you must put your foot down very firmly! I can’t get over the nerve of her, Miss Airs and Graces, sitting there as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, going on about the Earl of Belmont! I should think he’d disown her too, if he had the slightest inkling what she’s up to! I shall write to him personally…it’s quite disgraceful, so inconsiderate to the rest of us… And the other one, who I’m not surprised didn’t even show her face, is from the East End. From Bethnal Green, my dear! No doubt thinks herself a very clever little minx, wheedling herself into the favours of Her Ladyship up there…”
Polly listened, appalled, barely recognizing Violet and Edwina from these caricatures. Mama, hardly able to get a word in, made occasional murmurs of assent or outrage.
At last there were sounds of Mrs. Dalby rising to her feet, preparing to leave; quickly Polly scuttled to her bedroom, almost bumping into Mrs. Parks, who said nothing but wagged a finger at her, knowing she’d been eavesdropping.
As soon as the door closed behind Mrs. Dalby, Polly confronted her mother.
“Mama! She came back to tell you things about Edw – about Miss Rutherford,” she corrected herself. “Didn’t she? I know she doesn’t like them – but you can’t believe everything she says! You know it’s only gossip!”
Mama put a hand to her back. “But how much of it is gossip? You know the saying – there’s no smoke without fire. Is it true that you went up to Flat Three, and didn’t see fit to tell me about it?”
Polly was silent; Mama gave her a reproachful look. “I’m afraid, darling, it looks as if you haven’t been very truthful. Have you? I really don’t want you to come into contact with that sort of person. Most unfortunate that they live in the same building. Yes, it was I who invited Miss Rutherford here – but that was before I knew.”
“Well,” Polly retorted, “I like That Sort of Person – far better than I like Mrs. Dalby’s Sort of Person. All she does is—”
“Polly!” her mother said sharply. “I will not have you speak to me like that, nor show such disrespect to Mrs. Dalby!”
“Sorry,” Polly mumbled. But it was true. She did like Violet and Edwina far more than she liked Maurice’s mother, even though she’d only just met them. Edwina and Violet were interesting! They thought differently from other people. They cared nothing for decorum or what was expected of them. She tried again. “They’re my friends! I like them! You’re not going to stop me being friends with them, are you?”
“Friends? Now you’re just being ridiculous,” Mama said sharply. “You’ve only known them a matter of days. Do you think women like those are likely to be interested in someone your age, a schoolgirl?”
But they are, Polly thought mutinously. The
y are interested in me, and not only because I’ve promised to help them. Nothing could have been more flattering than to be asked. There could be no question of going back on her word.
“We’ll wait and see what your father has to say,” Mama said firmly. “Now I really must rest, and I suggest you do your piano practice. You’ve been skimping it lately, haven’t you?”
Wait-and-see-what-your-father-has-to-say was usually a bad sign. When he came home from the bank just after six, he and Mama retired to the drawing room with their before-dinner sherry – this time with the door firmly closed. By the time they came out, Papa had made a New Rule.
“Polly, I have told your mother that I will not have you consorting with those women upstairs. If you meet them coming in or out, you may nod, and wish them a polite ‘good morning’, or ‘good afternoon’; but that is all.”
“But—”
“Don’t answer me back, young lady! I have made a Rule, and I expect you to follow it. If your mother had had any idea what this Miss Rutherford is really like, she would never have considered inviting her into our home. I’m very shocked to hear you’ve been up to their flat without permission – don’t let me hear of such a thing again.”
At dinner Polly gazed gloomily at her plate. She wasn’t hungry; she might as well have gone all day without eating, after all.
“Don’t pick at your food, Polly,” her mother reproved. “And sit up straight. If you can’t be cheerful, at least remember your table manners.”
Do this, don’t do that. Be a good girl. Do as you’re told. Sometimes it seemed this was all she ever heard.
What now? She couldn’t let down Edwina and Violet, after promising to help them; couldn’t simply say my parents won’t let me. Not to someone who’d rather go to prison than do as she was told!
Don’t let me hear of such a thing again…those were Papa’s precise words.
Don’t let me hear…
The more his phrase echoed in her head, the more it seemed to offer another meaning. Funny, Polly thought, how you could bend words when you tried. Do it, but don’t let Papa find out. All right then! Since that was what he wanted…
After dinner she remembered to look up docile in Papa’s big dictionary.
Easily led or taught, it said; obedient.
Puh! went Polly. She slammed the heavy dictionary shut. Obedient? Easily led? We’ll see about that.
Chapter Eight
Dog at Heel
For years and years, ever since Polly had started at The Mary Burnet School, she and Lily had been escorted to and fro: at first by their nanny, later by one or other of the mothers. Only for the last year and a half had they been allowed to go unaccompanied. Officially, now that Lily was gone, Polly was supposed to walk to school and back with Maurice, but she usually tried to avoid him. This was easy to do, as the way in and out of the first- and second-floor flats was from Flood Street at the side. Only the Dalbys’ ground-floor flat had the grand Chelsea Walk entrance, through the iron gates and up the steps to the massive front door. Mama sighed with envy over Flat Number One’s splendour, but Polly preferred being on the first floor, at tree-height, even if it meant going in and out the side way.
Although she tried to give Maurice the slip, he sometimes lurked in wait for her. On Tuesday morning, in Royal Hospital Road, he ran up behind her and tugged at one of her pigtails.
