“Yes – and Violet could easily have got herself arrested, too,” Polly told him. “Not for doing anything bad, like attacking someone – just for trying to give a petition to the Lord Mayor!”
“My mother’s written another letter to the Earl of Belmont, to say those two shouldn’t be allowed to live here. He answered her first one, but didn’t say he was going to do anything about it.”
Polly looked at him. “Did you hope he would? Did you think he’d turn up here and throw them out onto the street?”
“’Course not. Well,” Maurice conceded, “I might have hoped for that at first, but now I think it’s interesting, having them here. I’d be sorry if they left. What if Edwina dies? How many times can you starve yourself?”
“I don’t know.” Polly was unsure whether hunger striking would get easier each time, or harder.
Meanwhile, her parents were behaving as if Edwina and Violet simply didn’t exist; as if it would be shameful even to mention them. Maurice and Polly agreed that it was quite ridiculous, the way grown-ups behaved sometimes. Polly trusted Maurice, by now, not to tell his mother about Violet’s letter. It was fun, sharing secrets. With Lily gone, Maurice would have to do.
“You might send me a postcard from the seaside,” Maurice said, “and bring me back a stick of rock.”
“Yes, all right.”
“Make sure you get back before the war starts,” Maurice warned.
“You and your war!” Polly teased. “You’ll be disappointed if it all comes to nothing! Go and play with your soldiers.”
“It won’t,” Maurice said. “You only have to look at the newspapers.”
In Folkestone there would not even be Maurice, and although there would be sea and sand, Polly did not see how she was going to enjoy them much, on her own, unable to walk far, and with Mama resting each afternoon. If only Lily could come!
London was so hot and dusty that Polly began to think longingly of rain and fog, of winter nights and drawn curtains, of frost patterns on the windowpanes. It was a relief, at last, to be on the train to Folkestone, looking out at meadows and hills, woods and cornfields and orchards, oast houses with their pointy white hats that Papa said were called cowls, and the sweep of the North Downs. Mama sat fanning herself, half dozing; occasionally her head would nod with sleep till she blinked awake again to gaze uncomprehendingly out of the window. Polly had started a new book, Little Women, given to her by Mama. She had finished Under Desert Skies, and would have preferred to choose something else from Edwina’s crammed bookshelves, but as that was impossible she was reading Mama’s choice. She had expected it to be all about girls behaving nicely, and indeed Meg and Beth always did, but she found an unexpected fictional ally in spirited Jo. With her ambition to be an author, Jo was a character Edwina would approve of.
Papa was engrossed in The Times. The front page was full of news about armies mobilizing, and ultimatums.
“Papa,” Polly asked, “what’s an ultimatum, please?”
He lowered the newspaper. “It’s a final demand. It means giving someone a last chance to do something, or face reprisals.”
“What are reprisals?”
“Reprisals are – well, a sort of punishment. The consequences of doing something, or of not doing something.” He gave her a significant look.
“Is there going to be a war?” Polly asked, not wanting the conversation to take a personal turn.
“Oh, it’s not settled yet,” said Papa, in his wait-and-see voice.
At Folkestone they settled themselves into a boarding house on the seafront. The other family staying there had two children much younger than Polly, to her disappointment, and their own nursemaid to look after them. There were strolls along the promenade, a band concert, and on one afternoon a troupe of jugglers and acrobats in the park. Best of all, there was the sea. Polly never tired of it: the ever-changing light, the saltiness on her lips and in her hair, the mesmerizing sound of the waves, the crunch of stones as the undertow sucked back. The gulls screamed with a sound that was at once restless and soothing. She could see ships far out in the Channel, and sometimes, hazily, the coast of France. How odd that it was so near: nearer, Papa said, than home was.
There were soldiers, too, in Folkestone, marching to or from nearby barracks in their khaki uniforms, accompanied by officers on horseback. Polly thought of Maurice. GERMANY DECLARES WAR ON FRANCE was all over the newspaper billboards, in big letters. Papa went out early each morning to buy his copy of The Times, and would not go to the promenade or beach till he had read it.
