by Janet Few
‘Lord Hugh Cecil,’ hissed Bella under her breath, keen to re-establish her ascendancy.
It was warm in the crowded church and beads of sweat glistened on Lord Cecil’s brow. Accustomed to addressing the House, his fruity tones rolled round the church, reaching even those in the congregation whose hearing was no longer sharp. Although she was used to the speech of the gentry, so different from the soft burr of the villagers, Daisy found that Lord Cecil’s strangled vowels detracted from the passage he was delivering. She looked again at the three young women in the front pew. There seemed nothing remarkable about them; just visitors, as Bella had said.
As they had been amongst the last the enter the church, Daisy and her friends were seated in the aisle. This made it difficult to see what was going on at the altar but sideways glances gave them a good view of the Asquith family. The service dragged on, the sermon began and Daisy struggled to focus on what Reverend Simkin was saying. She became aware of some scuffling in the Asquiths’ pew. Mrs Asquith was scrabbling in the beaded reticule that dangled from her wrist. She appeared to be writing something down. Perhaps she was making notes on Reverend Simkin’s rather turgid address, which advocated duty and forbearance. The congregation obeyed the Rector’s exhortation to pray and there was a shuffling of bodies and a clearing of throats as they knelt on the stuffed hassocks before them. Daisy could not resist a fleeting look in the Asquiths’ direction. Mrs Asquith was shoving a piece of paper into her husband’s fist. Instead of closing his eyes in prayer, the Prime Minister was scanning the note. He looked towards the pew a couple of rows in front of him, where the three young women were seated and then to the side door of the church. His jaw-line, with its cleft chin, was set firm and hastily he put the scrap of paper into his pocket. Finally, he bowed his white head and joined in the mumbled intercessions. Guiltily, Daisy did the same, she clenched her hands and screwed her eyes shut, as if this fervency would compensate for her earlier distraction.
The three young women from the front pew got up hastily when the service was over and were the first to leave. Waiting obediently to file out behind the gentry from the Court, Daisy spotted Mr Asquith sidling furtively through the side door. How strange, mused Daisy but thought no more of it. Once outside, Daisy breathed deeply, relishing the warm air, pleased to be free from the formality of Sunday worship. Members of the congregation were huddling in small groups and swapping news, before heading homeward. Mary and Alice set off back towards the village and Daisy was exchanging a final few words with Bella, when the sharp sound of raised voices could be heard.
‘Quick’, exclaimed Bella pulling Daisy behind her, keen to get near enough to see what was causing the commotion.
A few yards ahead of them, on the path to the Court, the three women from the church had ranged themselves around the Prime Minister. His efforts to sneak away undetected had evidently failed.
‘Receive our petition on June the 29th,’ the one in green was demanding.
Now Daisy had a better view of the women, she could see that the speaker was not much older than she was, perhaps still in her teens. Her nose was rather too prominent for her to be considered a beauty but her straight dark brows and striking eyes drew attention.
‘Will you free Patricia Woodlock?’ she was saying.
Asquith was attempting to shake off the restraining hand of the purple-clad young woman, who was impeding his progress.
‘Won’t you grant us an interview?’ asked the woman wearing the white dress. She appeared to be the eldest of the trio and her booming tones carried across to the curious crowd.
‘Suffragettes!’ exclaimed Bella. ‘The cheek of it, disturbing poor Mr Asquith on his holiday.’
‘Not for a second,’ the disgruntled Prime Minister was saying. ‘It’s very wrong of you to question me after church.’
By this time, other members of the house-party were ushering Asquith towards the security of the Court. The three women were forced back a little but undeterred, they continued in pursuit of their quarry. The Court guests hustled inside the great doors, which were shut firmly in the faces of the three protestors by Lord Hugh Cecil. The sound of the heavy bolt being drawn could be clearly heard.
***
Back in the village for her Sunday afternoon off, Daisy listened as the Clovelly gossips dissected the details of the incident after church. It was not necessary to have witnessed it to have an opinion and the story had grown ever more fanciful with each telling. Most shared Bella’s view that it was a shame that Mr Asquith could not enjoy the peace and quiet that he deserved. Mrs Jones, who at least was in a position to know, provided the names of the three women and expressed dismay that her guest house was harbouring a vipers’ nest.
