“Should be locked up, the lot of you!” someone else shouted. And one of the marching women called back, “We will be, if that’s what it costs!”
Polly felt herself bubbling inside with pride and excitement, willing to march for miles and miles. She would hop on one foot, if necessary! The taunters were on the other side of the railings; she was on this side, surrounded by strong-minded women. She would do it. Nothing would stop her now. She was marching with the suffragettes, and she felt that nothing in her life so far had been as worthwhile.
Chapter Fourteen
Caught
By the time the procession had passed through the park, and was moving down Sloane Street, it had attracted attention of various kinds. A group of boys ran up and down the length of the column, screaming taunts; someone threw a tomato, which burst squashily against one of the poster boards and left a juicy trail of pips on the hats of the two nearest women; some bystanders laughed, or just turned to stare. But others applauded, or shouted, “Good luck to you!”
Polly had not seen Lily or Aunt Dorothy since the marchers had moved off. By now, she was trying to squash a feeling of guilty unease beneath her excitement. The urge to join the marchers had been so irresistible that she’d almost forgotten what she’d told Aunt Dorothy about just looking, or about walking only a little way. Where were they? Somewhere behind, she assumed – but they would be worried, having lost her in the scuffle at Speaker’s Corner. How was she going to find them again? A woman walking beside her asked kindly, “Excuse me, my dear, but I can’t help feeling anxious – are you all on your own? Is your mother not with you?”
“No,” Polly replied; “I’m with my friend and her aunt. They’re coming along behind.”
“And you seem to be limping – have you blistered your foot, dear, with all this walking?”
Polly shook her head and shrugged off the sympathy, but felt a little less alone. This woman was quite old, older than Polly’s grandmother, with white hair and a lined face, but was striding out as purposefully as anyone.
In the King’s Road, people came out of shops and stood in doorways to watch. The procession took up the width of the street, bringing traffic to a standstill. Whether Polly looked ahead or behind, all she could see was a mass of heads, beribboned hats, the banners proclaiming VOTES FOR WOMEN, and the placards bobbing like marker buoys in a harbour. At the Town Hall – the grand new building with its classical pillared entrances and its gilded clock – everything became a little confused. Everyone wanted to get as close to the steps as possible, but the helmeted heads of policemen could be seen above the crush of people, intent on keeping the roadway clear so that the Mayor and his guests could enter the building. Afraid of being knocked over again, Polly found a safe place to stand, on the corner of Chelsea Manor Street, which gave her a good view of the proceedings. It had been hot and tiring, walking in the heat; she felt sweat trickling inside her blouse, her feet unbearably hot, and now that she had stopped walking, her ankle was throbbing painfully enough to make her feel sick. Maybe she had injured it more badly than she thought after all, and all the walking was making it worse.
For the first time she saw Violet, with a group standing on the far side of the entrance. One of them held a large sealed letter, for the Mayor, Polly presumed. Of Lily and Aunt Dorothy there was no sign, but if they had been towards the back of the procession it would be difficult for them to get anywhere near the Town Hall steps.
Numbers of police now formed a semi-circular barricade to keep the entrance clear. Guests were starting to arrive, walking from taxicabs drawn up as close as they could get – gentlemen in tail coats and bow ties, and jewelled ladies in evening dresses, some wrapped in shawls in spite of the evening’s warmth. They picked their way carefully, guided by police; some gave disdainful looks at the mass of women. Polly saw that the kind white-haired woman who had spoken to her on the march had positioned herself close enough to the police cordon to reach out an arm and offer a leaflet to each person who approached the entrance. Most simply ignored her; one man accepted a leaflet and gave it a disparaging glance before crumpling it in his hand and tossing it to the ground. Only one of the guests, a gracious-looking woman in dark red with a tasselled silk wrap, took a leaflet and smiled her thanks before being guided up the steps by a policeman.