“If there’s war between Germany and France, will we be in it?” Polly asked him.
“Well, you see, we’re part of a treaty that says Belgium is neutral. If Germany invades Belgium we’ll be drawn into the conflict.”
It was like a new language, all this talk of alliances and mobilizations, of pacts and treaties. But the day after the Bank Holiday Monday, all the wondering was answered by one simple word: WAR.
Chapter Seventeen
Ends and Beginnings
The holiday was over, though it had hardly begun. “We must go home,” Mama kept saying, growing more agitated every time she glanced at the newspaper, or looked out of the window. “I don’t feel safe here. I want us all to be at home.”
Papa, too, decided that he was needed urgently at work, since the outbreak of war affected banking in ways Polly didn’t understand. “We’ll go tomorrow. We’ll pack up as quickly as we can, and I’ll arrange train tickets.”
“We’re so vulnerable here.” Mama could not sit still; she kept looking out at the promenade, then lowering herself into a chair, only to struggle up again a moment later. “Suppose the Germans invade? Supposing the baby’s born here, with a German army in control?”
“Catherine, please!” Papa guided her back to her seat, and handed her a glass of water. “Don’t alarm yourself unnecessarily – it won’t do you any good. We’ll be back at home this time tomorrow. I can’t see any German invaders at the moment.”
He spoke flippantly, but Polly glanced out at the shining strip of sea that was visible from their first-floor room, imagining the Germans rising out of the waves, as if they had swum all the way underwater. She had never seen a German. What would they look like? She imagined them as pirates boarding a captive ship, bloodthirsty and fierce, clamping knives between their teeth. And the captive ship would be England.
All the clothes so recently unpacked were refolded and stored back in their trunks. The station was full of khaki and backpacks and men’s deep voices; a train full of soldiers had just arrived. At a command from their officer, all the men shouldered their packs and fell into line, moving off towards the harbour; they would be going across to France, Papa said. There were cheers from the street at the sight of the soldiers in uniform, and some people waved Union Jacks. The atmosphere, Polly thought, was partly of celebration, partly of waiting for something to happen. A second trainload pulled in while she waited with her parents on the platform. It felt odd to be travelling in the other direction, as if they were running away from the war, while everyone else was rushing towards it.
Half an hour later she was staring out of the train window again, in a hot compartment that smelled of dust and hot cushions, and seeing all the Kent scenery again – the drowsing orchards, the grazing sheep, the oast houses. The stuffiness made her head mazy with sleep. When she snapped back awake it was to find Mama slumping sideways on her seat, and Papa bending over her in concern.
“Open the window, Polly, quickly. It’s the heat – she’s passed out.”
He unbuttoned the cuffs of Mama’s blouse, and took off his jacket to use as a pillow, lowering her to a half-lying position. Polly struggled with the window and managed to push it down so that smutty air rushed into the compartment. Mama murmured, but her eyelids stayed closed.
“Is she ill, Papa? Will she die?” Polly’s voice came out very small and frightened.
“No, no, of course not. It’s the he
at, and the rush and excitement. We must get her home as quickly as we can – call Dr. Mayes—”
“Is it the baby? Is the baby coming early?” Polly was rather vague about how exactly babies were born, but could see that it would take something very extraordinary to get it out of Mama and into the world as a separate human being.
“I hope not,” Papa said fervently. Polly saw that he too was scared, and did not really know what to do. This in itself was so alarming that Polly felt herself trembling, close to tears.
“There’s a flask of water in that travelling bag. Fetch it, please, there’s a good girl.” Papa was holding one of Mama’s hands, and seemed unwilling to let go. “Then I want you to go along to the guard’s van and explain that Mama is unwell. He can summon help when we arrive at Victoria.”
By the time Polly got back from the guard’s van, Mama had revived a little, enough to sit up and sip water as the familiar London buildings slid into view, and the train crossed the Thames before slowing for the terminus. At Victoria, the guard summoned a cab and supervised the loading of the luggage, while Polly’s father helped Mama into her seat. More crowds packed the station: soldiers in uniform, nurses, families waving them off.