‘Mayhap I should tell them to pack their bags,’ she said, keen not to seem to be colluding with the protestors, ‘but business be business and they paid for their room in good coin.’
‘Elsie Howey, now,’ muttered another. ‘Baint she the one that was in all the papers last month? Dressed as Joan of Arc on some great white ’orse outside a prison up London way she was.’
The listeners dismissed this as a tall tale but it was clear that the three women had attracted some adverse attention by their past exploits and had targeted poor Mr Asquith before.
‘Why did they come after Mrs Hamlyn’s guests? How dare they!’
‘Well, Lord Cromer now, baint he the leader of some such society that be against all this women’s vote nonsense and he be staying there this weekend.’
‘’Tweren’t Lord Cromer they be after though were it, ’twas poor Mr Asquith, after all he’s done for us. Shame on them.’
‘All three be jail birds,’ Mrs Stanbury was saying. ‘To think that they be staying right here in the village and have taken tea in Granny Pengilly’s tea-rooms!’
Daisy quietly kept her sympathies for the three women to herself. She didn’t know much about the fight for women’s suffrage, that kind of thing usually passed Clovelly by. Surely though, this was a worthy cause and how thrilling to be one of those women, travelling the country together and making a difference.
The next day, Daisy was on an errand for Mr Tuke, taking some early strawberries up to the Court. As she approached the square white building and swerved to one side, heading for the servants’ entrance, she was aware of three women heading towards the front steps. They were instantly recognisable as the suffragettes who had caused all the fuss the previous day. Daisy shrunk back into the hedge and held her breath. She watched as they marched up to the steps and the one who Daisy now knew to be Elsie Howey, wielded the heavy brass knocker with gusto. After a few moments, Mr Caird, the agent, answered the door. This in itself was unusual. Responding to visitors’ summons was not his role. Daisy was transfixed, not daring to move for fear of being spotted. She need not have worried, Mr Caird had all his attention taken up by the women, who were demanding to see Mr Asquith. Their strident voices reached Daisy’s ears.
‘Votes for Women,’ cried the youngest of the trio, whom Mrs Jones had named as Vera Wentworth.
Mr Caird shut the door firmly. Undeterred, Elsie knocked again. The door swung open.
‘Be off with you,’ blustered Mr Caird, shaking his fist before closing the door a second time.
Once more the women tried to gain entrance. Daisy, silently cheering, admired their persistence. She was amazed to see Mr Caird come to the door for a third time. At that moment she spotted Mr Asquith and Lord Northcote, accompanied by two policemen, emerge from the side of the house, laden with golfing bags. Presumably, Mr Caird was trying to divert the women’s attention, allowing the Prime Minister to make his way to Mrs Hamlyn’s private links.
Wary of loitering, Daisy delivered the strawberries. Her task completed, she could not resist a glance towards Mrs Hamlyn’s golf course. A flash of colour, as if a bird had landed on a branch, caught her eye. Moving closer, she peered into the hedgerow and spotted the suffragettes hiding, not far from where the Court party were gather
ed to watch the golfers. Two policemen stood a respectful distance from the guests, presumably intent on protecting the Prime Minister. Risking the wrath of Mrs Tuke, if she were to be too long delayed, Daisy crept nearer. Suddenly the sharp-eyed police constable noticed the three women. Blowing his whistle and calling to his colleague, he made his way towards the suffragettes at a trot. The young ladies leapt up. With hats falling and hair flying, they headed for the cliffs. As the constable set off in pursuit, the women wisely dispersed in different directions. Daisy saw George Reilly, the local photographer, carrying his cumbersome camera, scurrying after the runaways. The possibility of a shot of three leading suffragettes would be a greater scoop than puffed up politicians at their golf.
Within minutes, the policeman returned, breathless and thwarted.
‘They’re too fleet of foot sir,’ the constable was saying to his sergeant.