Polly knew that everyone was waiting for the Mayor himself – or was he already inside? She was hoping for a magnificently grand entrance. Maybe he would arrive in a carriage drawn by six black horses, and would be resplendent in scarlet, bedecked with chains of office. But now everything was happening at once. She saw Violet, with two other women, duck beneath the arms of the unsuspecting policemen to rush for the steps, Violet in the lead, holding the sealed letter. A stir of excitement rippled through the waiting crowd. The liveried footman at the door gave a yell, and a constable leaped up to tackle Violet from behind.
“Listen to our demands!” someone yelled, and more voices joined in with, “Votes for women!”
Another voice shrilled through the chanting. “Polly! Polly!” It was Aunt Dorothy, trying to move towards her from the other side of the police cordon; Polly glimpsed Lily’s anxious face beside her, straining to see. Now more guests were arriving, two gentlemen and a woman; Violet and her two companions had been bundled to one side of the entrance. Polly stood undecided, while Aunt Dorothy called again, more urgently.
The new guests passed so close that she registered a waft of flowery perfume. The taller of the two men, dressed in dinner jacket and black tie like the others, stopped in astonishment before reaching the steps.
“Polly! What, in God’s name—”
Polly’s heart pounded; she swayed, and put a hand against the wall to steady herself. Of all people, she had not expected to see Papa.
Chapter Fifteen
Disgrace
When Papa was displeased, he seemed to Polly like a cold stranger. This time he was more than displeased; he was almost white with anger. And the person he was most angry with was Aunt Dorothy.
He had excused himself from the Mayor’s reception and led Polly down the King’s Road, hailing the first taxicab he saw. Aunt Dorothy hurried after them to explain, but all Papa said, tight-lipped and aloof, was: “My wife and I entrusted you with the care of our daughter, and you brought her to this – this scrimmage. That’s as much as I need to know. We will discuss this tomorrow.”
What made it even worse was that Polly’s ankle had now stiffened badly, after all the walking and then standing still, and she could barely hobble, supported by her father’s arm. At home, there was more shock and dismay from Mama, a barrage of questions, and Polly was made to sit on the sofa with her ankle propped on a cushioned footstool, while Dr. Mayes was summoned, and Mrs. Parks fetched cold flannels. Her injury at least protected her from the worst of Papa’s wrath, but she could not hold back the hot tears that spilled down her cheeks. The dizzy excitement of earlier this evening had turned to this – pain, anger, difficult explanations.
“So,” Papa persisted, “That Woman” (for this was what Aunt Dorothy had now become) “deliberately deceived us, led us to believe you were spending a quiet evening at her home with Lily, then led you into that street brawl?”
“No! It wasn’t her fault!” Polly said hotly. “It was all my idea – I wanted to go, and I persuaded her to take us – and I promised to stay with her and not get into trouble—”
“Mrs. Langrish must take the blame, though, Polly,” said Mama. “She was in charge of you, and Lily. I don’t imagine Lily’s parents will be at all pleased when they hear about it, either. It really was very irresponsible of Mrs. Langrish, when she must have known that neither we nor Lily’s parents would have allowed it.”
“It’s utterly disgraceful!” Papa almost spat the words. “Your mother must find you another piano teacher, Polly – and I shall call tomorrow to tell That Woman exactly what I think of her conduct. I’m surprised she isn’t more careful of her reputation.”
> “As for letting you tramp miles through the streets with a sprained ankle—” Mama bent to examine it again, shaking her head.
“She didn’t! I didn’t even tell her, and I set off ahead of her and Lily so that she wouldn’t find out.”
Papa’s expression became even sterner. “So you were unaccompanied on the march? Polly, this is sounding worse and worse.”
They were interrupted by the arrival of Dr. Mayes, who examined Polly’s ankle, turning it this way and that, and asked her to wriggle her toes.
“Nothing broken,” he pronounced. “But you’ve wrenched it badly. There will be bruising and swelling, nothing worse. Rest for you, young lady, until the swelling starts to subside, and cold compresses will help. I’d give her some hot, sweet tea now, for the shock,” he added to Mama.