Home had never seemed so welcoming: the house solid and calm behind its gates, Mrs. Parks in charge, everything in order. It felt to Polly as if she had never been away. Her father helped Mama to bed, and Mrs. Parks fetched cool drinks and a cold compress, while Polly tried to make herself useful by starting on the unpacking. Dr. Mayes arrived, and there was a hushed conference in the bedroom, while Polly hovered uncertainly outside the door.
“Baby’s on its way,” Mrs. Parks told Polly when she emerged. “A bit early, but Doctor thinks all will be well. I must boil up some hot water, and we’ll need flannels, and clean towels.”
“I’ll fetch them,” Polly offered, but at the same moment her father came out of the bedroom, looking both eager and anxious.
“Polly, I want you to go downstairs to Mrs. Dalby, and stay there till I come and fetch you. I saw Maurice in the garden – you can go and play with him if you like.”
“But—” Polly felt herself too grown-up for playing, too important to be simply got rid of. She had helped on the train, hadn’t she, and at the station, with the cab and the luggage?
“Go,” said her father firmly. “You’ll only be in everyone’s way. Your mother will be perfectly all right with Dr. Mayes to look after her. I’ll come and fetch you as soon as there’s any news.”
“It’s best you do as he says,” Mrs. Parks told her in an undertone. “You go and see Maurice. Before long, you’ll have a little brother or sister – won’t that be exciting? And” – she checked that Papa had gone back into the bedroom, and that the door was closed – “there’s news from upstairs. Miss Rutherford’s back from prison, but apparently Miss Cross is moving out!”
“Moving out? Why?”
“Some argument, Kitty said. Now, you run along.” Mrs. Parks shooed Polly towards the stairs.
Polly closed the door to the flat but stood on the landing, listening. Floorboards creaked from the flat above, and she heard a voice call out – Violet’s? It seemed an age since she’d had any sort of proper conversation with Violet or Edwina. No one was going to take much notice of where she was, not with everyone scurrying about with compresses and towels and hot water. She went upstairs instead of down, then hesitated again at the door of Flat Three. An argument, Mrs. Parks had said? Like last time? But the voice she’d just heard didn’t sound like arguing; it only sounded like Violet calling out to Edwina, in a perfectly cheerful way.
While she stood there, the door opened and Kitty came out, almost colliding with her. “Oh! I’m sorry. Do come in. We’re all in a muddle.”
Kitty stepped aside for Polly to enter. A suitcase stood in the hall with a furled umbrella leaning against it, and a Gladstone bag, and two small packing crates. It was true, then, what Mrs. Parks had said.
“You can keep all them posters,” Violet’s voice called out, “but I’m taking my banner, seeing as I wore out my fingers sewing it – oh! Polly! Thought you was at Folkestone?”
“We’re back because of the war,” Polly explained, “and now Mama’s having the baby. The doctor’s with her now. But what’s happening here? Why are you leaving? It’s not Mrs. Dalby, is it?”
Violet looked puzzled. “Mrs. Dalby?”
“Maurice’s mother. She thought—” Polly felt awkward saying it. “She thought you and Edwina shouldn’t be allowed to live here.”
“Oh!” Violet seemed to think this of no consequence whatsoever. “No, no, it en’t that. Come and say hello to Edwina. She’s been ill again, but getting better.”
Edwina was at her desk in the drawing room, sorting through papers. She looked just as thin and frail as when Polly had first met her: how could she keep on doing this to herself, Polly wondered?
“They let us all out of prison, because of the war,” she told Polly. “So I can eat again, hoorah! And Kitty’s made us a lovely cherry cake. Do stay and share it with us.”