“You’d better watch it, Pegs, being friends with jailbirds! It might be infectious!” He was still panting from the run to catch her up.
“Better stay away from me, then,” Polly said crossly, straightening her straw boater. “Anyway, that’s all you know.”
“It’s true! My mother said!”
“Your mother doesn’t know everything. She makes half of it up if you ask me, just to have something to gossip about.” Dodging round a dairy cart, Polly crossed to the other side of the road, but Maurice trotted behind her like a spaniel at heel. She rounded on him, remembering. “And what she doesn’t know, you tell her! Why are you such a beastly tell-tale? Had you run out of slugs and toads to play with?”
Maurice stared at her open-mouthed. “Well, I didn’t know it was telling tales! How was I to know you weren’t supposed—”
“Aren’t you a bit old to be telling your mother everything?” Polly was in no mood to listen. “Does she have to tell you what to think? Mind your own business, next time! And your Elsie’s just as bad, spreading rumours—”
“It’s all of our business, my mother says – we live in the same house. All the same,” Maurice said, kicking a stone along the gutter, “it’s a lot more interesting than your friend lily-white, living with jailbirds!”
“I wish Lily could have stayed, and you’d moved out!” Polly marched on, hoping to shake Maurice off, especially when she saw two other boys in dung-brown blazers standing by the entrance to the Royal Hospital Gardens.
“I wonder if they’ll—” he began, still at her shoulder, keeping pace.
She surprised him into silence by turning abruptly to face him. “Good dog, Maurice! Here, boy!” she called, loudly enough for the other boys to hear. “Sit! Good boy!”
“Oh, what’re—”
The two boys had heard, just as she planned, and now Maurice was the centre of attention. “Ruff! Ruff!” barked the taller boy, while the other held up his hands like paws, and lolled his tongue out, panting. Maurice’s face turned bright red, clashing horribly with his ginger hair.
Ha! Served him right. Abandoning him to their taunts, Polly marched on towards Norton Terrace.
By the end of the afternoon, turning into Wellington Square for her music lesson with Mrs. Langrish, Polly couldn’t help but feel optimistic. It was the vacation – weeks and weeks of it stretched ahead, day after long summer day. And, in August, a seaside holiday in Folkestone; that would be fun. Meanwhile, at home, no one could watch her every minute of the day, and it wasn’t as if she had to escape from the house to see Violet and Edwina – only tiptoe up the stairs, or talk to them in the garden.
Polly thought of Mrs. Langrish as Aunt Dorothy, even though she was Lily’s aunt, not hers. She lived in one of the elegant white houses that lined Wellington Square, off the King’s Road. She was waiting on the doorstep, waving a folded sheet of notepaper.
“Polly! I saw you coming down the Square. Such wonderful news!”
Polly had always liked Lily’s aunt. A widow with no children of her own, she doted on her niece, and loved planning picnics, outings and surprise treats. She was small, lively and round-faced – probably older than Mama, with little lines around her eyes, but she was so full of enthusiasm that you could easily think she was younger. “Look! This letter came this morning!” She flourished it gaily. “Dear Lily’s coming to stay, in a fortnight, for a whole week! Isn’t that marvellous – I know you must be missing her even more than I am. You can read what she says before we start our lesson.”
Aunt Dorothy wasn’t nearly as strict a piano teacher as Polly’s parents liked to imagine, and only scolded Polly very mildly for her lack of practice when she blundered through the mazurka she was supposed to have learned. “We’ll try again next week, and you can practise every day in the meantime. Lily will have been doing even less, if I know her. We’re going to have such fun when she comes to stay!”
An hour later, arriving home, Polly found a letter awaiting her, from Lily, with the same news.
“That will cheer you up!” said Mama, who was obviously trying to pretend that yesterday hadn’t happened. It’ll put that suffragette nonsense out of your head! she was quite obviously thinking, as clearly as if a caption had unscrolled itself in the air above her.
Polly’s view was different. Lily would be her ally, and it would be just as if she had never gone away. Polly might have to do a bit of persuading, but she and Lily always did things together, whenever they could. With Lily staying, there would be all sorts of excuses for outings and picnics. Hyde Park was the obvious place for a picnic, wasn’t it? And maybe Poll
y would just happen to discover that she had a banner packed with her sandwiches instead of a napkin: a banner of purple, white and green.
Chapter Nine
Quarrel
“I’ve come to help with the banners,” Polly said, at the door to Flat Three.
It was Edwina who had answered her ring. “Hello, Polly! Good of you to come back so soon.” She didn’t seem at all surprised; but then she didn’t know what a dreadful gossip Mrs. Dalby was, or how indiscreet Kitty had been. In the drawing room, she pulled out a large fabric-stuffed bag from behind an armchair. “Violet’s in charge of this really, but I know she’s cut out some letters ready. Here are some of the banners, already sewn together.” She pulled out a broad band, made from long strips of purple and green. “The letters are white, you see – they’ll spell out VOTES FOR WOMEN, and WE DEMAND THE RIGHT TO VOTE. You’d better pin the letters on first, to get the spacing right. Here’s Violet’s sewing box” – she flipped open the lid – “with everything you need. Will you excuse me while I finish this article? I must get it in the post for tomorrow. Then I’ll sew with you.”
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