In bed at last, uncomfortably turning her ankle this way and that to avoid the pressure from the bedclothes, Polly realized that she had scarcely given a thought to Violet or Edwina. Edwina had been driven away in the van, presumably back to Holloway; but what of Violet, last seen in the grip of a policeman at the entrance to the Town Hall? Polly listened intently for any creak of floorboards from the flat above, but heard nothing. How was she to find out? It would be no use asking Mama or Papa, and there was no chance of going upstairs. What if Violet had been arrested, too? And as for Lily – Polly had no idea how she was going to see Lily again, before she left for Tunbridge Wells. Her parents had made it clear that she wasn’t going anywhere, not even downstairs for tea with Maurice. It would be awful for Lily’s stay to end like this, without even the chance to say goodbye to each other.
In the morning her foot had stiffened so badly that she could only hop. She was excused going to church, but her parents went as usual, leaving her in Mrs. Parks’ charge. “You’re not to move from this sofa,” Mama instructed, handing her a prayer book. “And since you can’t come with us, I suggest you spend the time reading this instead.”
Polly was unable to concentrate on reading the Prayer Book or anything else. Smells of roasting meat drifted in from the kitchen, and she could hear Mrs. Parks humming as she worked, clattering pans, setting the table in the dining room. After gazing at a single page for some minutes without taking in a word of it, an idea occurred to her.
Still humming cheerfully in a way she would never do if Polly’s parents were at home, Mrs. Parks entered the room with a glass of milk and a sugared biscuit for Polly.
“Mrs. Parks,” Polly asked, “do you ever talk to Kitty – you know, the maid upstairs?”
“Indeed I do,” replied Mrs. Parks, plumping up the sofa cushions. “She’s my niece.”
“Your niece!”
It had never occurred to Polly to think about Mrs. Parks’ family life. She was an indispensable part of the household, the person who made sure there was food in the larder, meals on the table, and freshly laundered clothes to wear, and that was as far as Polly usually considered. Now that she thought about it, she had a vague idea that Mrs. Parks had a son, and presumably a husband.
“It was through me Kitty got that job,” Mrs. Parks continued. “I knew the young ladies was looking for a maid-housekeeper, and I thought it would suit Kitty, so I spoke to them about her. She’s very happy with them. Now, I must start cooking the vegetables, or there won’t be any dinner.”
All these lives going on, Polly thought, so close to her own, yet she knew so little about them! “Mrs. Parks,” she said, “can you do something for me? Can you find out from Kitty what happened to Violet and Edwina yesterday? I don’t know if Violet’s come home – whether she’s—”
Mrs. Parks glanced out of the open window. “Here’s your ma and pa now, with the Dalbys – I must get on. Yes, all right, Miss Polly,” she added in a low voice. “I’ll do my best.”
Polly picked up the prayer book, arranged herself demurely on the sofa and pretended to be absorbed in reading. It would take a few moments for Mama and Papa to go round to the side entrance and up the stairs. While she composed herself, she heard loud voices in the front garden: several of them, voices raised in dispute, and one that sounded like Lily’s. She swung herself off the sofa and limped painfully to the window.
Her parents, with Mr. and Mrs. Dalby and Maurice, were inside the wrought-iron gates; they must be going in with the Dalbys, as they occasionally did, for a glass of sherry. Outside, trying to come through, were Aunt Dorothy and Lily. Papa had pushed the gates closed.
“I will not allow it!” Tall, haughty, he barred the way. “Please leave the premises. Polly is not well enough for visitors, and I don’t want her to see Lily again during her stay. That is to be her punishment.”
“O-oh!” Lily wailed. “Please let me come in, only for a few minutes! I’m going home today, and it’s my last chance!”
“I have said no, Lily, and no is what I mean. I have no intention of arguing about it in the public street.”
“We only wanted to see how she is, and bring her bag back!” Aunt Dorothy tried.
Papa reached for the bag. “Thank you,” he said coldly; then closed and latched the gates. “Mrs. Langrish, I give you notice that we will be finding another piano teacher for Polly. I have forbidden her to return to Wellington Square. Good day.”