Polly was puzzled – there seemed to be no sign of another quarrel, yet it seemed that Violet was leaving, and Edwina was staying. She was halfway through her slice of cake before she plucked up courage to ask them about it. They exchanged rueful glances in the way Polly had seen before. Then Edwina replied:
“Well, Polly, you’ve obviously realized that Violet and I, though the best of friends, don’t always see eye to eye. And especially so, now that war’s broken out. The Pankhursts have split over it, and so have we. We feel quite differently about the war, and what it means for our aims. Mrs. Pankhurst has decided that all our campaigning must stop – we must support enlistment, encourage men to join the army. And besides that, we’ll work, we’ll work hard, whatever way we can, so the government will see just what women can do when they’re given the chance. I’m going to be a volunteer nurse, and get out to France or Belgium if I can. Whereas—” She nodded to Violet, who took over.
“Back to the East End, for me. It’s where I belong, and where I should be now.” She smiled. “I’ve liked living here, and I’ve liked meeting you, Polly, but now I’m going back, to work with Sylvia Pankhurst. Her aims have always been a bit different from her mother’s and Christabel’s. Sylvia’s against the war, like I am. And it’s the poor that’s going to suffer most, like always. She wants to help the East End families – they’ll be facing a real struggle, with their men away. And that’s where I’m going, too, to work in a canteen. There’s so much to be done.”
“Oh.” Polly looked from one to the other, with the sad sense that something was coming to an end: the specialness contained in this flat, and all it had meant to her. Edwina would still be here, but it wouldn’t be the same without Violet.
Violet was looking wistful, too. She reached for an old envelope from the heap of papers Edwina was sorting. “Here, I’ll give you my address. Maybe you’ll write?”
“Of course I will,” Polly said. “And—?” She looked at Edwina.
“Oh, we’ll still stay friends, Violet and I,” Edwina said. “We’ve known each other too long to fall out completely over a difference of opinion. And we haven’t got votes for women yet! Till then, there’s a lot more campaigning to do.”
Violet handed Polly the envelope: on it she had written c/o Miss Sylvia Pankhurst, 400 Old Ford Road, London, E.3. She glanced at the clock. “Time to be on my way.” She stood, and shook hands formally with Polly.
“Goodbye, Violet,” Polly said. “I – I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” Violet replied. “About this sorry mess those politicians have got us into. But sorry to be saying goodbye, Polly, too. It’s been nice getting to know you a bit. Good luck to you. I hope you do whatever you want in your life.”
“Get the vote,” Edwina said. “And know what you want to do – be an explorer. Do it. Decide for yourself.”
They were in agreement about that, anyway.
Feel
ing slightly dazed by it all, Polly wandered out into the garden. Everything was changing, she thought, and by the time she went back upstairs her family would have changed, too. There would be herself, Mama, Papa, and someone else: this unknown new person, with a whole life to live. What a strange thought that was!
“Hello, Pegs,” Maurice called. Funny, but she didn’t mind any more when he called her that; it sounded friendly now. He was standing underneath the walnut tree, looking up into its branches. “Look, you can see the new walnuts coming. We’ll be able to eat them at Christmas.”
Polly looked at the small green fruits in the lushness of leaves high above her head. She thought of the girl who had lived here, long ago, who had grown this whole tree from one walnut. Could she have ever imagined, carefully planting one shrivelled walnut in the soil, two children standing in its shade, looking up at its new crop of nuts?
“Isn’t it exciting about the war?” Maurice said, turning to look at her. “You can join the army at eighteen, so I’ve only got five years and ten months to wait. If I go into the army I shall be an officer.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Polly said, laughing. “The war’s not going to go on for five years and ten months, is it? Everyone says it’ll be over by Christmas.”
Chapter Eighteen
Secrets
Dear Lily, Polly wrote. So much has happened since I sent you the postcard from Folkestone that I hardly know where to start. Most exciting of all is that I have a brand new baby brother! He was born yesterday and his name is Edward. Till a few weeks ago Mama and Papa had thought of calling him William if he turned out to be a boy, but now of course they can’t, because of Kaiser Wilhelm. So he is named Edward after the old King.
All the waiting time I was hoping he would be a girl, but after all I am quite pleased to have a brother.
Polly had not realized this until writing it down. It was another of the surprising changes that yesterday had brought.
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