The next moment, Daisy saw that Vera Wentworth was getting closer to the policemen. Too scared to cry a warning, Daisy wordlessly willed the young woman to get safely away. The policemen caught sight of the suffragette and it became clear that this was exactly what she wanted. Whilst the officers were occupied apprehending Vera, her colleagues had pushed their way through the crowds and were once again haranguing Mr Asquith.
‘Receive our deputation on June the 29th. There’s no back door here,’ one was shouting. From Mrs Jones’ gossip, Daisy knew her to be Jessie Kenney.
‘You’re a beast and a coward,’ boomed Elsie.
‘Remember Sheffield.’
Asquith looked discomforted but some of the guests, ranged on the picnic rugs, were attempting to disguise smiles of amusement. Realising that she dared not postpone her return any longer, reluctantly, Daisy set off for Gardener’s Cottage, casting longing looks over her shoulder as she did so. Thrills such as this were extraordinary. The villagers were used to visitors, even important visitors such as those who came to the Court but today Daisy felt that she had been granted glimpses of an exhilarating and unfamiliar new world, full of exciting possibilities.
***
Daisy slipped through the back door. As she entered, Mrs Tuke looked up but thankfully, did not pass comment on the length of time that Daisy had taken. Instead, she asked her to fetch some boot laces from Ellis’ shop.
‘I’m afraid it can’t wait for you to bring them in with you tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Mr Tuke’s lace has snapped right through and he can’t go up to the Court this afternoon with string in his boots!’
Daisy welcomed the opportunity to run down the cobbles as she had as a carefree child. She was no longer barefoot of course but it meant that she could escape the isolation of Gardener’s Cottage and be part of daytime village life for a short while.
It was clear that, by a process of instant osmosis, accounts of the latest deeds of the suffragettes had already reached the village. The local women were out in force, brimming with indignation.
‘You heard about the palaver up at the Court?’
‘’Tis a dreadful thing. I hear they was arrested.’
‘Well Mrs Jones has given them their marching orders, told them to pack their bags and go, she has.’
‘Quite right too. We don’t want the likes of them round here with their London ways and newfangled ideas.’
‘Well they be goin’ at any rate. Booked Eli’s cart they have, for the 10.59 London train from Bideford tonight. Good riddance I say.’
‘Votes for Women, indeed. Whoever heard the like?’
‘Stuffing young girls’ heads full of a load o’ old nonsense they be.’
As she passed the gossiping women by the fountain, Daisy saw the cause of their consternation. The suffragettes, their boots muddied and their hems torn, were walking up the street. To Daisy’s surprise, the youngest woman, approached her and proffered a hand. Daisy shook it hesitantly, wary in case she was spotted by the baying crowd of Clovelly wives but at the same time, delighted to be caught up in the day’s events.
‘Good day. My name is Vera and you are?’
‘Daisy miss,’ Daisy whispered, hardly daring to breathe. This would be something to tell Bella, not that she would be believed. Or maybe it would be better to keep this a special secret, to hold in her memory and to tell her children.
‘You don’t have to call me “miss”,’ Vera smiled. ‘You seem to be local. We just want to know where we can buy some artists’ materials.’
‘Ellis’ shop is just down there on the left,’ Daisy said, more confident now. No one could be angry at her politely giving directions to trippers. ‘Mr Ellis is a bit of an artist himself, I am sure he would have what you need.’
‘Thank you,’ said Vera, as the three women began to retrace their steps down the street.
Pausing for a moment, Vera turned and thrust a newspaper into Daisy’s hand.
‘This is what we do,’ she said, ‘and why.’
A quick glance showed Daisy that the publication, Votes for Women, was not one of which her mother, her employer, or indeed most of the village would approve. She tucked it in the bottom of her wicker basket and ensured that it was hidden.
Daisy’s working day was over before she had a chance to look at the newspaper. Instead of going straight home, she went up to the woods, where she would not be disturbed and began to read. The paper was not new, it was a February edition but to Daisy it was a revelation.
“I say to you young women... come and give one year of your life to bringing the message of deliverance to thousands of your sisters... this noble girl has undergone two periods of imprisonment for the sake of women less privileged and happily placed than herself. She is one of our most able and successful organisers and takes on all the duties and responsibilities of our chief officers.”