Mama hadn’t said a word. She followed Papa as he turned towards the door, following the Dalbys. Aunt Dorothy and Lily stood for a few moments, looking at them over the fence; then, as Polly watched, they turned away.
Polly opened the window wider. “Lily!” she shouted.
Lily stopped and looked round; Polly saw that she was crying.
“Polly!” Papa turned to face the first-floor window, his face rigid with anger. “Close that window at once!”
“I’ll write to you!” Polly yelled to Lily.
“Did you hear me, young madam!” Papa wasn’t shouting; he spoke in what was almost a stage whisper, but Polly heard him clearly enough.
“Best do what your pa says, lovey,” said Mrs. Parks’ quiet voice behind her. “You don’t want to go asking for even more trouble.”
Chapter Sixteen
Seaside Holiday
Polly was bored with staying indoors. She had been forbidden to go out, partly because of her swollen ankle, partly as punishment; and of course Papa was even crosser with her, now that she had defied him by shouting from the window. She played the piano, badly and half-heartedly; she wrote a letter to Aunt Dorothy to say she was sorry, and one to Lily, and asked Maurice to post them for her in secret. No one came to see her, apart from Maurice; no Lily, no Aunt Dorothy, and no chance at all of speaking to Violet. Lily had gone back to Tunbridge Wells, leaving Polly with no idea when she was ever going to see her again. Everything had gone dull and flat since the march. And, as Mrs. Parks reminded her, the suffragettes had been campaigning for years for the vote; why should they succeed now?
Wasn’t it exciting, though? Lily wrote from Tunbridge Wells. Even if we did get into trouble. Even if you did go marching off on your own and didn’t even wait for me, which was rather bad of you, frankly. But I will be generous and believe that you were overwhelmed by the occasion. Your papa was really quite beastly about it, but my mother says she will write to him herself and tell him that it was partly my fault for persuading Aunt Dorothy, and she thinks that if she asks really nicely he will relent and let you come and stay with us for two weeks later on. He and your mother will be completely taken up with the new baby, Mama says, so they will be glad to have you off their hands.
The thought of the new baby taking up everyone’s attention did little to improve Polly’s mood. Bored, hot and sulky, she looked out of the dining-room window. Even the garden looked past its best: wilting in the heat, the roses dropping faded petals, the grass browning. Preparations were now being made for Folkestone – clothes sorted, trunks packed – but Polly could not even look forward to that, very much. Her parents’ disapproval had now reached a third stage. Their first reaction had been concern for her injury, their anger directed at A
unt Dorothy; after Dr. Mayes’ visit, Polly herself had received the full blast of her father’s disapproval, in the form of several lectures on disobedience and its consequences. Now, that phase was over, and it seemed to be agreed that Polly’s misdemeanour would never be mentioned again, but there was a chilly politeness in the air that was almost worse than being punished.
The only good thing was that Mrs. Parks had kept her promise by finding out what had happened to Violet. In response to Kitty’s enquiries, Violet sent a note, which Polly kept hidden in her handkerchief drawer. She had written:
Dear Polly,
I am so sorry to hear you have hurt your ankle. Consider it an honourable injury. We were very pleased with the numbers attending our march, and very grateful to you for coming, even though it turned out badly for you. Although we did not gain admittance to the Town Hall, I did give my letter and petition to an official who promised me he would deliver it personally to the Lord Mayor. Edwina, as you probably saw, was re-arrested and taken back to Holloway, where I shall visit her as soon as it is allowed. I am sure she will resume her hunger strike and will be released when the prison authorities think she is too weak to continue.
We are so grateful for your support, Polly, as I know it is difficult for you. If I can see a chance of speaking to you in the garden, I will come down; if not I can send you notes through Kitty to let you know when Edwina is home. I hope your ankle heals quickly and that you have an enjoyable stay at Folkestone. Do let me know when you return.
With sincerest good wishes,
Your friend,
Violet Cross
Polly showed the letter to Maurice, who had become, oddly, a sort of ally. He was rather impressed by the way Polly had contrived to go on the march, and by Edwina’s arrest.
“Did they really put handcuffs on her, and haul her off to the van?”
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