Daisy was enthralled. Yes. This was what life should be. She skipped involuntarily as she set off for home. Somehow she needed to be involved. The sheer impossibility of this engulfed her. There was no hurry. She would bide her time but her time would surely come.
***
The following day, Daisy was up at dawn. Tuesday was market day and Mrs Tuke was leaving early with produce to sell. Daisy was needed to help pack the baskets. Even at this hour, with daylight barely breaking, most cottages in the street were showing a dim light. The morning mist swirled and dew was thick on the ferns by the side of the path as Daisy left the village street for the woodland lane to the walled garden. Unexpectedly, she found Bella waiting for her.
‘I hoped I would catch you. You won’t believe what’s happened,’ exclaimed her friend excitedly. ‘I just had to slip out and tell you. There’s such a to-do, I will never be missed.’
Daisy knew that her role was to listen quietly and then provide intermittent gasps of admiration at the appropriate points in Bella’s narrative.
‘Well, yesterday there was such a banging on the door. I was proper scared and Mr Caird was there and he said I wasn’t to answer. He marched to the door and do you know, it was those awful suffragettes! Bold as brass on the doorstep, demanding to see Mr Asquith. I never heard the like. What cheek! Mr Caird gave them a piece of his mind I can tell you,’ Bella wrinkled her nose and giggled at the recollection. ‘Told them they needed a nurse to look after them he did. Do you know, they had the cheek to say that they had paid to see the grounds. Well Mr Caird soon put them straight. Said it was private property and they weren’t in the part of the grounds that were open to the public at all. Threatened to set the police on them. They soon left after that. It would take something to ignore Mr Caird when his dander is up. I’m surprised you didn’t see them Daisy, if they were in the walled garden.’
Daisy smiled enigmatically.
‘I didn’t see them in the walled garden,’ she said, truthfully. ‘Is this going to take long? I mustn’t be late.’
‘But you’ve not heard the last of it,’ Bella gabbled. ‘Everyone thought they’d gone back to London. They took Eli’s cart yesterday evening for the train. It seems they walked back, all the way fr
om Bideford in the dark. They were seen at Bucks Cross.’
Daisy was genuinely shocked. What had these women done now?
‘When we got up to light the fires for the hot water we spotted it. All over the lawn. It was dreadful. Ribbons and leaflets all over the place. It’s going to take the staff all morning to clear up and there are hand bills blowing everywhere.’
‘What do they say?’ enquired Daisy.
‘Oh, you know, all that political nonsense. “Votes for Women”, “Dare to be free”, “No Surrender”, that sort of thing.’
‘Have you got one?’ asked Daisy, hopefully.
‘No. Of course not. Scurrilous things. Why would I want one?’ replied Bella. ‘Anyway, I must go. It is going to be a busy day. We’ve police guarding the doors and all. I am sure Mr Tuke will be furious, so you will hear all about it.’
Daisy did indeed hear more. It seemed the three women that she so admired had painted slogans on banners that lay across the hedges that surrounded the Court’s lawns. Purple, white and green rosettes were strewn amongst the ribbons and leaflets that were scattered across the manicured turf. Daisy marvelled at the tenacity of the women who had trudged eleven miles by starlight, carrying all the handbills and other items that now met the view of the Court’s visitors, as they flung back the shutters to greet the day. She supposed that the suffragettes had then had to walk all the way back to Bideford to make their escape on the milk train.
Daisy was sent to gather up the leaflets that had blown into the walled garden. A disk of paper, emblazoned with the words, “Down with Asquith. Death to Tyrants,” in suffragette colours of green and purple, indicated that the young women had put their artists’ materials to good use. She spotted a handbill that gave an address for the WSPU office in Torquay. Torquay was hardly next door but it was at least in Devon. Daisy slipped the paper in the pocket of her apron. Not now. Not yet but one day, maybe she really could be part of this wonderful new world. Merely the thought that she would be able to tuck that address away in the back of a drawer, hidden under her bonnets, was comforting, enthralling, luring her towards the unknown.